36 here.

In the darkness of the night another age approaches. Last year was supposed to be the year when I felt the pangs of getting old, I guess. The ruling feeling of my 35^th year was a general sensation of everything being simply overwhelming. And this coming from a woman who doesn’t work, doesn’t have stress, doesn’t really have deep moving revelations or anything. Yet it seemed to go by so fast. Call me shallow.

I watch these sitcoms and dramas on TV and the messages I get from each episode depends on what kind of a mood I am in that particular day, more often that particular hour. An overwhelmingly happy year was my 35^th. Even in episodes where catalytic stuff happened, I thanked god or whatever for everything I had, for my children, for my life and felt reassured that I was doing well, doing my best at least and that I was at peace with myself. The uneasiness the feeling of not belonging the insecurities the craving for something I have not gotten my finger on seemed to diminish every passing day though not completely disappearing I am, once again, or seem, at peace with them.

So happy 36 to me. Two decades ago, when I was in a far far country, celebrating my 16^th, in a strange unknown yet exciting tradition I felt it was just the beginning of “something.” If I were to go back and grant myself something, a wish, I would have wished that I carry that same excitement till I was 96. Still going strong at 36, though in a less festive mood, by large because my beloved isn’t here with me to celebrate, but we’ll make up for that when he gets back in a few days.

So for next year, I promise myself to go back to singing (even though I might suck at it). And play more. Mostly with my children, and a bit with life.

Tunca Tunca Tunca

I haven't forgotten about my younger son's birthday. Tunca turned 7 this summer. The below post was written sometime late June, not "on" his birthday, and seems as though I failed to post it somehow. I've added some things to the end.. So here it goes...

I know my brother will get on my case about writing yet another sappy post but hey, it's my blog and I can make it as sappy as I want (though I've realized that it's quite hard to type sappy. Sappy. Hmm. I guess you get used to it).

Anyways.

Happy birthday babe!

I am so proud of the way you are growing up to be such an incredible man. Pushing and shoving your way though all the difficulties you face, the way you crack us up with your sense of humor, how different your mind works from all of us (you are probably the _then_ only 4 year old who dreamed of money raining down on him when his mother told him to think happy thoughts) wipe your tears and hold your cries and move on, urge yourself and strive so hard... for everything.

I love it that you are so cuddly, that you always hold my hand whether we're crossing a street or not, that you do so many things not because I tell you so, but because you talk it out, to yourself, make a deal, with yourself, and do it, because you yourself decide that it's the right thing to do. You have wisdom, though I would appreciate if you stopped taking that left sock off your foot and leaving it places. No idea where that habit came from, but you've been doing that since you were 8 months old, and it's getting really hard to try and match socks now and I don't want you to go to school with mismatched socks.

I want to talk to those mean boys who threaten you, scare those who bully you, and make fun of those who ridicule you, yet you are so brave, and you always tell me that you will handle things yourself, even if that means being pushed around or threatened or ridiculed. Thank you for not getting me involved.

I love the way you love animals, and wonder how on earth you became so disgusted with snails. I love the way you talk to ants, and give them names, and pretend to run into the same ones all over the world.

I love you, I love the way you love your family, and I will always be proud of you, I promise.

The one you love.

"The mind has some many pictures, why can't I sleep with my eyes open?" asks Rufus Wainwright in the song, The One You Love. Since the bulk of my literary adventures have been mostly limited to murder mysteries for the past decade or so, song lyrics often screw with my head, in a good way, most of the times.

So what we have been up to?

A month down South, lots of wine, loads of sunshine, weekend sailing, family and friends. Lovely. Exhausting, but absolutely wonderful.

The one I love, the ones I love, cannot leave you down any avenue, promise not to, but could use a few days of my own!

Salty sand

Sea shells and rocks and pebbles and sandy toes, the treasures of my kids' days during vacation. Lots of sunshine, as their hair turns all the more blonde, I can literally see them grow up. Slightly unnerving yet completely tranquil within the chaos of never ending sunscreen, food, wet bathing suits, the picking and hanging of towels always a bit damp early in the morning.

Tunca says he can see the salt water in the sand. He probably means he can taste it.

And, happy anniversary babe!

Happy Birthday to my Baby!

So hard to believe it's been a decade since I first laid my eyes on you. You are growing up to be such a good guy, such a sweet guy that as I type this, I have tears in my eyes. I promised you, that first night we lay awake next to a stranger in a hospital room with an incredible view of the Hudson that I only saw after a whole day, that I would give you everything, anything, that would make sure you grew up to be a wonderful, happy boy. And you made me proud. With your charm, understanding, slightly sappy yet overwhelmingly sweet sentimentality, courage, wits, insight and your big big heart, you make me proud, you always have, you always will. I love you, so much, so much so much that I, once again, have tears in my eyes. Happy birthday babe.

Alternate versions of reality

Is it possible to run out of things to say? To write about?

The notes I mentioned in a previous post seem to be decreasing in amount and frequency. Or I'm losing them. I distinctly remember writing something about what to do with all the hand crafts the kids make, and it was all witty and cute and funny at the same time (or so it seemed). It's either somewhere hidden in the deep dusty yucky crevices of my purse or I am totally losing my mind and remembering alternate versions of reality:

Got the ATM card activated
Got my notes in order
Wrote contracts
Wiped off gunky mascara
Cleaned my desk
Measured Tunca's height
Measured the wall where I'm supposed to buy a bookcase kinda thing.
Charged my phone
Found and brought pregnancy and baby name books for my cute friend Asyak

Reality:
Still have no cash
Questionable existence of notes
Got two blank pages open in Word and Pages, it's a start
Gunky mascara all over my face, not just my eyes
Sticky desk with piles and piles of paperwork
Can make that up
Could go by without a bookcase kinda thing for 8 months, probably don't really need it
Found the charger
Who borrowed my Girlfriend's Guide to Pregnancy book? Come out and identify yourself. And for punishment, cross to the European side and hand deliver the books dammit.

Happy Mama!

There is a pretty good chance that this might sound cheesy and thanksgiving-ish, but I am thankful that both my sons are home with me, healthy, happy, independent, smart, cute and totally completely definitely make me proud: Arda with his sappy sentimentalism, forgetfulness, surprising wit and sheer charm, Tunca with his creativity, sense of humor, mind boggling brain, and a deep love for sleep. You guys helped me belong and are the best gifts ever.

Happy mother's day to me!

Muse oh Muse

There are days when I cannot stop thinking about, arranging and rearranging words in my head, something seems to have inspired me, yet when all the hustle and bustle ends and I finally sit down to write them down (somewhere, this blog, a piece of paper, one of the many journals I have begun and never managed to follow through) and that inspiration morphs into a checklist, a to-do list, an email, or completely disappears, fleeting to the depths of my mind, often to surface at a totally irrelevant and inappropriate place and makes me look totally dumb for pulling over somewhere and writing on a piece of credit card receipt.

Here are a couple that I fished out of my purse:

(can't read the handwriting here, probably written while driving?)
Seems like two ends of a sectional that never quite fit together, always a bit crooked, needy of pushing around...

Those crazy pink flowers have bloomed in the most ridiculously awkward curve, threatening to make me giggle and lose control somehow (ok, this was written in traffic, I remember this from last week)

Lull

My dad checks up on this blog from time to time. A faithful follower. Like he's always been.

Yesterday, I was in the middle of trying to explain to my almost 10 year-old son how sometimes life is so not fair, and there are times when he could believe that he was %100 right and noone would understand him, or care about his feelings of beliefs. Now he's probably not old enough to understand that whatever stand he makes on even the silliest issue has some sort of impact and more often serious consequences that follow. Maybe this event was the first he came across, it's the first one that I can think of, or at least know of.

Anyways... Thanks, dad, for telling me to always stand up for what I believe. Even though that got me in lots of trouble more than I can remember, I was able to tell my son that yes, he would probably get in trouble, but if he truly believed whatever he did was not wrong, he should stand up for himself. And a special congrats to my mom who taught me to be polite and practical. And she quits smoking too! My hero!

As for the lull in posts... Been busy. Organizing a picnic that's turning into a logistical nightmare. When I say picnic, I mean PICNIC in caps, an event for 5,000+ people and a concert to follow. Fun but exhausting. Also had surgery, no big deal, still recovering happily.

Also, found out that backstabbing and gossip never ceases to exist no matter who you are, what age you are, and whatever status you think you belong to... So glad I have some true friends to stop me from kicking some serious butt. And a cute hubby who volunteers to do that for me because he's thoughtful like that.

St. Baldricks is coming up!

One of my favorite charities, always honors Nathan... St. Baldricks.org

Austria 2010

Another year of excellent skiing, Oberlaa's sweets, Vienna's snot freezing cold, and Bahar and Sima's warm home... No wonder this is the vacation we look forward to the most...

We made it out before the storm hit... Had to get up at 4:30am to make the 7am flight. We were exhausted before we even got there, but totally worth it, because even with a technical problem that made us taxi back to the gate, we made it to Vienna by noon. Almost a whole day ahead of us!

Here are the photos, as promised:

Drum Roll.

For those of you who called and emailed and commented on my latest post, thank you.

I finally crashed Tuesday night and it actually felt better. Fell asleep in front of the TV and slept thru CSI and all until 5AM.

On a lighter note, we're all packed and ready to leave for Austria on Saturday. This trip is somewhat traditional in the way we visit Vienna and our great friends, Bahar, Bernd and Sima, then go skiing for five days, then drive back to Vienna for some more time with the Rothensteiner family for good food, wine, museums and lots of laughs. I am jut hoping that I won't freak out when I'm there so I can get some decent sleep and get a good taste of the slopes. The boys are very very excited and we're hoping that we'll miss the snow storm approaching Istanbul on Saturday. Will post fun stuff, promise...

Fear

As I lay awake looking yet again at another hour passed without the sweet lull of sleep I feel the blisters forming on my hands, mostly my knuckles, and another wave of utter fear overwhelms me and my heart starts beating maniacally to catch up to that whooshy-fally feeling (for the lack of words, like when your heart jumps to your mouth on that first fall from the top of the bazillion feet tall roller coaster) I curse at the shallow jerks who blame an earthquake on anything but the catastrophic movement of some plates and their tectonic shifts and moves and I get up to check on my sons and try not to look at the clock because I know there will be more of this torture to come.