Dayton Daily News Article

I am a guest writer for the Dayton Daily News, and my article was in today's paper.  Enjoy!

https://www.dropbox.com/s/o96psjny0r7p6nt/DDN%20Article%209-19-14.pdf?dl=0

Running to Find Me

It's always tough when my kids leave to go to their dad's house. The hum of the fridge is extra loud against the stark silence. Silence. What a strange contrast to the usual, "Mama? Mama? Hey, Mama?" that plays on an unending loop with miniature hands tugging. I go into their rooms and stare blankly at the emptiness, and even smell their pillows to take in the missing scent of them. I have to wonder if this will ever get easier. I'm guessing not.
This situation is still new to me.  The "sharing" of our kids began in January, and no matter that half the population is doing it, it still feels like a sad disappointment to me. I am now a statistic. We have failed. We didn't have what it took to succeed. But if I dwell on that portion of the equation, I can't remain focused in the present at the current job at-hand of raising these wee ones who are relying on us not to mess up their upbringing. We've proven to fail at marriage, but failing at raising kids is not an option. So now we're business partners. And it works way better than the marriage did, I do have to say that.
But still. The silence. It's a selfish part of me that wishes I could see them every day of their lives because it seems so much changes in a few days for them. They look bigger, they know more words, they've seen more things. And I miss out on some of it.
Instead of bemoaning this alone time, I try to reframe the way I look at it. Yes, it's way too quiet here, but I have time to myself, so why not use it to work on things I've been meaning to do. Oh, you know, like write a book?  So I am working on that. And I'm super excited about it, by the way. It's pouring out of me effortlessly.
The other thing I've been working on is becoming a runner. That is not as effortless. I had my hip replaced 2 years ago, and for nearly my whole life I have had recurring dreams where I'm running and my heart is swelling with joy. Well, that's never been possible with my past hip ever. It was out of socket and so crooked that I had constant knee, back and hip pain for 36 years.
I took to the running path this past week three times. The first time I ran for about 30 seconds and my heart was working harder than it ever has. I'm a great cyclist and can ride my bike for hours on end and make 50-mile jaunts with no problem at all. I guess running is different. The first run was more of a walk with short runs peppered within it. The next run was more of the same, but my heart was adjusting and realizing this isn't horrible. Yesterday after work I took to the path again thinking 20 minutes would be okay. I was enjoying it so much I didn't realize 50 minutes had passed. I ran a lot. Well, probably not a lot for the "normal" person, but a lot for me. Way more than I have my entire life. I finally had the feeling I have had in my dreams. The feeling of being lifted and elated without pain. I could feel my heart beating and even hear it in my eardrums, but the pounding was awesome and I matched the cadence of my feet to the pounding. Oh, don't get me wrong, I was moving at a snail's pace, I'm sure, but to me, I was flying.
So I suppose I have a choice when my kids aren't here. I can give in to the feeling I have of curling up in a corner and dwelling on the pain and silence, or I can hit the pavement and see who I can become. For their sake and mine.

Erma Bombeck Writer's Conference

The Ermba Bombeck conference sells out ridiculously quickly here in Dayton, so in an attempt  to wiggle my way in the door for free, I've submitted to their writing conference.  I usually submit under the humor category, but this year I submitted under the human interest category.  Here it is:

Grilled Cheese and Gershwin

            -Rebecca Rine

There’s no tangible gauge for how well you’re doing as a parent—no meter that points to Awesome or You’ve Got to be Kidding Me and no bumper sticker that asks How’s my driving? accompanied with a 1-800 number.

I was recently listening to Gershwin’s An American in Paris at the dinner table with my 5- and 3-year olds.  I cranked it up as the various instruments made their way into the mix, thinking this would be a great time to sneak in a music lesson.  My kids nibbled on their grilled cheese, slurped their milk, and wiped their mouths on their sleeves even though I hound them daily not to do so. I pointed out the bassoon, and we all agreed it sort of sounds like a duck.  I taught them the word legato when the music was smooth.

They stood up on their chairs and began to sway their heads and raise their greasy hands to conduct the music, and emotion swelled up in my throat. I made my way to the kitchen where I wept, and I wasn’t even sure why.  The beauty of this Gershwin piece has always moved me, but come on, crying?   As I muffled my cries in a dirty dish towel next to a sink full of dishes, the reason occurred to me.

Time paused, and my life came into precision focus. I’m often paralyzed by the unknown of the future and whether I’m raising my kids well enough to become strong adults, but while listening to classical music and watching them, I realized THIS is it.  This grilled cheese, Gershwin and greasy fingers is IT. These days aren’t merely space fillers until they walk down the aisle with cap and gown.  These seemingly ordinary snippets of life are just that—life. This is the performance. The endless questions, the building of forts, the telling of knock-knock jokes that make no sense at all—these are the glorious imperfect masterpieces that are shaping who they are and will be.

Perhaps the sheer pressure of that added to my weeping.

I hit sour notes all the time in motherhood and take shortcuts when I wish I had more time to reach perfection, but my kids seem to be forgiving of these flaws in my performance. One day they might find themselves making grilled cheese for the twelve thousandth time for their kids and it will occur to them—Yikes, this isn’t easy.  Then they will have seen behind the curtain where the self-doubting, thankless guesswork of parenting lurks that comes with no guarantees. Maybe then they will look back with wisdom and thank me, and I will whole- heartedly answer, “It was my pleasure.”