I have been thinking a lot recently about the phrase “the love of my life”. I hear the concept frequently, in music, conversation, and stories. It denotes exclusivity and a hierarchy where one stands out above all others we have loved as the most meaningful, unique, and special. This goes along with an idealized view of love wherein there is only one connection in an entire lifespan that is the “real” one. Dropping this mythical standard and objectively looking at the way relationships really work, I see that the loves in my life do not exist in relativity to one another. There are many, they are different, and they are all the loves of my life.

My daughters are now 14 and 18; I have spent the better part of two decades being their mom. I have written before about how much I am in awe of them (“Thing One and Thing Two”). Like every parent, my love for them is all-consuming, piercing, and deep beyond measure. As much as my own parents shaped me, those girls are integral to who I am; their happiness makes me happy. Their sadness breaks my heart. They are the loves of my life.

My sisters are my best friends (yes, another flawed superlative, but it makes the point). I have written before about “The Triad”, and what they mean to my life. Our shared origin begets a sublime comprehension of one another. They are an unwavering source of comfort to me. The three of us see each other completely, without filter, and the unconditional acceptance between us is a permanent oasis in the scary unforgiving world. They are the loves of my life.

In my late teens and early twenties, I had a volatile relationship with a boy from my home town. We lost our boundaries and became inextricably connected. The relationship was unworkable in the long term because of its intensity and our inability to co-exist without extreme drama. The heart break when we parted ways was excruciating. Even though that was more than 20 years ago, thoughts of him still send my heart fluttering. I will love him always, even if I never see him again. He is the love of my life.

I spent 18 years with my ex-husband, and in many ways we grew up together. We built a life, had two kids, and had innumerable happy times together. As our marriage ran its course, we were able to create separate lives while maintaining an enduring friendship; we continue to cheer each other on along our respective paths. Ending a marriage is painful, and I regret the hurt we had to go through to get here. He is an amazing person, the father of my children, and he is the love of my life.

Today, I live with a life partner, and we have very little in common on the surface. He is a musician and a soft-spoken dreamer; a contrast to my logic-driven, black and white tendencies. The time we spend together is fulfilling and fun. Our differences give our relationship texture and intrigue, and I learn immensely from seeing the world through his eyes. We support each other constantly even without always fully identifying with each other’s direction. We reflect the best in each other. He is the love of my life.

I have always been surrounded by an abundance of wonderful people, and I am grateful the love that has graced my life. Co-workers, friends, running partners, and even family members have come and gone over the years, with connections ebbing and flowing as they naturally do. Some of those have become lasting bonds that I will always hold on to. They are all the loves of my life.

 

Every parent thinks their kids are special. The universal biological function of reproducing turns us into doting, obsessive chumps. We see our kids’ idiosyncrasies, talents, weaknesses, and emerging personalities through the unique parental lens that makes us simultaneously blind and omniscient about these beings of our creation. I am a typical parent in this regard. As Thing One (age 17) and Thing Two (age 13) grow up, I have a new perspective on my girls. This may be something we all go through as our kids begin to knock on the door of adulthood. Regardless of the universality of it, what I feel for them these days is novel and pleasantly surprising. This is a distinctive mix of gratitude, respect, intrigue, and admiration. I am inspired by the unassuming wisdom and dignity of my children.

My girls have not had an easy childhood. While it started out “normal”, I blew their worlds apart when they were 5 and 9 years old. That year, they lived through my tumultuous transition from heavy drinker to non-drinker and the flailing search for identity that accompanied that transition. The same year, I threw in a move across the country to Colorado, so they had to change schools, leaving behind their friends, family, and everything that was familiar. A few months later, their dad and I realized it was time for divorce, and he and the girls moved back to Vermont without their mom. Things stabilized after that year, and our newly defined non-traditional family settled into a rhythm of monthly visits from Mom and summers in Colorado. Five years later, I can happily (and with some degree of incredulity) report that they are not only well-adjusted, but clearly thriving.

As I think back to my own childhood, I cannot fathom what this has been like for my girls. The security and stability of everything they knew was suddenly removed from

their lives. Their grace, strength, and magnanimity in the face of that upheaval was extraordinary, especially given their tender ages. Now that they are older, I am overflowing with gratitude to them for their kind hearts, their flexibility, and their affability. They have instinctively and naturally worked with their dad and me to forge happiness within a family structure for which there is no existing script. They are authentic, open-minded people who have survived broken hearts at the hands of their own parents and wear the resulting scars without resentment.

I have not deluded myself into thinking all rough waters are behind us or that my girls will never experience angst from what they have been through. I used to worry I had caused them permanent and fundamental damage. They have made it clear that they are ok, and I can settle back into the routine worries of “normal” parenthood. They have and will continue to have shithead moments, just like the rest of humanity. They are growing into themselves; the same strength that got them through before shows up every day as they do life with gusto. They try new things, express themselves, and share themselves with the world. They are great people, and It is not an exaggeration to say I am in awe of them.

Years ago, my ex-brother-in-law coined the moniker “Streets Triad” for my two sisters and me. I like this because it connotes a kind of superhero-ish tribe, and it fits. Although he has long been expelled from the family because he just couldn’t hang, the Streets Triad carries on. We are a group of loud, strong, successful, quirky, neurotic forty-something women. The combination of us is intrinsic to who I am.

My sisters are among the most important people in my life and they are my best friends. They infuriate, aggravate, motivate, entertain, and comfort me in a way that only they can do, and without trying. It is a natural dynamic borne of having moved through childhood with one another as constant (and often unwelcome) companions. There has always been a zero-tolerance policy in our family for anything resembling pretension, and this is reflected in each of us. When we are together, the authenticity becomes so concentrated as to be overwhelming. The level of eccentric hilarity and strong-mindedness in any room occupied by the three of us is a thing to behold.

While we are different people in many ways, there are some unmistakable Streets Triad hallmark characteristics. The most obvious is extreme candor. For better or worse, you never have to wonder what a member of the Triad thinks of something. Over the years, we have all developed self-awareness that has tempered this quality. So, the occasions where we unwittingly offend, embarrass, or overshare are much less frequent than they used to be. But time has not changed the fundamental tendency of the Streets girls to be uncommonly direct. As anyone who has spent time with our family can attest, straightforwardness fills the space when we are together. The result is often uproarious; I suspect that the uninitiated walk away from their first triple Streets encounters with shell shock from having been exposed to such a high frequency of what many people consider “things you don’t say out loud”.

Along with our frankness, the Streets Triad shares an outlandish sense of humor. Laughter is the soundtrack at every get-together. The subjects that amuse us most tend to be lowbrow and juvenile, and no bystander is safe from our silliness. Just last month, Britt jokingly threatened our brother-in-law with a punch to the butthole, except she was inadvertently talking to a stranger who happened to be walking next to her. The three of us were doubled over with laughter at this for several hours that evening. This kind of thing is just what we do!

The Streets Triad embodies drive and strength. Two of us have trained for and completed Ironman triathlons. The third is retired from the Marine Corps at the ripe age of 44 after having achieved the rank of Lieutenant Colonel. We have successful careers. We are all at the tail-end of raising amazing kids. We have all handled the tribulations of divorce and rebuilding with fortitude and grace. When I think about it, I marvel at the job our parents did instilling in us this dauntlessness (they were definitely not the wholesome helicopter types).

The bond of sisterhood is substantial. When we fight, it is with ferocity. When we laugh, it is from the heart, because we are celebrating ourselves and each other. When I am afraid, the knowledge that they are in this world with unconditional love and support for me is a comfort like no other. Looking at them feels like seeing parts of myself in a mirror, and that reflection is beautiful.

 

The other day I was cleaning out a junk drawer, and I came across the ID tag from a beloved former pet, Zoey, the sweetest yellow lab in the world. I couldn’t believe how this little piece of metal with no remaining practical purpose in my life elicited such a sudden and strong emotional reaction from me. One minute I was sitting on the floor matter-of-factly sorting through a pile of broken pens, thumbtacks, random keys and paperclips. The next minute tears were running down my face as this symbolic trinket brought a rush of memories and feelings for which I was really not prepared.

Zoey was our first “child”. We adopted her from the humane society, and Zoey was her original name. We decided to keep it so as not to add to the trauma of transition, but we did add the middle name “Dufresne”, after Andy Dufresne, the main character in the movie “The Shawshank Redemption”. She had exhibited such a calm dignity and a quiet sweetness (much like the character in the movie) among the yelping chaos around her at the humane society that this addition to her name was natural. The day we brought this beautiful sweet being into our lives, we went from “couple” to “family”.

Zoey was with us for six years, through all of the joys and heartbreak that came with the births of our two children, the death of my mother, and our own growing into middle adulthood. We moved across the country with her, twice. We nursed her back to health from a spinal injury that left her paralyzed in her hind end for several weeks. She went camping with us, she patiently let our toddlers climb all over her and slobber on her ears (Lily even poked her in the butt with a little toddler finger once, and she just stepped away without drama), she snuggled with us when we were sad. She spent the last two years of her life with the top of her head perpetually encrusted in dried baby food, yogurt, and oatmeal as she never missed sitting at her post under the high chair at meal time. During those years, it would have been hard to imagine life without Zoey. And then, one day, rather unexpectedly, she was gone, and there was a hole in our family, and our hearts broke and the sadness was almost unbearable.

It has been eight years since Zoey died, and in that time the family that she left behind has become almost unrecognizable compared to what it looked like when she left us. We are divorced and live two thousand miles apart. The perfect family with the white picket fence, two beautiful children, and the family dog disintegrated into oblivion. We are all happy and healthy, and life is good. But, seeing that dog tag, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of loss and failure, because it represented the road we thought we were on when Zoey was with us. If you had told me the day we brought her home and started that little family what it would eventually become, I would not have believed you. And it makes me wonder what other unexpected twists and turns are in store. And it thrills me, and it scares the shit out of me.