A Love Letter to Norah, On Her Birthday.

Eight years ago, my shining light was born. 

I know, that's hammy and cliché. But it's true, and let me tell you why:

Already goofy from her first portrait on

Before I met Phil in 2004, I hadn't really anticipated plans to get married or have children. I was solely dedicated to performing, and everything else in my life was a distant second.  

But how could anyone not want to have babies with this guy?

Coach Phil FTW

We conceived a couple of months after my grandmother Eleanor had died, and had decided that if we had a girl, she'd be Eleanor Alison; if we had a boy, he'd be Jacob Danger.

Sort of glad we had a girl.

JD wouldn't have been able to rock the blonde wig as well?

(I did have to promise that if we had a second child, their middle name would be "Danger", regardless of gender expression. Dodged that bullet.)

I've discussed the joys and anxieties of having a child who is so emotionally competent, that I'm afraid that her heart will break for the world. But there are moments when I catch her awkwardly dancing in her room, limbs twisting unreservedly, without a breath of self consciousness; or times when I tell her that I'm sad and I don't know why, and she stops what she's doing to put her hand on my forehead and hug me, and I think, "Man. She's going to be OK."

Plus, she does a great Freddie Mercury impersonation.

I can only speak to the one child I have, but raising a kid can be terrifying. It's a balance of allowing freedom and enforcing rules, a delicate see-saw of being permissive and being authoritarian. I've told her that we try hard to say yes to things, but if we say no, there's a damn good reason. Fortunately, she's not a person who generally throws tantrums over toys or desserts, so she ends up getting a lot of the things she asks for (except for her birthday; Norah, we are NOT getting you another cat).

This blog is really challenging to write, simply because my relationship with my daughter is so organic and (usually) easy that I don't know how to elaborate on it. I can only hope that with every year comes more maturity, more intellectual advancements, and greater respect.

And, hopefully, more snuggles.

The Cat Lady, in her natural habitat

My dearest Norah,

You are a joy. To know you is to love you; to speak to you is to be amazed by your maturity and intelligence; and to be in your presence gives an emotional buoyancy like none other. We are so grateful for all you are, and are proud of the person you are becoming.

But enough with the Roblox.

Love,
Mom, Dad, and everyone you touch


And now - a photo dump of some of my favorite images of our weird little kid over the years.

No, Eleanor, we can not take the animal go-kart home.

Leather Face meets its match: Tortilla Face

Vogueing in Florida, 2016

Teleporting in West Haven, 2017

Alice Ball project completed (100%!), 2018

The bucket is empty because she ate all the blueberries

Always my goofball

Tonight there will be pizza, and Sunday there will be a non-party hangout ("I don't like being the center of attention," she said. I blinked; clearly she inherited that from her father).

Happy birthday, my sweet Eleanor Alison. May every year bring you closer to changing the world.

It's Always Savasana Somewhere.

Not long after Ed died, my mother took a six-week grief derail and briefly relocated to Utah, where she began training to teach Raja Yoga, a form of hatha yoga done for 90 minutes in a hot ass room (90-100 degrees).

I don't know why I did full contour before class

The trip was not without its risks: between the intensity of the teacher training, her barely suppressed waves of grief manifesting in intense GI distress (sorry Mom, I'm not getting into detail, I promise), and being thousands of miles away from everyone she knew, she fielded multiple concerned calls from me, suggesting she come home, that there was no shame in leaving early.

However. My mother does not have "give up" in her lexicon.

Raja Yoga Academy Final Class, October 2017

I used to have a great yoga practice. I was ridiculously flexible as a teen/early 20-something, and would fall into more advanced yoga positions like some people fell into a pool after a couple of margaritas. However, my practice was inconsistent and lazy; unlike Sharon, who diligently improved over the course of 20 years of hot yoga. There is no way I could achieve a fraction of her ability, and I am so proud of her. Yoga is her life.

I think yogini-ness skips generations.

Today, I was honored to attend (in the way, way back) her first professional yoga class. There she was, poised, a vision in black spandex, up on that podium, delivering the heck out of a 90 minute class.

Zen AF

Now, considering the fact that my last complete hot yoga class was nearly two decades ago, I have no real knowledge base as to her teacher-ability(I know that isn't a word, I just invented it). However, I know how hard it is to learn a monologue. And she learned the hell out of 90 minutes of solo speaking. It was her up there, all alone, leading a group of almost twenty yogis (and me) through some crazy postures.

Every so often (rarely, because I was terrified of distracting her), her eyes would meet mine and I'd give her a thumbs up, or jazz hands (that was our cue moving from standing to sitting postures). It felt like a wonderful turn in our lives: me now in the audience, rapt with attention; her, gleaming on stage, the intense focal point.

Well, more like sweating over gleaming, but you get the idea.

Just be grateful I didn't barf

Maybe part of what touched me about this class is that she wanted it so badly, and worked so hard. She fought through all resistance, both physical and emotional, to get to that podium. She earned her Raja Yoga Instructor shirt rightly.

I know she eyerolls when she's called an inspiration, but for crying out loud, the woman has been through more trials than almost any of us. AND, she memorized all that script. She is smart, conscientious, kind, and unsinkable. She is the woman that I aspire to be every day.

Except for the yoga. I don't have the strength for that.

But still. My mom's an RN/yoga instructor. How cool is that?

Photo by James Hatch. Ham by me.

We Need New Verbs.

I put in my notice at my job yesterday. It's the second time I've done it at the same job.

The first time was April 2016. I had just received my acceptance email to nursing school, and I excitedly turned to my boss (who was my friend before she was my employer), and squeaked, "I'm giving you my two years' notice!"

She laughed and hugged me.

Yesterday, I gave my official last day - one day before Mother's Day, two days before pinning - and found myself surprised by a slight mist of tears over my eyes.

The job found me in a particularly vulnerable state: I had decided to stop actively pursuing gigs, was in Virginia with my mom, and sort of fell into the position. It was a far cry from the "glamorous" performance life, was often humiliating and frustrating, but it was important.

There are parts of life that taught me how to metaphorically "take a punch". (Not many that literally taught me, yet.) From the America's Got Talent debacle, to sweeping floors and fetching lunch, I've been able to demonstrate my ability to (usually) stay calm. Hopefully that can carry me through the next few months.

Live footage of me living my best life, without Howard Stern's saltiness

I've always been a jump-with-two-feet sort of gal. I don't necessarily hesitate to think of potential risks of a scenario; I just "take a breath and do it", like Norah once said. One day I woke up, turned to Phil, and said, "I think I want to learn how to fly trapeze." I thought of it, manifested it, and had a blast learning.

Don't ever ask me to get into that position again

I didn't think about the repercussions of falling. I didn't imagine scenarios of missing a catch (though I failed over, and over, and over). I saw myself as a person learning; someone who, worst case scenario, would have landed on the net with a couple of rope burns and a great story.

And the occasional gnarly tear

But, here's the catch: in ten weeks, I'm sort of flying without a net. I'm starting over as something completely new. My boss said, "Are you excited?" 

"Sort of terrified and happy. Happified?"

Is there a word in English that combines apprehension with joy? 

Here's a visual of apprehension and joy, though Norah is more cautious than her mom

In other news, nursing pins have been selected, graduation has been registered for, and BSN placement is 98% secured. All that's left is five more exams in nursing school, and that pesky NCLEX.

Is there a word in English for the dichotomy of anxiety and confidence?

Baby Nursing Student - Day One of School (notice how pressed my scrubs are)

Watching the clock count down to pinning, to the end of what seemed endless, reminds me of the last month of pregnancy. You're astonished by how slow time moves, and while you're complaining to your husband that the curvature of the earth has made minutes last longer, suddenly you're in the hospital with a spinal and a baby being carved out of you.

Was that extra? That felt extra.

I've been ardently asking Siri "How many days until May 14?" If Siri was sentient, I'm sure she'd reply with, "You'll get there, Rachel. Stop asking me."

But she's not, so we're here:

71 Days, four hours and about 40 minutes, but who's counting?

At least, I hope she's not. 

Siri, I can explain.