to say Randy Pausch had passed away. In a phone conversation we'd had just the other day (as I shopped for groceries at our local Giant Eagle), we spoke in awe of this man and how wonderful it was that this "joe schmo" of a guy had made such an impact on the world- and shouldn't we all do the same.

Here's a link to the WallStreet Journal article on his life and death, today.

I can recall the sound of the wind
As it blew through the trees and the trees would bend
I can recall the smell of the rain
On a hot summer night
Coming through the screen

I'd crawl in your bed when the lightning flashed
And I'd still be there when the storm had passed
Dead to the world, to the morning cast
Its light all around your room

We lived on a street where the tall elm shade
Was as green as the grass and as cool as a blade
That you held in your teeth as we lay on our backs
Staring up at the blue and the blue stared back

I used to believe we were just like those trees
We'd grown just as tall and as proud as we pleased
With our feet on the ground and our arms in the breeze
Under a sheltering sky

Twirl me about, and twirl me around
Let me grow dizzy and fall to the ground
And when I look up at you looking down,
Say it was only a dream

A big truck was parked in the drive one day
They wrapped us in paper and moved us away
Your room was no longer next door to mine
And this kid sister thing was old by that time

But oh how our dreams went bump in the night
And the voices downstairs getting into a fight
And the next day a silence you could cut with a knife
And feel like a blade at your throat

Twirl me about and twirl me around
Let me grow dizzy and fall to the ground
When I look up at you looking down
Say it as only a dream

The day you left home you got an early start
I watched your car back out in the dark
I opened the door to your room down the hall
I turned on the light
And all that I saw
Was a bed and a desk and couple of tacks
No sign of someone who expects to be back
It must have been one hell of a suitcase you packed

Twirl me about, twirl me around
Let me grow dizzy and fall to the ground
When I look up at you looking down
Say it was only a dream
--Mary Chapin Carpenter--

One of my favorite people in the world is moving far away next week. Its always harder for those who get left behind- I learned that when we moved and I felt the anguish of our friends and family, as we scurried to pack and head out of town. Now that the shoe's on the other foot, I'm finding myself dreading the day she leaves, not only because I will miss her terribly, but because I might lose it completely and I have a really hard time with that. Relationships change when friends relocate, but I believe there are bonds that perservere, despite the miles, and this is going to be one of them.


Stacey and I (and Seth-in utero)

Andrew, Stacey, and Ben- we love you and will always treasure the footprints you've left on our path.

...I don't know where this road
Is going to lead
All I know is where we've been
And what we've been through.

If we get to see tomorrow
I hope its worth all the wait
Its so hard to say goodbye to yesterday.

And I'll take with me the memories
To be my sunshine after the rain
Its so hard to say goodbye to yesterday...

Boys II Men

I bid a fond farewell to the "program" today- knowing that I'd gotten out of it all that I could (and because my insurance decided enough was enough- as if they would know). I have found myself, this week, today especially, aching to be with my children, and struggled to leave them behind this morning in order to officially discharge from the hospital. Two of my four kids have been going through pretty major separation anxiety and I know that more than ever, we need each other right now. I'm still struggling with the demons in my mind, a little frightened as I head into the horizon without the safeharbor of the controlled community I've belonged to since late May. I walked out without a lot of fanfare, knowing that the emotions for me would be almost too difficult to bear. I've taken shelter with so many troubled souls in the last few months, watching this insidious disease known as "depression" consume otherwise normal people with such disturbing and paralyzing symptoms. When you face an illness, as much as you love the friends and family who support you, you feel constantly aware that only those who've walked a mile in your shoes can possibly understand the hours of your life you spend coping with your own worst nightmare. For many people, I believe that depression is a terminal illness- and one with unbelievable pain accompanying it. The terror of waking up and feeling this pit, as Kim C. would describe, that is impossible to relieve, is incomprehensible to those who've never experienced that as their reality- where functioning is no longer possible and living is a horror filled with loneliness and despair. I do, though, also look to the end of my own tunnel and now see a light where once there was only darkness. Like the folks leading the groups at the PHP would quote, coming out of depression is like watching your hair grow- you can't see it while its happening, but one day you just wake up and the reflection staring back at you is different- more like what you were wishing for, though maybe not exactly.

I attribute my hopefulness to the support of my family, friends, and community, along with the simplest though most essential ingredient-time. Life is a process and I'm so hoping to enjoy it a lot more and with a modified definition of happiness.

I savor the one-on-one time that I get to spend with each of my children. It isn't as frequent as I (or they) would like but when I'm able to carve some time out of my days, and I have help with my other kids, it feels delicious! Today, Lily asked to get some fabric to sew a big pillow for her bed, so after I got Seth down for a nap, she and I traveled to JoAnn's to examine the latest in textile offerings. We wandered the store and took our time, finally settling on some lavender tie-dye fleece and purple heart-print calico cotton. After we got home, I took Benjamin swimming, leaving Lily to her needle and thread with Liza, our teen aged summer helper (who is a red-head and has been said to "fit right in" with the Sombar clan). Back in the late winter/early spring, during his lessons with his friend Trevor, Ben was extremely apprehensive about the water and refused to leave the comforts of the "box" (a semi-shallow area of the pool at our gym). Now my super-duper five-year-old can swim many yards, with gusto, heading toward the deep-end. We played diving games and nuzzled each other with chlorine-essence kisses for about 2 hours before he got a cramp in his rib cage and we decided to head home. Liam and I will have our turn later on (he got to go school-supply shopping with my parents today, by himself, instead).

The lack of individual attention that siblings receive can certainly be considered a draw-back to having a large family (if you want to call four kids "large"), but, as an only-child, I have always felt that the benefits of the sister/brother bond far outweigh any deficit of one-on-one time a kid might have. Striking a balance is the tight-rope we moms of multiples walk, and sometimes it feels like a constant struggle between guilt and contentment. Today was a gift where I got to hone-in on the uniqueness of each of my children- and I love them so.

I woke up this morning feeling rested, for the first time in months. As I walked with Seth through the cemetery, I through out my thanks into the muggy air, being sure not to take for granted these moments of grace in my life.

Forgive, sounds good
Forget, I’m not sure I could
They say time heals everything
But I’m still waiting

I’m through with doubt
There’s nothing left for me to figure out
I’ve paid a price
And I’ll keep paying

I’m not ready to make nice
I’m not ready to back down
I’m still mad as hell and
I don’t have time to go round and round and round
It’s too late to make it right
I probably wouldn’t if I could
‘Cause I’m mad as hell
Can’t bring myself to do what it is you think I should

I know you said
Can’t you just get over it
It turned my whole world around
And I kind of like it

I made my bed and I sleep like a baby
With no regrets and I don’t mind sayin’....

I watched "Shut Up And Sing," the documentary about the Dixie Chicks and their struggle with free speech and censorship, next to Lily this afternoon. She became a fan of the Dixies a number of years ago and I've been meaning to show her the DVD for a long time now. I try to expose my daughter to women who are powerful and leaders- hoping to instill within her the knowledge that taking risks and being bold in character is not only okay but may just be the recipe for success. Living a version of life for the approval of others is a mistake- and all the most notable women in history have lived, unapologetically, as they believed, rarely winning any popularity contests. I have often taken the road less traveled and I wouldn't change an inch of the path I have trodden, or the results, for anything. Now, as I work to accept the hand I've been dealt, as far as post-partum depression, and form strategies to play the best game possible, I find that I, again, must carve out new territory, and sometimes, turn my back on "the experts" and go the way my instincts are aiming for.

The first time I heard the song (above) I had chills. And I still get them- not only because the melody is so incredible but because the lyrics fit my life as if I'd written them myself. I've heard that depression is anger turned inward and I probably have quite a bit of it to wrestle with- but I'm a different person than I was, even since April, and I'm getting stronger by the day. My 38th year, which began yesterday at 9:30am, may just be my most powerful one yet.

My neighbor Donna told me the story of Randy Pausch, whom you may have heard about in the media (I apparently have been in something close to a coma when it comes to current events). Donna went to church with him, long before he became famous for his "Last Lecture" and his struggle with pancreatic cancer. If you'd like to listen to his most profound and englightening talk, at Carnegie Mellon University here in the Burgh, click here.

I have always struggled with stillness- the awkwardness of hearing yourself think and being okay with that. As a result, I have only been willing to exercise accompanied by some form of distraction, such as TV or music. Some days, if I'd forgotten my mp3 player or if the battery was dead, would feel too crazy inside to continue, so I would quit. There is a fear, I think, of the sound that our soul makes when the noise of the world is tuned out. Somehow maybe we think that our deepest selves, the parts we tuck away in the recesses of our beings, with the cobwebs and the padlocks, will surface and force us to face the things we hide from the most. Those demons are fierce and hard to manage in silence.

This morning Seth woke up at 4:30 and refused to return to slumber, much to my chagrin. After changing a repulsive poopy diaper in the darkness (amid him thrashing and squawking), I decided it best that we remove ourselves from the premises, lest I lose control of my sanity and throw myself out the nearest window. By 5:30 we were striding through the sunrise toward the local cemetary, Seth safely strapped in the jogger, and I barely conscious. As I made my way up the hills, I stopped to ponder that I had been walking in solitude for nearly an hour, hearing only the sound of my breath and the singing of the birds- and it wasn't as frightening as it had once been- in fact, it seemed rather perfect. I saw the face of God in the trees, the dew on the grass, the tombstones even. Every once in a while Seth would check to make sure I was still behind him,uttering "ma-ma" in a most beautiful cadance, and I was grateful for him and feeling hopeful that perhaps there was a purpose behind the morning's frustration for me, and my exhaustion.

I am striving to welcome more stillness into my life these days- chaos isn't always what is best for me, though I have put myself in those circumstances, as a coping mechanism, for many years. My authentic self speaks a language inaudible by my ears-one that is easily ignored if I refuse to pay attention- it asks me to slow down and to appreciate my life as it is in the present, while reminding me that I have lessons to learn and unfinished business to bring closure to. It tells me to put aside my anger and learn to love more fully. It forces me to see things in my travels that sometimes make me uncomfortable- things that scare me to the core and tempt me to run and hide- reflections of a crooked past, filled with mistakes and thorns that drew a lot of blood; reflections of a present sometimes encapsulated in nothing but self-loathing and shame. But I'm learning to face those things with more acceptance and hope and love. And in the stillness, I can practice honoring the self that I've attempted to bury for so long.

Several months ago, Tom and I bought the kids a very unique bunkbed system which sleeeps four (it is shaped like an "L", with two top bunks and a double bed on the bottom). Tonight Ben, who has claim to the lower level, asked if Tom and I would lay with him. At first, it was Tom and I and Ben in the double bed. Then Liam, who normally sleeps perpendicular to us, on the top level, asked if he could snuggle on my other side for a while. Then Lily decided she too would like to join in. And there we were, five of six Sombar folks in one seemingly tiny bed- on purpose. A lot of my anxiety from the weekend began to dissipate in this chaos- believe it or not- because for the first time in a couple of days, I was sure, as nutty as it was, that my children's needs (those of being close to us), were being met. Simple but true.

Good Night everyone. Sleep tight.

I'm having a bad day. Its Sunday evening and I've spent a lot of my weekend feeling sub-par, so to speak. This afternoon I sat across from my husband in one of our favorite restaurants, alternating between despondant and wanting to put him through a wall, unable to feel content with anything going on in our lives right now. Mostly, I am worried about my seven year-old, who has taken a downward tumble at the hands of our local public school, this year. I worry about risking another 365 days of his life, towing the line and walking the path most-traveled. And I feel like the burden of this heartache rests on my shoulders alone- along with about a dozen other things which have been plaguing my thoughts as of late.

Who is the "good enough mother"- how does she live each day and not go crazy wondering if her kids are okay? A few years ago I read an article, of this very title, by one of my favorite columnists- Anna Quindlen. I haven't been able to get it out of my head ever since. Like many American mothers, I struggle immensely with perfectionism- (not only of my own diagnoses but that of every professional in contact with me). The consequences of which may comprise nearly 100% of my current emotional turmoil. In therapy, there isn't a week that goes by that I'm not assigned some goal for "letting go" when it comes to my children and my home. I ponder whether its some inner chaos that I'm trying to settle by "cleaning up" my environment or the lives of my children. There's this cyclone that is alive inside of my soul which makes me feel so helpless- like if I could just get the house picked-up or the weeds out of my yard, or if my children never felt the sting of disappointment or doubt, the spinning would stop....In my head I know that these things don't add up to reality and I know that being "in control" is really just a rouse, but my actions are generally not made-up of logic- so I struggle on..

In my heart, I would like to know that I am good enough. Today just isn't the day...but maybe tomorrow.

Benjamin at the helm of the toboggan ride on our backyard slope
Benjamin with his summer sledding buds Molly Merrick, Maddie and Egan Tetlow, and Pudge Gbur.



on many a day, the sombar yard is "kid-central" for the children living in our cul-de-sac. most times, i find this a great source of comfort- the fact that my neighbors still feel safe having their most precious offspring in the realm of a mother who hasn't got all her marbles. ha!

anyway, if you take a few moments and watch these little souls at work you will be amazed at how simple yet divine their play is- and how much we adults have to learn from them.

my friend vicki triplett and I met in first grade and spent many years wiling away the hours trying to build forts and treehouses, trying to invade the already contructed treehouses of her brothers, singing along to Beatles and Doobie Brothers' albums in the basement of her four-square home, or climbing the mulberry tree, devouring the juicy morsels of city-grown fruit as quickly as we could pick them. the rooms and patches of grass that we played in were not perfectly laid out or maintained (she was one of six children), nor were our activities scheduled or micro-managed by our mothers. We just lived from sun-up to sun-down, simply enjoying our days. I long for moments, strung together like beads on a string, where I didn't care about weeds on my landscape and crumbs on my floor. While I know that, as a grown-up, there are responsibilities I have to keep some semblance of order, I also know that my life, especially, has felt the incredible burden of perfection, and most recently has succumbed to the ramifications of that way of viewing the world.

My mom and I are planning a rousing game of scrabble tonight. You may wonder how this could possibly tie into a post about having fun- the last time we played, in February, we both laughed so hard we peed our pants and had to change our clothes before we finished the round. Now that is what I call a good time.

"In every job that must be done there is an element of fun...you find the fun and SNAP...the job's a game" Mary Poppins


I've been talking a lot lately, with some of my co-horts in the "program" about joy- how hard it is to experience it some days- when you feel so bogged down and overwhelmed with life and this worry that you are somehow inadequate. I consider joy to be moments where I am able to put aside all of my expectations- of my husband, my children, my house, myself- and just live.

On Friday morning I glimpsed my former life returning on the floor of my kitchen, where I danced with my four children to the soundtrack of Mary Poppins. It was as if my soul was freed, if only temporarily, from the prison its been detained in for so long. We marched around the island and past the bar, in circles, to "Sister Suffragists," then tangoed to "Chim-chimanee," then breezed about without a care, laughing hysterically to "Let's Go Fly A Kite." I wanted to stay right in that place and savor the taste of that glee for a long while.

Looking for your spoonful of sugar? Turn on the tunes and do the Charleston in your undies. :)