When my kids were little, we went all in during the Christmas season. We did Santa, the Elf on the Shelf, and cookies on Christmas Eve. We even sprinkled reindeer food (glitter, oatmeal and carrots) all over the lawn to usher the big guy in. Out on the farm we lived a charmed existence and I was on a mission for my kids to be kids for as long as possible and to celebrate the magic of everything.
But we do live in the world, after all, and at the tender age of 7, someone told Emma that there was no Santa Claus. To solidify their assertion, they explained that the present givers were really just her parents, and then that child smugly walked away. She came home and cornered me in the kitchen with large eyes that still sparked a tiny glimmer of hopefulness, though her hunched shoulders and quivering lower lip belied those eyes.
First I was a bit taken aback; then I was angry. The real world will be real so soon to us, and magic is so fleeting, that I found it completely unnecessary to steal this one little shard of mystery from her. It was just mean, and I could not believe how ferociously I felt about it. She asked, "Mom, is Santa really just parents?" I didn't even think, I just answered, "Well probably. I mean, as soon as you stop believing, he stops coming, so I would guess that in his case, it probably is his parents." She blinked, thought about that for a minute, and then followed up with, "what do you mean?"
I can't believe how easily it flowed from me. I said, "Well, if a child believes in Santa, then Santa comes. When a child stops believing, then there is no magic to get him here. Then parents have to step in. I, for one, hope you believe for a long time, because Santa can get his hands on the good stuff and I probably can't match his gift wrapping powers." I will never, never, forget the look of relief that washed over her. She scampered off to play and I felt edgy and tense all evening. Did I just lie to her? Did I look her right in the eyes and lie? What kind of a parent am I, anyway? But I couldn't bear to disappoint her, I just couldn't bear to see that little light burn out, so selfishly, I lied.
That one lie carried me through 5 more years. For five years, kids would scoff on the playground about Santa, and Emma came home bright and shiny and unblemished. She would occasionally express sadness over some other kid ceasing to believe, but I will tell you, she believed with her whole heart that he was really, truly, real.
Then 7th grade came around. As December approached, I overheard Emma talking to her brother and sister about writing their letters to Santa. I hadn't really thought about it, but it became very clear to me as I listened, that she still believed. Like, for REAL, still believed. And for all you fellow Glee fans out there, all I could think of was the Christmas episode where Brittany still believed, and wanted Santa to make Artie walk again. I thought, "Oh my goodness. I am raising Brittany."
Thus, a new problem was born. Now there was no way that the subtle friendship circle was going to gently break the news to her...she wouldn't have believed them anyway. And I can't have my almost-13-year-old walking around professing her belief in Santa for the masses. On one hand, I love love love that she is still so untarnished. I love that her innocence is intact, I love her willingness to suspend disbelief and go all-in with her feelings. It's part of what makes her such a good reader, I think. On the other hand...well...it's just time. I began thinking and thinking of ways to tell her, without hurting her too much in the process. (And YES, OKAY, I was also trying to protect myself and not come right out and tell her I am a big fat liar.)
I turned to the internet for help and read lots and lots of stories. My plan sort of evolved from there. Somewhere in mid-December, there was an afternoon when the littles were off to activities and neither Emma nor I had basketball practice. I asked her if she wanted to go to Graffiti Corner with me for an after school pastry and some hot chocolate. The sheer surprise and delight on her face reminded me that time alone with my big girl, for any reason, was long overdue.
Seated at the long table in the back, I listened to her chatter on about her day. During a break in the conversation, I began with, "Emma, there's something really important I want to talk to you about." She instantly looked wary and nervous. (Well, she should be nervous - I'm totally a lone ranger here going out into the parenting wilderness with nothing at all to guide my way.)
I asked her if she'd ever wondered how Santa makes it possible to be all over the world on Christmas night. "Sure," she said, "it's Magic."
Oh. Yeah. (Here's the part where I cursed that day five years ago in the kitchen. Mental note: tell the truth, always and forever, Amen.)
Instead, I said, "Yes, well, magic, and maybe a little something extra." She got very quiet, and locked her eyes on me. I thought she maybe already knew where this was going. So I plowed on, and recited what I'd been working on anxiously for a few days. "See, logistically, Santa really can't be one man doing all that work. In order for everyone to get everything, he needs lots and lots of help. That's where the gift-givers come in."
No response.
"Anyway. See, only some people have the gifter's heart. Have you noticed how some people in life seem to be always going out of their way for other people?"
She nodded, solemnly.
"Well, you can always tell a gift-giver by the way they're always doing that. Thinking of others, going out of their way to do things just because it improves someone else's day, or life. I come from a long line of gift-givers, actually. I was raised to always look for ways to make someone smile."
She smiled, then, and said, "Like how Grandpa sometimes mows and shovels for neighbors?"
"Yes, exactly! Anyway, when you've been given that kind of heart, it comes with a very big responsibility. I've been watching you, your whole life, Emma." I leaned in close, and whispered, "I think you might have one."
Here, she sat up a little straighter. "What does that mean? Have what?"
"Well. Here's the hard part, sweetheart. There isn't really one Santa. Not one guy who is sitting at the North Pole directing elves all day. Santa is actually the collective name of the gift givers. Those people out there, looking for ways to make someone's day...they're responsible at Christmas for the giving of the gifts. They take all kinds of forms...some of them actually dress up as Santa and let kids sit on their lap. Some of them work at food banks, at shelters, doing all the good they can. And the gift givers make sure that on Christmas, everyone has something special to open."
I let that sink in for a while.
"When you were little, I told you that Santa would always come if you believed. And he always has, right?" Careful nod. "He comes, because I'm the family gift-giver. Does that make sense?" More nods, but a little bit teary, now. "And here's the big thing: because I think you might be one, today I am giving you the official opportunity to become one yourself."
Her eyes widened, with surprise. "What?"
"Well, if you really, truly have the gift-giver's heart, then I'm ready for you to join us. It's a huge responsibility. For one thing, we have to keep the magic going for Carys and Cooper. I can't tell where their hearts are going to come out yet, on this. But you, Emma, I think you could do great things, if you want to be part of it. The big question is, do you want to?"
She was swirling, a little, from all this information, but I'd definitely sparked her interest. "What would I have to do?"
"Well, Santa is mysterious, and the number one rule is that you have to keep his spirit alive. If you accept the job, then you'll become that mysterious gift giver yourself. You'll have to choose someone each year, and make something special happen for them at Christmas. And they can never know it's you...you have to just write 'Santa' on the tag."
And now, delight. Because my girl really does have the heart for this...she really does. The next fifteen minutes were spent brainstorming...she already had an idea of someone in the community that we knew a little, but not too much. She'd noticed a loneliness around an adult that we bump into from time to time, and it had been worrying her. I took her shopping and she carefully selected some items that would be useful and some items just for fun, and we put together the loveliest package. On Christmas Eve she went to bed at the appointed time, but lay awake, waiting. When Carys and Cooper were fully asleep, I tapped on her door. We made our way out into the cold snow; it was a perfectly clear December night, somewhere around 11pm. I'd been warming up the car, and she tucked that pretty package under her coat and piled in.
As we drove to the neighborhood of her chosen person, she turned to me and said, "Mom, this is the most exciting thing ever! I'm so nervous!" I said, "I just knew you were right for this, Em. I just knew it." She tiptoed little footprints up to the door, and set the package very carefully on the doorstep. Then she scooted back to the car and we drove home. We talked about how awesome it is to have that magic feeling; this grown up in our town was going to find a treat on Christmas morning and have no idea how it got there or who sent it. It really was the best feeling ever.
And it lasted. I talked about how people with the true heart for giving find ways to do things year round. This year to date we've made three missions to deliver something unexpected to someone. In October she was out with the church doing a food drive. During a walk through a neighborhood she noticed a family who were likely doing without some of the comforts of life. When she came home, she whispered, "Mom! I think I found our Santa family!"
Watching her excitement, I felt relieved. I'm still not sure I handled the Santa Question exactly right, but I made it the best situation I could. And in the process I'm helping develop a heart that really will serve her well in the world, if she can keep it.
There was only one really hard thing. At the end of our conversation that day, I asked, "Emma, are you upset with me that I've maybe ruined the magic for you by telling about the gift-givers?"
"No. I understand. I mean, I'm kind of sad, I guess, that my believing is over, but I'm excited about becoming a Santa for someone."
"Oh phew!" I exclaimed with excitement. "And that means I'll be able to get your help remembering to move that dang Elf every night!"
There was stunned silence. "You mean, Sam's not real EITHER?!"
Ah, well, you can't win 'em all.
December 11, 2017
November 24, 2017
Supermarket Flowers
Disclaimer: The chronology of the page would suggest that I haven't written since August. I have, actually, written a lot since then. I just struggle to press "post."
I know it's been over a year since Mom left us. I know that I can't write sad things forever. I know that nobody needs or wants to hear all about how much I miss my mom, and it seems like lately that's about the only thing that I can pull from my fingertips. So I write for myself, and I leave everything in unpublished drafts
in the folder. Some are angry, some are nostalgic...and all of them are sad.
I battle this out in my head...is this blog a real record or not? Does it accurately tell our stories, or do I selectively write to preserve the parts of life we all like to think about? I have no answer. So I write anyway and promise myself I will decide later. I have six unpublished pieces...I do not know what I will do with them. Today I just want to say this: grief is hard. It is SO freaking hard, people.
I knew this, on an intellectual level. Of course we all know it, but until you live it, you just REALLY don't KNOW.
It is different for everyone, this is also true. I am fiercely private about my grief...I reserve my breakdowns for late nights alone in the kitchen or for car rides alone when I can afford to sob without reserve. I don't want to share this feeling with anyone because even the most empathetic person looks at you with this pitying face. They murmur words of comfort that are intended to heal and help, yet they are meaningless to you because you KNOW they don't really know. And I am jealous of people who don't get it because they don't know yet and then I feel guilty for being jealous which just compounds the misery and it's a vicious cycle. So I do this alone. And it's okay, I like it this way, I do.
Today is Thanksgiving. I thought the first one without Mom would be hard. It was nothing compared to this one. In this one, I cried over the gravy on the stove and could barely swallow when Dad said I made the dressing just exactly right. And my brother is a million miles away instead of here. And I left my Dad alone again in that big house that is filled to the brim with my mother and she is everywhere and nowhere and I just WANT her right this minute. Right now.
Last week I was trying to download Ed Sheeran's song "Don't" into my player on my phone. For whatever reason, every time I pushed the download button, a different song loaded...it was called Supermarket Flowers. I was irritated and tried about three times. Every single time it was that flowers title and I finally decided it was a glitch and quit trying. Tonight I left my Dad's with a huge ache in my chest and as I turned on some music to lift my mood, guess what song came up? Supermarket freaking Flowers. So I figured, what the heck, I guess I need to listen to the song.
And you maybe already know where this is headed, if you're familiar with the song. I didn't know. I wasn't prepared for a lyrical account of the day he said goodbye to his mom. Not prepared.
So I got another good cry in tonight. And I called my Dad from the road somewhere around Guckeen and told him the whole story and then I texted my brother because for once I didn't want to cry alone.
I am not sure if that's growth, or if it was just mean of me to take him down with me.
And there is no point at all to this one, no tidy little nugget to wrap up the story. I am just sad. And thankful, yes, for a mom who loved me as hard as she did. It's such a struggle...it hurts so much, and you just want it to soften, the edges of it at least. You want so badly to feel it less. But you know feeling it less would have meant she had loved me less, and of course you would never trade that. So you just endure. And hope that somewhere, someday, it won't hurt quite this much.
Curse you, Ed Sheeran, and your beautiful, beautiful music.
Supermarket Flowers
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=3Mk0F6mLKik
I know it's been over a year since Mom left us. I know that I can't write sad things forever. I know that nobody needs or wants to hear all about how much I miss my mom, and it seems like lately that's about the only thing that I can pull from my fingertips. So I write for myself, and I leave everything in unpublished drafts
in the folder. Some are angry, some are nostalgic...and all of them are sad.
I battle this out in my head...is this blog a real record or not? Does it accurately tell our stories, or do I selectively write to preserve the parts of life we all like to think about? I have no answer. So I write anyway and promise myself I will decide later. I have six unpublished pieces...I do not know what I will do with them. Today I just want to say this: grief is hard. It is SO freaking hard, people.
I knew this, on an intellectual level. Of course we all know it, but until you live it, you just REALLY don't KNOW.
It is different for everyone, this is also true. I am fiercely private about my grief...I reserve my breakdowns for late nights alone in the kitchen or for car rides alone when I can afford to sob without reserve. I don't want to share this feeling with anyone because even the most empathetic person looks at you with this pitying face. They murmur words of comfort that are intended to heal and help, yet they are meaningless to you because you KNOW they don't really know. And I am jealous of people who don't get it because they don't know yet and then I feel guilty for being jealous which just compounds the misery and it's a vicious cycle. So I do this alone. And it's okay, I like it this way, I do.
Today is Thanksgiving. I thought the first one without Mom would be hard. It was nothing compared to this one. In this one, I cried over the gravy on the stove and could barely swallow when Dad said I made the dressing just exactly right. And my brother is a million miles away instead of here. And I left my Dad alone again in that big house that is filled to the brim with my mother and she is everywhere and nowhere and I just WANT her right this minute. Right now.
Last week I was trying to download Ed Sheeran's song "Don't" into my player on my phone. For whatever reason, every time I pushed the download button, a different song loaded...it was called Supermarket Flowers. I was irritated and tried about three times. Every single time it was that flowers title and I finally decided it was a glitch and quit trying. Tonight I left my Dad's with a huge ache in my chest and as I turned on some music to lift my mood, guess what song came up? Supermarket freaking Flowers. So I figured, what the heck, I guess I need to listen to the song.
And you maybe already know where this is headed, if you're familiar with the song. I didn't know. I wasn't prepared for a lyrical account of the day he said goodbye to his mom. Not prepared.
So I got another good cry in tonight. And I called my Dad from the road somewhere around Guckeen and told him the whole story and then I texted my brother because for once I didn't want to cry alone.
I am not sure if that's growth, or if it was just mean of me to take him down with me.
And there is no point at all to this one, no tidy little nugget to wrap up the story. I am just sad. And thankful, yes, for a mom who loved me as hard as she did. It's such a struggle...it hurts so much, and you just want it to soften, the edges of it at least. You want so badly to feel it less. But you know feeling it less would have meant she had loved me less, and of course you would never trade that. So you just endure. And hope that somewhere, someday, it won't hurt quite this much.
Curse you, Ed Sheeran, and your beautiful, beautiful music.
Supermarket Flowers
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=3Mk0F6mLKik
August 21, 2017
Suddenly Summer
Ah, summer. The longer I teach, the shorter it gets. The milestones in our family seem to fly by so quickly that I barely have time to capture them in words. So many fleeting, beautiful Moments...I wish I could carry a dictation machine around with me so that I could write down every single one of them exactly when they happen.
I kicked off summer with a trip to Nashville over Memorial Day weekend. Dad and I flew out and spent a few days with my brother. It was a trip that had been previously planned by Mom, so we went to both honor her wishes and to have some time together doing the things she wanted to do. Time alone, just the three of us, is rare, so this trip was pure bliss. We learned how to Lyft, we discovered what the fuss is all about at Waffle House, and realized that the people who write hotel reviews on Trip Advisor are legitimately trying to help you.
PSA: If a hotel averages a one-point-five star review, you should probably not book that room.
Even if it is part of a super-amazing-package deal.
Even if it is a Days Inn and you have previously stayed at a Days Inn and found it to be just fine, you should still listen to the reviews for that PARTICULAR Days Inn.
Even if there is a five-star review sprinkled in every three or four bad reviews, you should still not book that room.
Even if it is super close to the airport.
Don't do it. Trust the masses.
Anyway. After moving to a more reputable four-star-reviewed Sheraton late late at night, we felt much more relaxed, and Dad wasn't worried anymore about possible drug deals in the hallways and I could actually breathe in through my nose and not feel like gagging. On a brighter note, that was the only bump in the road. We wandered up and down Broadway, made good meals at the apartment, and filled up every second with conversation. Stevie came along, which was a bright spot for all of us. Mom always thought she was wonderful, and it felt just right that she was there. We toured the Opry, spent quality time with Johnny Cash, and wrapped it up with a big hometown concert from Church himself. Mom went everywhere with us, and I couldn't have asked for a more meaningful memorial.
School let out shortly thereafter and our level of chasing children to sporting events kicked up another notch. We played softball this summer like our very lives depended on it. Emma played on three different teams at various times over the course of the summer. An invitation to play with the 18U on a few occasions was a particular highlight for her. Granted, she leaked nervous tears all the way to the field each time out of fear of letting down the Varsity girls, but her worries were short-lived once she arrived. Those girls are the kindest, most wonderful mentors a Mama could ever hope for. She had a ball, and carries real awe and reverence for those girls when she sees them at school.
Carys played a full 10U softball season learning three new positions and continuing to swing the bat with all her might. The love she has for fishing seems to have grown exponentially this summer. One late night I was walking through the house turning out lights and checking on the kids and discovered that Carys wasn't in her bed. It was 11:45pm, everyone was asleep, and my child was missing! A few brief moments of panic surged through me until Aaron mumbled, "she's still on the dock." Sure enough, she was sitting cross-legged at the end of our dock with a headlamp on her forehead, a fish trap full of sunfish, and her iPod plugged into her ears. (Which is why she missed the call to come in and go to bed.) At only ten years old, this summer she learned how to get to the bait shop on her own, and get whatever she needs whenever she needs it. She can tie her own lures, and take off any fish as long as she's got a glove and a pliers.
Cooper surprised all of us this summer; he hung up his baseball cleats and picked up a tennis racket. I couldn't have been more surprised. We're kind of a baseball family; I can't think of anyone on either side of our families who play tennis, so I'm not sure where he got the idea. Walking him to the courts on the first day felt surreal; I was certainly out of my element, and second-guessed this decision all the way there. As usual, I shouldn't have worried. He came home thoroughly pleased with himself, stating boldly "I was born for this sport!" I don't know about that, but at least he isn't short on confidence.
Sandwiched in between matches and games, we dabbled in basketball, gymnastics, piano, soccer and cello. As July wound down and August rolled in we all tried Children's Theater for the first time. All three kids were given roles they loved and threw themselves into; it was my first time directing Elementary age students in musical. Somehow we pulled off a full-length show in only 8 days. I owe it all to three incredible assistants and a whole lot of caffeine. The program is remarkable, I feel so so lucky to have been part of it.
As usual, it went way too fast. These kids are growing so beautifully into the talents they've been given. I feel like I learn a little more about myself every year, going through all their ups and downs. I do know how lucky I am. 💙
I kicked off summer with a trip to Nashville over Memorial Day weekend. Dad and I flew out and spent a few days with my brother. It was a trip that had been previously planned by Mom, so we went to both honor her wishes and to have some time together doing the things she wanted to do. Time alone, just the three of us, is rare, so this trip was pure bliss. We learned how to Lyft, we discovered what the fuss is all about at Waffle House, and realized that the people who write hotel reviews on Trip Advisor are legitimately trying to help you.
PSA: If a hotel averages a one-point-five star review, you should probably not book that room.
Even if it is part of a super-amazing-package deal.
Even if it is a Days Inn and you have previously stayed at a Days Inn and found it to be just fine, you should still listen to the reviews for that PARTICULAR Days Inn.
Even if there is a five-star review sprinkled in every three or four bad reviews, you should still not book that room.
Even if it is super close to the airport.
Don't do it. Trust the masses.
Anyway. After moving to a more reputable four-star-reviewed Sheraton late late at night, we felt much more relaxed, and Dad wasn't worried anymore about possible drug deals in the hallways and I could actually breathe in through my nose and not feel like gagging. On a brighter note, that was the only bump in the road. We wandered up and down Broadway, made good meals at the apartment, and filled up every second with conversation. Stevie came along, which was a bright spot for all of us. Mom always thought she was wonderful, and it felt just right that she was there. We toured the Opry, spent quality time with Johnny Cash, and wrapped it up with a big hometown concert from Church himself. Mom went everywhere with us, and I couldn't have asked for a more meaningful memorial.
School let out shortly thereafter and our level of chasing children to sporting events kicked up another notch. We played softball this summer like our very lives depended on it. Emma played on three different teams at various times over the course of the summer. An invitation to play with the 18U on a few occasions was a particular highlight for her. Granted, she leaked nervous tears all the way to the field each time out of fear of letting down the Varsity girls, but her worries were short-lived once she arrived. Those girls are the kindest, most wonderful mentors a Mama could ever hope for. She had a ball, and carries real awe and reverence for those girls when she sees them at school.
Carys played a full 10U softball season learning three new positions and continuing to swing the bat with all her might. The love she has for fishing seems to have grown exponentially this summer. One late night I was walking through the house turning out lights and checking on the kids and discovered that Carys wasn't in her bed. It was 11:45pm, everyone was asleep, and my child was missing! A few brief moments of panic surged through me until Aaron mumbled, "she's still on the dock." Sure enough, she was sitting cross-legged at the end of our dock with a headlamp on her forehead, a fish trap full of sunfish, and her iPod plugged into her ears. (Which is why she missed the call to come in and go to bed.) At only ten years old, this summer she learned how to get to the bait shop on her own, and get whatever she needs whenever she needs it. She can tie her own lures, and take off any fish as long as she's got a glove and a pliers.
Cooper surprised all of us this summer; he hung up his baseball cleats and picked up a tennis racket. I couldn't have been more surprised. We're kind of a baseball family; I can't think of anyone on either side of our families who play tennis, so I'm not sure where he got the idea. Walking him to the courts on the first day felt surreal; I was certainly out of my element, and second-guessed this decision all the way there. As usual, I shouldn't have worried. He came home thoroughly pleased with himself, stating boldly "I was born for this sport!" I don't know about that, but at least he isn't short on confidence.
Sandwiched in between matches and games, we dabbled in basketball, gymnastics, piano, soccer and cello. As July wound down and August rolled in we all tried Children's Theater for the first time. All three kids were given roles they loved and threw themselves into; it was my first time directing Elementary age students in musical. Somehow we pulled off a full-length show in only 8 days. I owe it all to three incredible assistants and a whole lot of caffeine. The program is remarkable, I feel so so lucky to have been part of it.
As usual, it went way too fast. These kids are growing so beautifully into the talents they've been given. I feel like I learn a little more about myself every year, going through all their ups and downs. I do know how lucky I am. 💙
August 1, 2017
Waiting
I wasn't sure what the anniversary of Mom's death was going to feel like. I felt it approaching; was viscerally aware of it as the days and minutes ticked by. I waited for a feeling; I waited for emotion. I waited and waited for something to come washing over me.
It didn't come.
I woke up on July 31 the same way I wake up every day; reluctantly. I've always been a night owl and mornings simply are not my thing. I opened my eyes to a regular day, and filled up the minutes doing regular things and just waited for something terrible to come rushing in.
It didn't come.
Dad and I and John all checked in with each other, carefully, carefully. I waited to feel the air leave my chest and my heart to feel that familiar squeeze and I waited for the broken feeling that I was sure was coming.
It didn't come.
I was careful to hold the day close to me; I was careful not to mention it or say words out loud, fearful that Despair was lurking around the corner and listening for me to call him.
But he didn't come.
Instead, friends stopped by to say hello, and the kids splashed on the beach and bounced on the trampoline all day. We grilled out and ate good food and laughed with each other.
Instead, I opened a lovely message from a single aunt. Just one of Mom's nine remaining siblings who let me know that Mom was remembered, that she was loved, and that she was missed. I opened that perfect message and Despair was nowhere to be found. Just warm love came pouring out, over my fingertips, up my arms and into my heart.
Instead, one of my friends showed up in my kitchen with a candle and a card and a letter. She'd remembered every time she met my mom; she detailed all their conversations and listed every interaction, reminding me that Mom was more than a memory, but a real person who loved me. I was touched beyond belief by that gesture; I don't think I've ever been as good a friend to anyone as this friend has been to me. I don't deserve it, I know, and I am so grateful for her.
The day wound down and everyone tumbled off to bed, leaving me to watch the day recede into darkness. I still felt wary, still felt cautious, still waiting waiting waiting for the thing that I was sure was still coming. There were hours, hours still to endure in the quiet of the evening, anticipating with dread what was almost certainly coming.
Around nine o-clock, the house went quiet and a car pulled up out front. A third blessing got out of it with a blanket and a beer. Curled up on the beach chairs, I toasted my mom with maybe the only person I know who could relate to me on this particular level. We sat on those chairs until 2am. She saw me safely into the next day and made sure I crossed effortlessly over. We watched the moon come up, and the stars come out. We cried a little bit and we talked a little bit and we laughed a whole lot. We woke up the neighbor and we were nearly attacked by the local mink who wasn't expecting us to inhabit the beach at that hour.
We breathed deeply in the cool night air. I let memories float in the air and drift over my skin, retelling some good things and some hard things and giving a name to the feeling I'd felt all day, safely anchored by the bonds of this golden friendship, which has come to mean so much to me.
All through Mom's illness I reminded myself that Mom knew how to do hard things. She taught me how to do the hard things, and how to survive them when they came. I kept expecting today to be one of those hard things. I was waiting for it, bracing for it. I did it, Mom. I'm doing it. The hardest thing, every day.
It didn't come.
I woke up on July 31 the same way I wake up every day; reluctantly. I've always been a night owl and mornings simply are not my thing. I opened my eyes to a regular day, and filled up the minutes doing regular things and just waited for something terrible to come rushing in.
It didn't come.
Dad and I and John all checked in with each other, carefully, carefully. I waited to feel the air leave my chest and my heart to feel that familiar squeeze and I waited for the broken feeling that I was sure was coming.
It didn't come.
I was careful to hold the day close to me; I was careful not to mention it or say words out loud, fearful that Despair was lurking around the corner and listening for me to call him.
But he didn't come.
Instead, friends stopped by to say hello, and the kids splashed on the beach and bounced on the trampoline all day. We grilled out and ate good food and laughed with each other.
Instead, I opened a lovely message from a single aunt. Just one of Mom's nine remaining siblings who let me know that Mom was remembered, that she was loved, and that she was missed. I opened that perfect message and Despair was nowhere to be found. Just warm love came pouring out, over my fingertips, up my arms and into my heart.
Instead, one of my friends showed up in my kitchen with a candle and a card and a letter. She'd remembered every time she met my mom; she detailed all their conversations and listed every interaction, reminding me that Mom was more than a memory, but a real person who loved me. I was touched beyond belief by that gesture; I don't think I've ever been as good a friend to anyone as this friend has been to me. I don't deserve it, I know, and I am so grateful for her.
The day wound down and everyone tumbled off to bed, leaving me to watch the day recede into darkness. I still felt wary, still felt cautious, still waiting waiting waiting for the thing that I was sure was still coming. There were hours, hours still to endure in the quiet of the evening, anticipating with dread what was almost certainly coming.
Around nine o-clock, the house went quiet and a car pulled up out front. A third blessing got out of it with a blanket and a beer. Curled up on the beach chairs, I toasted my mom with maybe the only person I know who could relate to me on this particular level. We sat on those chairs until 2am. She saw me safely into the next day and made sure I crossed effortlessly over. We watched the moon come up, and the stars come out. We cried a little bit and we talked a little bit and we laughed a whole lot. We woke up the neighbor and we were nearly attacked by the local mink who wasn't expecting us to inhabit the beach at that hour.
We breathed deeply in the cool night air. I let memories float in the air and drift over my skin, retelling some good things and some hard things and giving a name to the feeling I'd felt all day, safely anchored by the bonds of this golden friendship, which has come to mean so much to me.
All through Mom's illness I reminded myself that Mom knew how to do hard things. She taught me how to do the hard things, and how to survive them when they came. I kept expecting today to be one of those hard things. I was waiting for it, bracing for it. I did it, Mom. I'm doing it. The hardest thing, every day.
May 16, 2017
Mother's Day
The dreaded Mother's Day has come and gone. I am a person who likes to have a reasonable level of control over events, activities and especially my emotions, so I had been mentally preparing myself for the Mother's Day Pictorial that would appear on social media, and the constant well wishes of pretty much everyone in the whole world.
I know that because I am a mom, people will cheerfully say "Happy Mother's Day!" in recognition of me. (I do appreciate that, even though I'm pretty convinced I'm doing the parenting thing completely wrong most of the time.) I know that most people don't know that this is my first one without my mom, and I know that unless you are motherless yourself, it doesn't even really occur to you that Mother's Day is a little bit painful. The reason I know that, is because until now I didn't think about it either. I'm sure I wished a whole lot of Happy Mother's Days and probably Happy Father's Days too without a thought in the world.
And anyway, I really didn't think that the Mother's Day milestone was going to be too much of a big deal for me, because giving a day a name doesn't make it any less or more important than all the other days. I wasn't even worried about it - I've been missing mom for 288 days now, and doing pretty well if I do say so myself. I expected to spend the weekend on the boat and getting the beach ready for a summer full of relaxation.
My family has never been overly demonstrative with special days. We don't celebrate specific days because we celebrate every ordinary day instead. Calling my mom on Mother's Day wouldn't have distinguished it from any other day because I called my mom every day. Sometimes twice a day. Sometimes more. I enjoyed a closeness with her that is rare and unusual, and something I am so grateful for, especially now. So I said a few words to Mom in the morning when I woke up like I always do and then went about my day.
I was doing great until early afternoon when I decided to get my planter boxes ready to go. Dad had been over a few days earlier and we had planted my patio pots, but the long boxes were still in need of flowers. I like to get flats of petunias from the Soccer Flower Sale, and I had two flats to take care of. I got everything set out on the driveway, ready to go, and as I started popping flowers out of the plastic containers, I was unexpectedly overwhelmed with rush of emotion. It hadn't occurred to me until that exact moment, but last summer my mom sat with me on my driveway and helped me plant the same flowers in the same boxes. She got tired about halfway through and dad had to take her home. I remember feeling slightly annoyed because these sleepy spells seemed to be getting more and more frequent. But I helped Dad get her into the car, and simply hoped the next doctor appointment would provide some answers.
How does your mom help you plant a flower in May and be gone in July? How does that happen? I thought I had already navigated through the anger phase of grief, but I guess those timelines aren't exactly set in stone, because it came bubbling up right then, along with a healthy helping of denial and despair. My poor husband never saw it coming. How could he? I didn't see it coming myself. I stood up to get a spade and a loud choking sob escaped from my throat and suddenly huge tears came sliding out from under my sunglasses. I had to stop what I was doing, go for a little walk and then call my dad to help get me back under control. Aaron was filling boxes with black dirt when he saw me have my little breakdown. He just paused, and went to find the kids. He took them on a walk to the Dairy Freeze so I could have some personal space and some time to myself.
It's those ordinary things, really. Small, inconsequential reminders of the absence that will get you every time.
I miss my mom. I miss her so much, and wish the world knew all the things I know about my mom. She would never have wanted the work of her life to be put on display (which is why she specifically requested private services.) She hated attention; she preferred to skirt the edges of the light and do all her good work behind the scenes. She took credit for nothing and was deserving of so many things that she never got to have. I am who I am because of her. And the example she set for me is the bar that I will continue to hold for myself in all things: family, work, and life.
I told my mother every day that I loved her, so I don't worry about her knowing that. I do wish I had told her how proud she made me, though. I wish I had been there on the day that she walked herself, a middle-aged female, onto the MSU campus and registered as a Computer Programming major. It must have taken a truckload of courage to do that, and I don't think I ever told her that.
I think about that a lot; my mama was a strong woman. She had a way of clearing any obstacle put in front of her. She was a master of finding the way in, the way around, the way through anywhere she wanted to go, to get anything she wanted to get, and she never did it at the expense of anyone else.
And if the world told her no, told her definitively and assuredly no, then she learned how to accept that too. She knew how to be happy with what you have, to appreciate what you've been given, and to continue to dwell in the pleasure of the moment without opening the door to the worry of tomorrow.
My mom did lots of hard things. She did them because they needed to be done. And when I'm afraid of something, or worried, or hesitant, I think about my mom, and how she never shied away from the hard things.
I wish I had told her that I know how to draw from my well of courage only because she showed me how to do it. I wish a lot of things, I guess. I wish she could see the lasting impression she made on my kids. I wish she could have been here for more of their milestones.
I wish she were here to help me plant my damn flowers.
Shoot, there's that anger thing again. Sorry, I'm still a work in progress.
Love you, Mom. Happy Mother's Day.
I know that because I am a mom, people will cheerfully say "Happy Mother's Day!" in recognition of me. (I do appreciate that, even though I'm pretty convinced I'm doing the parenting thing completely wrong most of the time.) I know that most people don't know that this is my first one without my mom, and I know that unless you are motherless yourself, it doesn't even really occur to you that Mother's Day is a little bit painful. The reason I know that, is because until now I didn't think about it either. I'm sure I wished a whole lot of Happy Mother's Days and probably Happy Father's Days too without a thought in the world.
And anyway, I really didn't think that the Mother's Day milestone was going to be too much of a big deal for me, because giving a day a name doesn't make it any less or more important than all the other days. I wasn't even worried about it - I've been missing mom for 288 days now, and doing pretty well if I do say so myself. I expected to spend the weekend on the boat and getting the beach ready for a summer full of relaxation.
My family has never been overly demonstrative with special days. We don't celebrate specific days because we celebrate every ordinary day instead. Calling my mom on Mother's Day wouldn't have distinguished it from any other day because I called my mom every day. Sometimes twice a day. Sometimes more. I enjoyed a closeness with her that is rare and unusual, and something I am so grateful for, especially now. So I said a few words to Mom in the morning when I woke up like I always do and then went about my day.
I was doing great until early afternoon when I decided to get my planter boxes ready to go. Dad had been over a few days earlier and we had planted my patio pots, but the long boxes were still in need of flowers. I like to get flats of petunias from the Soccer Flower Sale, and I had two flats to take care of. I got everything set out on the driveway, ready to go, and as I started popping flowers out of the plastic containers, I was unexpectedly overwhelmed with rush of emotion. It hadn't occurred to me until that exact moment, but last summer my mom sat with me on my driveway and helped me plant the same flowers in the same boxes. She got tired about halfway through and dad had to take her home. I remember feeling slightly annoyed because these sleepy spells seemed to be getting more and more frequent. But I helped Dad get her into the car, and simply hoped the next doctor appointment would provide some answers.
How does your mom help you plant a flower in May and be gone in July? How does that happen? I thought I had already navigated through the anger phase of grief, but I guess those timelines aren't exactly set in stone, because it came bubbling up right then, along with a healthy helping of denial and despair. My poor husband never saw it coming. How could he? I didn't see it coming myself. I stood up to get a spade and a loud choking sob escaped from my throat and suddenly huge tears came sliding out from under my sunglasses. I had to stop what I was doing, go for a little walk and then call my dad to help get me back under control. Aaron was filling boxes with black dirt when he saw me have my little breakdown. He just paused, and went to find the kids. He took them on a walk to the Dairy Freeze so I could have some personal space and some time to myself.
It's those ordinary things, really. Small, inconsequential reminders of the absence that will get you every time.
I miss my mom. I miss her so much, and wish the world knew all the things I know about my mom. She would never have wanted the work of her life to be put on display (which is why she specifically requested private services.) She hated attention; she preferred to skirt the edges of the light and do all her good work behind the scenes. She took credit for nothing and was deserving of so many things that she never got to have. I am who I am because of her. And the example she set for me is the bar that I will continue to hold for myself in all things: family, work, and life.
I told my mother every day that I loved her, so I don't worry about her knowing that. I do wish I had told her how proud she made me, though. I wish I had been there on the day that she walked herself, a middle-aged female, onto the MSU campus and registered as a Computer Programming major. It must have taken a truckload of courage to do that, and I don't think I ever told her that.
I think about that a lot; my mama was a strong woman. She had a way of clearing any obstacle put in front of her. She was a master of finding the way in, the way around, the way through anywhere she wanted to go, to get anything she wanted to get, and she never did it at the expense of anyone else.
And if the world told her no, told her definitively and assuredly no, then she learned how to accept that too. She knew how to be happy with what you have, to appreciate what you've been given, and to continue to dwell in the pleasure of the moment without opening the door to the worry of tomorrow.
My mom did lots of hard things. She did them because they needed to be done. And when I'm afraid of something, or worried, or hesitant, I think about my mom, and how she never shied away from the hard things.
I wish I had told her that I know how to draw from my well of courage only because she showed me how to do it. I wish a lot of things, I guess. I wish she could see the lasting impression she made on my kids. I wish she could have been here for more of their milestones.
I wish she were here to help me plant my damn flowers.
Shoot, there's that anger thing again. Sorry, I'm still a work in progress.
Love you, Mom. Happy Mother's Day.
May 1, 2017
Half Way to Hemingway
This weekend, Aaron took the kids with him when he ran errands. Everyone got to pick out a treat at the store. Emma and Carys bought candy...Cooper bought a composition notebook and a pack of pens. When I asked him why he wanted school supplies in May, he answered, "Mom, I need a place to write down all my stories."
Be still, my heart.
He wrote his first story this weekend. Along the way we had very serious conversations about writing - the process, the subject matter, editing, revising, the works:
"Mom, I want my book to be a collection of animal adventure stories - what's a good name for a squirrel?"
"How about Gerald?"
"I was thinking Robert."
After composing two sentences, cross-legged on the floor of the laundry room while I folded laundry, he furrowed his brow and said, "Mom, do you ever get stuck when you're writing your blog? Like you can't think of what comes next?" I said, "All the time! It's called writer's block." He sighed deeply and said, "Well, that's what I've got right now."
He brought a draft to me and asked me to look for mistakes. He seemed very bothered by the spelling errors, until I reminded him that every writer made mistakes and editing was part of the process. The mom in me was delighted at the innocent creativity of his first adventure story. The English teacher in me was thrilled to find that he had correctly punctuated his dialogue.
He put the finishing touches on the piece on Sunday. I told him I would make sure his very first story got published...so here it is. The photos are for authenticity and to showcase his beautiful penmanship that would put some of my juniors on notice; the transcript is so he can have the pleasure of seeing his creation come to life in glorious Times New Roman.
One day a squirrel named Robert was on a mission to find 100 nuts in one day. If he does not, the squirrel tribe will not have enough food for the winter. So at 5:00am he started to look.
He took with him: one bag and a long pole to get the hard to reach ones. Almost instantly he found 10 in his back yard then found 5 in a tree. "I'm off to a great start!" said Robert. Robert climbed a giant tree and used the long pole to knock 25 down. "I am doing awsome," said Robert as 6 more fell down.
He found 6 in the sand and 4 in the dirt. "That's 10 more," said Robert "44 to go!" He looked at his watch. "Oh no it is 1:00pm!" he said.
Robert ran and found 3 stuck in a tree. Then got 10 from shaking a tree. Robert found 20 in the woods. He got 5 floating in a river. Then got 5 from a hole in a tree. He looked down his watch read 10:00. NOOOO! he sat down by a tree and cryed. "I only needed 1 more!" he sobbed.
All the suddenly something hit his head. He looked. A nut! He ran back as fast as his legs could carry him. He made sure no nuts fell out of his bag..
When he got back, he showed them to the chief "You have done well," said the chief. "Thank you." Robert said.
1 Year Later
"We are not going to have enough food!" said the chief of the squirrel tribe. "Robert, can you find 100 nuts today?"
Be still, my heart.
He wrote his first story this weekend. Along the way we had very serious conversations about writing - the process, the subject matter, editing, revising, the works:
"Mom, I want my book to be a collection of animal adventure stories - what's a good name for a squirrel?"
"How about Gerald?"
"I was thinking Robert."
After composing two sentences, cross-legged on the floor of the laundry room while I folded laundry, he furrowed his brow and said, "Mom, do you ever get stuck when you're writing your blog? Like you can't think of what comes next?" I said, "All the time! It's called writer's block." He sighed deeply and said, "Well, that's what I've got right now."
He brought a draft to me and asked me to look for mistakes. He seemed very bothered by the spelling errors, until I reminded him that every writer made mistakes and editing was part of the process. The mom in me was delighted at the innocent creativity of his first adventure story. The English teacher in me was thrilled to find that he had correctly punctuated his dialogue.
He put the finishing touches on the piece on Sunday. I told him I would make sure his very first story got published...so here it is. The photos are for authenticity and to showcase his beautiful penmanship that would put some of my juniors on notice; the transcript is so he can have the pleasure of seeing his creation come to life in glorious Times New Roman.
Robert and the Hundred Nuts!
He took with him: one bag and a long pole to get the hard to reach ones. Almost instantly he found 10 in his back yard then found 5 in a tree. "I'm off to a great start!" said Robert. Robert climbed a giant tree and used the long pole to knock 25 down. "I am doing awsome," said Robert as 6 more fell down.
He found 6 in the sand and 4 in the dirt. "That's 10 more," said Robert "44 to go!" He looked at his watch. "Oh no it is 1:00pm!" he said.
Robert ran and found 3 stuck in a tree. Then got 10 from shaking a tree. Robert found 20 in the woods. He got 5 floating in a river. Then got 5 from a hole in a tree. He looked down his watch read 10:00. NOOOO! he sat down by a tree and cryed. "I only needed 1 more!" he sobbed.
All the suddenly something hit his head. He looked. A nut! He ran back as fast as his legs could carry him. He made sure no nuts fell out of his bag..
When he got back, he showed them to the chief "You have done well," said the chief. "Thank you." Robert said.
1 Year Later
"We are not going to have enough food!" said the chief of the squirrel tribe. "Robert, can you find 100 nuts today?"
April 12, 2017
For the Record
I have 118 text messages in my phone from my mom. I clean out my text folder from time to time, but of course I can't delete that thread, no matter what. I'm worried that someday when this phone dies I won't have them anymore and then what will I do? It's the last set of direct correspondence that I have from my mother. I can read her actual words to me, in her conversational tone, asking me all the everyday things she always asked me. I'm going to try to take some time one of these days and transcribe them so I have them in writing somewhere forever.
Every time I open my message folder, I see my Mom's picture next to that thread, with her most recent message highlighted. It actually reads this: "Worvfvjrdtitr Worchestid e sauce. B N pp P."
I had asked mom why her sweet and sour ham always came out differently from mine. I'm pretty sure Worcestershire sauce is what she meant to say. Reading that message makes me feel so many things; I giggle a little bit because she could never say that word correctly, much less spell it, and it was always a little laugh we had between us. "The W sauce," she would say instead. But it also makes me so so sad, because she sent me that message on June 14th of last year, and it signaled the end of her fine motor function. In a few messages before it, she said she was having trouble texting. Only a month before that one, she detailed the outcome of one of the doctor visits - the one where the doctor said she had blocked eustachian tubes and they would get a plan in place to "fix" the vertigo. Of course, they couldn't fix the vertigo. It wasn't blocked eustachian tubes, it was CJD, and all those endless visits to specialists and ENTs and audiologists and physical therapists were a huge, gigantic, waste of time.
Sometimes I can function pretty well when I think about my mom in generalized ways. I feel sad, but it is manageable. When I look through those messages, though - the back and forth banter, the questions about my day to day happenings, the things that are as simple as sharing a recipe - I feel this crushing weight of sorrow; I can barely breathe. I can miss the idea of mom, and be okay. But missing my actual Mom is maybe the worst feeling I have ever had in my whole entire life.
I hold on to these messages with a fierceness I don't recognize in myself. I hold them because they are a tangible receipt of our relationship; physical proof of the closeness we shared. Sometimes I need the physical proof of it, when vague and cloudy memories don't suffice. They are also a record of her illness, in a roundabout way. In the early messages, she updates me on this doctor visit, or that one. This diagnosis; that prescription. As they go on, she gets more frustrated, and also more brief. When they stop altogether, at the W sauce, the abruptness of it reminds me once again how it felt to have her taken from us so early. She wasn't ready. I wasn't ready.
I hold on to these messages with a fierceness I don't recognize in myself. I hold them because they are a tangible receipt of our relationship; physical proof of the closeness we shared. Sometimes I need the physical proof of it, when vague and cloudy memories don't suffice. They are also a record of her illness, in a roundabout way. In the early messages, she updates me on this doctor visit, or that one. This diagnosis; that prescription. As they go on, she gets more frustrated, and also more brief. When they stop altogether, at the W sauce, the abruptness of it reminds me once again how it felt to have her taken from us so early. She wasn't ready. I wasn't ready.
I wish more than anything that I had had the foresight to record more moments with her. I wish more than anything that our daily back and forth wasn't reduced to 118 messages, some of which are simple exchanges with only a word or two. I hope this blog, and the words I record here, will stand up over time. I hope someday my kids will read them and FEEL me. I hope I can remember to leave all the things here that they will need. I hope I can leave them enough of myself so that when I'm not here they won't have to miss me so much.
April 5, 2017
It's the Little Things
Most days I'm pretty sure I'm doing this parenting thing all wrong. (I can list a hundred examples from last week alone.) But every now and then, a little glimpse of something promising comes through, and I get to feel kind of warm and sunshiny for a few minutes.
I came home from the store, and Aaron met me at the front door whispering rather cryptically, "Would you please go help Cooper? He's upset."
Cooper has this way about him; sometimes when he's mad or upset, he won't talk at all, he just broods in a corner with a dark expression of discontent. He also has a knack of telling you only so much at a time. Getting information out of him is a little bit of an art form, so I didn't ask Aaron anything further. I just hurried into the kitchen where I found my son at the sink, wringing a giant sponge in a bucket and sniffling.
Cooper has this way about him; sometimes when he's mad or upset, he won't talk at all, he just broods in a corner with a dark expression of discontent. He also has a knack of telling you only so much at a time. Getting information out of him is a little bit of an art form, so I didn't ask Aaron anything further. I just hurried into the kitchen where I found my son at the sink, wringing a giant sponge in a bucket and sniffling.
"Cooper, what's wrong?" I asked.
He was so flustered and upset, he just kind of frowned and kept wringing.
I tried again: "Cooper! What's the bucket for? Is something wrong?"
He turned to me with the most worried expression and sputtered, "Mom, I was playing frisbee and I threw it and the wind took it."
He was so flustered and upset, he just kind of frowned and kept wringing.
I tried again: "Cooper! What's the bucket for? Is something wrong?"
He turned to me with the most worried expression and sputtered, "Mom, I was playing frisbee and I threw it and the wind took it."
Hmm. That seems to be no big deal, so I'm a little puzzled at the tears. I ask for clarification: "Did it hit something?"
"No." Sniffle.
"Did you lose it in the lake?"
"No." Sniffle.
"Well, where is it?"
"It landed on the neighbor's deck!" Big, worried eyes.
"Okay. Did you go and get it?"
"Yes." Sniffle. Sniffle.
"Did you lose it in the lake?"
"No." Sniffle.
"Well, where is it?"
"It landed on the neighbor's deck!" Big, worried eyes.
"Okay. Did you go and get it?"
"Yes." Sniffle. Sniffle.
"Then what's the problem?"
"I walked on to the deck to get it, and my shoes were muddy and I left big muddy footprints all over her deck!"
Oh.
"Did you wash it off?"
"Mom, I tried to wipe it with my hands, (presents filthy, muddy palms that match the smudges of mud that I am now noticing on both his shirt and pants) but it just smeared everywhere!" Deepening frown, and we are nearing tears. "Will you help me?"
Of course I will. We walked out to the back yard, and sure enough, four kind-of-smeary size 3 tennis shoe prints were clearly visible on the neighbor's wood deck. He slipped off his shoes (which didn't occur to him the first time, apparently) and scrubbed the deck clean. It only took a few minutes, but I could visibly see his worry lines ease and the tension leave his shoulders when it wiped off easily.
I don't know how many kids would worry about this kind of thing, but I'm kind of delighted that he worried enough to make it right. I'm pretty sure our neighbor wouldn't have thought twice about the footprints, but at least Cooper is pausing to consider his effect on his surroundings. I really wish he would transfer those same feelings of responsibility to keeping his room clean or remembering not to leave sticky plates on the living room floor, but hey - baby steps. I may be failing all over the place otherwise, but in the category of teaching them how to be a good neighbor, I have at least one mark in the win column.
"Did you wash it off?"
"Mom, I tried to wipe it with my hands, (presents filthy, muddy palms that match the smudges of mud that I am now noticing on both his shirt and pants) but it just smeared everywhere!" Deepening frown, and we are nearing tears. "Will you help me?"
Of course I will. We walked out to the back yard, and sure enough, four kind-of-smeary size 3 tennis shoe prints were clearly visible on the neighbor's wood deck. He slipped off his shoes (which didn't occur to him the first time, apparently) and scrubbed the deck clean. It only took a few minutes, but I could visibly see his worry lines ease and the tension leave his shoulders when it wiped off easily.
I don't know how many kids would worry about this kind of thing, but I'm kind of delighted that he worried enough to make it right. I'm pretty sure our neighbor wouldn't have thought twice about the footprints, but at least Cooper is pausing to consider his effect on his surroundings. I really wish he would transfer those same feelings of responsibility to keeping his room clean or remembering not to leave sticky plates on the living room floor, but hey - baby steps. I may be failing all over the place otherwise, but in the category of teaching them how to be a good neighbor, I have at least one mark in the win column.
March 23, 2017
As You Wish
Some time ago, my dad made a promise to Carys. I can't remember exactly how or when it began, but Grandpa promised that someday he would sit down and introduce her to The Princess Bride. She has speculated wildly these last months - wondering how Andre the Giant could possibly factor in to a movie about a princess. (She learned about him during a WWE feature story, in case you were wondering. If you're wondering why she's into WWE, I can't even possibly speculate because I do not know. Ask her dad.)
Anyway. Carys has pressed me often for more information about this mysterious movie, intrigued by the artwork on the DVD that Dad gave her for Christmas. I've refused to tell her anything...I just told her that her Grandpa promised to watch it with her Someday, and she would have to wait until then. Well Someday finally came yesterday. And I had forgotten just how much I love that movie until we were all piled together in the family room watching it.
Every genre of literature is neatly packaged in that wonderful film - drama, comedy, satire, tragedy, poetry. I hope they never remake it, and we can forever associate the fantastic characters to the legends who portrayed them first. The movie is timeless. It came out in 1987 and my kids were still glued to the screen despite its lack of animation, digital enhancements or CGI elements. I don't know how much meaning they drew from it the first time around, but I'm sure we will be watching it again and again. I'm going to pull out every metaphor, every allusion that I can, and quote this movie over and over until they know it as well as I do.
Some of life's biggest lessons can be found there, along with some of the best one-liners of all time.
"People in masks cannot be trusted." If there is a bigger metaphor anywhere, I'd like to see it. Sometimes the toughest adversaries are the ones who come wearing the mask of friendship. How many times in our lives will we misread the intents of an acquaintance? How many times will we be fooled by appearances? Painful lessons, yes, but important ones.
"Inconceivable!" This is going to be my new go-to response whenever the kids ask me if they can do or have something.
"Hear this now. I will always come for you." If there's anything I want my children to know, it is this. Wherever they go, and whatever happens to them, if they need me, I will always come for them. My parents gave this gift to me; they rescued me from deep pools and shallow ones. They came, every time I called for them, and every achievement I ever made, every risk I ever took, every failure and every success was possible only through the security of that safety net.
"We are men of action. Lies do not become us." This. Just - this. Even when the truth is hard to hear, truth is still what develops our integrity and defines our character.
"This is true love - you think this happens every day?" It doesn't. It really doesn't. And sometimes you think you have it, and you don't. And sometimes, you don't recognize it when you do have it. A tricky thing, love. But when you find it for real, and you know it for real, hold on real hard.
"There's not a lot of money in revenge." I hope my kids develop a sense of pride and integrity that prevents them from ever seeking revenge for an injustice. I hope that I can model that always for them, and live an authentic life free from the desire to hurt when I have been hurt. It just begets more hurt, and there's no recovering from that terrible cycle.
"Rest well, and dream of large women." Okay, this isn't a life lesson. It's just the funniest thing ever to say to your 9 year old when you are tucking him in at night.
"Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something." Oh yes, life is pain. Sometimes it hurts a little, sometimes it hurts a lot. I'm finding as I get older that the parts that hurt a lot are the parts I've come to value most. We learn the most from our biggest failures and heartaches; sometimes the heart aches with the loss of something so good, so wonderful, that the pain is a reminder of what we were able to experience, if only for a little while.
And, finally: "Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a little while." True story.
Anyway. Carys has pressed me often for more information about this mysterious movie, intrigued by the artwork on the DVD that Dad gave her for Christmas. I've refused to tell her anything...I just told her that her Grandpa promised to watch it with her Someday, and she would have to wait until then. Well Someday finally came yesterday. And I had forgotten just how much I love that movie until we were all piled together in the family room watching it.
Every genre of literature is neatly packaged in that wonderful film - drama, comedy, satire, tragedy, poetry. I hope they never remake it, and we can forever associate the fantastic characters to the legends who portrayed them first. The movie is timeless. It came out in 1987 and my kids were still glued to the screen despite its lack of animation, digital enhancements or CGI elements. I don't know how much meaning they drew from it the first time around, but I'm sure we will be watching it again and again. I'm going to pull out every metaphor, every allusion that I can, and quote this movie over and over until they know it as well as I do.
Some of life's biggest lessons can be found there, along with some of the best one-liners of all time.
"People in masks cannot be trusted." If there is a bigger metaphor anywhere, I'd like to see it. Sometimes the toughest adversaries are the ones who come wearing the mask of friendship. How many times in our lives will we misread the intents of an acquaintance? How many times will we be fooled by appearances? Painful lessons, yes, but important ones.
"Inconceivable!" This is going to be my new go-to response whenever the kids ask me if they can do or have something.
"Hear this now. I will always come for you." If there's anything I want my children to know, it is this. Wherever they go, and whatever happens to them, if they need me, I will always come for them. My parents gave this gift to me; they rescued me from deep pools and shallow ones. They came, every time I called for them, and every achievement I ever made, every risk I ever took, every failure and every success was possible only through the security of that safety net.
"We are men of action. Lies do not become us." This. Just - this. Even when the truth is hard to hear, truth is still what develops our integrity and defines our character.
"This is true love - you think this happens every day?" It doesn't. It really doesn't. And sometimes you think you have it, and you don't. And sometimes, you don't recognize it when you do have it. A tricky thing, love. But when you find it for real, and you know it for real, hold on real hard.
"There's not a lot of money in revenge." I hope my kids develop a sense of pride and integrity that prevents them from ever seeking revenge for an injustice. I hope that I can model that always for them, and live an authentic life free from the desire to hurt when I have been hurt. It just begets more hurt, and there's no recovering from that terrible cycle.
"Rest well, and dream of large women." Okay, this isn't a life lesson. It's just the funniest thing ever to say to your 9 year old when you are tucking him in at night.
"Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something." Oh yes, life is pain. Sometimes it hurts a little, sometimes it hurts a lot. I'm finding as I get older that the parts that hurt a lot are the parts I've come to value most. We learn the most from our biggest failures and heartaches; sometimes the heart aches with the loss of something so good, so wonderful, that the pain is a reminder of what we were able to experience, if only for a little while.
And, finally: "Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a little while." True story.
March 6, 2017
Ask And Ye Shall Receive
It's true that you really have to be careful what you wish for. When Emma was very young, maybe 2 or 3, she was a little bit of a handful. Precocious, curious, fearless. Carys came shortly thereafter and complicated life even further...she was a master escape-artist, highly sensitive, emotional, and prone to meltdowns of gargantuan proportions. When I found out we would be having baby #3 a mere 10 months after baby #2 showed up, we might have panicked a little. As we adjusted our parenting game plan from a man-to-man to a zone defense, I am going to admit that I might have been praying fervently for a child that was going to be a little more predictable. I might have asked for obedience. I might have even asked for a rule-follower.
Well guess what? God listens. Because I got it. Cooper is a scientific, analytical, black and white little rule-follower. And it is driving me crazy.
Some examples: if you say off-handedly that you plan to leave for the store in ten minutes, that kid is dressed in his jacket and shoes and waiting by the front door in nine. Doesn't that sound awesome? Except that both girls (and even me, sometimes) don't function like that - we're usually ready in 15. And those six minutes that he is waiting by the door become eternally long and his mood begins to darken considerably. By the time I get there, he is CRABBY. I am learning to be less specific about timelines.
If I make one of those idle threats that parents sometimes make, like, "If you don't eat a good enough supper, there's no dessert tonight." I better prepare myself to follow through. If Cooper doesn't THINK he has eaten a 'good enough' supper, he will turn down dessert no matter what, because Mom said it, and he must comply. This is so maddening to me - I usually say these things because getting Carys to eat actual food is like trying to solve climate change. But Cooper takes it to heart, and he will flat refuse to put one bite of dessert in his mouth if he deems his commitment to supper as less than ideal. Even if I say later that he did, in fact, eat enough supper, he will say, "No, I didn't finish, so I shouldn't have dessert." I am learning to say what I mean and mean what I say.
This weekend we went up to Bloomington to watch Emma play basketball. Cooper was supremely difficult the entire weekend. At the hotel he remarked that he was really hungry. We wouldn't have time to go anywhere before Emma's first game so I offered to buy him a sandwich from the hotel lobby. He picked one out and on the way up to the desk I commented to Aaron that $11 was sure a lot for a sandwich. And that was it, he didn't want it anymore. Mom said it was too expensive. It took me almost fifteen minutes to persuade him to eat it, and we were almost late for Emma's game in the process.
Later, he asked for a few dollars to go get a slice of pizza. They were out of pizza. So he put the money back in my purse. Never mind that he was really hungry - he wouldn't buy anything else because he had told me he would buy pizza with it. I authorized pizza. If pizza is gone, we must therefore return the money. Who does that? Seriously, WHAT KID DOES THAT? When I found out about it, I persuaded him to come with me to get something else. He said, "maybe a smoothie?" Lo and behold - smoothies are gone as well. Crap. I tried again: "They have Gatorade...?" No. "Nachos...?" No. He chose to go without. And the hungrier he got, the crabbier he got, so that was super fun.
When we got to the gym the next morning, he asked right away if he could get a smoothie before they ran out. I said, "You bet." I gave each of the kids $4 and they stopped off at the concession stand to get one. We walked into the gym and sat down. Minutes tick by, and no Cooper. Finally, Carys comes running in to tell me that Cooper is refusing to enter the gym because there is a sign on the wall that says "NO FOOD OR DRINK IN THE GYM." Never mind that I am surrounded by people with nachos and pizza and hot dogs and Starbucks and even one lady that I'm pretty sure was drinking a whiskey/coke. Never mind that there are garbage cans all over the place expressly for the purpose of throwing away all the garbage that people are bringing into the gym. Cooper is standing dutifully outside the door, sipping a smoothie by himself. I walked over there to get him. He pointed to the sign and wouldn't move. I tried explaining, I tried persuading. I really wanted him to come sit down with his buddies near us and not be left alone like a parent-less vagabond, but that kid was not moving. Finally, I physically brought him into the gym and over to our seats. Where he proceeded to throw away the entire remains of a four-dollar smoothie because it was against the rules to have it.
This isn't an all-the-time thing, by the way. He's highly selective about where he applies this philosophy, and I'm beginning to think it might be centered on places where he feels he might elicit the biggest response from his mother. He has no problem skipping a homework assignment or two. (He claims he knows all the answers, so it doesn't matter if he actually does it or not.) He could not care less about how often he showers, whether his jeans have holes in them, or what time he needs to be in bed. He DOES care that his math tests are timed (why does it matter how FAST I can do them, as long as I can do them?)
I know that raising kids is no walk in the park, and I'm sure I'm in for some interesting years. Emma is probably doing too much, Carys is probably feeling too much, and I guess Cooper is probably thinking too much. My goal is to get through these next few years without drinking too much.
Well guess what? God listens. Because I got it. Cooper is a scientific, analytical, black and white little rule-follower. And it is driving me crazy.
Some examples: if you say off-handedly that you plan to leave for the store in ten minutes, that kid is dressed in his jacket and shoes and waiting by the front door in nine. Doesn't that sound awesome? Except that both girls (and even me, sometimes) don't function like that - we're usually ready in 15. And those six minutes that he is waiting by the door become eternally long and his mood begins to darken considerably. By the time I get there, he is CRABBY. I am learning to be less specific about timelines.
If I make one of those idle threats that parents sometimes make, like, "If you don't eat a good enough supper, there's no dessert tonight." I better prepare myself to follow through. If Cooper doesn't THINK he has eaten a 'good enough' supper, he will turn down dessert no matter what, because Mom said it, and he must comply. This is so maddening to me - I usually say these things because getting Carys to eat actual food is like trying to solve climate change. But Cooper takes it to heart, and he will flat refuse to put one bite of dessert in his mouth if he deems his commitment to supper as less than ideal. Even if I say later that he did, in fact, eat enough supper, he will say, "No, I didn't finish, so I shouldn't have dessert." I am learning to say what I mean and mean what I say.
This weekend we went up to Bloomington to watch Emma play basketball. Cooper was supremely difficult the entire weekend. At the hotel he remarked that he was really hungry. We wouldn't have time to go anywhere before Emma's first game so I offered to buy him a sandwich from the hotel lobby. He picked one out and on the way up to the desk I commented to Aaron that $11 was sure a lot for a sandwich. And that was it, he didn't want it anymore. Mom said it was too expensive. It took me almost fifteen minutes to persuade him to eat it, and we were almost late for Emma's game in the process.
Later, he asked for a few dollars to go get a slice of pizza. They were out of pizza. So he put the money back in my purse. Never mind that he was really hungry - he wouldn't buy anything else because he had told me he would buy pizza with it. I authorized pizza. If pizza is gone, we must therefore return the money. Who does that? Seriously, WHAT KID DOES THAT? When I found out about it, I persuaded him to come with me to get something else. He said, "maybe a smoothie?" Lo and behold - smoothies are gone as well. Crap. I tried again: "They have Gatorade...?" No. "Nachos...?" No. He chose to go without. And the hungrier he got, the crabbier he got, so that was super fun.
When we got to the gym the next morning, he asked right away if he could get a smoothie before they ran out. I said, "You bet." I gave each of the kids $4 and they stopped off at the concession stand to get one. We walked into the gym and sat down. Minutes tick by, and no Cooper. Finally, Carys comes running in to tell me that Cooper is refusing to enter the gym because there is a sign on the wall that says "NO FOOD OR DRINK IN THE GYM." Never mind that I am surrounded by people with nachos and pizza and hot dogs and Starbucks and even one lady that I'm pretty sure was drinking a whiskey/coke. Never mind that there are garbage cans all over the place expressly for the purpose of throwing away all the garbage that people are bringing into the gym. Cooper is standing dutifully outside the door, sipping a smoothie by himself. I walked over there to get him. He pointed to the sign and wouldn't move. I tried explaining, I tried persuading. I really wanted him to come sit down with his buddies near us and not be left alone like a parent-less vagabond, but that kid was not moving. Finally, I physically brought him into the gym and over to our seats. Where he proceeded to throw away the entire remains of a four-dollar smoothie because it was against the rules to have it.
This isn't an all-the-time thing, by the way. He's highly selective about where he applies this philosophy, and I'm beginning to think it might be centered on places where he feels he might elicit the biggest response from his mother. He has no problem skipping a homework assignment or two. (He claims he knows all the answers, so it doesn't matter if he actually does it or not.) He could not care less about how often he showers, whether his jeans have holes in them, or what time he needs to be in bed. He DOES care that his math tests are timed (why does it matter how FAST I can do them, as long as I can do them?)
I know that raising kids is no walk in the park, and I'm sure I'm in for some interesting years. Emma is probably doing too much, Carys is probably feeling too much, and I guess Cooper is probably thinking too much. My goal is to get through these next few years without drinking too much.
February 13, 2017
Present Over Perfect
I'm one of those few people in the world who is lucky enough to call my school administrator my friend. In the spirit of friendship, he offered this read to me, mentioning that it held great meaning for him and wanted to pass it on. This wonderful book, "Present Over Perfect" by Shauna Niequist, is a must-read for anyone who wants to "Leave Behind Frantic for a Simpler, More Soulful Way of Living."
I'm only half-way through it, and already feeling profoundly affected. I find myself writing page after page of reflection, applying bits and pieces of the wisdom within to my own life. This is one of those books that, while it doesn't fit me exactly to a tee, is full of little pieces of truth that is changing the way I look at the world, and the way I identify my place in it.
If you know me at all, you know I'm a "yes" person. I thrive on moving, constantly, and giving myself and my time to anyone who needs it. I'm not so great at giving to myself. When I do for myself, I feel selfish, and I feel like I'm letting people down. I invent ways I've let people down in my head, even when I haven't. When I'm using an afternoon off for myself instead of calling someone, or catching up, or planning some activity, I feel immensely guilty. I have long defined my value by what I can give to other people.
I think I might use this post as my litmus test for success: a year from now, I'm going to look back at the blog and see how far I've come on some of the goals I've decided to set for myself. The idea of saying "no" to the world and "yes" to ourselves is not a new one...but this book gives a little "how-to" plan that I seem to have been missing. It is difficult to give ourselves permission to turn down invitations for fear of disappointing people, but "to do this, though, you have to give even the people closest to you - maybe especially the people closest to you - realistic expectations for what you can give them. We disappoint people because we're limited. We have to accept the idea of our own limitations in order to accept the idea that we'll disappoint people. I have this much time, I have this much energy. I have this much relational capacity." That paragraph - that one - I have to photocopy it and glue it to my mirror.
So. We're always learning, aren't we? Thank you, Andy...it's exactly what I needed right now.
February 1, 2017
A Love Letter
In a year that has been difficult and sad, it hasn't been easy to find my cheerful positivity long enough to write anything of real substance. I'm careful not to fill up these pages with too much heartache; I think we'll all remember the tone of this year without too much of that. Our family keeps going, from silly moment to happy moment to crazy moment with a few somber pauses in between as we navigate the absence of the one who held us all together. Joy, the reckless and free kind, has been a little hard to come by, it's true. Mostly I just walk around having a pretend life while I wait for Mom to call.
But a couple weeks ago I found myself in one of those moments of magic; the kind where time stopped and I felt it again; glimpsed the fiery sunshine through the fog and clouds. How do I explain this without sounding ridiculous? I'm not sure I can. You're probably anticipating some major life changing event, right? Well, sort of. I went to a concert. But not JUST a concert.
I went to Church.
See, me and Church, we have this thing. We have this thing where he writes all the songs that tell my life story and then I get to find myself again in all the words. He tells me all about my life; who I was, who I am, who I am becoming. Nobody really gets this about me - except maybe my brother. My brother and Stevie, maybe. I think she probably gets it. But this music is more than music for me, and the concert was a literal return, at least for a few hours, to a carefree happiness I've been missing lately.
So this is my love letter to Church.
I met Eric Church in 2006 when my brother sent me a three word text: Sinners Like Me. I downloaded the first album promptly. John and I have this connection - I can't really explain it. We speak sparingly; there's no daily phone call or email. But we can sit next to each other in a room and have an entire conversation with each other in complete silence. We're built that way - two sides of a coin - and when he sends me a word or two over the phone, I know what he's telling me without asking. Music filled our childhood, and we both resonate with the same devotion to it, constantly sharing bits and pieces of anything that comes our way and means something to us. I didn't see anything truly profound in Two Pink Lines, which is as far as I got in that album before I got distracted by something else. So it was really in 2009 when Carolina came out that John sent me a link to Those I've Loved and then I was hooked.
Thus begins an eight year love affair with Church. He's so diverse; I'm on top of the world when I have a Drink in My Hand, and feeling like I might never leave the house again when I'm Holdin My Own. I am seventeen years old again during Springsteen and Talladega takes me right back to my best friends in college, remembering a particular road trip to Milwaukee.
So on one gorgeous January Saturday night, I made my way to Sioux Falls for his concert - the first time I've managed to secure tickets. To use one of Cooper's favorite expressions: it was epic. He had no opening act. He played two sets; 37 songs, 3 hours and 39 minutes. The average fan got to sing along to a popular hit about once every four or five songs. Those of us who really know him, though, were treated to deep cuts from every single album sandwiched in between the radio singles.
Music has such a way of pulling us backward into our memories...it was so good to feel lightness of being again, and remember some pieces of my past that I've been missing. It was so special for me, and I have to have a minute to explain just one more reason why. Aaron and I went to this concert together - this is worth noting because he is NOT a country music fan. But he went because this is one of those times where he gets me for real. I think being there under any other circumstance just wouldn't have been right. I wasn't there for the usual concert experience - I wasn't there to be loud and rowdy or to sing along at the top of my lungs. I felt positively reverential, and I wanted to FEEL that, the whole time. Anything else would have kept me from what I really wanted out of my first Church concert. If I couldn't be there with my brother, then Aaron is the next best thing, because he really gets me, and he knew, I think, what it was going to mean for me.
We were surrounded by a heavily intoxicated stadium crowd (South Dakota, remember.) It was loud and it was rowdy and there was a flannel shirt and boots memo that we must have missed. Aaron hates country music, but he loves me. And I know it because he didn't suggest even once that I take someone else with me. (There are plenty of times when I need my friends, and he's usually more than happy to send me off with one of them when he's not all that excited about my plans.) This time, though, he came with me. And then? Then he just let me be...no talking, no dancing, no drinking, even. He listened to the music, watched me have a 14-year-old fangirl moment when Church took the stage, made sure I had a Drink In My Hand at exactly the right time, and when Record Year came along and my heart seized up and stopped beating for three minutes and eleven seconds, he reached across my lap and took my hand. That song has me hard - it's Mom's song. I've never said that out loud - I've never told him that. I guess he just knows.
Between sets, I was texting John and Stevie, sharing heart emojis and song lyrics, and feeling like they were there with me, instead of in Nashville and Philly. I felt the thin golden threads of our connections stretching between us, and it made it feel even more special; like we three have this secret and not even one of the other 12,000 people there could possibly feel it like we feel it.
By the time we were headed home, I felt such a peace, such an exhilaration - it was a bucket-list concert, and I couldn't have asked for it to be any better. The next one will be icing on the cake, and THAT one will be a party.
I think I really needed that.
Now I can return to my very responsible, very busy, 42-year-old self. It should make the long weeks of basketball and gymnastics and play practice a lot more bearable until the sunshine comes back out and Spring finds her way back to Minnesota.
And just so I never forget, (as if!) but anyway, just in case...I'll just leave this right here. 💗
But a couple weeks ago I found myself in one of those moments of magic; the kind where time stopped and I felt it again; glimpsed the fiery sunshine through the fog and clouds. How do I explain this without sounding ridiculous? I'm not sure I can. You're probably anticipating some major life changing event, right? Well, sort of. I went to a concert. But not JUST a concert.
I went to Church.
See, me and Church, we have this thing. We have this thing where he writes all the songs that tell my life story and then I get to find myself again in all the words. He tells me all about my life; who I was, who I am, who I am becoming. Nobody really gets this about me - except maybe my brother. My brother and Stevie, maybe. I think she probably gets it. But this music is more than music for me, and the concert was a literal return, at least for a few hours, to a carefree happiness I've been missing lately.
So this is my love letter to Church.
{You can laugh - go ahead - take a minute to fully appreciate my return the teenager I used to be and apparently still am, on some level.}
I met Eric Church in 2006 when my brother sent me a three word text: Sinners Like Me. I downloaded the first album promptly. John and I have this connection - I can't really explain it. We speak sparingly; there's no daily phone call or email. But we can sit next to each other in a room and have an entire conversation with each other in complete silence. We're built that way - two sides of a coin - and when he sends me a word or two over the phone, I know what he's telling me without asking. Music filled our childhood, and we both resonate with the same devotion to it, constantly sharing bits and pieces of anything that comes our way and means something to us. I didn't see anything truly profound in Two Pink Lines, which is as far as I got in that album before I got distracted by something else. So it was really in 2009 when Carolina came out that John sent me a link to Those I've Loved and then I was hooked.
Thus begins an eight year love affair with Church. He's so diverse; I'm on top of the world when I have a Drink in My Hand, and feeling like I might never leave the house again when I'm Holdin My Own. I am seventeen years old again during Springsteen and Talladega takes me right back to my best friends in college, remembering a particular road trip to Milwaukee.
So on one gorgeous January Saturday night, I made my way to Sioux Falls for his concert - the first time I've managed to secure tickets. To use one of Cooper's favorite expressions: it was epic. He had no opening act. He played two sets; 37 songs, 3 hours and 39 minutes. The average fan got to sing along to a popular hit about once every four or five songs. Those of us who really know him, though, were treated to deep cuts from every single album sandwiched in between the radio singles.
Music has such a way of pulling us backward into our memories...it was so good to feel lightness of being again, and remember some pieces of my past that I've been missing. It was so special for me, and I have to have a minute to explain just one more reason why. Aaron and I went to this concert together - this is worth noting because he is NOT a country music fan. But he went because this is one of those times where he gets me for real. I think being there under any other circumstance just wouldn't have been right. I wasn't there for the usual concert experience - I wasn't there to be loud and rowdy or to sing along at the top of my lungs. I felt positively reverential, and I wanted to FEEL that, the whole time. Anything else would have kept me from what I really wanted out of my first Church concert. If I couldn't be there with my brother, then Aaron is the next best thing, because he really gets me, and he knew, I think, what it was going to mean for me.
We were surrounded by a heavily intoxicated stadium crowd (South Dakota, remember.) It was loud and it was rowdy and there was a flannel shirt and boots memo that we must have missed. Aaron hates country music, but he loves me. And I know it because he didn't suggest even once that I take someone else with me. (There are plenty of times when I need my friends, and he's usually more than happy to send me off with one of them when he's not all that excited about my plans.) This time, though, he came with me. And then? Then he just let me be...no talking, no dancing, no drinking, even. He listened to the music, watched me have a 14-year-old fangirl moment when Church took the stage, made sure I had a Drink In My Hand at exactly the right time, and when Record Year came along and my heart seized up and stopped beating for three minutes and eleven seconds, he reached across my lap and took my hand. That song has me hard - it's Mom's song. I've never said that out loud - I've never told him that. I guess he just knows.
Between sets, I was texting John and Stevie, sharing heart emojis and song lyrics, and feeling like they were there with me, instead of in Nashville and Philly. I felt the thin golden threads of our connections stretching between us, and it made it feel even more special; like we three have this secret and not even one of the other 12,000 people there could possibly feel it like we feel it.
By the time we were headed home, I felt such a peace, such an exhilaration - it was a bucket-list concert, and I couldn't have asked for it to be any better. The next one will be icing on the cake, and THAT one will be a party.
I think I really needed that.
Now I can return to my very responsible, very busy, 42-year-old self. It should make the long weeks of basketball and gymnastics and play practice a lot more bearable until the sunshine comes back out and Spring finds her way back to Minnesota.
And just so I never forget, (as if!) but anyway, just in case...I'll just leave this right here. 💗
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