Last night, at the end of a particularly painful day of adulting (I was legit on the couch nursing a sore back from overestimating my athleticism on the tee-ball field), a dear friend texted me a picture of her tired, lovely mug along with the message:

It’s time for a catch-up.

She told me a bit about the festival she was working on in Vegas.  I told her about my couch and the potential hazards of aging in the suburbs.  After the exchange, we both felt better about where we were.

This morning, as I blasted pop music and turned scrubbing the kitchen, living room, and bathroom floors into a one-woman dance party, I thought about another dear friend who is a ridiculous lindy hopper.   And when I needed a break, I scrolled Facebook and there in my feed was a sponsored ad for Lindy Hop classes with him.  I took it as a sign to actually make the scheduling work this go-round.

And late this afternoon, as I was getting Sunday supper to the table, another long text popped up.  Another dear friend.  Thanking me for a reference I was thrilled to give, and a generous offer to connect me with someone who I know I can learn a great deal from.

Too often, Sunday nights make me sad.  I think of them as endings.  Hard stops to staying in and letting go.

But, this Sunday, as I scroll through a series of weekend texts and messages from dear  friends – all of whom I came to love through work – I’m reminded that Mondays are full of magic.

Two weeks before I graduated from Sacred Heart University, I was given two job offers:

The first was from a local commercial adult-contemporary radio station.  I’d been interning for their promotions department, and their top salesman was getting ready to retire.  He said he’d feel good leaving me his clients.

The second was from a local public radio station.  WSHU, an NPR-affiliate that I’d been working for in one capacity or another since freshman year.

The first came with more money.  The second came with my whole heart.

It wasn’t much of a choice.

As a Production Assistant at WSHU I got to do a little bit of everything.  Take feeds.  Engineer interviews.  Make promotional spots.  Edit national programs, build local ones, and once I’d proven to be both capable and dependable, I got to assist Frank Deford – one of the most beloved and respected sportswriters in the game.

By the time I was hired full-time, Frank had already long-established his weekly commentaries on NPR’s Morning Edition – most of which were recorded at WSHU.  And truth be told he only agreed to collaborate with me after receiving glowing recommendations from my boss, and her boss before that (the other WSHU producers he whole-heartedly trusted).

Frank was kind, thoughtful, generous and prepared.  His sessions were consistently swift and on-point, and I strived to emulate his style in my engineering, recording, and editing.  We worked well together.

After a good many sessions, I told him that I’d recently made a gift to WSHU and chose one of his books as my thank-you gift.  He (loving) gave me a hard time about the donation.

“I could have just given you a copy,” he said.

“I know, but this one’s for my Papa.  He’s a big NPR guy.  This sounds dirty, even though it’s not, but he runs an escort service.  Which means when there are things like whole houses being driven across the country, he’s the guy in the back driving the little pickup with the flashing lights and the Wide Load sign.”

This made Frank laugh – which wasn’t hard to do, but felt good just the same.

“He LOVES to tell me how many NPR stations he supports, and which stations he listens to in which cities, and how much he loves the guys from Car Talk…and you.  I made the gift in his honor, and telling him that I get to work in the studio with you – let’s just say it helps him worry a little less, and be proud a little more.”

“You do excellent work, Amanda.  He should be proud.”

Then he signed the book for my grandfather with his signature purple pen, and we got back to it.

Frank made significant contributions to journalism, broadcasting and publishing – he was also one of the very first artists who made me believe that I had something to contribute, too.

PS – Here’s the full piece from NPR about Frank & his many contributions 

The first time I got pregnant, I couldn’t keep quiet.

I completely ignored that advice about waiting through the first twelve weeks.  As soon as the at-home test came back positive, I was on the phone.

I called my husband and left a message for him to come home right after golf (I never did this).  I called my Mom.  My sisters.  I waited for Ken to finally get home, then we rushed to tell his mother and his sister.

The day after the doctor’s blood test confirmed what we already knew, we were sharing – widely.  As wide as we could.

The outpouring of love fueled our growing happiness.  There were hugs, kisses, and well wishes galore.

Then, around week 10, I miscarried and underwent a D&C.

Our family wasted no time moving in.  Sisters left work to lay on the couch with me as I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.  Moms came to do laundry, make dinner, and give me permission to stay on the couch.  Dads checked in with Ken.

At the time, I was still working in public broadcasting, which is another way to say that I was working in an incredibly deadline intensive environment, and that tends to turn colleagues into confidants quickly and permanently.

There were dozens of my fellow employees who knew I was carrying, and now all they knew was that I’d been missing for days with no explanation.

These were (are) smart people – so even before they knew, they knew.  And, they were also aware enough to understand that I couldn’t (at least at first) be totally open to their love and compassion.

It made me feel too much – which is just another way to say that it made me hurt, too much.

A few weeks after I’d returned to work one of my closer friends asked me to lunch.  Just the two of us.  When we were done she passed a beautiful hand-crafted wooden box across the table.  I opened it to find two precious stones and a bracelet.

“Sometimes,” she said, “when you’re mourning it helps to have a place to go.  With your and Kenny’s loss having a specific place can be tricky, and I know that right now your loss is with you wherever you go.  I want you to know that I’m giving you this box and these stones as a place to go, if you need a place to go.  And the bracelet, it can stay in the box if you want it to, or if you want to wear it – in case you need a place to go, when you’re out in the world, you can touch it and be there and it’s just a plain bangle with hearts, so no one needs to know what you’re doing, unless you want them to.  I love you and it’s okay to be this sad.”

This act remains one of the most kind, loving, and healing gestures ever extended to me.

It truly helped me find a sliver of light during an all-encompassing darkness – and remains a beacon of guidance on how to access my own compassion to help comfort others.

Since this life-changing gift was bestowed on me, I’ve continued to share it, and believe I always will.

This week, as I had the unique opportunity of connecting with multiple wonderful people who’ve shared in this giving and receiving with me, I was reminded of the power of connection.

How we suffer and celebrate with one another matters.  So, we should keep doing it – because it actually is what we are made to do.

I’m borrowing from Glennon Doyle here…on a post she recently made about her family, only I’m going to adapt it for my family:

The Goodwins – we’re mostly good.  Kind, caring, compassionate.  And while I’ll try to focus on the being mostly good part, sometimes, we’re still bad.

On Saturday, our good, loving, kind, caring, compassionate son completely melted on the tee-ball field.  Like, completely.

Wailing, kicking, glove throwing.  His entire body flat out, screaming into the grass – and then screaming at me.  And then at his Omi – my Mom.

While this kind of melt would’ve tested (and crushed) me anywhere at any time, it felt especially difficult at tee-ball, as I was just senselessly bragging to someone earlier in the week about my excellent coaching skills.

Worst part, it wasn’t just that “coach’s kid,” was melting- it was why coach’s kid was melting.

As one parent recently pointed out, Briggs is “Mr. Baseball.”  And he is. During season our son wakes up between 6 and 6:30 every morning begging to turn on MLB Network’s Quickpitch.  He absorbs every stat, play, and highlight of EVERY game played the night before.  He has a favorite player on nearly every team.  Whether the weather’s got us inside or outside, ask him what he wants to do from April – October and his answer is consistent: play ball.

“Mom, can you pitch to me?”

“Dad, it’s your turn to hit.”

“There’s a ghostman on second.”

“Nope, let’s watch the replay.  He’s OUT!”

This is the constant loop of both real and imaginary play at home.

Play something this much.  Love something this much.  You’re pretty much guaranteed to get pretty good at it.  And Briggs is getting pretty good.  And, he thinks getting better means running the field…on his own.

No, it wasn’t that Briggs melted – it was why he melted that tore me up.

He melted because he wanted every ball, every play, every throw (and catch), to be his and his alone – and when I told him that ball on the other side of the field belonged to his teammates, he lost it.

Due to contagious melting, the game ended early and on the ride home, I tried my best to say something important.  This is what I came up with:

Bud, that – on the field – that was bad.  Pretty bad.  And I get it.  Mom is STILL working on being a good teammate, and still screwing it up.  There are SO many times when I trick myself into thinking that it’s easier – even better – to do it all myself.  That the rules don’t apply to me.  That I’m smarter and quicker on my own.  And I get so focused on wanting it done, and done exactly my way, that I totally miss what that does to everyone else around me.  Briggsy, I promise you it’s better together.  It is.  And learning how to be a good – a really good – team player actually makes winning a heck of a lot easier. Plus, it’s way more fun.  Because that – that wasn’t fun.

He sniffled in agreement.

I’m pretty sad and upset about the whole thing.  And I really don’t like what you did, but I do still love you – so, what do you think we do next?

Then all on his own he came up with:

I want to call Omi and say sorry for yelling.

So, I gave him my phone and that’s exactly what he did.

We Goodwins, we’re mostly good.  Sometimes bad.  But, mostly good, and we never tire of trying again.

The day after a team of doctors and nurses conducted an emergency c-section to transfer our son from an incubator that could no longer support his growth (me), to an incubator in the Newborn Intensive Care Unit, I emailed the President, the Chief Operating Officer, and VP of Human Resources where I worked.

My full-time employment came with full benefits – including health care coverage for my entire family.

On that day I woke up with staples in my belly, milk soaking the front of my pajamas, and our 2lb son hooked up to more tubes and monitors than my very foggy head could process.

I was scared and exhausted – and mostly grateful.  Which is why despite these conditions and feelings, I asked my husband to go home and get my laptop.

Our health insurance afforded our family access to some of the nation’s best doctors and hospitals throughout my entire high-risk pregnancy.  It also ensured our son’s spot in one of the most respected NICU’s in all of Massachusetts.

That email to the President, the COO, and the VP of HR likely included TMI and far too many typos.  I wasn’t even a full 24-hours out of surgery when I crafted it – but, I felt strongly that the first real step in what I knew would be a very long road was saying thank you.

I was discharged from the hospital five days after Briggs was born.  He lived there for more than two months.  Thanks to the health insurance offered through my employer, the entire ordeal ended up costing our family $1000 out of pocket.  I don’t remember seeing the full breakdown cost of my surgery, but I do remember seeing the complete bill for Briggs’s NICU stay.  It was $76,000.

I remember thinking: Way more than I make in a year.

Access to health insurance saved my son, and me, and our family.  It meant we could receive the care we needed without fear of losing our home or enslaving the rest of our waking moments to paying back an ever damning debt.

We got hurt.  We got sick.  And we got help.

That’s a grateful path that each of us deserves to have open to us forever and always.

So, I’m attempting to start a habit of asking my son, my husband, and myself two questions before going to bed:

1. What’s something you were grateful for today?
2. What’s something you loved about you, today?

Our five-year old’s answers are always quick and sweet.  Take last night’s responses: 1) Tee ball 2) How I throw the ball so good.

For myself, the first question is the easy one.  I’m grateful for catching the sun rise.  For rocking out on my commute in.  For the run.  For coaching.  For breakfast for dinner.  For finding that new friend who feels like a lifelong partner in crime.

The second question though…feels horribly forced.  I can think of things I know other people admire about me.  I can come up with reasons why I should love me.  But – honestly, the “buts” just kept butting in.

I love that I write (but I didn’t “really” write for me, today).

I love that I stuck to healthy eating (but “really” did you love it?).

I love that I had a good connection with a potential client (but still, potential).

I love that I was a good coach (but, tonight was really hard and I was actually grateful when it was over).

So, I went to sleep with a lot of half-loves swirling around my thoughts.

AND, when I started to write this post, it occurred to me:

Maybe what I love about me today, is how easy I can answer question #1.  Today, I love my gratitude – and maybe to start, that’s enough.

PS – While it’s not the intention of this song, I’m hearing this version as the best me singing to the brat me. That brat just holds me back, and my Momma don’t like her…and if she’s gonna keep making things harder, well, she can go and… 😉

The alarm went off at quarter past four this morning.  I ignored it.  Then came the thunder.  A crack so loud I felt the house shake (even if it didn’t).

I couldn’t ignore that.

But, I stayed in bed.  Breathing.  Thinking.  Not thinking.  Checking my phone.

The thunder cracked again.  And again.  Rain stampeded the roof.

By ten past five, I was downstairs.

By quarter past I was exercising to a DVD I’d long since forgotten I owned.

Walk.  Run.  Side-step.  Squat.  Pull down.  Push up.  Grapevine.  Out, together.  Out, together.

By five of six I was wobbly and sweaty.  By ten past, I was writing this post.  The first in a while.

The thunder quieted.  The rain returned.  The sun stayed hidden, and the birds sang just the same.

Most of the time I’m pretty fixated on how much time and effort things will take.  To lose, or gain, to move or motivate.  To change.

But truth is, it only takes a moment.  Then another.  And another.  And another.

Since the year I was born, I’ve been making pilgrimages to Footbridge Beach in Ogunquit, Maine. It’s my sacred place.

The first place I wanted to travel as husband and wife.  The place I stood, when before any clear signs, my body told my soul that I was no longer with child.   The only vacation land I trusted to wrap our preemie in healing warmth and salt. It’s where I retreated when my depression was winning – and where I always find a way to lose myself in the best ways.

Yesterday wasn’t planned, but Briggs and Ken and I had the day off, and when I mentioned going to the beach, everyone agreed.

We lunched where we normally lunch (Billy’s Chowder House), toured a few properties we’ve never really seen before, and then headed to our primary destination.

For the first time in my entire life, the footbridge (the long wooden bridge you must actually must walk across to reach the beach) was closed.

Somehow we missed the massive crane reconstructing complete sections of the bridge until we were stopped in front of the two orange cones, and a “Bridge Closed” sign blocking the entrance of the parking lot.

“We can still get there through the main beach,” I said.  And we did.

Once our feet were finally in sand, and our lungs filled with sea air, the sun came out and we played in tide pools, and with our paddle ball set.  We collected shells and rocks and seaweed, and then started digging.

Looking back on our creation now, the F is the least defined – which feels fitting.  Because when we started, we didn’t really know we were working toward creating F A M I L Y (or how it would all come and stay together) – but that’s what we’ve built…in all it’s imperfect and vulnerable glory.

The Easter Bunny brought paddle ball – the exact set that Briggs has been eyeing at Market Basket.

Which is to say, the Easter Bunny did not go all out and make sure to deliver a set with quality wood paddles and an appropriately weighted (bouncy) ball.

No, the Easter Bunny delivered a cheap, plastic bright orange set complete with a ball with very little give.

When I got home from work today, Briggs asked if it was too windy to try out this new paddle ball set.  I told him it wasn’t and out we went.  This was Briggs’s first time attempting paddle ball, and my first game of the season.

The paddles were too light, the ball wasn’t really bouncy at all, and the grass (weeds) in the side yard were too long.  Briggs was also dead set against serving.

“Mum, I’ve never done this before, so you serve every time.  I don’t want to do that part.”

I tried to convince him otherwise, but he was pretty clear: “Mum, you serve every time, that’s the deal, okay?  That’s.  The.  Deal.”

I thought about ending the game before it started, but instead, figured he’d get bored pretty quickly, because it was unlikely that this was going to be very much fun.

And, in the beginning, it wasn’t.

My first dozen or so serves went unanswered, and I was sure that my competitive minnie-me would soon be chucking his paddle over the neighbor’s fence…but instead, he said:

“This is just practice.  Just my first time.  So, this is just learning, right, Mum?”

“You’re right, bud.  This is just learning.”

He smiled.  I melted.  We played on.

I offered tips on how to hold the paddle, where to stand, and how to approach the ball.  He offered me wisdom.

Go slow.  Try again.  Take a breath.  Make a joke.  Care less. Repeat.  It’s just learning.

Then, I decided to set a goal.

“How about this, ” I said, “let’s go for four hits back and forth.”

“You count one, then I go two?” Briggs asked.

“Bingo,” I said.

“We got this.”

After another half-dozen unanswered serves, we actually did start to get it.  We got to two and we stayed there for a few more rounds, until, without me even asking, Briggs decided to try his hand at the serve…and that’s when we got to three.

Four never even happened, we went straight to five and then upped our goal to six.  By now, hitting our twos and threes were routine, fours were good, fives were great, and six was the stretch.

We dove and ran and tried out our backhands…then I got a little over zealous and got my flip-flip caught on the liner of the mulch bed and wound up with a pretty deep gash on the underside of my pinky toe.

We played through anyway, until Ken called us in for dinner.  Then, I mended my foot.  We washed our hands and came to the table feeling…accomplished.

We came to our game with shoddy equipment, mix-matched experience, and undefined expectations – but that didn’t keep us from playing, which is how we learned – and just got better.

On average, I go to the library once a week.  The routine has been fairly steady for more than a year now, and each trip usually includes a visit to the children’s section.

Though, today as my family and I were going about our regular library business, I saw something new.

“That must be wallpaper,” I said to my husband, while approaching a back wall.  “There’s no way this mural could’ve just been painted.  Briggs and I were just here last Sunday.”

I was now running my hands over the walls that had been transformed by familiar picture book scenes and imaginative gardens.

“It’s not wallpaper.”  I turned to my husband even more confused.  “How can that be?”

Then, I looked up and to the left and discovered the most brilliant, delicate stained glass windows depicting butterflies and ladybugs, hidden eyes and outstretched hands.

“These are gorgeous.”

Dumbfounded, I approached the librarian and asked how the mural and stained glass were all installed in less than a week.

She smiled and gave me the rough history as gently as she could.

“They’ve been a part of our children’s section for more than twenty years.”

This art has lived in this library for twice as long as I’ve lived in this town.  I’ve been beside it, in front of it and next to it time, and time, and time again.  And still, I could not, did not (would not?) see it.

But today I could, and would, and did.

And suddenly, the worry of missing (and having missed) was pulverized by the mighty, beautiful present.