Sweet.

Dear Frances-

I’ve never dated a man with a child before.  When your dad first told me that he wanted me to meet you, I remember thinking, “This is a good thing.”  I enjoyed that for approximately 2.53 seconds.  And then I started to get nervous.

What if you weren’t okay with your dad dating?  What if my mere presence upset you?  What if I said the wrong thing?  What if you resented me immediately for dividing some of your dad’s attention?  What if I caused unnecessary angst in the life of a wholly-innocent 11-year old?  How could I live with myself?  And underneath all that concern about how this would affect you, there was also this overwhelming dread: what if you just didn’t like me? 

I did what I usually do when something scares me—I started reading.  I checked out everything the library had on the subject.  I read fourteen different books on stepparenting, blending families, and how not to be a stepmonster.  In the beginning, the books scared the beejeezus out of me. All of a sudden, I was aware that I could say all the right things and you would still hate me.  

I kept reading.  

Eventually, I was prepared for you to spit your gum in my hair, or steal money out of my wallet.  I knew all the warning signs.  Red flags.  Landmines.  The way kids can sometimes pretend to be charming and fun in front of their parent, and then be really hateful once their parent isn’t watching.  I tried to prepare myself for the (apparently) inevitable moment when you would tell me you hated my guts and wanted me to die. I practiced all the responses the book suggested: 

“It makes sense that you feel this way.”

“I’m so sorry this is hard for you.” 

“I know you hate me right now, but I’m trying really hard to love you.”

After several weeks of intense reading and line-rehearsal, I felt like I was finally prepared to meet you.  Even still, I was a nervous wreck.  I spent the day making brownies because I had to have something to do.  I took deep breaths and practiced more lines. When I got in the car to drive over to your house, I thought my heart might beat out of my chest.  I even thought of cancelling.  But I didn’t cancel.  And I didn’t go into cardiac arrest.

When I walked in your front door, I told you how excited and nervous I was to meet you.  You smiled and started telling me about your timeline of pets, beginning with the cats your parents had before you were born.  Your dad had to interrupt us to tell us it was time to go to the concert.  I think we talked most of the way there.  I know we talked all the way home.  It was a good start.

Since then, we’ve collaborated on the world’s longest Father’s Day.  And on the world’s biggest party-of-three birthday party.  Ever.  You’ve tried to teach me to play guitar.  I’ve tried to teach you how to make pancakes in the shapes of letters.  We’ve exchanged books.  And camp songs.  And tales of rescuing neglected cats and dogs.  We’ve played board games and card games and totally made-up non-games.  We’ve watched movies.  We’ve played basketball and air hockey and putt-putt golf.  For me, getting to know you has been a total blast.

One day last week, your dad had to work late and the babysitter had to leave at 6:30.  I was thrilled for the chance to take you out to dinner.  After we ate, we hung out and played games.  You commented that your dad was no fun at playing board games because he was too competitive.  And then you said:

“But, wait.  I’m not telling you that because I want you to stop liking my dad.  I mean, I like you.  So, like, I want you to keep liking him.” 

On the way home, I realized we’d crossed the alone-together threshold.  You’d finally been given an opportunity to tell me what you really thought about me.  Tonight was your chance to tell me anything without your dad cutting you off.  You had a pass to tell me exactly how you felt.  And you did.  You told me you liked me. 

Sweet girl, I like you too. 

Sincerely,

SEE

The Darkest Book.

Dear Ms. Greene:

I regret to inform you that your book recommendation privileges have been temporarily suspended.  Please be aware that this decision was not made lightly.  However, after your recent recommendation of The Orphan Master’s Son by Adam Johnson, I feel I have no choice but to set aside your other reading suggestions at this time. 

As you may recall, The Orphan Master’s Son tells the story of Pak Jun Do, a resident of a work camp for orphans.  As he grows up, Jun Do navigates the shifting rules, arbitrary violence, and baffling demands of North Korea in order to stay alive.  At the end of the first half of the book, Jun Do disappears into the jail system and resurfaces as a new character in the second half of the book.  Driven to the absolute limit of what any human being could endure, Jun Do rivals Kim Jong II in an attempt to save the woman he loves.  But, because this story takes place in North Korea, it does not end well . . .

To be clear, Ms. Greene, I am not partial to happy endings.  (In fact, on a five-star scale, I automatically deduct a star for any book that ends in a marriage proposal or a wedding.)  But I have my limits.  Professional kidnapping.  Militarized sexual assault.  Whaling.  Torture.  An infirmary where sick soldiers and the elderly are housed briefly until their blood can be drained from them for use by the military.  Brain washing.  Dog farms.  Enslavement (and death) of any suspected homosexual. Famine.  Suicide. Filicide. Parricide. 

My stomach is still turning.

Ms. Greene, next time you describe a book as “VERY intriguing,” please note that you are intrigued by violence.  And also, it would be helpful to know that you are not offended by gruesome scenes of torture and abuse. I recommend that you incorporate a simple disclaimer: 

Warning: This book is dark. And violent. You will have nightmares. You will be exposed to things you wish you could forget. You won’t be able to forget.      

While you consider the above recommendation, I will be reading light and fluffy books in an attempt to get over the trauma of reading The Orphan Master’s Son.  If that fails, I may seek psychological treatment for post-traumatic stress disorder. What I will not be doing is recommending The Darkest Book I’ve Ever Read to anyone I know.  In fact, I will specifically advise other dog lovers not to read this book.

During this moratorium on book suggestions, please review your reading lists and reconsider all other recommendations.  Upon receipt of your agreement to include a disclaimer on future reviews about novels containing unimaginable horrors, your book recommendation privileges will be reinstated. 

Sincerely,

SEE

Tripping, Update.

To The Universe

Attention: Deepak Chopra

2013 Costa Del Mar Rd.

Carlsbad, California 92009

Dear Deepak-

It worked.

To be clear, Dr. Mom does not read this blog.  She does not even know it exists.  And yet, only four days after asking, I received this invitation from her.  Is it a curious coincidence?  A sign from the Universe?  I don't know.  But thank you.  More, please.

Sincerely,
SEE

Tripping.

To The Universe

Attention: Deepak Chopra

2013 Costa Del Mar Rd.

Carlsbad, California 92009

Dear Deepak-

Yesterday after a meeting, my boss and I huddled to iron out summer work schedules. (It’s a necessity at a generous company that gives every employee 12-22 days of paid vacation per year in addition to 12 paid holidays.)  The conversation wrapped up like this:

Boss:  Well, I think we’ve got everything covered.  But wait a second . . . what about you?  When are you going on vacation?

Me:     I’ll be here.

Boss:  How can that be?  Don’t you take at least one or two family trips every summer? 

Me:    Not this year.  I’ll be at work.

Boss: Well, what is your family doing?

Me:    Uh . . . I’m not sure . . . I hear they’ll be spending a week in Park City, Utah.

Boss:  Oh, it would be so great to see your brothers!  You should totally go!

Me:    It would be so great to see my brothers.  Unfortunately, I haven’t been  invited. Actually, Mom has made it pretty clear that I am not invited. 

Boss:  I’m so sorry.  Families are like that sometimes.  I’m really sorry.  But what about your boyfriend?  What is he doing for vacation?

Me:    He’s taking his daughter to the Jersey Shore for 10 days. 

Boss: Oh, that’ll be a blast!  You should go up and meet them there, at least for a few days.  I hear it is really beautiful

Me:    I hear it is beautiful too.  But I haven’t been invited.

Boss:  Oh . . . That’s really tough.  I don’t know what to say.  

I don’t know what to say either, actually.  Aside from the two trips I have not been invited to be a part of, I've (unsuccessfully) attempted to crash a friend’s daughter’s wedding in Greece, my sister’s spring break trip to Spain, and a friend’s family vacation to Branson, Missouri.  In fairness, I don’t even really want to go to Branson, Missouri; I just want to go somewhere. 

So, why don’t I combine my 195 vacation hours and 75,000 frequent flier miles and take myself on a trip?  Because.  I want someone to want to go somewhere with me. 

I saw you speak a few weeks ago, Deepak, and you assured me that by meditating on the thing that I wanted, I would be able to communicate that desire to the universe . . . and that the universe would manifest those desires in my life.  You seemed awfully polished, suave, commercial . . . but I’m going to suspend my cynicism here for just a moment and see if this works . . .

Attention Universe:  This summer, I want to go somewhere with someone who wants to go somewhere with me. 

How is that, Deepak?  Will it work?  I hope so.  Since you and the Universe commune for several hours every day, maybe you could put in a good word for me?  I could certainly use the help.

Sincerely,

SEE

Birthday Wishes

Dear Emmy- 

You were born on a Sunday—Mother’s Day, in fact.  I stayed the night with a friend and Dad called early that morning to tell me I had a new sister. (I was relieved.  A little brother was out of the question because I didn’t want to share my room with Legos or G.I. Joes.)  I got dressed in a blue and white romper that had ties at each shoulder.  Grammie drove down from Austin to take me to the hospital to meet you for the first time.  

When we got there, Mom and Dad were still debating whether to name you Ashley or Taylor.  Your umbilical cord stump was alarming.  (My six-year old brain was convinced that you were born with an olive stuck to your belly button; Mom promised me it was normal.) You looked small, but I remember being surprised at how heavy you were.  With you in my arms on your very first day, I recognized that having a sister was weighty, substantive.  And I loved you. 

Curiously, I don’t have many memories of your infancy.  I remember that you grew into an adorable toddler and an enviable preschooler.  I remember that you would sing and tap dance for anyone who would smile.  I remember Mom trying to convince you not to talk to strangers and you declaring (emphatically) that “all the people in the mall aren't my strangers, they’re MY friends!”  I remember that you were charming and entertaining and effervescent.  As you grew up, it was clear you were also brilliant.  And happy.  And energetic.  And so many other wonderful things.

It’s a crying shame, I know, but it took me twenty years to appreciate the person that you are.  Now, on your twenty-fifth birthday, I want to tell you that I love you twenty-five million times more than I did when we first met, on your birth day.  I love that you are good-natured and patient and overwhelmingly, breathtakingly optimistic. 

Being your sister is substantive; knowing you has been a saving grace in the past few years.  I love you Sister, and I wish you all the best today and always.

Sincerely,

SEE

Missing Mom

Dear John Walsh-

Its official: my mom is missing.  She was last seen boarding an airplane in San Antonio on June 2, 2012.  It was a short trip to Atlanta—only two hours long.  At some point during the flight, my mom excused herself to use the teensy-tiny airplane bathroom.  Moments later, a highly-skilled mom-impersonator came out of the bathroom wearing my mom’s clothes and took my mom’s seat.  My mom simply vanished.

After landing in Atlanta, the mom-impersonator stepped off the plane.  The mom-impersonator—we call her M.I. for short—looked and sounded like my mom.  She knew our names and seemed happy to see us.  None of us suspected that the woman we were looking at was not our mom. 

The M.I. is a professional—she imitated our mom perfectly.  In the beginning, we noticed only small discrepancies.  Where Mom wouldn’t have been caught dead in a two-piece bathing suit, the M.I. had half a dozen of them.  Where Mom never wanted to be in pictures, the M.I. was single-minded in her effort to capture hundreds of pictures or herself.  Where Mom sunburned easily, the M.I. had a twice-weekly membership at a nearby tanning salon.  Those first few weeks, the changes were noticeable, but not alarming.   

Over time, the differences became more dramatic.  The M.I. suddenly wore liquid eyeliner, refused phone calls from family because she was updating her facebook status, and donned artificial fingernails and synthetic hair pieces.  She lost about a hundred pounds.  Most disturbingly, she took to dressing in princess costumes.  Her attention-seeking behavior was unmatched even by even the angriest of fifteen-year-old girls.   

The tone of the family script also changed.  When visiting home before June of 2012, conversations with Mom went like this:

Me:     Hey Mom.

Mom:  The dead has risen!  I'm so glad you're up! 

Me:     Me too.  What's for breakfast?

Mom:  Cinnamon rolls are in the oven.  Do you want your eggs scrambled or over easy? 

Me:      Over easy please, and then I'm going to move back home. 

Since the M.I. took over, the same conversation goes like this:

Me:    Good morning Mom.

MI:     I curse your father's name every morning at this time.

Me:    I see.  Hey, do you want to go grab breakfast together?  I'm starving.

MI:     I drank a protein shake for breakfast.  I won't be hungry all day.  In fact, I've lost so much weight that my stomach has eaten itself and I no longer feel hungry.  Ever. 

Me:    That sounds like you have an eating disorder.

MI:     I'm very happy.  I've never been happier.

Despite her training, the M.I. is clearly not a convincing substitute for our mom.  Worse, the M.I. is actively revising the positive memories I had of my mom.  Two months ago, for example, the M.I. indicated that her children (including me) had never brought her any joy.  When asked what did bring her happiness, she confessed, “Well, I just got an iTunes account and I’m discovering that I really enjoy music.”

Only an M.I. could make such a ghastly statement.  I know the M.I. is doing her best to be our mom.  I try to be appreciative.  (I even sent the M.I. an iTunes gift card for Mother’s Day.) But when someone who looks like your mom and sounds like your mom, tells you that iTunes makes her happier than you do, it’s hard not to get upset.  It’s even harder to remember that it isn’t really your mom talking. 

I’m tired of all of it.  The M.I. is not my mom.  My mom did enjoy her family. I have thirty years’ worth of birthday cards and letters and pictures to prove that we gave her some measure of joy.  The M.I. is not working out.  She’s not happy.  We’re not happy.  We just need our mom back.  

If my mom had run away on June 2, 2012, I don’t think anybody would have blamed her.  It had been a hard year for her.  Perhaps more than anyone, she was entirely consumed by trying to compensate for the glaring absence of another missing family member. So, maybe Mom needed a break?  That’s fair, but she’s been gone nearly a year now, and it’s time to find her.

Since Mother’s Day is around the corner, I thought this could make a timely sort of news story you might be interested in.  My mom isn't America's most wanted.  But she's my most wanted.  And if that's ever enough for you or your show, please call me.  We have to find our mom and bring her home.

Sincerely,

SEE

Letter to a Young-ish Writer

Dear Brant Coleman-

In 2004, you gave me a copy of Letters to a Young Poet.  I read it and I still read it—it’s become a frequently-relied upon companion over the years.  It’s so highlighted and marked up and annotated that it reminds me of a used college textbook.  No matter, I love it.  Here is one of my most-underlined quotes: 

This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must,” then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. Then come close to Nature. Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and lose...

I’ve thought a lot about this over the years.  I’ve asked myself over and over again if I have what it takes to try and say what I see and feel and love and lose.  There have been rare times when I think I can; there are more times when I think I cannot. So, must I write?  I don’t know.  But in those silent hours of the night, what is clear to me is this: Brant should write.  Brant must write. 

Unfortunately (for both of us), I can’t sponsor your first book.  I can’t make you a writer-in-residence in my 700-square foot apartment while offering you free room and board. I can’t put a pen in your hand and then wrap my hand around yours and make something beautiful appear on the page.  I can’t even tell you the story you should write.  But if I could, I would, Brant.  That’s how strongly I feel about this. 

You must write, Brant, if for no other reason than this:  I insist. 

Sincerely,

SEE