Notes to My Loves

     Images, perspectives, preconceived notions, wishful thinking, pride, and public scrutiny. What do all of these things have in common? What do all of these mean for most mothers? These are the undercurrents to how most of us choose to live our lives. These are the tides and torrents that shift the sand beneath our feet, or pull our lives into chaos. They are the images not of what is truly going on within, but what we want others to think is truth. The snapshots of greatness versus the grainy ones of defeat. Those that hang proudly on our walls versus the ones we often quickly delete.      In the last couple of years, I have seen many of my friends struggle. I have struggled. We have struggled silently, publicly, quietly, and often times without the knowledge of those closest to us. Other times we confide in our careful few. The ones that we know won't judge or have words to fix what is going on.     The thing that has kept me thinking is what about those mothers who don'

B irthdays. A celebration of the days we were blessed with those in our lives. A day all about them. Today was one of those days. Today I was able to celebrate my mother's birthday,and we were together to do just that.  It was a beautiful fall day in which she and I were able to take a day just to ourselves without the stresses of kids and time lines. Leaves in shades of vibrant yellows and oranges fell gently on cobbled-stoned streets as we visited cute little shops filled with Polish pottery and the wafting smells of gourmet coffees.  It was a gift to both of us in a life of craziness and responsibilities. A day filled with laughter and conversation, while eating white chicken chili, reminiscing about the past and looking forward to the future that awaits us. Discussing 9,6, and 2 and how blessed and silly our lives are with their antics and personalities.      But the best gift of the day was not one that was wrapped in tissue paper, tucked in a lovely gift bag. It wasn't