This is the token end-of-year post. I’m not usually one for the token-whatever post, I read too many other great Christmas, Thanksgiving, Birthday, New Year’s, etc posts.. but I wanted to talk about this year because it’s been a big year for me.

Firsts in 2009

Last year was a year of many firsts for me. I branched out and did things I’ve never done before. I had a lot of great experiences. I learned a lot. I fell in love with this community more than ever. I prayed more than I’ve prayed in my life. A few of the highlights:

1. I got off Blogger and decided to take blogging, and my internet community, seriously. I recognized and tried to accept that my friendships are scattered across the country, and that not having local friends doesn’t make me a loser behind a computer screen.
2. I flew in a plane, by myself, to Chicago, IL, adding one more state to my small, small list of travels. I attended BlogHer with some of my favorite people and realized that while I was never shy in high school, being around so many women that I admired and respected caused me to clam up and sit on the sidelines. Regardless, I had a blast and got more than a few thrills when people I loved and admired actually recognized my name.
3. I walked away from a company I loved because it was clear they were going under. They’re still hanging on, but barely. I’m glad I made the move – I found a stable job at a stable company that is growing, and I get to commute with and work alongside my husband every day. Our relationship has grown and deepened and strengthened as a result. I’ll be sad when this era ends.
4. I figured out how to handle a 2 year old just in time for my little Cupcake to turn 3. Then I realized I knew nothing about parenting and that I’d never keep up. Then I realized that seems to be the same thing everyone is doing, and that my mother holds me to unrealistic standards. She’s been doing this for over 25 years. I learned to give myself a break even if she won’t. Towards the end of the year I even learned to stand up for some of my parenting decisions. I told her that if she wanted the kids dressed in matching, adorable outfits every day, she would have to do it, because in the grand scheme of life? Cute clothes for the kids, or even outfits that match, are not my priority. If the kids are relatively clean, happy, and well fed I consider that a win, and you won’t change my mind.
5. I started, then stopped, then started college again, as a full-time online student taking condensed classes to get a little further along in that BA in Education. I’m struggling to find time and balance it all, but I’m trucking along, and not just because I don’t feel like making student loan payments.
6. I grieved, truly grieved, the death of several children that I’ve never met.  I learned, again, that life is not fair. I realized how strongly social media and the internet community here affects my life. I cried for days. I still cry. I still grieve for those lost lives. I pray for their families. I’ve prayed more this year than I’ve prayed in my entire life.
7. I started my own small business, taking on new clients and old friends alike who are in need of blog design, help moving from Blogger or Wordpress.com to self-hosted Wordpress, and graphic design elements like headers and buttons. I learned how to value my work and respect myself. I created things that I am so damn proud of. I helped pay for our Christmas this year with that extra money, and nothing feels so good as doing something you love and knowing you’ve helped your family by doing it.
8. I went to therapy.
9. I stopped going to therapy.
10. I became addicted to Starbucks.

Regrets in 2009

It’s fashionable today to say that we have no regrets and I’ve been known to say it myself. I lied. I have regrets, I have loads of regrets. I wish I didn’t, because that would mean that I’ve lived my life perfectly. I’ve made mistakes and I wish I hadn’t, regardless of how I’ve grown or changed as a person as a result of them… if I hadn’t made them in the first place maybe it would mean I didn’t have a flaw or weakness to overcome in the first place. I don’t know. What I do know is that I have regrets, and rather than shrug them off, I want and need to acknowledge them and remind myself that I am fallible. I make mistakes. I hurt people. I need to own that.

1. I have made mistakes with my children. Every day. I yell too much. I use an angry tone. I don’t spend enough time just playing with them. I am not always fair. I am not always consistent. I expect too much. I have coddled the baby and expected too much of Big Sister. I forget that Big Sister is still a Little Girl and needs to be treated like a Little Girl not a Small Adult.
2. I have accidentally (and on purpose) ignored friends and family. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
3. I have lied to my mother. I have screamed at my husband for nothing in the middle of sleepless nights. I have been a bitch many times.
4. I have tried to make it all about ME. I have been selfish. I have been uncaring. I have said cruel things.
5. I have held grudges.
6. I didn’t even try to lose weight. I bitch about my body but I didn’t even try. I was a hypocrite.

It’s been a long hard year. I’m ready to put it aside. I’m ready to go forth into a new decade and say What’s UP bitches?! I’m HERE! I’m ready to make an impact. I’m ready to be the best mother I’ve ever been. I’m ready for, 2010. I’m ready.

Sarah and I stood around the piano in the chorus room. Blue lockers lined the room; we each had one of the coveted lockers, a status symbol in the music department. Our lockers stood next to each other, shoved up together. We were best friends, so why did I feel like gritting my teeth every time I stood next to her?  The worn black lacquer on the grand piano was familiar under our fingertips as we leaned against the edge and rehearsed for the upcoming performance. I’ve always found the curve of a baby grand sexy. I wanted to punch her in the face.

We had been practicing for weeks, readying ourselves for the big Spring Sing performance. It was one chance every year for everyone and anyone to shine.  Performing was nervewracking, but it was a chance to really show off your pipes, your stage presence, your talent. We were to perform a duet “Sing!” from A Chorus Line.  Two parts comedic monologue, one part sung, it was hilarious and surprisingly challenging.  The week prior we had finally begun to really get it together. It made sense for us to perform a duet. We were best friends. It made sense, but I hated singing with her.  I should have said no.

One afternoon, in her typical dramatic fashion, Sarah decided she wanted – nay, needed – to switch parts. She didn’t want to do the sung part anymore. She wanted the monologue. I doubted her ability to learn all the words – the performance was in less than a week! – but she insisted. Fine. One more nail in the coffin of our friendship. I sullenly agreed, and we reversed roles. I failed to be surprised. Sarah was not a great singer or performer, but she did manage to do one thing with ease – drama.

Fast forward.

The night of the performance, we were ready. Sarah and I stood side by side in the wings, waiting for our cue. I leaned against the curtain pulley and inhaled the scents of the backstage. A little musty, a little heavy with makeup and perfume and nervous sweat. Sarah wasn’t wearing enough deodorant; she always under-applied. I thought about our duet coming up, and nursed the little angry part of me that said we should have stopped being friends years ago. It was our Senior year. I only had to make it through a few more months, then I could be done with this sham. She always took more than she gave.

The piano struck our opening chord and we strutted out onto stage, blinded by the bright lights, blissfully unable to make out faces in the crowd. The stage always seems more expansive as you walk across it. From the wings, it seems manageable and from the audience, practically minuscule, when compared to the experience being front and center, traveling with your heart beating so heavily in your ears you can hardly hear the harmonies. I tried to swallow my anger as she prepared to perform the part that had originally been mine.

I could hear Sarah beginning the monologue, breathless and slightly nervous, but it worked well for this performance. At my cue I sang a note, then another, then one more – the vocal part of the song is challenging because you have to pluck the notes seemingly out of thin air and let them hang there with nothing else to support them. It’s perfectly right or glaringly wrong. I thrilled in it. Being on stage was invigorating – anything is possible.

We walked through our carefully choreographed stage movements, and then Sarah faltered. She forgot a word, then two, then a line, and I couldn’t hit my notes, the timing was off, the choir teacher couldn’t modify the chord progression fast enough to catch her mis-steps…. We stopped. We stood on the polished, shining wood of the stage and stared at each other, glancing down in the pit at our choir director as he marked time with basic chords, and we realized we couldn’t continue. We were too far gone. We’d have to start over, we couldn’t start over, we were on stage… hundreds of our peers, teachers, family, friends. We stared at each other.

I stared at this girl whom I’d known for most of my life, and all of my school years. Through grammar school, elementary school, middle school and now high school. We had been inseparable. I stared at her mousy brown hair and her too-small eyes, now reflecting the panic and fear in my own, and I burst out laughing. We laughed.

We laughed. We laughed, and laughed, and slapped our knees and gasped for breath and forgot that we even had an audience. We couldn’t stop, not for anything. We stood on that stage, and bent over and held our stomachs and laughed so hard our faces might shatter into pieces from the strain of it, and then we finally limped off stage.

We made it to the wings, still giggling, laughing, chortling, chuckling, as the reality of what had just happened dawned on us. We had just completely fucked it up. We failed. We failed, and then instead of finding a way to recover, or exiting gracefully, we laughed ourselves off the stage!

From the other side of the curtain, hastily closed by stunned stage hands, there was first silence. Then a small titter of laughter spread across the crowd. Then from the corner, a smatter of applause. It spread, and grew, and within moments the entire audience was cheering and whooping and laughing, not at our failure, but because they thought it was all part of the act.

We had fooled them.

We had fooled them even as we fooled ourselves into thinking that perhaps our friendship wasn’t dead, after all.

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