What To Get Your Dead Husband For His 40th Birthday

There's a lot of pressure that society imposes on making "The Big Four-Oh"a uniquely special birthday.
My mother-in-law, the eternal optimist who always makes me smile, sent me a text this morning that said "Well, be glad you don't have to plan a 40th for him....Can you imagine the guest list?!" True, so true. I got out of that one.

Since Ryan has now been gone for 4 years, I can't exactly ask him what he wants, but I can exactly say that I know the answer in my heart and mind. That simple yet profound realization today made me smile again. The hard part here, as with most really good birthday ideas, is the execution.

Looking back, I can say that through a sense of urgency that I felt to heal after Ryan's death, I made many of my life choices based NOT on what Ryan would truly want for me or my children, but based on what would bring us back to feeling a sense of normalcy as quickly as possible. I think it's instinctual for a mother to act this way. And everyone around me has always responded to any life decision I have made with "I know Ryan would just want you to be happy." But, what I failed to realize is that I wasn't really happy, I was just trying to not feel sad and at the same time, make everyone else happy, hoping that their happiness would be enough. It wasn't selfish in nature and on the contrary- I thought I was being selfless. With 20/20 hindsight, I realize I was just naive.

People wear a nervous smile when I talk about 'what Ryan would do or want' or how much I miss him. That's because the nervous smiles don't understand what we had when he was alive. I sometimes missed that man when he was sitting in the same room as me because I knew that he would soon be somewhere else.  I couldn't process the few moments we had alone without thinking about the fact that it was guaranteed to end soon. Most military wives feel the same. It's not wrong, it's due to the situation at hand. I liked spending time with Ryan. I wanted every night to be date night and so did he (when he wasn't off saving the world).

So, when I say that I want to do what Ryan would do, on his 40th Birthday or any day really, it isn't because I'm living like some crazy widow and putting my dead husband's wishes before my own...it's because we wanted the same thing. I wanted to make him happy, he wanted to make me happy.

So my gift to him as fittingly narcissistic as it may sound (Ryan was quite the narcissist), is to make myself happy. Only then, can I make everyone else (my children included) happy, right? How can I expect my children to grow up watching me float through space trying to please everyone while on the contrary, preaching to them that they should be true to themselves and never settle for less than they want out of life? It would be poor parenting. They would grow up thinking 'poor mom just did what she could, given her situation', but I'd know it wasn't the best that I could have done with my life or theirs.

Life sets everyone on a certain road. We don't get to pick the position from which we start and sometimes we don't get to pick the position from which we start over. Some people will choose not to drive themselves down life's road but to jump on public transportation, or into the family car, or maybe some will just jump right into speeding traffic. I choose to walk down the double yellow line demonstrating my teetering sense of balance with my eyes wide open but blinded by a faith in myself and in the universe that everything really is going to be okay. We have a desire, but not a true need to know what is going to happen tomorrow. It's okay not to know and it's okay to be excited about what you don't know. It's ok to get off at the wrong stop, to have a little fender bender, and to totally make a U-turn and change directions. Just remember that in the end you were put on a road to somewhere but only you decide how you arrive at your destination.

Happy Birthday to Ryan, who arrived at his final destination too soon but took the road less traveled to get there and gave us all one hell of a ride. We will always love you and look to you for guidance down the bumpy road of life.

An Informal Stab at Poetry (by the reborn writer)

This is where you lose yourself

In moments unforeseen

The grayest areas of real life

Are messy, never clean

Prepare you can, but all in vain

You're defenseless at the most

Real love is like a drug 

You're addicted to a ghost

Coming back for another hit

Take off some of the edge

Only to to give you just enough 

To move you from from the ledge

The ecstasy you feel from it 

Tangible? Not the least

It’s elusive, it’s damn near perfect

For the romantic, its a feast

A feast of platters overflowing 

With flavors, sights, and sense

Means never having to speak of us

In the memory, in past tense 

So grasp it tight, enjoy the ride

It may not last quite long

And someday you’ll have nothing but

The writings and the song. 

NO MEANS NO

"No Means No", moms teach their children this, women tell their bad dates this, but do we ever tell ourselves that "No Absolutely Means No"?

I've read a lot in mommy-land lately about how we overbook our kids with activities and I can appreciate that in my little bubble of Atlanta, that is in fact what's going down. I'm not sure whatever happened to the notion of using your imagination and a bunch of household necessities to entertain the tots, but those days are practically non-existent as far as I can see. Now, kids expect to be entertained in some organized fashion every single day of the week, every minute of the day. Mine are not exempt from this "entertain me!" protesting, they just get placed in front of the TV for more than most mommies would admit to being an appropriate amount of screen time. This is not my point, as usual I've veered off track.

My point is...."What about you, lady/dude?"
Parent or not, I've had this discussion again and again with my good friends about overbooking, overcommitting, overextending ourselves.  And yet we continue to do it. (It's no wonder we parents think nothing of doing it to our kids.)

I get it, it's hard to say no to friends because, for one thing, you don't want to let them down and for another, you don't want them to say no to you when this endless cycle comes roller-coasting back in your direction. But if we keep saying yes to one another, there's a pretty good chance someone is going to have a mental breakdown. Right now, I fear "someone" is me.

I used to think that being a stay at home mom was a side job. To be clear and honest, I had no children of my own nor did I have (or want) contact with other children when this delusional thought process was occurring. Looking back with 20/20 hindsight, I was astonishingly stupid, I was wrong on the most erroneous levels of wrong. Parenting is more than any 40-hour per week full time job, (obviously it is 24/7...365), the benefits are lacking and the pay is non-existent. Put all of that "one hug makes it all worthwhile" malarkey aside for a moment and admit it: Being a parent, especially a single mom/dad (or wife/husband of someone constantly deployed, working/traveling/golfing) just sucks for the most part. This is a whole topic in itself, so let's just proceed....

So now, while the God-given job (of parenting) is sucking, let's add a real-time paying job, please may it be something you actually love doing and can leave the house and spawn to perform it's assigned duties, you've already extended yourself and your hours in a day. Now, lets throw on top of this extension of family life and profession, a benefit for the local Children's hospital, a friend's book club, classroom reader, a neighborhood mommy group, cocktails after work to bond with the co-workers, and let's toss in some random tennis and work-out groups, those are fun and healthy, right? Now, playgroups, birthday parties and sports for the kiddos and some serious drive time in ATL traffic for delivery of the offspring to all of their must-do's... and please tell me when you planned to eat and sleep? Oh yes, did you get everything to make dinner? If not, no biggie. You have Costco Mac-and-Cheese, the number for Domino's and wine. What more do you really need? Answer: a lot more...because if you are like me, you feel guilty for getting pizza again. If you ordered it on Saturday, you try to rationalize in your head, on Monday evening, that you haven't had pizza since 'last week'. Whilst your mind is saying to you, "Make a real dinner, lazy. Why can't you just get it together to feed your family a healthy home cooked meal?"

What IS this irritating yet seemingly involuntary compulsion to feel like we need to do it all?  All of us say to one another "Oh my, Suzy, how ever DO you do it all? I could never balance all that you do!", without adding aloud, or even consciously, "But Jesus, I'm going to give it the old college try! I will attempt to balance a giant hat-bowl of bananas on my head like the Chiquita chic if it seems like that's what everyone else is effortlessly doing." And then, someone will see silly, clueless me and actually think- 'SHIT! I have to get a hat of bananas!' and the cycle will go on and on until we are all too old and too ritualized and too plasticized from keeping up with our friends (that's right, we are friends and love each other and do this to please each other and/or our offspring) to realize all of the peace and quiet simplicity that we have missed out on. 

That said, I personally have to cut down on my commitments. So, Hear ye, hear ye, this is it for now. I am temporarily retiring from Interior Design to focus on writing. It's possible that after the new year I will find my way back to design. But, for now, I am promising my editors, publishers, family and friends that I will do this, commit to this and by putting it in writing, maybe I will stick to it.

I've heard today that My Special Force has started to pre-release (Amazon/Kindle, I believe) and Oct 15th is the big day for hard copies and Atlanta Barnes and Noble signing. Thus, it is beyond time to give it my all. Truthfully, I felt I was giving it my 'all' this whole time, but the fact is, I've been pulled into too many directions to know what "all" I am capable of doing if I can actually maintain a single focus.

Time to throw those bananas I balance to the monkeys at the zoo. This gal is going to put her time, heart, soul and energy back into writing. I finally realize that it's the reason My Special Force was discovered and published. I gave it my everything, held nothing back, never caring about a financial reward or a pat on the back. For a second time, I did something that my heart just told me to do, without reservation. (The first time was leaving my family and career to marry Ryan Means and become a SF wife, if you have not read the book). While writing the book, I would sit at a coffee shop, park bench, botanical garden or museum for sometimes eight or ten hours a day and just write, delete, write, save, delete, write. And somehow, by the grace of some higher power, karma, love....something was created that materialized into not only what it was intended to be, but a million times more...something that helped other people in some way.

All the while, I do realize in my scarred heart and in my obsessive brain that writing is about as rewarding as parenting. You get little to no pay, maybe someone throws you some love here and there, but there is no way to know if what you're putting into it is really going to amount to what comes out of it. Your readers might not always appreciate your efforts, and they just may tear you to shreds at times. All you can do is give it your very best shot. Actually, that "best shot" scenario sounds too trite. What I really mean, is that I'm suddenly realizing that a writer, like a parent, needs to wake up at any hour, and be prepared to spill dreams onto paper (onto 'child', in parenting terms). Writers get sleep if and when they can, even if it isn't in the time frame that normal people think sleep should occur. Those who write consciously give every uninhibited ounce of soul to their  paperback baby. If they don't, it won't amount to it's fullest potential and it won't be able to survive in the world.

The balancing-too-much act
doesn't even look good on the runway

So, back to you and to the point: say 'no'. Try it today, try it tomorrow at the very latest. But let yourself have the power to control your life, or at least a single day in your schedule. Life is so very short. You can't be everything to everybody and really, even though you're pretty cool if you've read this far into my babble, it must mean you need a "no" moment. People can and will live without your "yes".

Cheers, deep breaths and onto the next phase of this fantastic thing we call life. Pass it on.....

If You Could Have One Super Power, What Would It Be?

Once upon a time, I would have said that I wished for the most superficial of powers: The ability to guess lottery numbers, skills to read people's minds, a chance to foresee the future.  With these abilities, I imagined I would exist without struggle, failure or pain. I would be successful in every endeavor, wealthy without a care in the world and live happily ever after.

In hindsight, I was just plain ignorant in my youth. 

At this point in my life, especially as a mother, I feel like I’m more practical than ever. I believe the super power I should have wished for was the ability to make time stand still. Not indefinitely- I would be very responsible with my power. I wouldn't abuse it to avoid old age or death, but just to stop the ticking clock for a few moments so that I could profoundly experience moments of my life and not be rushed by the hands of time. 

While snuggling next to my grandmother on our sofa watching Golden Girls and the Lawrence Welk Show, I would have taken my eyes off of the television to look right at her gentle face for a minute and maybe said something to make her smile in those paused moments, or maybe said nothing at all. 

I'm certain I would have used my bonus moments with Ryan to never be the first one to pull away from his rib crushing hugs. I would have sat down and concentrated on the sound of his voice instead of always multitasking when we caught up on each other's days. 

I would have stopped time to really experience Sophie, my second born when she came into this world.  I know I rarely paused to look into her big brown eyes or to give her as much love as she deserved. Time was slipping through my fingers faster than I could grasp at it during that period in my life. I needed my super power. 

The crazy thing about this assignment- I'm stopping 'writing time' while I think about this-  is it becomes apparent that I've likely always had some version of my super power. I guess for one reason or another I've consciously or unconsciously neglected to acknowledge or use it which is nothing short of an absolute shame. It's regrettable to realize what you have only after it's been taken from you. And, let's face it, this isn't the first time we've heard that expression. At least all experiences, be they good, bad or indifferent... are learning experiences. 

In my simple head, maybe I just wish for the ability to stop time because I think it would give my ever racing brain an opportunity to shift into slow gear. While in pause-mode, I could be sure to make a conscious effort to use my senses and human emotions to appreciate certain moments in my life. I have a track record of being emotionally unavailable at times, and I'd like to erase it. The more senses engaged, the better chance the moment can be recalled upon later as a memory. Your children will grow up, your parents will pass away and events you never could have anticipated in a million years will occur and change your life as you know it.  Someday, that memory may be all that you have left. 

It really isn't enough to be present in a moment if you haven't fully committed yourself to every aspect of what is happening. A hug turns passionate when you allow yourself to avoid the instinct to pull away and instead breathe in someone's scent and slowly exhale, look at the pattern of freckles on their shoulder, feel the temperature of their skin against yours, run your fingers through their hair, look through their eyes and into their soul to the point that you feel comfortable being uncomfortable. 

My Super Heroes

Letting ourselves be this completely vulnerable, living fully in the moment, taking incredible risks, entrusting our completely exposed hearts to others are all human qualities that we had as children that later in life became nearly obsolete. Maybe without even realizing it, life experiences can direct us to believe that stopping time, or just totally stopping for a moment in time is something of a super power; Something we as average humans just don’t possess. Super heroes aren’t fearless but they don’t let their fear influence their choices. Fear causes you to hold back and only give as much as you perceive yourself capable. I think as long as we can set our fears and our defenses aside and acknowledge what our powers are or what they might be, then we have the ability to attain at least the most practical and possibly the most significant of super powers. 

You asked: "How do you feel about being a published author...about putting yourself 'out there' for the world to review?"

Foremost, since I'm asked this quite regularly, publishing My Special Force doesn't drive me to relive my trials. I'm fortunate to have landed head first into a position that affords me the ability to use writing as my outlet while engaging other humans. To have my life story with Ryan shared with the world...well, let's just say that I thoroughly understand how lucky I am to have the opportunity to keep Ryan alive in some small way. Trust me when I say that we can all use a little Ryan Means in our lives. 

Parts of me feel secure about publishing because I know that my accounts are raw and honest and I think most people can appreciate the validity of my efforts. However, I am secretly mortified by the prospect of being judged as a mother, writer and person. I have this firstborn syndrome of wanting to be a perfectionist, dwelling on each detail of every decision that I make in a day.  I am realizing, or maybe just accepting this notion now, at age 35, because I see it in my firstborn, who is the product of two Type-A's. She wants to be the star student, wants everyone to love her and most of all, what I see of myself in her, is that she never wants to disappoint anyone. That last one is the trickiest, my friends.  If you aren't the smartest in the class or some people don't like you- you're the only one who is disappointed. But if you disappoint or hurt someone you genuinely respect and care about- that prospect is nothing short of heart wrenching and likely to cause a good deal of irreparable damage to the psyche. 

Therefore, the only thing I was truly concerned about when deciding to release my story to the world was how Ryan and the Means family would feel about me sharing our family's love story. My mother-in-law, Mary Jo, was behind me from the start. She understood how important piecing together our story was for my daughters and for the whole family. I've felt so much love and support from the Means family and my own. The response thus far has been overwhelmingly positive and encouraging, which makes me excited (yet almost totally consumed by anxiety) for the Oct 15th release to the masses. All is right with the world as far as supportive family and friends.  

Why have such anxiety over something that so far, has been seemingly directed by divine intervention? Because I know someone is going to be disappointed. I know I'm not the best person to tell Ryan's life story. His parents and brothers would be better suited, and so this is not what My Special Force is about.  I can only show what I knew of Ryan as his long-distance girlfriend, the wife of a Green Beret, the mother of a faithful soldier's children. And no matter how incredibly supportive our family and friends, I will always wonder in the back of my head if I let one of them down. Did I portray someone not as they see themselves, but rather as I see them? Worse, did I portray Ryan in a way that they didn't know him? Probably. That's the perspective I write from in this book. Hopefully, I'm obsessing too much as usual and everyone is proud. 

That said, I'm going to veer off on a slight tangent here and share a new story. 

Even though I've received all 5 star reviews (which satisfies my star student personality), there was one lonely review that only had only a single star. I imagine the marketing team may discourage me from making a spectacle of this one poor review but the words have hit the screen, so to speak, and I cannot backspace. This is exactly why I feared placing some of my most important life memories into the hands of total strangers. Ryan would have advised me to have no fear, only faith- that is what got me this far. But now the fear is returning. How could one person read something and interpret it so differently from the rest? I want to understand. Clarification: I DESPERATELY want to understand. The reader had two general comments to validate her one star which did not appease my need to accept or understand her argument. #1: She felt that it was "an exercise in personal therapy" and #2- "adding the title 'author' is a stretch". In essence, what I read is that she doesn't think I'm anything special as a writer. Well, neither do I on most days. So, I'm not crushed. But, I still don't understand why the book itself gets only one star. 

So what does the straight 'A' student do when she gets an 'F'? She goes to the teacher and asks what she did wrong on her paper and how she can fix it. In this case, I can't (at least shouldn't) stalk the reader and beg her to let me explain my thought process and try to change her overall experience. Ergo, I gracefully concede. 

HOWEVER, do you know what was interesting about getting over the first bad review? Let me tell you. Instead of crushing my spirit and causing me to cancel all book signings and retreat into a hole in the earth (as I envisioned), this experience led me to think about Elizabeth, my 5 year old people pleaser. I'm the only one in my immediate family with this compulsion, never being understood until age 27 when Ryan Means understood me and helped me 'fix my broken self'. Now, I want to make sure I know how to help Elizabeth grow and thrive while being so sensitive to other people's reactions. How would I suggest she get over the feeling that she let someone down or deal with her all consuming anger that she didn't get all five stars? I need to start by setting a good example. There's a good chance this blog will still be floating in cyberspace when she is old enough to 'google' and read. I want her to know how to deal with her feelings in a healthy way. And one way I can think of is to write it out- as if you were writing to the disappointed reader. "Take the high road, always take the high road," Ryan would say. 

Hence, my heartfelt response to the reviewer: 

First, this book has a powerful message and I'm genuinely sorry that you didn't receive it, but I want to share it with you now. I intended to give you  an honest glimpse into the life of a soldier who joined the Special forces after 9/11, someone that wholeheartedly believed that one person could make a difference in the world and that he could be that one person. I meant to show you that even when you do everything right, everything can go wrong but it is not the end of your story. The indelible mark that one person, one special force of nature, can make on another, who in turn, impresses another and so on,  is more than your thoughts can grasp, even when you open your mind and just let yourself imagine the possibilities. We all need a reminder that as mortals, we are here on this planet for a short time and that it won't hurt to set aside our pride and selfishness and put a little more effort into showing undivided attention and love for each other. 

Furthermore, writing this book WAS the best exercise in personal therapy. I've stated that very thought in interviews and I really don't understand how this is a negative in your opinion. I hope by reading My Special Force other people can see that writing can heal and consequently pick up a pen or a laptop. The American Widow Project refers us to a book by Psychologist James W. Pennebaker, Writing to Heal, which cites studies that show that "people who wrote about traumatic events, and wrote regularly, made 43% fewer doctor visits and exhibited better health than those who did not. When writing, heart rates slowed, blood pressure dropped and immune systems strengthened." It's okay to write to grieve and it's okay to share what you write with others who may benefit from your experience. 

In concluding remarks to the aforementioned review, I want to share with you yet another of my (I'm sure 'personally therapeutic') anecdotes: When I arrived at my first final in Interior Design school carrying a portfolio of concept boards and a history of practicing Physical Therapy for seven years, I somehow nailed the presentation but ignorantly wrapped up my deal with  a self-depreciating remark that I was a Therapist, not a Designer (poor defense mechanism, right?). My teacher looked at me with disdain and pointed out what should have been an obvious concept. I had just spent 46 hours designing my client's dream bedroom. It was functional for her needs, aesthetically all that she had dreamed, and made her feel that she was sleeping in her own home, not a house.  I hadn't treated a patient in over 9 months. So, why the hell would I call myself a Therapist and not a Designer? Because that's what my current diploma read??  It is a biodegradable piece of paper. Nothing more. 

We are what we do, quite simply. Readers read. Writers write. An author is, per Merriam-Webster, "one who originates or creates; the writer of a literary work". What part of this obligation did I not fulfill in this reader's eyes? I'm not fresh out of grammar classes, my punctuation use quite frankly blows, sometimes I even make up new (erroneous) ways to punctuate my feelings which may undermine my credibility (we have people that correct that before it goes to print) and I honestly wouldn't say I am a phenomenal writer- THAT might be a stretch. But, I had the material, I created a work and placed it into the hands of strangers in the hopes that my words would reach their souls and minds in a way that might make our world a little smaller and a little better. Mostly, it is having that desired effect. We aren't quantifying or qualifying the term here, but that does make me an author. Fair and square, not stretching the title in the least. The end. 

I might consider paraphrasing this impassioned diatribe so that it doesn't read that my motive is to shove this book down her throat until she sees the light. Even though my hurt feelings have led me off on a rant, the point remains that I have mixed feelings about publishing but if we had to list the pros and cons, the benefits far outweigh the risks. That's how I ended up here in the first place. I've made most of my life choices by a rather subjective risk to benefit analysis and by 'being' whatever it is that I am doing at that moment and I don't regret a single decision. So fear be gone, faith prevail and October 15th get here soon. 

The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say. 

                                                                                                                                      - Anais Nin

The City That Won't Let Me Sleep...and Ice Cream

An Excerpt not included in the book: My Special Force, 


At least once a week, I have a recurrent dream about New York City. I don't know if it is because it is the last place I saw Ryan alive or if I have this subconsciously imbedded notion that his spirit is laughing and free, floating throughout the city, but the ideas are somewhere programmed in my brain and only surface when I sleep.

In this recent dream, which is not unlike the many others, I'm trying to explain to my brother-in-law why I need to go to NYC to find Ryan. I'm certain that we both know Ryan has passed, but he supports my idea anyhow because I have been constantly struggling to find him, not convinced that he is actually dead.

I arrive in New York. Even in my dream, I can smell the distinctive scent as I exit the cab. Some may say it smells like fishy garbage, but if you ask me, even in the garbage in NYC has a personality that can't turn me off. Some like the smell of salty beach air, I much prefer the curated stench of the greatest city on earth.

I'm left at the front door of the Helmsley Medical Towers on York Avenue and I leave my bags inside as I walk briskly (trying to not look like I'm running-even though I want to) towards the Sloan-Kettering Cancer Institute, then to the hospital across the street where Sophie was born, Presbyterian Hospital. I've asked everyone, but no signs of Ryan. No big deal. I will find him.

One by one, I stop in every place I visited during the summer Ryan was hospitalized and still no signs. Not at Lulu Lemon, Duane Reade drugstore, nor the Irish Pub. I go into Grace's Market and look for some Gatorade and Haagen-Daz mint chip ice cream because when I find him, he will need food that he can keep down despite the nausea. But they are out of the ice cream. And here is where I absolutely lose it.

Ah ha! Here it is!      

I move every single pint off of the shelves searching desperately for the mint chocolate chip. But there isn't even a spot for it on the shelf. How can that be?!? It was the one food that he could tolerate while he was so ill! I need to have it before I can leave the market, before I can find him. The store manager approaches and assures me I can find it somewhere else, but it isn't enough to stop the tears and the decent into a total breakdown on the cold floor of the perfectly arranged freezer section. My knees feel achy, cold and stiff when I awake as if I had been kneeling, sobbing on the tiled floor in actuality.
                       
                           -------------------------------------

This a one of handful of entries that were edited from My Special Force. During recent interviews,  the question of "how much did you leave out because of your children?" came up, and although nothing was sugar coated, I did have to edit, else the book would be printed in volumes rather than chapters.

However, I never would say that grief can be tied up into a package of 300 pages and then we move on...if you have experienced it, you know that it is something that stays with you for life. It makes an ever lasting impression on the person you will be from that fated day forward. I don't know if we ever move past grief or if we really just move around it. As for my own life, the way we have dealt may look impressive from afar, but up close it is a total 'shit-show' for lack of a better or less appropriate term.  So to clarify, for those who have not yet read My Special Force, the book isn't intended to 'teach' how to get past grief (or teach anything at all for that matter) but really intends to help people realize the transient nature of life and appreciate how fortunate we are just to be alive and have a second chance at life each morning that we awake.... and snap out of those awful recurring dreams. (On an odd side note-- Sophie has been asking for green chocolate chip ice cream this week?!).

Rare still photo of the hour-to-hour (minute-to-minute) improv show called "My Life" 

It Takes a Village & Many Cocktails to Raise This One....

This entry was intended to be a Birthday celebration of Sophie. But it reads, flat out, as one giant pat on the back to me and anyone who has prevented Sophie from seriously injuring herself or others (at least physically) over the last 1,460 days.

Sophie was born in New York City while her dad was receiving treatment at Memorial Sloan-Kettering and our lives were forever changed. We didn't get another blonde haired, blue eyed Elizabeth, as we expected.  Soon we wouldn't have Ryan, either. But, we would have a gorgeous, dark skinned, black haired, brown twinkling eyed- Sophie Ryan. She was and is ALL Ryan.

She's the messiest kid you've ever seen. She draws a crowd because of her eating habits and although she's very intelligent, I've yet to convince her to ever do what is socially acceptable if it isn't something she is personally interested in doing at the moment. Sophie has the strongest will. She will do anything for a laugh and any attention to her is good attention...especially bad attention.

She is an amazingly dedicated artist. Every teacher says this but I'm left with the proof, plenty of proof. She has created mixed-media pieces on my sofas, chairs, tables, walls, tiles, floors, appliances, sinks, mirrors, linens, the siding of our home and her own body. When I managed to finally master hiding and locking-up every writing instrument, paint, spreadable food product, make-up and nail polish in the home, Sophie resorted to using her fingernails to draw "happy bugs" all over the leather sofa. Her gears are always turning and she is always one step ahead of me. All that is predictable about her is that she is unpredictable 100% of the time.

She has no time for pain. Yesterday I watched her run full-speed into a brass door knob, pause for half a second to regain her direction and then commence running full speed (but a little crooked) to her destination. Only when she stopped and saw my facial expression did she realize she hit her head (HARD). At which point she made that face kids make when they are about to cry, let out a two second wimper, then looked away from me and carried on with her master plan. I guess she decided that it wasn't necessary to cry about the concussion/bruise/cut combo but the maybe the two seconds would make her appear more human to me.

Sophie wears me down to the point that I wonder if I was cut out to have children or raise anything more than a goldfish. She is the main reason I still yell at Ryan on a daily basis....and then...and only then...when I am at the very end of my rope that I wish to hang myself with, she pulls me back in just like her father did with a charming smile and those Irish eyes that seem to smile themselves. Sometimes it's a bear hug or she will say or do something hilarious... whatever it takes for her to bring me in alive for the next day of her planned chaos. Only one person has ever been able to challenge me in that way and I'm certain he is proud of this mighty little spirit he has left behind. She is small yet fierce. She is going to make sure that I never take for granted anything in life because even donating blood or getting a root canal is a vacation away from Sophie at this "stage".

A few days before Sophie's birthday, she was a flower girl in an outdoor wedding. I felt for sure she was going to crash the ceremony. (I saw it in my head, she would commando crawl down the aisle, Super Hero underoos exposed, hissing, growling and clawing to scare the other children and maybe pull off a loaded tablecloth during dinner to wear as a cape.) Wrong again, mom-of-the-year! Instead, she crashed right into many hearts....she was a perfect angel. I remember that Ryan always hated Atlanta weddings "too much talking, not enough dancing" is all he would say. His little clone made sure that this didn't happen...and I have the proof for this as well....CLICK HERE FOR VIDEO.

It's easy to state why you love the people who love to please you. But life wouldn't be the same without the people that love to challenge you- those with a contagious care-free spirit and zest for life that makes you want to live to see what is next- because you couldn't possibly know. I wish I could be more like Sophie.

I love you Sophie Ryan. Thank you for the way you keep your daddy alive for all of us.

 Happy Birthday!