NYC, Day One -- Downtown

In our six and a half days in New York City, the three of us took approximately 2,500 photos on a total of five phone/camera devices. So when I manage to narrow down the 450-some photos we took on a given day to, say, 50? I think that deserves an award (cue applause)! 👏👏👏 😉

SUNDAY, MAR. 25 -- DAY ONE

Sunday dawned cold and windy, but we were determined to stick to our original plan, which was to knock out all the touristy things on the southern tip of Manhattan.

Up until this trip, I had always pictured Times Square and all the Broadway shows to be placed toward the bottom of the island, close to the World Trade Center. But they're not. They're farther north, in Midtown (which is where our hotel was) -- though not as far north as Uptown. Downtown, Midtown, Uptown. Got it? 👍 Downtown is primarily the Financial District (aka the dry, business-y side of town).

In our original planned route for Sunday (traced in red pencil), we planned to see the 9/11 Memorial, take the free Staten Island Ferry past the Statue of Liberty, see Wall Street, walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, and then end the day in China Town.

I had worried that we wouldn't get to everything. But I hadn't fully understood how compact New York is, and also, I had largely underestimated our ability to walk. We had plenty of time for everything we wanted to do, and then some. We did, however, rearrange our order once we figured out where the subway ran on Sundays.

So after grabbing coffee and hopping onto the subway at Grand Central Station ...

We arrived at New York City Hall for a brisk morning walk across the Brooklyn Bridge.

But since Ryley was still carrying her breakfast croissant, the squirrels in the City Hall courtyard started circling her -- kind of scarily, to be honest. They were much more habituated than the Colorado squirrels we're used to. Also, we'd never seen a black squirrel before.

Anyway, so the Brooklyn Bridge! In all its Sunday morning glory ...

Our first glimpse of the Statue of Liberty, from the bridge ...

A whole group of very kind people waited behind me while I took this shot! We didn't even ask them to. They were just courteous and nice like that. :-)

It was really chilly and windy, and it seemed people were always right on our heels, so we pulled over from time to time to let them pass us. It was a pretty epic experience, though! On the other side, we sat in a park for a bit while Ryan searched his phone for which subway train would take us back.

Our next stop was the 9/11 Memorial ... 

I actually started fighting back tears before we even got to the memorial because I was dreading seeing it so much. 

The reality, however, was a little underwhelming, compared to the terror we know happened there. Maybe it was that we chose not to do the 9/11 Museum, but it was hard to imagine the attacks and really let the gravity and magnitude of them sink in. I had trouble translating the holes in the ground and the beautiful, sleek fountains into the horrible picture in my head of the towers falling.

I would like to do the museum someday.

It ended up being a good thing that we didn't do it, though, because we took the subway a few blocks to Wall Street (we were newbies to the walking scene and were still underestimating our walking power) and ended up passing an old church cemetery that looked enticing. Old cemeteries fascinate me! A group of tourists stood just inside the gate, so we felt comfortable taking a quick detour.

 

What a find! A quick internet search informed us that this was the Trinity Church cemetery where none other than THE Alexander Hamilton was buried! 

We also heard that there were a few of his family members buried there, too, so we set off on a bit of a hunt. The problem, however, was that the headstones were so old that it was hard to decipher names and dates.

Can you tell that I love old cemeteries? And it was so amazing that we had just happened upon it!

A block away, we found Federal Hall, which was the United States' first capitol building and the place where a BUNCH of U.S. history went down. We would have taken a free tour of that, but it was closed since it was Sunday.

Right across the street was the New York Stock Exchange.

And then, winding our way back to Broadway, we found the famous Charging Bull statue ...

At this point, we meandered to the very tip of the Manhattan island, where we boarded the Staten Island Ferry. Yes, it would have been nice to go to Liberty Island or Ellis Island and to actually go up into the actual Statue of Liberty. But those things cost money, and we had to make some hard decisions (just like with the 9/11 Museum) per our already stretched budget. The Staten Island Ferry is a FREE 30-minute ride (👍) that passes right by the Statue of Liberty, for an incredible view! Good enough for us! 😊

Here's the view as we pulled away ...

New York on the right, New Jersey on the left -- Statue of Liberty in the middle.

My phone battery had already dipped down to 10 percent, so on the ferry ride back, I found an electrical outlet in the middle of the boat and stood there charging it. I really enjoyed watching the "huddled masses" stand in awe of the Statue of Liberty as we passed by -- so poetic. 

After this, we took the subway to China Town for dinner. I didn't mind China Town at all, largely because I've been to China, and it brought back some fun memories. 

But Ryan and Ryley were generally miserable there. The situation only worsened, however, when we had finished our meal (which I alone thought was delicious). We left cash on the table for the bill and tip, but the waitress chased us down at the front of the restaurant to ask us why we hadn't left more of a tip. Totally caught off guard, Ryan dug into his wallet and gave her way more than she deserved.

I mean, seriously??? We're not cheap -- I promise. It takes a lot of gall to chase people down and ask for a bigger tip.

So no pics of China Town. You can imagine it, I'm sure.

We took the subway back to Midtown and crashed in our hotel for a few hours to let our feet recover and (just being honest) surf our phones for a bit.

Around 7 or so, we decided we were feeling adventurous again and that we wanted to explore our area some more. We knew that St. Patrick's Cathedral was just a few blocks away, and since it was Palm Sunday, we figured it would probably be open. We were right.

Isn't it beautiful? 

Ryley had a lot of questions about Catholicism and "praying to the saints," and I answered them quietly while we sat together in the pews, only for Ryan (the former confirmed Catholic) to correct me and re-explain the facts when he finally sat down with us. Oh, well! 

I know how churches work, of course, but these boxes of Palm Sunday palm branches -- just casually shoved in a corner -- made me laugh. It reminded me of how in Sunday School when I was 7 or 8, my dad cut some of the leaves off of our big, leafy houseplant so we could have "palms" in children's church to re-enact Jesus' entry into Jerusalem!

The cathedral is only a block from Rockefeller Center (have I mentioned how compact the city is??), so we headed over there to check it out. 

Rockefeller Center is where they light the gigantic Christmas tree every year, and I just want to say that the plaza was not how I pictured it -- at all.

Rockefeller Plaza is also known for the ice skating, and we could hardly believe that during the last week in March it was still in season! FYI, in case you go: It's actually open until mid-April!

In one of those last-minute, live-in-the-moment decisions, we let Ryley skate! It's something she'll never, ever forget!

Tired and worn out, we slowly made our way back to the good ol' Roosevelt Hotel and our bottle of ibuprofen. 😏

Total miles walked on Sunday: 9.9 

Stay tuned for Day Two, coming soon!

The Greatest City in the World

I can't go through any big, epic moment in my life without processing it, picking it apart piece by piece, trying to make sense of all the little details. Our trip to New York is no different. I know, I know. It's just a trip. It's just a place. "Please, Joy -- for the love of all that is holy -- STOP talking about your trip to New York!" I will, eventually -- I promise. But this is my space to unpack it all, air it all out, and reflect -- so that years down the road we don't forget all the tiny, minute details.

For as long as I can remember, visiting New York has been a dream of mine. I had a layover once in JFK Airport. I was just 20, and I didn't really know where JFK was in relation to the city, so I peered desperately out of every window, hoping for a little peek of the tall buildings (to no avail, of course). I think someone even told me it was pointless ("You're too far away," they said), but I figured that a city that big had to be visible to some extent. Slumped in an airport seat in defeat, I looked at every business person that passed me with envious longing, thinking, "You've been there. You've seen it. You know what New York is like."

We live in a world that is saturated with New York City obsession. From our earliest years watching Sesame Street, to nearly every TV show and movie these days, we've all been told countless times that New York is where it's at. Nowhere else matters. If it did, we'd do shows about those places, right? I mean, why do a TV series based in Denver when we could do it in New York? Seinfeld. The Cosby Show. Friends. Saturday Night Live. How I Met Your Mother. The Mindy Project. 30 Rock. Mad Men. Mad About You. Elementary. Rules of Engagement. Law and Order. Will & Grace. Just off the top of my head! ;-)

We're told over and over again that it's the greatest city in the world. David Letterman used to say it on his show nearly every night, while handing out "cuts of meat" to lucky visitors from Pittsburgh and Tucson. So for those of us in the Midwest and beyond, we've grown up feeling like New York is untouchable. It's too much. We're not smart enough, rich enough, or good enough for it. I know I'm not alone in feeling this way. We're intimidated. And if we're not within driving distance (or have any family or friends to visit out that direction), then we might as well give up the dream of seeing what all the fuss is about with our own eyes.

I feel a little ridiculous that even at 40 years old, it was still such a big deal to me. Ryan knew. And being able to count the big trips we've taken together on just one hand, he decided it was time.

On my birthday, back in November, he surprised me with plane tickets for the three of us to spend a full week -- spring break -- in the city of our dreams. The trip would fall over his 40th birthday, as well, so it would be our way of celebrating the milestone for both of us.

I was floored. Overwhelmed. Anxious. Excited. Stressed. Undeserving. Nervous. But over the next five months, we carefully formed a wish list of everything we've always wanted to see and do in New York City. "There's no way you can see everything in one trip," they said. Well, darn it if we weren't gonna try! We jotted down ideas and recommendations from various friends. And then one day, in early March, I bought a big, detailed map of Manhattan. Because I love maps.

As our basic itinerary developed, we used colored pencils to trace our proposed daily routes (a different color for each day, of course). It was an unwieldy process -- us sprawled out awkwardly on the family room floor with a laptop, our destination wish list, colored pencils, and the unfolded map -- being oh so careful not to wrinkle or tear it. But you've got to give us points for planning and organization!

And finally, on March 24, we embarked ...

SATURDAY NIGHT

We'd done some online research and determined that the very best way to get from LaGuardia Airport to the Roosevelt Hotel in Midtown Manhattan was to catch the free Q70 shuttle bus to a subway station in Queens. While Ryley and I waited for our bags on the carousel, Ryan headed to an automated machine to purchase each of us a 7-day subway pass.

But let me tell you this: Once we got to the station, dragging our 50-pound suitcases up and down several flights of stairs to the elevated train was NO JOKE. Nightmarish, really -- because there were so many people on our heels, and we were trying desperately not to be in anyone's way, so we just kept pushing ourselves. Thankfully Ryan was following the signs and seemed to know what he was doing while Ryley and I just tagged along behind him.

Grand Central Station is a maze in and of itself. I seriously cannot adequately express what it was like to blindly navigate the white-tiled tunnels in the very depths of the station, dragging our suitcases, tackling stairs, dodging fast-paced New Yorkers. It was all adrenaline. Next time we'll take a Lyft.

Our hotel was only two blocks from Grand Central, but we were disoriented upon emerging from the station and ended up taking a longer way by accident (haha!).

We got settled in our hotel room (they upgraded us to a larger room for free when I asked if they had any rooms with a mini-fridge!). The Roosevelt Hotel is old and historic and beautiful, but there's a reason it's more affordable than others. They seemed to have trouble with keeping their elevator fleet up and running, and the carpet was a little dated, but it was clean! No complaints from us!

Once we'd rested for a bit, we decided to head down to Times Square -- just three long blocks away. It was already almost 8 p.m., so it was quite dark out, but the streets were busy with people. We followed the throng, and then suddenly, Let there be light!

There will never be anything like that first experience of seeing Times Square lit up in all its glory. In all honesty, it was an absolutely overwhelming experience.

We were hungry, though, so we walked further up Broadway and ended up having pizza at an Italian place next to Colbert's studios. Then we wandered through the M&M's store and the Hershey's store (obviously we like chocolate!) before raiding a Walgreens for drinks and snacks to stock our fridge. By the time we'd toted our groceries back to our hotel room, it was time to call it a night!

Total miles walked on Saturday: 5.6

Stay tuned for an oh-so-detailed account of our Sunday adventures ...

Our Adventure Begins....

For 40 years, New York has been the untouchable, iconic mystery to me. The obsession started with Sesame Street, was only fueled by The Cosby Show, then cemented by Friends. And of course,there were countless books, other shows, and movies along the way, all adding to the NYC question in my mind, creating a vision for it in my head.

Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve. Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. I have 40 years worth of piecing together two-dimensional images and creating some kind of imaginary framework for them in my mind. 

It’s important to me that I record all this before we get there because I know that everything that I’ve seen and believed to be true up to this point — everything i have imagined — will change soon enough. It will pale in the face of the reality. And then I’ll look back and wonder how I ever saw it differently, how my mind hadn’t imagined it for what it truly was. I want to remember this feeling. It’s like an old friend.

I can’t explain why NYC is so important to me. It just is. Maybe it’s the writer in me, but I’ve heard that New York is a writer’s paradise. I love life and all its moving parts. And the fact that this historical city encompasses the moving parts of so many people over so many centuries fascinates me to no end. 

For the first 40 years of my life, I have lived without understanding and fully knowing New York City. Now I’ll get to go the rest of my life knowing it. 

I am furiously typing and posting this before our plane takes off in Cincinnati. T minus two hours until two-dimensional becomes three.

Our adventure begins...

We Are 40

When the sun rises tomorrow morning, I think I might finally feel like an adult. 

I mean, it's been heading that way for some time, what, with my recently realized penchant for Tupperware, my enjoyment of school board meetings, and the realization that sometimes it actually is cold enough to wear a coat. But I've still been 39, still abiding in my yellow decade, bright with youth and promise. So even though I've matured and grown and become a better person, I could still say I was in my 30s. And that doesn't sound so old.

But 40? When I was a kid, 40-year-olds were grown-ups. They had investment portfolios and carried briefcases. They used big words and signed important documents. They wore nylons and dress suits with shoulder pads. Blazers. I've never been a grown-up before. At least, not like that.

But I've always been me. I've always been Joy. And as I cross that magic line tonight and step into a new decade, I'm choosing to accept it as a milestone -- as a celebration of the gift that I've been given -- of getting to be me for an even 40 years. My rate or depth of maturity is up to me. Not all old people are wise. Other people -- young people -- can be astoundingly wise beyond their years sometimes. The human experience has so much depth, regardless of age -- it's undefined by it. Of course, it would be ideal if one's maturity was reflective of their number of years on Earth, and it is in most cases. But people are just people. Just grown-up kids. They're just themselves, at their core, collecting and accumulating life experiences and translating them into some sort of meaning through their own one-of-a-kind filter. 

It's not fair to look at an elderly person and just see an "old fogey," not giving them credit for the person they are inside, for the life experiences they've accumulated. It's also not fair to look down on someone younger and think of oneself as better, more mature. I've thought a lot about this in the last six months. I work with a bunch of 20-somethings -- millennials -- kids that were born when I was in high school. I could have babysat them. I was considering colleges while they were learning to walk. But you know what? They're smart. They're fun. I genuinely like them as people. I recognize that they're smarter than me in a lot of ways, and just as I didn't want to be looked down on when I was their age, it only makes sense that I give them the benefit of the doubt -- get to know each of them for who they are -- their individual cores, their unique filters -- despite the fact that we're currently living in different stages of life.

So 40 isn't what I thought it would look like. It isn't what I thought it would feel like. 

So what does it feel like?

All my life, I've hated doing dishes. Like really hated them. Our kitchen has often showed it, too, and seen the brunt of it. And all my life, I've noticed that my mom, my dad, and my grandma don't necessarily mind doing the dishes. It's not like they like doing them. But when the dishes need to be done, they do them. And I've never understood it. I mean, my grandma is 88 years old; how is she not tired of doing dishes?

So what does 40 feel like? Surprise! It feels like doing the dishes. Like, actually feeling like doing the dishes. Not minding them. Finding a little bit of pleasure and peace in it. 

This is a new development for me, something that's been growing steadily over the last year. But it's true. I find peace in doing dishes, in taking care of what belongs to me, in properly utilizing my resources.  

40 also feels like having a real concept of how much I don't know, of admitting that I don't know it all and that I never will. I love writing and editing. I do it for a living and have often prided myself in being perfect. But am I always right? Absolutely not. Do I make mistakes? All the time. Do I miss things? I did today. I once heard it said that nobody knows more than a college sophomore, and I believe that to be true. The older I get, the more I come to terms with the fact that I don't know what I don't know. And I am absolutely fallible. I am far from perfect.

I'm also getting worse at parking, if that's possible. Every time I walk up to my vehicle after work, I think, "Nice parking job, Joy."

So, this is 40. An ex-know-it-all who enjoys doing dishes and packing my food into Tupperware containers that I then dutifully carry up the elevator with me in to work. A bad parker, yes. But still me. 

Still a word nerd. Still an amateur detective, always curious about the scoop. Still into colorful things. Still into weather and all the things it affects, like pinwheels and wind chimes. Still into good coffee and music. Still into things that smell amazing and taste delicious. Still indulgent, probably to a fault. ;-)

So this next decade will be "emerald" for my funnily wired brain -- not yellow. A bright, translucent, iridescent gem-green will serve as the backdrop for the next 10 years of my life. I think I could do a lot worse.

Hello, 40. I'm still me.

Happy High Schooling

Have I told you about my daughter? The newly-turned 14-year-old? The high school freshman? The math-loving Anglophile? The champion of refrigerated foods' expiration dates and (to my great pride) user of the Oxford comma?

I haven't written in way too long, and I feel somewhat guilty for that. But life has been so busy. I meant to write all summer long; I meant to write around her birthday a couple weeks ago -- a lengthy tribute to 14 years of Ryleyness. But we were just too busy traipsing around Chicago seeing the sights and living.

I suppose now is as good of a time as any. Because tomorrow -- yes, tomorrow -- she starts high school. My sweet little baby girl.

She's a good kid, our Ryley. Much different than I ever could have imagined she'd be when I laid eyes on her for the first time -- she's just completely and totally herself.

We re-did her bedroom this summer. We just painted the purple walls a pretty shade of gray and added teal accents here and there, boxed up all her stuffed animals and gave her an airy space in which to breathe and stretch and grow. As we sorted through all 14 years of her packrat-ness, we basked in the glory that is "Ryley," finding countless little notebooks wherein her six-year-old self had scrawled titles like "Ryley's Memories," or "Things I Love about Mom," followed by blank pages -- no other words -- as she no doubt had become distracted and ended up moving on to the next thing in the way she always has. It was like a tiny little window into the chaotic, beautiful mind of my little girl. We laughed and laughed. We filled an entire storage bin with just costumes -- Halloween, Comic Con, dress-up stuff -- because she's always had a flair for the dramatic.

Summer has always been her season -- the time when she spreads and fills whatever space is around her with her larger-than-life personality and hilarious sense of humor. But she's starting to feel more comfortable in her own skin -- becoming more at home with who she is -- just like we knew she always would, even though it seemed at times like it would never happen. She's witty and funny and quick, and she keeps us gloriously entertained.

Have I told you about her tiny bottle collection? That in itself is everything you need to know about her. Nothing makes her giddier with excitement than finding tiny bottles.

In most of her travels this year -- from her class trip to Washington, D.C. this spring, to her trip with my mom to South Dakota and the Black Hills in June, or on our family trips to northeast Ohio and Chicago, she was always on a quest for tiny bottles to commemorate her experiences.

She scours gift shops and antique shops wherever she goes, always on the prowl. There are 87 now that have made the final cut -- that are worth being on display and considered part of the elite.

It is a great privilege being her mom -- being here for every moment as she becomes such an interesting and beautiful young woman. The freckles that once clearly peppered her nose have now faded, and the ones that haven't faded are often covered by make-up that she applies oh-so-carefully via YouTube instruction. Her hair is bleached (we've learned a lot about hair this summer, she and I), and shopping for clothes isn't nearly as painful as it was a year ago.

It's so much fun to introduce her to our favorite shows, our favorite things, our humor -- now that she's old enough to appreciate it all. We marathoned "Downton Abbey" in the last few weeks, and then somehow found ourselves watching the "Twilight" movies, punctuated by her and Ryan's bantering quips. All three of us have practically memorized the soundtrack to "Hamilton," and it is now the soundtrack to our lives.

If I text her while I'm at work and ask her what she's up to, she'll send a cheeky response: "Just living the good life, man." Because she knows it makes me laugh.

I know she's nervous about high school, about making new friends, about making the right choices, about her dad being her English teacher (!!!). But she's only nervous because she understands the weight of it all -- she knows how much it matters. She's always loved math because there's always a right answer; there's nothing ambiguous, no gray areas. She likes things to be black and white, everything to be very clear. And we know that as she navigates these next four years, God is with her -- and with us, just as He always has been. He'll guide each and every step.

Happy High Schooling, Ryley! We can't wait to see what God has in store for you! :-)

Too Tired to Think of a Title

This “parenting a teenager” thing is serious business, isn’t it? I’ve sat here for several minutes trying to process exactly what it is that I want to say, but I’m coming up empty. This, after months of longing to write it all out but never finding the time, experiencing fleeting moments of clarity and a string of words that articulate perfectly what I’m thinking (but always at work or while I’m driving and never at a time when it’s actually convenient to write). The feelings, emotions, epiphanies, and visions that I experience regarding this single child are deep and plentiful, layered and wide. I could fill a novel – but stream-of-consciousness style, with no particular plot, no apparent climax or finale. I would call it “My Experiences in Parenting Are All Over the Place and Change Daily" or "I Don't Know What I'm Doing.”

Part of it is that we don’t really know who we’re parenting exactly. I mean, she’s still trying to figure that out herself. She’s coming alive -- she’s quirky and light and lively and melodramatic and headstrong and spacey and opinionated. There’s no better example of this than when we’re shopping together. There was a holiday dance at the school last Friday (adorably called “The Snow Ball”), and choosing a semi-formal outfit proved to be a real adventure, mostly because she doesn’t have a clear understanding of what “semi-formal” means. But maybe I don’t either. I lugged an armful of knee-length dresses into the dressing room at Target, and she said, “Paisley patterns are you, Mom; not me,” and I flashed back to my own middle school years when I, too, was resistant to my mom’s suggestions, yet so desperate to fit in with my friends, afraid to launch out and set my own fashion trends based on what I thought was pretty. Apparently it was paisley.

“Keep an open mind,” I said. “You keep an open mind, too,” she shot right back at me, teenager-style. Eventually we settled on black – plain and simple – because I’d read that every girl needs a “little black dress” that she can dress up or down depending on the situation. She likes it but claims it’s too formal. It’s not, of course. Because it’s from Target. ;-)

It seems like everything is an argument these days. I could say the kettle is black, but she would say it’s a triangle. And looking back, she’s kind of always been this way, I suppose. It’s exhausting. So many simple conversations spiral out of control over semantics or details or tone of voice. How many times do we hear, “I know!” or “I am!,” to which we end up channeling our early 1990s parents, with, “Well, you don’t know or else you’d stop doing it!”

There are other moments, though. Like when Ryan was scrolling through the channels and came across “Fiddler on the Roof” (which, of course, we own and have watched three dozen times). “Ryley!” he called. She came bounding down the stairs two-, three-, four-at-a-time and plopped down on the sofa, a stupid grin plastered to her face. Then, for the next three days, she belted out the songs and even dug out my “Fiddler” soundtrack CD for accompaniment.

For being one person, she is certainly the source of a lot of noise! Ryley can’t empty the dishwasher without blasting Panic! At the Disco from her iTunes, or Twenty-one Pilots or Michael Buble from Pandora or Spotify. She’s performing as Gertrude McFuzz in our school’s spring production of "Seussical," in which she has four (!!!) solos, so we hear a lot of that around the house, too. 

Then, in November, she learned that she was selected for Colorado All-state Middle School Choir, which is a huge accomplishment! So now we have five more pieces to rehearse and memorize before the first weekend in February. We are so proud of our girl….I am so glad she loves music and has finally found her “thing” – her long-pursued talent. I could listen to her sweet, strong alto singing all day long.

But back in September, she had toyed with not auditioning for these things….just helping with stage crew for the musical and not worrying about the difficult audition for all-state choir. How different would our school year (and her life experience) have been if she had just fizzled out on these opportunities before they even began?

School is difficult. Just this last weekend, she had three big projects due on Monday alone, with another project and two presentations due yesterday, three big final exams happening today, and another essay due tomorrow (for which she's forgotten her notes at school). I get overwhelmed just looking at her homework assignments, grateful that it’s her and not me. I think I still suffer a little bit of post-traumatic stress disorder after the marathon that was “getting through college.” I’ve already paid my dues, right? It’s her turn.

Not exactly. I truly believe that behind every well-put-together child is a parent pulling the strings, providing the choir outfits and participation fees and homework support.

Sometimes, late at night, when I’m quietly doing dishes at the sink while she writes an essay at the kitchen table, I think to myself, “Across our suburb, across the country, other moms are also staying up tonight helping their kiddo with a creative writing portfolio or Googling the ‘equation for y intercept.’ Or saying, 'You know what? Close the math book, and go to bed. It will be okay.'”

Because having a child at an academically-demanding school feels like having a second job. Back in October, I came to the realization that though we needed more money and needed me to take on more freelance work, my family needed me more – my presence and my help. In Proverbs 31, the “the wife of noble character” is praised for selecting wool and flax and working with eager hands, making and selling linen garments, securing trade deals and buying fields and planting vineyards, all while the lamp burns late into the night. But my big epiphany has been that sometimes in this modern society, spinning wool or planting a vineyard also means learning 8th grade physics at 11 p.m. or just being in the same room as your baby fills out her history study guide until midnight, just so she’s not alone. You’re so tired, but you fight sleep, knowing that you're doing what’s best. Sometimes it means running down to the thrift store in the middle of the Broncos game on a Monday evening to buy a $1 cane for your husband and his injured back. Sometimes being that quintessential “Proverbs 31 woman” means knowing how to invest your time in creative ways, understanding when to snap the laptop shut, and canceling potential freelance projects, trusting that God will provide for all your needs.

In the midst of volleyball and play practice, choir auditions and D.C. trip fundraising, podiatrist appointments and contact fittings, car repairs and Ryan’s ruptured disc (resulting MRI and physical therapy), his unrelated car accident and losing his car to the body shop for more than a month….in the midst of all that and more, my family needs me more than we need the money. They need all of me – not the muddled, distracted version of me. They need the stability only I can bring. After all, that’s why God put me here, planting my own little vineyard called the Moore family.

Most nights over the last few years, I've defaulted to my freelance work on my laptop on the downstairs sofa while Ryan has graded papers at the desk across the room. Meanwhile, Ryley is left to her own devices with her heavy backpack dumped out and spread out across the floor in our living room upstairs – within ear shot of us, but away from the distraction of the television we have on in the background.

But last weekend, on a whim, Ryley took the love languages quiz, and we discovered that she gives and receives love in “quality time.” I’d never thought of her that way before. I mean, that’s my love language, too, but it had never occurred to me that some of the forlornness she feels and the hours it takes to get her homework done is because she has been “banished” from us. She feels lonely and thus loses momentum and motivation.

That insight inspired me to try something new during the Crazy Weekend of Multiple Projects. I pledged to be her right-hand person. I stayed with her in the front room and just remained "available." I tried not to push my own agenda; I let her tell me what she needed my help with. And you know what? She got her work done in a timely manner, and she was less combative about it. Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles! It was a relatively peaceful weekend, all things considered, and we didn't even have to burn the midnight oil. Normal bedtimes were kept. Now, is it always practical or even in her best interest for me to be present during every homework marathon? No, of course not. But sometimes she just needs somebody to be there, supporting her.

And sometimes she just needs help prioritizing… “Hey, sweetie, so you have an A+ in Algebra, so maybe since it’s already 9:30, we skip these last two difficult problems and move on to English, which could use a little more attention.”

“Wait. Are you telling me not to finish my math homework?”

“No, not exactly. I’m telling you to use your time wisely.” :-) Who knew I'd ever advocate for not finishing homework? Crazy how people change. ;-)

At the very base level, we are always on her side. Whether being on her side means disciplining her or defending her, her dad and I will always be in her corner. She’s a special kiddo. She’s ours. Definitely not perfect and many times a little mouthy, but overall, she is a really good kid. We might get on her case, and she might perceive it as coming down hard on her, but we always have her best interest at heart. She doesn’t see that or have the capability of understanding that right now. But I trust that someday she will. I'm sure my parents thought the same about me at one point!

Maybe we’re on to something with this whole love language revelation, though. I’ve been asking God for wisdom, and maybe understanding this aspect of her personality is the key. She just likes to be with us.

“Someday when I’m grown, I think sometimes I’ll just drive over here for a hug and a long talk,” she told me one time. My drive would be about 850 miles, but that’s how I feel about my mom and dad, too. :-) A hug and a long talk do wonders.

So that's the gist of it -- my thoughts on parenting after 13 years and 4 months. We don't have it all figured out, by any means, and just when we think we have, we fall flat on our faces, Ryan and I. We offer each other regular high-fives though, whenever one of us does a particularly good job. We need that kind of encouragement and comradery. :-)

Christmas break starts tomorrow afternoon, and I'm not sure we've ever needed it more. I probably say that every year, though. :-) Here's to Hallmark movies and cozy fireplaces and toasty mugs of hot chocolate -- passing around the coffee and pumpkin pie -- and doing absolutely nothing. 

The vineyard planting and cloth-spinning can continue in January. ;-)