It was full sunshine this morning, although wispy clouds are quickly replacing it. So, we’re headed to the beach before a week of rain sets in. What are you doing today?

(pardon the flash photography–it was a grey, dark day)

The World’s Cutest Baby came for a visit this weekend. I’m guessing in the next 3 weeks he’s going to become the World’s Cutest Toddler, because he’s just promising to walk at any moment. We so enjoy getting a baby fix—and OUR baby had a blast showing this little wonder how to do things. It was just what we needed.

How was your weekend?

A box of Sunshine came in the mail yesterday. And I’m feeling warmer already.

Sunshine in a box is what arrived at my door yesterday. I spent the last bit of Christmas money I was hoarding on Meyer Lemons.  That probably sounds a bit crazy to you—but as a displaced Californian, it sounds like, smells like home.  I’d been coveting those lemons for months. And, really, while it’s an expense I shouldn’t be making right now—(Hello “Major pay-cut you’re lucky to have a job December” and that’s probably all I’m going to say about the horror that was December. *cough*)— sometimes you just need something small on which to hang your sanity. Tiny yellow pegs holding you up by your coat collar, gently whispering, “You’re ok. You really are, O.K.”

Did I mention my sanity was on the line? That doesn’t make it sound any less crazy, does it?

So, I bought lemons. But not just any lemons. Meyer Lemons. A few days later, a lovely box of sunshine arrived on my doorstep, “Howdy do, I’m your future. Want a taste?”

And those chatty lemons have me thinking. Not just about home and sunshine. But about the little yellow pegs that hold us all up. About getting good things in the mail. Good mail is certainly a sanity savior for me. IZ  calls my Anthropologie catalog “Wende P0*n” and that’s probably a pretty good description. And when supply packages arrive with bits of the past captured in fabric, I’m excited too. But the best mail, is that unexpected package or letter. The one you didn’t pay for, the one you didn’t subscribe to, the one that arrives saying, “HELLO YOU! You’re so fabulous I thought I’d write and tell you. Oh, and do you know what happened to me today? . . .”

Truth is, I don’t write enough of those kinds of letters. I think about it. I write blog posts and juicy letters in my head on a regular basis. I also write TV sitcoms and Booker Award winning novels. But getting around to committing pen to paper is rare. I tend to send email—but most often, I send “thought mail.”  If you get a warm tingling feeling for no apparent reason, it’s probably the thought mail I sent. Me, or someone else who thinks you’re fabulous.

In an attempt to live into my year—to strengthen the ties that bind and nourish my own soul, I’m declaring 2010 the year of Snail Mail. This is not an anti-technology thing. Because I love chatty emails and comments on this blog, and I adore the twitter conversations and when you update your facebook with a funny status report.

But I also love the feel of sunshine on my face. I love the feel of real paper in my hand, with your scrawly penmanship on the front of the envelope promising news. And when I get a letter, an unexpected note just because, it’s exactly like sunshine on my face. Did I mention it’s really grey here? And that grey days make you crazy? Yeah, letters in the mail are little yellow pegs of sunshine, holding me up by my collar, whispering “You’re Ok. You really are O.K.”

So, Operation Sunshine it is. I’m writing real letters this year, to real people, to people like you! In fact, some of those letters might even be addressed to YOU! Real live letters, probably typed because you can’t read my scrawling penmanship after about 3 paragraphs, with real postage, in your mailbox, telling you how fabulous you are! And how thankful I am that you are in my life. And do you know what happened to me today? . . .

You don’t have to write back if you don’t want to. That’s OK. But I’d love it if you did. Then both of us can stand on our porches, with letters in our hands that are not bills or catalogs, but tiny little missives of sun and love and laughter. And we can both know we’re ok. We really are O.K.

(And aside: If you think you aren’t on my mailing list, but would like to be: Please email me your mailing address. And some time during this year of the snail, I promise to write you a sunny letter full of  lies and stories and laughter.)

My light seeking dog. We’re kindred spirits.

Happy New Year! I suppose 2010 deserves a warm welcome, eh? Considering the events of the later half of 2009, I’m only too relieved to see a new year and a new “decade”.  I hope you all had an amazing holiday season. We suffered some set-backs here at Chez Wonder—which I’ll talk about later in the week. But, despite the trauma, I think we’d all agree that this season had its moments of magic. And I think we reveled in the most precious treasure we have: our little family.

Anyhow, there will be time for reflection on this past holiday. Maybe? But right now, I’m looking forward. I hope you are as well!

I’ll confess, I don’t do New Year’s Resolutions any longer. I quit a few years back when I realized that my list was the same, year in year out, decade in. . . And that really, what I was crafting was a list of my potential failures. Some people do really well with their lists and goals. I am not one of them. So, I stopped making resolutions and started envisioning a theme for each New Year. Something to set the tone and shape what I worked on through the year.

It’s amazing how revolutionary this simple change was for my life. Last year’s them was “Lighter”. As in, getting lighter Spiritually, Emotionally, and Physically.  And because there weren’t specific goals like, “I’ll lose 10 lbs” there was no sense of failure, despite the fact that I didn’t lose a lot of weight last year. Instead, because I chose a theme, I really explored what it meant to be lighter. To choose things that didn’t weigh me down, to do things that created the sense of lightness I was craving. So, no real weight loss—but I found myself working out regularly! Building muscle and endurance meant I felt more physically fit! And really, being able to run means more than my pant size!

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So, it’s a brand new year in these parts.

The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existing. One cannot help but be in awe when he contemplates the mysteries of eternity, of life, of the marvelous structure of reality. It is enough if one tries merely to comprehend a little of this mystery every day. Never lose a holy curiosity. ~~Albert Einstein

It’s probably because I’m the mother of just one, but in many respects, my new years start in December. I mark time by the birth of this child. Only 6.5 lbs at birth, he was large and robust for a 5 week premature boy. He’s been a fighter since the beginning—I have the stretch marks to prove it. “He shouldn’t . . . ” has been a part of our vocabulary from the beginning. But he has. He’s thrived despite being premature. He’s communicated despite not really talking until 3. He’s endured, despite being different from the rest of his peers. And he continues to push me and challenge me and inspire me.

At no time, in all the battles and disappointments, have I ever wanted anything but him. And I have known from the moment he came on the scene that he was my calling. I’m not perfect. I’ve had my moments where I’ve wondered if I was the right mother for the task. I’ve had moments where I’ve wanted to abdicate parenting all-together. This child thinks he can parent himself, let him.

But for all his head-strong ways (he proudly redefines stubborn, my friends. He considers it his life goal to be contrary. I have no idea where he gets that.) he remains one of the most inspiring people I know. He questions everything. And I refuse to see that as a bad thing.

Ok, unless he’s questioning my parenting at 11 pm. Then I draw that line—but in general, I’ve made a choice to see the good in this child. To not buy into the labels outsiders have tried to stick on him–questioning the wisdom in seeing his gifts  as “deficits.”  To focus on his progress, not constantly point to his struggling. Surely, there is a way to see the remarkableness  in another human being and  support it? Even if we don’t really understand it and it drives  a bit gray before our time. Surely we can see past homogenized ideals (sweet little kindergartners,  compliant, sitting nicely at their desks) and embrace the different (Yes, baby, your green eyes mean you have superpowers)? Maybe we can even teach this child who questions everything, and everyone, to question the Universe. Maybe, we can teach him to channel all that disobedience and “to hell with authority” attitude in the right direction? Maybe, we can parent him with love not judgement, joy  not shame, support not derision.

Who would parent a child with judgement, shame, and derision? More than you would imagine.

Choosing to see the good does not make me a fabulous parent. Quite the contrary! My child once said to me, “Mom, every kid deserves parents who believe in them.” He’s right, every child does. But every child doesn’t get it. Trust me on this.

No, believing and supporting doesn’t set me up for the Mother of the Year award. From where I stand it sets me at the starting point of good parenting. It’s everything that comes after that will determine if we succeeded at the task. And only time will tell. My child, who still feels so brand new to me, will grow up and judge my actions—and he will be able to tell you if I was a good mom.

I hope he’ll say yes. Not because I was perfect. I’m not. But because I continue to talk with this questioning child of mine. I own up when I fail. I apologize when I’m in the wrong.  I continue to test the boundaries and release more and more of his life to him. Letting them go is the hardest part. And I hope that he will be able to look back and see how I’ve been letting him go from the moment he was brand new. Not because I didn’t love him. But because I knew, that this premature fighter wasn’t going to be mine forever. And if I was lucky, I would parent him to see beauty. To seek joy. To do justice. To know love. To  dream and inspire others to dream. To choose to see the good. And to never, ever stop questioning.

Me: Do you still want a birthday tree now that you are a teenager? Or have you out-grown the tradition?

Boy Wonder: Mom! You’re never too old for a birthday tree! In fact, I’m going to make sure my kids have birthday trees.

Swimming: December 2005

It makes me a little sad to watch you swim. Three short months ago you were floundering around in the pool: human in water, kindred spirit to fish out of water. Your long arms would reach out to form odd angles before falling as heavy thuds into the water. You would forget to breathe. It didn’t dawn on you to use your feet to stay afloat. Swimming was a strange series of stroke, sink, gasp, and stroke again. It was easy to pick you out in a crowded pool–you were the kid who looked like he was going to drown.

Amazingly, you have managed to put together all the steps of this complicated dance in water. Now, instead of skittering to the play area like a crane newly hatched, you stride confidently to the lap pool. You, in your blue swim cap that covers your beloved but chlorine damaged hair. You, with your 60’s inspired tie-dyed goggles strapped snuggly into place. You, in your faded swim trunks that bear the proof of your devotion to your new craft. You have adopted all these swimmerly ways. All those mannerisms of your kind. You adjust your cap and goggles between laps. You blow water from your nose and clear your ears by tilting you head. More steps in the now familiar dance, you seem to know just what to do, just how to enact these rituals of swimming.

In this crowded pool of children splashing and laughing–you alone are intent on swimming UPSTREAM in the lazy river. Perfecting your strokes. Challenging your legs to kick harder. Challenging yourself to be the swimmer you believe yourself to be. And because of this, I can always find you in the crowded pool. You are that solitary blue cap bobbing in and out of the water on a mission to swim against the current. You no longer stand out as a fish out of water but shine in your graceful way of belonging to this water. You are part of it, but distinct even in your belonging.

And me? You can find me where I’ve always been. Watching you learn to swim from behind the thick pane of glass of the viewing room. Smiling and waving when you happen to glance my way. Watching you grow up. Thankful that I can still see the you, you believe yourself to be.