I wish I had come up with the name Amy Farrah Fowler.  I like to say it.  I like to hear Jim Parsons say it.

Amy Farrah Fowler

Amy Farrah Fowler

Amy Farrah Fowler

Is 41 too late to change your name?  It wouldn’t be my first time.  I’m on my second first name, my third last name and what seems to be only my first middle name unless you count the fact that I use my second maiden name as a middle name as well as my given one.  Though since my second maiden name is a second then it really can’t count as a second middle name because it was a last name before it became a middle name and well I’m just not sure what to call that name now.  Let’s call it my first third name.  I’m sure it would prefer to be a first.

What the hell am I talking about?

I was adopted.  What I found out in my 20’s is that I had been given a different first name at birth.  So while I always thought Amie was my first first name, it’s really my second.  As for Adams–married name.  Hurst was my maiden when I got married, but Hurst wasn’t my first last name.  I had another before that but had it changed legally in 7th grade.  Yeah, yeah mom wanted us all to share a last name and seeing how she got remarried and my dad was getting ready to make scarce (not that he gave me a head’s up or anything) and well if you knew my first last name, you would have changed it too.

Got it?

So while I probably can’t go by Amy Farrah Fowler maybe Elizabeth is the name I should latch onto.  It’s the only one that is still my original–and maybe that’s why I kept it when I got married.  I’m like a royal princess or something with four names, though if you ask the federal government I really only have two and one stinking single letter in the middle, but that’s a whole different story.

PS-If you don’t know who Amy Farrah Fowler is…I just feel bad for you.

BEWARE:  Blogger navel-gazing ahead!

Okay, so I’m here putting words on (virtual) paper, writing novels in my head and staring at photos for inspiration.

Lately I’ve been living in my head.  I’ve missed exits–to my own home!  Reliving things so you can exorcise them is a little tough on the gas tank sometimes.

I forgot about writing and how it makes the trip to work so much faster.  Have I lost the sense of humor I gained when I knew that no matter what embarrassing situation I got myself into it would make good fodder for a post in the end?

I miss blogging, but it’s changed so much since the early days.  The BlogHerWriters conference inspired me again to think in words.  There I found people who loved them with me–and there was no expo floor!  I don’t resent the relationships developed with brands the opportunities gained–I’ve benefited too.  What I began to miss were the relationships and the conversations that I felt were given up in lieu of traffic.  But maybe that’s just sour grapes.  Who knows.  Now the words?  Let’s see if there are any more here.

Back in high school, I rebelled.  I didn’t swoon over popular boys found on the cover of Tiger Beat magazine.

I refused.  I saved my sighs for the boys I could see every day walking the halls.

But I loved music.  Challenge me on any 80’s tune and you will lose.  Lose I say!  I am the queen of 80’s music.  So do you have any idea how much fun I’m going to have tonight??  I’m going to see Duran Duran!

When I found I was going I thought first of my friend Andrea.  Poor Andrea was one of those girls who argued with others over which of the band members she was going to marry–lengthy conversations at the lunch table ensued. Why do I refer to Andrea with sympathy?  I wasn’t part of the conversation, and that pissed me off.  So one day I raged at Andrea.

“You’re never going to meet Duran Duran!  You will never marry any of them!  So SHUT UP!”

I still feel guilty about that today.

So tonight I will take my friend Deb to the concert with me, and you know why?  Because she told me she had a poster of Roger Taylor in her room throughout high school and she kissed him good night every single night of high school.  I can’t take Andrea because she doesn’t live close by, but Deb will enjoy the concert as much as Andrea would.

Tonight I will sing every word (okay to all the songs from the 80’s) and I will dance and I will scream and I will sigh over the boys I should have given my attention to in high school.   They would have gotten me in a lot less trouble.

There was an accident this morning that closed off all of the main lanes of the interstate.  I was in the HOV lane, so I drove by and saw the minivan that had rolled over onto its roof.  One person was being wheeled on a stretcher towards an ambulance while more paramedics knelt over another working on her (or him) in the road.  That’s all I saw as I went past, but I sent up a little prayer for the people involved.

I didn’t know them, but I was the one with the time to ask for their safety at that moment–and it didn’t seem like the folks who were stuck in the mile-long back up would be in the mood.

I don’t mention this to prove my charity, but rather to explain.

There are times when I feel a responsibility to pay respect or bear witness to something that has NOTHING to do with me.

Exhibit A:

image source okmagazine.com

I may actually watch the wedding ceremony of William and Kate.

And this after I posted the following tweet yesterday:

That tweet wasn’t a lie.  I swear.

I can’t stand all the pre-pre-coverage and pre-coverage and shit the extra coverage; HOWEVER, today I had this thought:

His mom isn’t there.  She can’t witness her son’s marriage.  But hey, I’m a mom.  I have sons.  I should do it for her.*

Maybe it’s the horror of the thought of not seeing my own sons finding their happiness–of not being there to witness it.  Maybe I hope someone would do the same for me.

It’s not like Diana and I were besties or anything.  I can say with relative certainty that she probably never even knew I existed, but we have motherhood in common.  And, in that way we shared an understanding.

So the hype and the commentators and the crazy Americans decked out in British flags who have camped out for days along the parade route will not gain my attention, but the ceremony–the exchange of vows–I will watch.  I will watch for the mother who can’t be there.

*I totally recognize this thought may mean that I’m insane and now you know that too because I’ve revealed my crazy-ass thought process on the internet, but if you know me or have ever read this blog before you already knew that.

Did you see it tonight?

It is amazing!

The ground is glowing and it’s casting shadows here and there.

I want to wake you and drag you outside to look at it with me.  I want to take your hand and dance madly together in its beams.

But I can’t.

It is up there all the time.  Most nights I give it cursory glance, sometimes taking note of its location in the sky, but on nights like tonight…

It drew my attention forcing me to stop and stare.  And when I did, I wanted to sing and cry at the very same time.  I studied its details.  I marveled at its light.  I didn’t want to go inside and lose my view.

Will it ever look again like it does tonight?  Will I see it in the same way?  It’s the fear that I won’t that made heart hurt as I moved my eyes away.

A big ole rock in the sky and yet what I think I’m trying to say is: the moon was cool.

I am about to go tell my son that his mother is dead.

He’s 14.

He knows too much about the dark side of this world already.

He’s my baby.  How do I tell him?  How do I break his heart?  That’s not supposed to be a mother’s job.  I’m supposed to protect him–not hurt him.

Will he ever forgive me?  Will he ever forgive me for being the one to tell him?

My baby sister is dead, but I have had years to get used to the idea.

Him?

Nothing can prepare you for losing a parent.  We’ve been honest with him as he’s gotten older, but he was afforded the optimism of youth–until today.

I couldn’t bring myself to pull him out of school when we heard the news.  There is no reason to rush.  I wanted him to have this one last “normal” school day.  His life will be far from normal for some time I imagine.

Please let him survive this.  Please let him persevere.

Please help me find the words.

I’m a mom.  I’m a blogger.  I’m a photographer for crying out loud, but have I captured my memories of your childhood?

I know I can’t hold on.  I can’t prevent you from growing up–from becoming an amazing man.

But you’re my beautiful little boy too.  You will always be my beautiful baby.  Even if you won’t cut your hair “until baseball season starts.”

As proud as I am of the incredible person you are becoming, I miss the little baby who disappears with every passing minute.

You are my reserved one.  Never my obvious cuddler, never one to be effusive.

Those giant blue eyes that you hide behind that hair–they take my breath away every time you let me see them.  I’m so grateful you give me a glimpse of them from time to time.  I’m sorry I grab my camera every time that you do, but I don’t want to miss these moments.

Because seven years of them have already gone by.

Happy Birthday my baby.  I am so proud to be your mom and I will love you forever.

Old picture.  No editing.  I’m just glad I had a camera handy.

When you finish your plate of cut-up hot dog pieces and there’s a pile of ketchup left what else are you supposed to do?

I might do that next time I’m at a restaurant.

“Um excuse me ma’am but you seem to have a little hollandaise on your chin…and your nose…and your lips.”

How much more fun would life be if we occasionally dipped our faces in a leftover pile of ketchup?

Life before the mirror.

No worries about wrinkles or zits or grey hair or flabby arms or muffin tops.

Life before the comparisons.

No photos of ridiculously fit high school associates on Facebook to compare yourself to.

Opportunities for fun everywhere you turn.

Why was it I was in such a hurry to grow up anyway?

The sky was so blue. The water was that gorgeous aqua and the sand was a cliche powdery white. The green of the palm trees was crisp and clean against the sky.

I had to stop the car, take off my shoes and walk on the beach.

When I’m near the beach I must feel my bare feet on the sand–put them in the water. It’s an overwhelming desire to greet the edge of the world–to experience the water that has traveled from places I’ve never been and connects me to places I miss with my whole heart.

I’m compelled to feel the water on my feet no matter how cold it is.

I belong at the beach.

That is where I can breathe. The beach is where I feel the most in touch with…something…the earth? Mother Nature? A spiritual thing. I can be all by myself there staring out at the horizon and never feel alone.

I’m renewed by the the sounds of the water lapping on the sand, by the scent in my nose. The softness of the air–the humidity–it comforts me. At night, during the day, I feel safe there.

But which one? Which beach is mine? Where would I plant myself? I know my future is there.

A bungalow with beach roses and a picket fence. Palm trees in the yard that make scrapping sounds in the wind. White exterior walls that reflect the sun, a view of the water, the ability to hear the seagulls and waves all the time…heaven.

Courtesy House Beautiful

It doesn’t need to be a huge home, but must have a good kitchen and a warm inviting place to entertain.

Courtesy House Beautiful

A cozy study as my own retreat.

Courtesy FemTalks

An extra bedroom for guests–maybe two.

Courtesy House Beautiful

And an outdoor shower. Definitely an outdoor shower.

Courtesy Coastal Living

A porch with a swing and some rockers.

Courtesy Better Homes & Gardens

Courtesy TripAdvisor

I can see my little bungalow now.

You know about Sleeping Beauty and Snow White and Ariel and Belle and all those other chicks who needed a prince to save them, right?

Have you met this princess?

Allow me to introduce you to the Princess-Who-Can-Defend-Herself.

She sits in my friend Susan’s office.

Do you know Susan?  How can you not!  She is this amazing blogger, astrophysicist, mom, writer, activist and oh yeah cancer survivor.

While I love the sentiment of  not teaching our children that the only way girls can be saved is by a muscle-bound man who swoops in on a blazing white steed–or beat up old truck for that matter–I do know when a princess could use some help.

Susan had an awful day yesterday–and I mean awful by ANYONE’s standards.  And yet?  She wrote a beautiful post about being lucky.

She blows me away.

I can’t make my friend’s cancer disappear–and damn I wish I had been put on this planet to do just that–but I can let her know that I am lucky to have her friendship, that I love her and I totally have her back if she does happen to run into that bitch cancer in a dark alley.  I’ll even bring a baseball bat to knock the wench out of this universe.

I want Susan to know that she is not alone.  Yes, the fight is hers, but she has an army of princesses (and princes) behind her.

Want to join me?

Take this badge.  Put it on your blog (it links to her post referenced above).

<a href="http://toddlerplanet.wordpress.com/2011/01/22/us-lucky/"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5126/5379798874_d4ea53e42d_m.jpg" alt="No Princess Alone button" width="125" height="125" /></a>

Let me know below in the comments that you’re with us*, then go visit Susan and let her know you’re in her army now.

Why?

Because each and every one of us–we are lucky.

*for every blog that posts this button, I will find a way to donate $1 to Crickett’s Answer.  I’m totally stealing this idea from Kristen and Jessica,  but I thought it rocked and our friend needs us. Oh and if you want to donate money to Crickett’s Answer too, please do.