A Ripple Frozen in Time

2018 was a year that will stay firmly stamped in my brain for so many reasons, but mainly I will remember it as a year of death and rebirth.

The first time I had a year like this was in 1997. It was a year that should have been dominated by the thrill of my high school graduation but was instead marked by death and struggle. Not only was I kicked out of my parents' house at the beginning of the summer (long story) but three adults that I knew closely also passed away. It started with the death of my former math teacher, a man who was one of my mom's best friends. A man we considered family. I wrote a poem to honor him and read it at his funeral even though the lump in my throat was so large that I felt suffocated by its presence. This was followed by the death of one of my parents' closest friends, a death that was hard for their friend group to grasp because they were all still so young and vibrant. The illness that took Bev descended on her like a rapidly encompassing dark cloud and killed her in a period of time that was so short that it was terrifying to think about. At her funeral I watched my dad--my calm, stoic, dad--lose himself in a grief so unabashedly palpable that my heart ached for weeks in its aftermath. And then the following month, the father of one of my best friends passed away. I will never forget the sound of her voice on the other end of the house phone and how hollow her tone was when she breathed from her lips, "My dad just died." Even though his death wasn't a shock, the wave of confusion and sadness it created was almost unimaginable. As I watched my friend and her sisters grieve, I couldn't help but feel terribly selfish for the petty fight that had driven me and my parents apart. I swallowed my hubric pride and moved back home to my parents' house, a mere two weeks before I packed up again and moved to college.

In 2018, I lost two students. Both were beautiful and fiercely passionate and independent 19 year old young women with nothing but sunshine to add to the world. Hannah perished in a horrific plane accident while on vacation with her family. I will never be able to explain the wave of emotions that passed through me when I woke up to the news that she and her whole family were gone. In the midst of my blinding grief, the only thing that brought me any sense of peace was that they were all together. No one was left behind. But at the same time the reality that no one was left behind was almost too much for me to bear. 4 beautiful souls. 4 people I had laughed with and learned from. Hannah had a passion for conservation and activism that was inspiring. Ari's musical talent was truly incredible for a young man of his age. Leslie's smile and laugh were contagious (she always loved the snacks in my office), and Mitch had a deep, soulful voice that sounded like smooth caramel and prompted me to joke with him that he needed to leave his job as a physician and become a voice actor. Why would God take them so soon?

Two weeks before I received the news of Hannah and her family, a student near and dear to my heart fell ill. Lauren spent a lot of time in my office. She was one of the hardest working students I have ever met and never complained about how hard she had to work to reach the level of success she desired. I first met her when she was a sophomore in high school. Since she lived in a different city, we Skyped weekly as I helped her prepare for her standardized tests. Our relationship continued as she worked on her college applications and sought my advice for what college she should attend. And after she chose to attend college just 20 minutes from my office, she became a permanent fixture in my life. She always showed up with a cup of coffee and a smile, and when she left, she always thanked me and hugged me with the type of warmth that can't be faked.

About 10 days before midterms, Lauren started to not feel well. She was dizzy and had a hard time concentrating. Within a few weeks, she found out she had cancer. I was getting ready for church when I received the text from her mom. It literally knocked the wind out of me, and I lost control of my legs and hit the ground. I was sobbing so hard that I couldn't even articulate to my husband what was going on. When I finally found coherent words, he held me and told me he was sorry as I cried and blubbered repeatedly into his sleeve, "But, I love her. But, I love her."

She passed away 8 months later.

It was during her funeral that a life changing moment happened. It was a ripple of my existence that will forever be frozen in time. It was a small moment that has created a tsunami of change in my life: a tsunami that has created a boundless sea of regrowth in its aftermath.

I attended the funeral with my daughters because my husband couldn't leave town with me and I didn't want to go alone. I sat in the funeral feeling lost. Feeling beaten down. Feeling angry at God  and confused. Feeling like my legs had been cut out from underneath me. Feeling like no matter how hard I tried I couldn't breathe.

And then her mother spoke. And as she did, both of my daughters grabbed my hands. I could feel their stares piercing into me as they watched an infinite stream of tears roll down my cheeks. As her mother spoke, I couldn't help but be inspired by her strength. Instead of crying and lamenting over a young life full of promise that was lost too soon, she spoke of love and God and family. And then like an unexpected bolt of lightning that I never saw coming, she took a moment to give advice to every parent in the room:

"Never miss a moment that you don't have to."

And as her words settled into my brain, the whole world stopped moving and a ripple frozen in time took a hold of me. And I knew that even though I was a damn good wife and mother, I could be a better one. And in that moment of time, I gave myself up to God and recommitted myself fully to my family. To my baby girls who so strongly held me and comforted my pain. To my son who lacked the right words to say during that time so instead said it all with his eyes. To my husband who had long taken a back seat to my desire to have more "me time" and rarely complained as I struggled to find balance in my life. To myself who decided to grow from these tragedies instead of letting grief drown my soul.

It has been 4 months since those words, those simple words spoken by a mother who lost her one and only child too early, caused a dramatic shift in my persona. I am not the same person I was in 2018, and I never will be. I have learned that my focus needs to remain on my family because soon, all too soon, my babies will be grown and gone. And when they are, I will have more "me time" than I ever could have imagined (and probably won't even know what to do with). And since I have been more present, I have found that the "me time" I long sought exists when I am surrounded by my husband and children and can bask in the glory of their actions when they don't even know I am watching. I love hearing my son talking to his friends. I love the sound of his hockey stick scraping the driveway as he takes practice shots. I love hearing the sounds of my girls giggling in their bedroom and in the shower. I love watching them sing to their favorite songs-- their heads bopping underneath headphones that look too big for their tiny bodies. I love the smile on my husband's face when he is watching hockey or how he slides around on the floor in his socks or how he looks at me when I am helping the kids with their homework. And I know that I will never again miss a moment that I don't have to. This is the message that God sent me through these beautiful young women, and I will forever honor their legacies with my whole heart and soul.

Not all Super Heroes Wear Capes

Yesterday was the last day of school, a day that I always celebrate with vigor even though deep down inside I am constantly amazed at the quick passage of time. I know that parents always say it, but it's true. You blink and your newborn is a toddler. You blink again and your toddler is starting preschool. You blink a third time and your preschooler is a preteen on her cell phone texting her friends. You blink a fourth time and your preteen is about to turn 16 and has long towered over you because he surpassed you in height when he was in 7th grade. The list goes on and on.

Every stage of parenting brings with it its own set of thrills and difficulties. My mother's famous mantra "this too shall pass" and prayers have gotten me through every stage of parenting. It's scary when your toddler starts to walk, unsteady steps that only provide a steady stream of visions of terrible falls and smashed faces. It's scary when you send your baby off to school: someone else, a mere stranger really, will be spending more waking hours with your child than you will and will provide a steady source of influence beyond your control. It's scary when your child becomes an adolescent and is faced with the opportunity to make potentially devastating and permanent poor life choices in regards to issues like drinking, drugs, and sex. Let's be real: parenting is kind of like riding a never ending and terrifying roller coaster ride. So many parts are exhilarating but you never know what is coming around the next corner you approach.

And because of this (and maybe this is only me), you constantly worry that you are doing it wrong. That you are failing at parenting. That you could have made different decisions that would have more greatly benefited your children. That maybe, just maybe, you aren't sacrificing enough of yourself even though you can't remember the last time you did something that only benefited you.

But then in the middle of it all, something happens that makes you realize that everything is going to be alright, a small moment in time that snaps you back into reality and allows you to breathe because you know your kids are going to be the kind of adults you will be proud to have played a part in nurturing.

For me, this moment happened last night.

We were out to dinner to celebrate the last day of school when the sky became black and unleashed blinding wind and rain, the kind of wind and rain that floods the streets in minutes and pelts your skin with raindrops that feel like snaps of electricity.

I gave the kids a pep talk and prepared them to make a dash for the car, emphasizing three times NOT TO RUN because the last thing I needed was for someone to trip or slide out and shatter an ankle. We ducked outside, huddling like hamsters under the roof line of the restaurant, and ogled at the storm. Dear God, I could barely even see the car. I made the quick and authoritative decision, "It's not worth it. You all stay here. I will go and bring the car back. I'll pull way up close so you don't have too far to go." Then I turned and made a run for it. Three steps in I realized I couldn't run in my flip-flops, so I walked as quickly as I could, laughing as I made my way to the car. I could hear the kids behind me cheering me on. By the time I reached the car, I was so wet that my jeans and shirt were soaked all the way through and water was running into my eyes from my hair.

I went back for the kids, pulling way up into a loading zone so they only had to traverse 10 feet of the storm. As the side door of the van started to slide open I yelled, "Run!", and my three little ducklings came crashing into the car one at a time, smallest to largest, my son taking up the rear as he let his sisters in first. Everyone was laughing.

Then in a voice so quiet I almost didn't catch it, I heard my son say, "Not all super heroes wear capes." I turned around and looked him in the eyes and said, "Wait, what did you just say to me?". He kept his eyes locked on me and said more loudly, "Mom. Not all super heroes wear capes" and then just smiled at me before looking away.

My heart burst in that moment.

Moms, I know that like me you often feel invisible. But you aren't. Your babies: they see everything even if you don't always realize that they do, and it's often the littlest of things that create the loudest echoes in their minds and hearts. I know you don't do the things you do to receive validation or praise, but your sacrifices do not go unnoticed. Keep up that seemingly invisible fight.

I'm far from a perfect mother, but thanks to my 16 year old son, today I feel unstoppable. Today, I feel seen. And today I know that no matter what parenting difficulties the future may hold, everything is going to be OK.

Goodbye, witching hour. Goodbye.

It didn't hit me until I buckled my seat belt and put my car into reverse, but when it did, it struck me deep into my heart: this is the last time. When I started to say it to my children, my voice cracked as the words became stuck in my throat. I tried to hold it in but finally let it all go as I cried, explaining that I would miss this part of our family routine.

This morning was the last time that I will ever drive my babies to school together. The last time! And I am struggling to grasp just how quickly we are being catapulted into the next phase of our life as a family.

My husband has always left for work early in the morning, just as the kids are waking up to get ready for school. This has left me for years juggling three groggy children and policing them (often like a drill sergeant) in order to get them out of the door on time for school. This has not always been a smooth routine (for years it was affectionately known as "the witching hour") and there have been many mornings when we are all running around frantically in various states of undress.  I have certainly not always enjoyed this aspect of my life with my children, so I guess this is why I never anticipated how emotional I would feel for it to end.

Because I work atypical hours, I am not home for the afternoon and early evening routine of my children's lives: that is under the jurisdiction of their dad. It doesn't bother me that I miss this part of their day because I know it is affording them the opportunity to nurture relationships with their dad that they probably wouldn't if I was home. And as a byproduct, it has created the morning time as their time together with just me. During this short period of time, I get to share intimate moments with my children--over bowls of cereal, the packing of lunches, and the wait in morning car line. During this short period of time, I have witnessed my children growing into independent people. What six years ago was a routine 100% dependent on mom has grown into a routine with mom simply overseeing while I bask in the small moments of my children's lives that I will keep locked inside my heart and cherish forever.

And this routine. This routine is now over. Next year, we will embark on a new routine. The boys will get up early together and leave for their days, and the girls will follow shortly after on theirs. And even though I am excited for my son to start high school, I can't help but lament the time with him that has already passed. It will no longer be me forcing him out of bed, starting his shower, helping him gather his things. It will no longer be me quizzing him for his tests and quizzes in the car. It will no longer be me watching him walk up to school to begin his day, marveling at the man he is becoming. It will no longer be me, and there is so much about that that makes my heart ache.

I have always tried to cherish every moment, but so much about this past year has made me realize that I need to slow down and pay attention, even more, to every remaining moment that I have with my children. These precious moments, although abundant, are also fleeting. I know that I can't slow down the time, but I do know that I can look more closely. I can listen more closely. I can cherish more closely.

Goodbye, witching hour. I never thought I would say it, but I will miss you. I will miss this nuclear time with just me and my babies. I will always remember the smell of syrup on my shirt from someone's tiny mouth. I will always remember helping my babies tie their shoes. I will always remember the waves and the "I love you, mom" as my children got out of the car. I will always remember the quiet morning moments when all three of my children were hanging out together, laughing and playing games. I will always remember every precious moment of this obsolete routine and be thankful for the mothering and advice shared on our many car rides to school together. I know we will have countless new moments together but this, this morning routine, I will always cherish deep in my soul.  

An Open Letter to My Adolescent Son

             You asked me a question yesterday that sounded into the deepest part of my soul: “Mom, what do you like best about me?” It came after a conversation I was having with your younger sisters, who at 8 and 9 years old respectively, are constantly inquiring about anything and everything. The topic of their questioning last night was the attribute about each of them that is my favorite.

            Now all moms know that it is best to shy away from any line of questioning that involves the word “favorite”, but I have recently gotten into the habit of speaking to my girls about their character. Even at such young ages I can see the dark cloud of insecurity looming in the distance and I know that all too soon their sweet innocence will be shrouded by puberty and mean girls and boys and body image and everything trying that comes with adolescence. In these precious last moments I want to pump them full of everything positive I can think of, so I gladly play the favorite game that they have grown to love.

            I told my middle child that my favorite thing about her is her giving spirit, how she is always willing to let others choose first and simply take whatever is left over for herself. I told her that I am proud of her for always acting as the peacemaker in a busy house full of children and pets.

            Then I moved on to my youngest child. I told her that I love her nurturing soul, how she is always trying to make people who are sick or hurt feel better. I told her that I see a great comforter in her and know that she will always be the first to offer help when someone is in need.

            You. You my almost 14 year old son. You were sitting at the table during this conversation, wearing your earbuds, absorbed in some video on your phone like you always are these days. On a daily basis I have conversations with you that I realize you have heard none of because you are deeply immersed in your adolescent world, a world dominated by cell phones and computers and screens. A few years ago I stopped trying to force you to be engaged in all of our family conversations because I could see that your world was shifting. Instead of only needing reinforcement from us at home, you began to also need it from the other people in your world: friends, teachers, and coaches. I tried to fight this until I realized that finding your place in the world beyond our home is a crucial part of your maturation. It was your first attempted flight out of the nest, and even though I wanted to hold onto you and keep you young, I knew I had to let you fly and help you should you fall.

            You are not only my first born: you are also my only son. Parenting you has brought with it both many first experiences for me and also many only experiences for me. I learned how to be a mother when you were born, every instinct in my body taking over and showing me how to keep your precious life happy and healthy. As the oldest child you have to forge ahead in life with me and your dad scrambling to keep up with you as we traverse each stage of your growth for the first time as parents. This isn’t easy for us and sometimes we make mistakes, so please be patient with us. In addition, as my only son, you and I share many experiences that make our bond very different from my bonds with your sisters. There is something unique and special about our dynamic that I will always cherish in every part of my fiber.

            I want you to understand how hard it is to start letting you go, something I have already begun to do. I know you think it feels like an eternity before you will be off to college and beginning your own life, but let me assure you that the next four years are going to pass at lightning speed. I blinked and you were a toddler. I blinked again and you were waving independently as you walked into your second grade classroom. I blinked again and you were taller than me, saying “I love you, Mom” in a voice that I didn’t recognize as that of my son because you sounded like a man. The next time I blink I will be dropping you off at college. I’m not ready for that yet so even though you are blinking as fast as you can because you are ready to grow, I am trying as hard as I can to not blink at all because pretty soon, very soon, my time with you will have passed. I know that we will always have each other, but once you know that you can fly without me nothing will be the same. I know you will need me but you won’t need me the same way that my heart will always need you.

            Sometimes you say things that make me realize that my baby boy is still somewhere inside the handsome young man that you have become, and when this happens my heart flutters because I know I get at least one more chance to shower you with the love and guidance that God entrusted me to share with you.

            In the middle of my conversation with your sisters, you pulled your earbuds out of your ears, put down your phone, and said to me, “Well, mom. What is your favorite thing about me?”

            I could tell by the tone of your voice and the way your eyes pierced through me that you genuinely needed to know and hear my answer. Weathering these last few years of your adolescence have been some of the most difficult years of our relationship. As our dynamic has morphed into something new, we have not always handled this gracefully. There have been fights, slamming doors, angry words, and lots of tears. We have both said things we wish we hadn’t and withheld other words that we should have said. We have both been stubborn and prideful. But we have continued to love and forgive each other as you have experienced adolescence for the first time and I have experienced parenting an adolescent for the first time.

            There are so many things that I love about you that it is hard to pick my favorite. I love that you are so open-minded to trying new things. You will give anything a shot at least once, and I know that this will allow you to live a full life. I love that you are kind and respectful to your teachers, coaches, and friends. I love that you are not afraid to meet new people: that you can hang out with any type of person or group and have a good time. I love that you have always chosen nice boys to be your closest friends. You have no idea the sense of peace this fills me with because I know how much your social circle will shape your experiences and decisions. I love that you still ask me to hug you even though you are bigger than me now. I love that you will still let me snuggle with you because you know that I need this even though you don’t anymore. I love that you will still give me a kiss in church even though most boys your age would never do this anymore. I love that you pay attention to the small things: you always notice if I have on a new outfit or have gotten a haircut. I love that you are growing into the kind of young man that I am proud to call my son because even on those hardest days of adolescence, I can look at you and see the kind-hearted and genuine person you have always been inside. So what is my favorite thing about you? Well son, I think my favorite thing about you is that you have always remained true to yourself no matter what the situation. To have that kind of strength and resolve at such a young age makes me realize that, no matter what, you will always be just fine. 

            Of course I answered you yesterday in much fewer words than this. Had I pontificated, you would have rolled your eyes at me, so my answer was brief just like you prefer. After I told you my favorite thing about you, you smiled, jammed your earbuds into your ears, and drifted back into your adolescent world. As you ambled away from me and my heart ached for that chubby kneed toddler of your past, my heart also felt proud and excited because it could see the future you have awaiting you on your journey, and I know that everything will turn out just fine. 

I know

          To all other parents out there who have a child with learning disabilities, I know your struggle, and I feel your pain. I know that you lose sleep at night worrying about your child, and I know how much you have devoted your own life to being his/her advocate. I know that sometimes you feel exasperated and overwhelmed. I know how much you pray for it to get easier for your child. And, I know how desperately you wish that other people better understood the silent battle that your child and you fight every day without reprieve. I know you want the best for your child and how much you want your child to stop questioning his/her abilities as he/she fights to forge a path of learning that leads to pride and success. I know.

          I know the feeling you get when you have to try to explain these things, countless times, to the people around you--family, friends, and teachers-- and see the look in their eyes that they just don’t get it. I know the sinking dread that fills your heart as you realize how much your child is up against and the fact that it will never go away or be easy for him/her. I know how hard you fight to swallow your tears when you watch your child crying because he/she is feeling defeated, stupid, and worthless. I know you feel like someone has punched you in the stomach when your child expresses concern about his/her future, wondering if he/she will be able to accomplish his/her dreams. I know that you cry at night after everyone in your house has gone to bed or when you are in the shower and no one can hear you because you are exhausted from watching your child struggle and worry every single day. I know you try to boost your child’s self-esteem and combat your child’s feelings of fear, loneliness, and anxiety. I know that this in and of itself feels like a full-time job. I know.

          I know you realize that no one, even you, knows exactly what your child is going through and how helpless this makes you feel. I know the extra worry lines that have formed too early at the corners of your eyes and how you feel suffocated by the weight of homework, long-term assignments, and tests. I know you are up until midnight on some nights trying to help your child complete assignments to feel as prepared as possible for the next school day. I know you try every day to find a balance between helping too much and helping too little. I know how much you wish that there was a way to fix all of this for your child. I know that you would sell the shirt off of your back if this meant removing every difficulty that your child faces. I know.

          I know that, despite this all, you never give up hope that tomorrow will be an easier day. I know that you hang on to the dream that your child will one day feel calm, successful, and happy. I know that you will never give up; you will never stop advocating and explaining; you will never rest until your child finds peace. I know how much you celebrate every success in your child’s life, every single thing that makes him/her beam with pride and excitement.

I know that you and your child are not alone in this no matter how much you sometimes feel that you are. I know.  

Just "Kim"

Today, I am just not feeling it. The "it" that I'm not feeling is lurking like a monstrous, hideous gorilla in the room: parenting. Today is one of those days that I feel like just being Kim. I sometimes don't even remember who she is. The person she was before having children who has been long buried in piles of laundry, late night barfing, tattling, signing paperwork, coordinating the calendars of five individuals without (dear God) making one blunder, and putting the needs of everyone else before herself.

I think as a mom this is a blasphemous confession to make. A confession that will have "better" moms turning their noses up at my apparent willingness to admit that, at the end of the day, I am human, I am flawed, and sometimes I long for the simplicity that existed before I earned the title of Mom.

But you "better than me" moms, I know you secretly have these days too but are too prideful to admit that mothering is without a shred of a doubt the hardest title you have ever and will ever receive. And, it is a title that brings an endless to do list that draws on every ounce of your will to even attempt to manage every single day of your life without reprieve.

Because, you see, we can't turn this off even if we are physically away from our children. After all, how would those we left in charge even begin to function without the detailed lists and spreadsheets we leave behind? The pre-filled out forms, the pile of already stacked uniforms, the daily itinerary that keeps our family afloat, the wisdom that our oldest child will only eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in his lunch, our middle child only nutella, and our youngest only nutella and peanut butter? That for breakfast, our oldest likes his egg wrap with cheese and salt & pepper, our middle with egg and salt & pepper but no cheese, and our youngest with egg and salt but no pepper or cheese? Who else knows the millions of tiny details that allow us to make it through the day with only a small number of tears and the least amount of frustration? No one. No one knows this but us, and even though it allows us to know every member of our family most intimately, we are often left to wonder who knows what we like in our morning wrap? No one else but us because we are the keepers of these important pearls of wisdom. The pearls of wisdom that are simultaneously enlightened and suffocating.

Today I felt suffocated by this role.

Today, I wanted to be just Kim. I didn't want to me "Mom" or "Wife" but Kim. Kim the girl who used to climb to the tallest branch of the tree in her backyard and read books. Kim who loves to feel the sun on her skin and the sand between her toes. Kim who likes to lay in the damp grass at night and look into the vastness of the sky feeling both empowered and intimidated by the understanding of her own smallness in the big picture of God's universe. Do any of you even know these things because I sure know them about you. I hold on by the hope that one day you will understand that for so many years I willingly chose you over me because that's just what parents do.

I know that tomorrow I will wake up to a different day, a day in which I proudly grab the title of Mom and traverse its challenges with ease and peace. I know this because I have had days like this before and will no doubt have them again in the future. My sense of peace returning will begin when I walk in to check on you in bed later and stall for a minute to take in the beauty of your faces and watch how your chests slowly rise and fall as you dream. When I lay in the quiet of our dark house tonight, I will remember the immense quiet that accompanied my life before children and be thankful for the noise that you bring me, a noise that always reminds me of the beauty and dynamism of life. I will remember the tears I cried when I prayed for over two years to conceive my oldest and the subsequent tears and despair I felt when I suffered five miscarriages before my second was born. I will remember how much I ached and prayed to earn this title, and my heart will swell with pride for the family we have together, no matter how chaotic and suffocating it can sometimes make me feel. And, most of all, I will realize that I can't remember who Kim was before children because she is a ghost from my past who has morphed into the person she is today, a person that I am always thankful for and proud of.

A tall, ice cold glass of The Golden Rule

My youngest daughter asked me last weekend if she could have a lemonade stand. She was so excited to learn how to make homemade lemonade from the abundance of lemons from our tree that I couldn't resist. I let her know that I would help her set up a stand on Saturday.

Since the introduction of allowances into our family last year, it has been an interesting lesson in personalities as I have watched how my three children handle money. My oldest child and only son is the epitome of having a "hole in your pocket." The second he has any money he is dying, DYING, for me to drive him to Target, Walgreens, CVS, ANYWHERE to spend every last penny he has on some trinket. He feels the pain of wanting something two days later but having no money to his name, begging and pleading for a loan or an advance that I have never and will never grant. Regardless, the pattern continues every week. My middle child and oldest daughter is, much like her personality, the model of moderation. She will save her money if there is nothing that she has been longing for and spend it intermittently when a strong enough desire grasps her mind. Her piggy bank is always half full, either able to allow her to indulge on some small treasure or save in little time for something more impressive.

Now my youngest (and the entrepreneur behind this weekend's lemonade stand) is much like her mommy: she hangs onto money as if it is a rare gift from God not to be trifled with. The first time I allowed the children to take their own money to Target to buy a toy, she cried in the car after she realized that she had sacrificed one of her blessed twenty dollar bills for the two My Little Pony Girls that had been added to her arsenal of misfit toys. I calmly explained to her through her tears and snot that things cost money and that there was no need to cry if she was able to get something that was important to her. Since then, she has hoarded her dollars and change as if she will never see another, passing up trips to Target to select new treasures for her toy box.

In her defense of the events that unfolded this weekend: the lemonade stand was her idea. She did all of the prep work. She spent an extended period of time picking the ripest lemons from our tree. She learned how to make simple syrup (equal parts water and sugar she repeated astutely). She helped me squeeze lemons with only her two hands and a fork (why did I agree to this since we don't have a juicer?). She made a sign with leftover poster paper from one of Maia's recent projects. She helped me move the table to just the right place in the yard, arrange cups, gather a bucket of ice, and determine the best jar to store her earnings. She sat out in the warm sun that only January in Florida provides for over an hour until her first customer arrived. She struggled to stay patient as I explained that hundreds of people would not majestically appear from the air the second that she was ready to receive customers. She stayed committed to her stand for three hours, talking through her shyness to people from the neighborhood that were strangers to her, making change, pouring glasses of lemonade, and hiding from the intense rays of the sun. She worked hard for her earnings and learned that making money doesn't happen without effort.

However, somewhere along the process her older brother and friend from across the street joined her in her endeavor. They kept her company and assisted in the drudge work that accompanies any job. Even though they poured glasses on occasion, it was the fraternity that allowed her to last so long out there in the sun. Yes, they abandoned the project the second I announced that we were closing up shop and did not stay around for all of the clean up that was included, but they offered her support for a decent amount of time.

After clean up commenced, the fun part started: the counting of her loot. She excitedly spread out her treasure on the dining room table, her eyes growing wide as she continued counting and counting and counting. For a few hours in the sun (and mommy's contribution of the cups and the labor), she did pretty well in her first dabble in the world of business.

As she was excitedly shoving bills into her piggy bank I stopped her.

"Don't you think Hunter and Fisher deserve a reward for helping you?"

The look she shot me could have frozen Hell over three times.

From under narrowed eyes and uncompromising fortitude she said, "But it was MY lemonade stand."

I stayed calm sensing the fork in the road. I was walking on thin ice. I didn't want to crush her spirit, but there was an important lesson to be learned.

"Yes," I responded calmly, "it was your lemonade stand. But don't you think you should reward the boys for helping you?"

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, her eyes darting around the room for help. They landed on a large bag of markers resting on the kitchen table.

"Yes! Of course they deserve a reward. I will give them markers. I have lots of those."

I met eyes with my husband from across the room, and we shared the silent communication that only parents can. We nodded in agreement. This point couldn't be dropped. We have been talking a lot about the Golden Rule in our family over the last year, and we finally had a different REAL example to use to reinforce our point.

I asked her directly how she would feel if she had helped the boys as much as they had helped her and been given only a few used markers. She locked eyes with me--all knowing--and began her concession.

"OK. I will give them each a dollar."

Our stare down continued as I refused to look away from her challenging stare.

"Do you think that is fair? Do you really think that is the best answer? Do you remember what The Golden Rule says??"

Another awkward shift, the slight welling of tears in the back of her eyes as she looked back and forth between me and the stack of dollar bills on the table. And then she sighed and let it go.

"$5. I think $5 dollars would be best."

Mark and I shared smiles as we praised her for thinking about someone more than herself. She didn't even cry or complain as she skipped away to give each of the boys their $5 reward.

I doubt that at seven years old she ever expected that day to serve up more than ice cold glasses of homemade lemonade, but most importantly she served up two ice cold glasses of The Golden Rule. I know it isn't an easy lesson, and I don't want my children to think that they should always expect a reward for helping out a friend or doing the right thing, but I also do want them to learn that they should not only be doing things to benefit themselves. I want them to learn that sometimes, just sometimes, the richest reward is the unexpected act of kindness that they can extend to someone else.

My mom tried to warn me, but I didn't listen

When I was a little girl, I would beg my mom on a weekly basis--along with the support from my brother and sister--to let us get a dog. Her answer was always a firm and resounding "No." as she explained, once again, that the death of her childhood dog had broken her heart. That logic was lost on us, so we persisted and persisted and persisted until one day, many years later, we wore her down. We brought Buddy home when I was in 7th grade and my total adoration of miniature dachshunds began.

It only seemed natural that I would one day get my own little dachshund. Even though my parents had forbidden it when I was one "their dime", I was on the constant hunt for the perfect dog of my own. Shortly after getting married when I was only 19 years old, I decided that I would know when I met "my dog", so the hunt continued.

Two years later while walking through the mall, I came across a small pet store. The adorable doberman puppy immediately caught my eye, so I of course walked in to get a better look. My eyes drifted two cages above and one to the left, and there she was staring right through my soul: my sweet Gracie-Loo.

Even though I was broke and told myself I was just going to hold her, I knew the second I laid eyes on her that I had found my dog. I was instantly filled with the panic that someone else would swoop in and steal her right out from under me, so without even talking to my then husband, I whipped out my visa card and spent $500 I didn't have on her. Another $100 later on a crate, dog bowls, food, and toys that were entirely too big for her, and then I drove excitedly home cradling the newest member of my family.


Grace and I have been together for over 14 years now. In fact, she has been by my side during the entirety of my adult life. To say that she has been a faithful companion does not truly describe what an amazing support system she has been to me. She has seen every detail of every mistake I made as a fledgling adult. When my abusive former husband and I would get into an argument, she would raise her lip and snarl at him and then lick the tears from my face afterwards when I would lay in bed praying for God to send me the right answers. When I was pregnant with my son, she would climb up to snuggle with me carefully avoiding putting any of her weight on my burgeoning belly, and after he was born she would pace around the house whining when anyone else except me held him. She tolerated his constant tugs at her ears and tail when he found his hands and the ability to crawl and chase after her. When he was sick, she would sleep on the ground next to his crib keeping watch. Through every change I have thrown at her (a new husband with his own dog, another new dog, two more children, two cats, three chickens, and multiple house moves), she lived up to her name with pride, handling everything with the Grace of a dignified member of our family.

My heart tells me that we are nearing the end of my sweet Grace's life. Her mouth contains only a small handful of teeth, the tan of her fur has been long replaced with white, her skin hangs loosely on her bones no matter how much we feed her and exposes the bones of her spine. She doesn't hear very well at all anymore and struggles to even use her dog stairs to get up on our bed. Her body movements are slow and achy in the morning as she tries to warm up and get moving. They told me two months ago that her heart is failing and yesterday that her immune system is as well.

I have warned my children that Grace's time is approaching, but how can I prepare them for the impact that this will have on them? They have never known life without Grace...her sweet face, her protective eyes, her gentle acceptance, her silly habits, her stinky breath, and for that matter, I don't even remember what life was like before her either.

Everyone tells me that I will "just know", but how will I know it is time? I suppose I will know when the light has faded from her eyes or her old body is too tired to carry her anymore. I think about it every day and feel my heart breaking just a little more as I contemplate life without her. To some people she is just a dog, but to me she is so much more. I finally understand what my mother was trying to avoid all of those years when we begged her for a dog. She tried to warn me about the suffocating heart break of losing your lifelong companion, but I didn't listen.

For now, I will continue giving Grace the love and support she has always given me. I will lift her to and from the bed when she is too achy. I will sneak her hard boiled eggs and half eaten cheeseburgers. I will let her stretch out in the patch of sun that warms the grass to the perfect temperature. I will let her bark at the people passing by as she protects "her children." I will let her sleep her old weary head on my pillow right next to me even though her breath is so stinky that it burns my nostrils. And, when it is her time, I will mourn her with the deep sense of loss that my mother warned me about all those years ago.

Last night I slept with Captain Underpants

As a mother, there have been many things over the past 12.5 years that I have learned that I never anticipated before having children. There are the obvious adages that everyone tells you: your love for your kids will surpass anything you could have imaged, maintaining total control will no longer be an option, all children are different, every day brings something new and exciting, expect the unexpected. The list could go on for days, and all of these pearls of wisdom ring true. Along the way, it is not these things that resonate the loudest with me, but the other aspects of parenthood and rearing children that somehow seamlessly become a part of every day life. Habits form--both good and bad--that define your family unit and make it uniquely your own.

In our family, relaxing and embracing the fun in life are just parts of our fiber. We are fond of making silly faces at each other both at appropriate moments and not so appropriate moments (across the pew at church). We play music loudly and dance without any concern for how adept we are as dancers (mommy, not so much). We share everything openly with one another and take the time to listen to the trials and tribulations of one another, offering love and community without hesitation. Mark and I have never, and will never be, too adult to let loose and enjoy life both with and in front of our children (kissing and hugging results in loud proclamations of "Ewww....romance!"). Our family culture embraces a sense of relaxation and not "sweating the small stuff." This has brought with it so many benefits for all of us that the not so savory parts of embracing a laid back lifestyle have become accepted daily pests.

The biggest pesty side effect of our family mantra is currently the odd items that are left in the oddest of places. I did an inventory of my purse last year when it was starting to literally weight heavily on my shoulders, an inventory that produced (from within ONE handbag) two rusty screws that my son had found with his metal detector, an eclectic assortment of cherished rocks and shells from God knows where, a note from my daughter reminding me what kind of sandwich to put in her lunch, a tiny ballerina, ten Littlest Pet Shop animals, a used bandaid, and a clean pair of princess panties. At some point, all of my children felt that the best place to store these items was in mommy's purse, so I was blessed to be the one to find proper homes (the trash bin included) for all of these misfit items. On a weekly basis I find a myriad of oddities in my car: empty bags of candy, rogue socks, pages from a coloring book, stickers, soccer balls, DVDs, hair bands...you name it. I have tried everything to enforce putting things where they belong consistently, yet I still find things shoved in places that one of my little humans deemed at the time to be "just right." Sometimes I curse under my breath as I walk around putting things where they belong, and sometimes I just smile and wonder who else can see a snapshot of what their children did that afternoon by evaluating the scattering of toys and other items throughout the places they spent their time? This annoyance brings with it a sense of understanding for my children that a perfectly tidy house and car would probably not reflect as clearly.

I didn't sleep well last night. No matter how much I tossed and turned and readjusted my pillows, I just felt like the Princess and the Pea. I woke up with a neck crick and a sense of crankiness that I masked through gulps of diet coke as I went through my morning routine--my grossly outnumbered morning routine with three sluggish kids up against one sluggish mommy. The four of us left the house in a hurry of partly kept hairdos and various states of undress (two kids were feverishly putting shoes on in the car and one was brushing her hair), but we made it to school with two minutes to spare.

After I got home and began my morning cleaning routine, I discovered the root of my aching neck. While I was making my bed and rearranging my pillows, I uncovered the culprit wedged ever so awkwardly under my pillows: Captain Underpants, the book that Macey had told me she "put away" before I carried her to bed. Despite my annoyance at my restless night of sleep, I smiled as the image of my sweet Macey reading so expressively to me the night before came flooding into my mind. I'm not sure why she felt that tucking her book under my pillow was the "place that it belonged", but once again I was reminded how lucky I am to have my children in my life despite their idiosyncrasies. I am happy that my children feel just at home in every inch of our house as I do even if that means that last night I had the unforeseen chance to sleep with Captain Underpants.

I thought about putting the book on her bookshelf but then realized that she wouldn't be able to find it when she wants to read more if it to me again tonight. Instead, I tucked it back under my pillow, just where it belongs.

The "H" word

We were standing in the middle of the department store when the sound of those three words came hurtling towards me like a venomous bolt of lightning, so loud that they seemed to silence every other sound--even the screaming infants-- of the post Black Friday frenzy.

"I HATE YOU."

They weren't said loudly, rather in more of a whisper, but to me they were deafening in their absolutism.

I locked eyes with my youngest child, my sweet, nurturing, loving, six year old, and the look in her eyes revealed that she knew just how powerful these words were even though she had never uttered them from her lips.

I felt my knees go limp, my resolve in my mandated punishment from moments before weakening as the force of her words grasped my heart with bloody talons, shredding it into a million pieces. But, I held firm, not willing to back down to the emotional havoc that her statement wrecked on every ounce of my soul. My mind was flooded with the memories of all of the hurtful words I had spat at my mother during my adolescence, and suddenly the grief of everything was too much to bare. I felt my chin quivering as the tears welled up in my eyes.

Stay strong, mama, stay strong. Don't back down. And I didn't.

She must have seen the look of total pain and dejection on my face even though I tried to hide it from her. Her eyes filled, and big, crocodile tears starting rolling uncontrollably down her tiny, beautiful, face. She began to sob--deep, belly sobs that shook all 42 pounds of her small frame--as she tried to take back those three unforgettable words. But just like me, she knew that nothing could ever take back that moment and undo the damage that hurting someone so thoroughly does.

I am a seasoned mom. My oldest is just a few months shy of turning 13, so unfortunately I have heard these words spoken to me before. And as much as I would like to believe that I will never be the recipient of such anger again, I know I will be. Even though I have felt these painful emotions before, it doesn't get any easier. If anything it almost seems to get harder. And even though both of my grandmothers and my own mother have told me that "being hated at certain moments" is just a mark of strong parenting, I hate it. These moments make me want to crawl into a quiet, private space alone and run away for just a few minutes from the dark moments that accompany parenthood...the dark moments that people don't warn you about and certainly don't willingly share.

My oldest and I have always had a firey relationship. From the moment he was born he relished in pushing my buttons, fighting dirty just to see how far he could push me before I exploded. Because of this, I expected his "I hate yous", so when they came I was already bracing myself for their impact. They still hurt, but I had already started to prepare myself for their arrival so I would cry briefly and then shrug them off.

But my youngest, she has always been my kindred spirit. Since the moment she was born, her total adoration of me was palpable even to my husband who used to call her "Kim's baby." She only wanted to be held by me, rocked by me, comforted by me. She would barely let her own dad hold her yet alone anyone else. Mom was it, and everyone else simply paled in comparison. Every day since she could talk she has told me that I'm beautiful, smart, amazing, perfect. That she never wants to leave me. That she will always be my baby and my best friend. That no matter what, she loves me so much she doesn't know how to even tell me how much it is. That she wants to be just like me. She is the one of my three children who is in tune with my emotions, wanting nothing but to help me feel better when I am stressed or sick. When the other two kids are oblivious to the fact that mommy is sick and throwing up in the bathroom, she is wiping my head with a washcloth, bringing me water, and rubbing my back. Her perfect day, in her words, is to lay with me and snuggle from morning to night. "I hate you" has never been a part of this equation.

Needless to say, I never saw it coming. I didn't take the time to prepare myself for this moment.

But, it did happen. In the aftermath of our shared grief, I took her tiny hand in mine. When that wasn't enough, I picked her up right in the middle of that crowded department store and held her and rocked her and whispered in her ear that everything would be alright. I wiped the tears from her tiny face, cradled her chin in my hand, looked her right in the eyes, and told her "I love you."

"I love you too, mommy."

We hugged and cried together until all of our tears were gone. People were staring at us, but I didn't care. Parenting...it doesn't stop for the socially correct moment. It can't be put on pause until you are alone and away from the gapes of strangers. And, most importantly, it is the most important job in the world and takes priority over everything else that is happening around you no matter what the circumstances may be.

I love you, Macey. You will always be my baby and my best friend, no matter what happens.

Considerations of a 5 year old

Last night at dinner, a profound thing happened. As a busy mother, these moments of deep reflection appear at the most random of times. When the noise of life quiets down, truths flow with relative ease. In this case, it was my sweet 5 year old Macey who instigated me to reflect heavily on life and parenting.

During a lull in the conversation, my Macey turned to me with a serious expression and said, "You know, Mandy from my class. Her mom is a teacher at my school. She is always there with Mandy every day after school." And then the look in her eyes, so soulful and mature for such a tiny human being. I answered her, "Yes, baby. I know." She looked at me with fortitude. "I mean, every day mom. She's there every day after school." I could see the lines of worry creasing her brow, so I probed her. "Yes. That's wonderful. Why are you telling me this?"

The awkward shift in her tiny body and her serious eyes revealed to me the real question that she was too uncomfortable to verbalize: Mom, why aren't you home every day after school with me?

No matter how much I asked her why she wanted to tell me this, she wouldn't say it. She wouldn't just come out and call into question why our situation isn't the same, a situation that she sometimes longs for. I could see through her the same little girl I once was who felt too guilty to say to my mom, "Why can't I have the same designer jeans that the other girls have? Why can't we go on vacations like my friends? Why can't we afford to send me to sleep away camp?" These were questions that plagued my mind as a child that I never would have said to my mother because I knew the pain she felt from sacrificing financial comfort to stay at home full time with her children. I knew that saying it out loud would have made my mom feel terribly guilty, so I kept those thoughts tightly guarded in my own mind and heart. But I never forgot them.

And that brought to the forefront of my mind the word that every parent lives with on a daily basis: sacrifice. We all have them and we all make them based on what we have decided is best for our families. And, it is not only us that makes these sacrifices but also our children. So mature and so all knowing even as babies.

Maybe it is the fear of poverty that pushes me to work as hard as I do. I will never forget my mom counting dollars at the grocery store every week, trying to stretch an already stretched budget just a little farther. I would never ask for something extra at the store because I knew my mom had to say no and it broke her heart. I'll never forget the look of worry in her eyes every spring when the tuition rates for the upcoming school year came out and how she would silently research alternative cheaper schools in case she just couldn't swing it the next year. I'll never forget how my mom push started her car when it was broken and she couldn't afford to fix us so she could drop us off at school. And, I'll never forget that look she got when a letter from school would come home about some amazing travel experience that was never an option for our family's budget. I bore the brunt of these stresses because I didn't want to make her feel any worse than she already did. The sacrifices my parents made for us were boundless and unconditional, but they were by no means easy to make.

But, the returns were also boundless. My mom never missed a single school event. She attended every single school party, field trip, and sporting event. With three busy children, this was no easy feat, but she made it happen. For every cent she stressed over she had the peace of mind that she would miss nothing in our lives. My dad's sacrifices were just as intense for he worked so much that, at times, he became a stranger in his own house as he spent more time at his office than he did in the home he struggled to pay for. His guilt was the polar opposite: he provided but at the cost of missing out on almost everything, especially in the early years. My parents were masters at balancing and teamwork, things I have learned are crucial for the survival of a family. This was a legacy that was left to me and one that has heavily impacted every decision I make as a parent.

While my daughter may wonder why I am not home with her every day after school, I know at some point she will recognize the valuable gifts she is being granted despite her sacrifices as a child with a working mother. I watch every day the incredible bond that my children have with their father, a father who serves the role of "stay at home mom" on the evenings that I am at my office until 10pm. Over the years as their dad has single-handedly managed cooking dinner, helping with homework, reading books, and getting everyone ready for bed, my son and daughters are seeing that both mom and dad can do everything as long as they work as a team. They are watching their parents balance the demands of raising three children and two full time jobs, something that is challenging and exhausting on a daily basis. I know that the things I miss out on are granting my husband the unique opportunity of experiencing things he never would have experienced if I was always home, and it is granting my children the opportunity to nurture strong, intimate, independent relationships with both of their parents.

I may not be able to shelter my children from the strains of life, but I can teach them that they have the power to make their own choices, to pick their battles. It may not be easy, but every sacrifice leads to an incredible gift that very possibly could have otherwise gone undiscovered.

After the girls went to bed, I knew exactly what I needed to do. I stopped doing everything that needed to be done, and I went and laid in bed with them. After I climbed into bed with my sweet Macey Rae and snuggled with her until she feel asleep, I knew that even though I can't be there every day after school everything will be alright.

That crazy little thing called parenthood

I admit it right now with my tail between my legs: I have been a terrible blogger this past year. I can list a bevy of excuses (I am running a business, I am mothering three children, I am being a wife, I am keeping my household in order), but the truth is I just haven't slowed myself down enough to write. I don't write for other people, I write for myself. Writing has always been a cathartic process for me, a way to pinpoint emotions that swirl like fog through my brain. Most of the times when I sit down to write (OK, EVERY time), it is because there is something cursing through my brain and heart that I just can't pinpoint. Something about writing opens up the floodgates to my soul and, before I know it, I am once again completely in sync with myself. Someone once asked me, "If you only write for yourself than why share it with others?" That's a good question. For me my writing is a means of sharing with those around me. I am not the only working mother in the world. I am not the only wife in the world. I am not the only business owner in the world. I am not the only person grappling with the myriad of questions and thoughts that bombard every day life. Maybe someone will read one of my pieces and feel not alone in this vast universe. And if none of that happens, well, that is perfectly fine with me too.

I am a good mother. I say this not to imply that I am the BEST or the ONLY or the EXCEPTION. I say this not to brag. I say this because it is the truth. I am a good mother because I am a work in progress. Because I am not perfect. Because just like everything else in my life, motherhood is a journey that I weather one step at a time, something that I take the time to constantly reevaluate. When I think of what a "good parent" is to me, I do not envision the scene of euphoric movie bliss where everyone says please and thank-you at all the right moments, where the house is always show ready with freshly cut flowers and a homemade pie cooling on the windowsill, where everyone is perfect and happy at every second of every day. Instead, I envision "good parents" surrounded by a sea of chaos but instead of letting this chaos suffocate them, they are working together with those around them and their children to make a stable life. They are working to instill the lessons that are most important to them, and they are working to always become better versions of themselves. Sometimes, just sometimes, this "good parent" who is writing this post puts a movie in the DVD player because she just needs 10 MINUTES of peace and quiet to shave her legs uninterrupted. This "good parent" sometimes says no to art projects because she just doesn't want to clean up paint and glitter from every surface of her house. And, this "good parent" often hides play-doh because she hates the way it smells and the hardened pieces it leaves in every crack and crevasse. I never said I was without flaws. In fact, I have many of them.

I am proud of the mother I am and the parents that Mark and I are. We work every day to give our kids the things that matter most to us: unconditional love and acceptance. Does this mean we don't punish them when they are wrong? No. Does this mean we don't point out to them mistakes they make? No. In order to grow you have to learn, and in order to learn you have to make mistakes. I'm sorry but that is just the harsh reality of life. I don't expect my kids to be perfect just like I don't expect myself to be. What I do expect is for them (and me) to evaluate those mistakes openly and without reserve. If I make a mistake and ignore it, what good does that do? I have heard parents say that they will never back down on something they have said. Never? Well, that seems awfully strict to me. I have apologized to all of my kids before, "Mommy is sorry that she didn't stop and listen better." "Mommy is sorry that she lost her temper and didn't calm down first." "Mommy is sorry that she forgot to send in your permission slip." I take accountability for the person I am, flaws and all, and I want nothing more than for my kids to do the same. Own it, fix it, learn from it. That is my motto.

Maybe it is wrong to say that I feel like my life is perfect, but I do. That doesn't mean that EVERY facet of my life is perfect. That's just insane. What that means is that the things that really matter are exactly how they should be. I am exactly how I should be in this moment. My husband is exactly how he should be in this moment. My marriage is exactly how it should be in this moment. My kids are exactly how they should be at this moment. This moment, well it is just a blip in our journey together through life. My life is perfect because I work hard to achieve what matters to me and, all the while, I keep a realistic view that perfect doesn't mean flawless it just means right.

I haven't always felt that my life is perfect. But, when something feels "off", I evaluate how to fix it. And most importantly, any time something has felt "off" I have not ignored it. I have not refused to see my own contribution to this "off-ness." Instead, I have grabbed that feeling as much as it hurts, I have pushed that bruise, to find the source. The only advice I can give to people who lack contentment is to figure out what you need to be content, and the first place you need to look is within. When I stopped trying to be flawless and embraced myself, contentment sailed into my life with relative ease.

At the end of the day, the shininess of my floors or the crispness of my shirt don't matter to me. I am perfectly perfect with dust balls lurking in my corners and a smear of syrup from the kids' waffles on the bottom of my shirt. That is my reality. That is my perfect. Take it or leave it.

I owe a lot of this perspective to being a mother because no matter what, I just can't control everything, and my kids have reminded me how to enjoy the beauty of living. They have reminded me to slow down. They have reminded me how much fun it can be to sit around and play with toys. They have reminded me that no problem is too small to not be taken seriously and no achievement it too small to not celebrate wildly. They have reminded me that being together and laughing is really all that matters. And, they have reminded me that, no matter what life throws at us, we will always be OK because we have each other.

Security

It happened to me again this morning. The kids are all at Vacation Bible School, and the house is quiet. After doing my normal mom chores (cleaning, laundry), I decide to lay down and read. How often do I get the chance to read during the daylight hours? Never. So, I grab my tablet, dowload a book, and pick the most comfortable spot to lose myself in the story. After a few minutes I realized that I, once again, had positioned myself squarely in the middle of Mark's side of the bed. I have noticed this trend before and have often wondered....why is Mark's side of the bed the most comfortable place for me to relax? Why wouldn't I pick my own side of the bed where the right pillows are positioned in the right way? There is only one logical answer: I feel the most comfortable nestled in the spot my husband frequents the most. The spot that carries his faint scent. The spot that makes me feel like he is right there with me.

I'm sure this prickles the neck hairs of the feminist mindset. I am a strong woman. I am a successful woman. I am a woman who does not need a man to survive. I can trudge my way through this world dependent on only myself. I do not need a man to make me whole.

But, in reality, I do need Mark to make me whole. This isn't because I am weak. This isn't because he is a man. This is because Mark has a natural way of bringing out the very best version of me. In fact, I am strong enough to now realize that although I could make it through this world all on my own, I don't want to. The journey is sweeter when you have people who love you along for the ride.

I have always told Mark that of all the things I appreciate about him, I appreciate the most how he has given me the security to strive for the best. To not be afraid of the "what-ifs" that so often cloud my worried mind. The old stereotype mandates that men are rational and women are emotional. I don't know about other women out there but for me, although emotionally centered, my rational side sometimes worries me out of trying something great. My husband has taught me that there is only so much I can control. He has helped to nurture my faith in myself and allowed me to stretch to a place of understanding about who I am that I never thought was possible. And, along the way, he has been my biggest cheerleader. When I worried myself sick for months grappling with the decision to continue my career at the school or venture out and start my business, Mark was the one that finally asked me, "What do you feel in your guts?" With that simple, emotional, somewhat "feminine" logic, the right answer was so obvious that it almost blinded me. "But, what if I fail?" I asked him. His answer was as straightforward, honest, and unwavering as he is: "You won't."

To this day, 9 years into our relationship together as a couple and 33 years into our relationship as friends, Mark has never let me down. Not once. Have we had our share of fights, hell yes. But through it all I know that no matter what life throws at us, we will continue on our journey together laughing, crying, cursing, smiling, and loving.

When I take all of this into consideration, it really isn't that surprising that my comfortable spot is where Mark is. Next time he is out of town, I won't be surprised to wake up in the morning and find myself curled up on his pillows on his side of the bed (like I always am even though I start out on my side) because, even when he isn't right next to me, he is inside of me. He is continuing to weave himself into the very fabric of my being and making me stronger and richer by just being himself.

He's the best security blanket I've ever had because he will always be there not only offering me sanctuary but also pushing me to jump.

Flanked

I woke up this morning flanked on both sides by my little girls, who at 4 and 5, are not so little anymore. Macey, my baby, turned 4 years old yesterday. Birthdays are always bittersweet to me, like all milestones, because they are reminders that the time is passing so quickly. I am so proud of my children and the people they are growing into-happy, healthy, independent, kind people-but sad that they are rapidly approaching stages in their lives that will require less and less of me.

All parents know that overwhelming sense of euphoria when your baby first comes into the world. I expected this awe to decrease with each birth when, in fact, it almost became more intense. I have been blessed with three perfect children; three little miracles that are each their own individuals created from pieces of all of the people I love. While I see things in them that remind me of my family, they are all uniquely themselves. Hunter is an intense old soul with a gentleness that seems rare in many young boys. Maia is reserved with her emotions but fierce in her love for others. Macey is an affectionate and sentimental peacemaker. And, they are all simply amazing.

All parents also know that with children comes a loss of all privacy. Since giving birth to Hunter nine and a half years ago, I have yet to spend a shower, trip to the restroom, meal, or bed in my house without the interruption of a little person glut with random questions and observations that he or she is dying to share at just that moment. As odd as it may sound, this doesn't bother me at all. My children know that I am always there to listen to them even when they want to discuss complicated facts of nature while I am shaving my legs. I am glad that I have replicated the kind of home that I grew up in where conversations and questions flow freely and without reserve. It is my job to teach these little people everything that I know about the world no matter what time it is when their urge to talk surfaces.

I have also, in nine and a half years, not had a string of three unawakened nights of sleep in a row. Someone always needs something. Someone has always had a bad dream. Someone always just needs some middle of the night snuggles. As much as I may complain about this, I know that all too soon these moments will have passed. And, I will miss them. These rare and precious moments of babyhood have been unexpected times of peace and love that I never imagined would mean so much to me.

As much as I have tried to outlaw little sleeping buddies in my bed, I just can't. Even though my sleep isn't the most restful on these nights, I love when a random little foot makes its way up over my side when I am sleeping or when a random little hand reaches over to just touch my arm. These subconscious moments of pure love are just bliss.

Last night, Macey came into my room at 2 am. "Mom, I had a really bad dream. Can I snuggle with you?" In half sleep, I simply rolled over, lifted her into my bed, pulled the covers up, and went back to sleep. Three hours later it was Maia "Mom, I'm not feeling good. Can I sleep with you?" Once again, I just moved over, lifted her up, covered her with the blankets, and drifted back to sleep. When I woke up in the morning, flanked on both sides by my precious girls, I didn't even mind the crick in my neck. The small area for sleep left for me may have been physically tiny, but it was emotionally boundless.

I know that pretty soon, I will no longer wake up with tiny fingers brushing my face. Although I will have slept better, I will miss these random moments of serenity amidst the chaos of life. As I now do with Hunter, who at almost ten is a rare figure at my bedside, I will no doubt end up once a week curled up besides one of them in their beds where instead it will be my big hand reaching over in the middle of the night to stroke their arms.

32

Today is my birthday. It has only just begun since it is just after midnight. Normally I brush my birthday off. After all, once you hit a certain age it just doesn't seem to carry the same weight does it? Tonight, as I was sitting in the quiet comfort of my home while everyone else was sleeping, I couldn't help but think about my life and how much has happened in 32 short years.

I wrote my immediate family (my mom, dad, sister, and brother) an e-mail a few weeks ago thanking them for their constant love and support. My journey has not always been the easiest to maneuver or watch, but I have reached a place of nirvana. I could not have done this without them. I spent the first two-thirds of my life filled with self-doubt. Was I smart enough? Pretty enough? Making the right choice? I struggled with low self-esteem, insecurities, anorexia, anxiety....you name it. I have made my share of mistakes and I am flawed. What I have come to realize during these 32 years is that I am OK with all of these things, and I have learned to embrace myself and love myself just as I am. Am I emotional? Yes. Over sensitive? Yes. Sometimes too quick to speak? Most definitely. But this is who I am, take it or leave it. I have chosen to take it.

I talk a lot about my family, my entire family. This is not just the people related to me by blood or marriage but anyone who has seen my inner craziness, who has listened to my rambling stories, who has seen me laugh until I cry, or who has heard me express worries. My support system has given me the foundation I have needed to grow from. For this I am eternally thankful.

I guess I have realized that following your heart is not a bad thing but ignoring it most certainly is. When I went to college and declared education as my major, so many people told me this was a mistake. "You are too smart to be a teacher" or "You will never be able to have a fruitful career" were statements that caused me to ignore my heart. I changed majors five times, insisting in my mind that everyone else had to be right for having doubts and that I was wrong. I ulimately decided to listen to my own heart and I am glad every day that I did. I have always loved working with people and studying learning. This passion has not only allowed me to work as a classroom teacher and mentor, touching the lives of others, but also to establish a successful private business. Could I be making more money elsewhere? Probably. Would I be as happy? Definitely not.

I no longer strive to be perfect. I am perfect. The most perfect version of myself, flaws and all. And you know what? That is just fine with me. I wake up in the mornings feeling grateful for my life, and I go to bed feeling blessed for the gifts I have given and received. If that doesn't make me a success I'm not sure what does.

I get upset when my students question themselves for not "being perfect" and plead with them to let this go. This doesn't mean we all shouldn't evaluate our mistakes and learn from them. I think this is crucial in order to reach a place of true happiness. What I don't support is beating yourself up for these mistakes. We all make mistakes. It is learning from them that really matters. I have learned the most from the missteps I have taken, and I would make every misstep again to get to where I am today. I never loved myself until I saw the love that my oldest child had for me in his eyes. He didn't care that I wasn't perfect because in his eyes I was. Perhaps we all need to look at ourselves through these glasses.

Life is too short to live in fear of falling. I am the mother who dances with her children in the kitchen and jumps on rafts with them in the pool. I am the wife who trusts her husband with all of herself and thinks he is God's gift put on this Earth just for her. I am the sister and daughter who supports her family and embraces them for all the gifts they offer to this world and speaks her mind effortlessly. I am the teacher who believes in her students, all of them with all of herself, even when they stumble. I am the friend who is there to answer the late night call or offer a listening ear. I do these things because this is what my heart tells me to do and I follow it. I am not blind to reality and logic, but I am connected with my soul and the souls of those I love.

Some people may have gotten there faster than me, but I have found peace despite all of the obstacles I have faced over the years. Adversity has reared its ugly head at me, but I have prevailed and risen above it to become the best version of myself possible. So, on this birthday of mine, I am going to sit back and appreciate myself for who I am, blemishes and all.

Mother

Being your mother
What does that mean?

It means I laugh when you laugh
and I cry when you cry

It means I worry about silly things,
like you hurting yourself when you ride your bike,
and I do silly things
like always give you a kiss right before I go to sleep

It means I give all that I have inside of me to you
so you always feel happy and loved
and I do this willingly because even when you make bad choices
I'm still so proud of the person you are

Being your mother means
that I have learned as much from you as you have learned from me
and that each day I am thankful for how you,
each one of you,
was necessary to make my heart complete

Being your mother means...
just being me

Lima beans

I find it interesting that lately I have had a lot of people tell me that they admire me for having "figured it all out." I guess it makes me wonder what the fascination is with having all of the answers? It is like I tell my students all the time: life is not about being perfect, it is about being the best version of yourself that you can be. If I was to constantly strive to be perfect, well that would lead to a consistent stream of disappointment.

What I have figured out in my 31 short years is that I don't need to figure it all out and have all of the right answers. In fact, some of the most important lessons I have learned in this life came as the result of some terribly poor decisions or mistakes. Sorry to let people down but, yep, I make mistakes too.

I am one of the least conceited people in the world, I actually struggle with being too humble and not appreciating my strengths enough, but I do know that I am a devoted wife and mother and a committed worker. I am proud at how much I learn in these areas because I am insistent on constantly evaluating the ways I handle things and how I can do them better. Does this mean I am perfect? Far from it. I stumble and fall just like everyone else, but what I don't do is stay down and wallow in my own self-pity. Instead I pick myself up, brush off the dirt, and figure out the best way to avoid falling in that same hole again. Sometimes I fall more than once, but that's OK. When I stop evaluating why I have fallen then I am in trouble.

I guess I'm kind of like the dynamic protagonist in a story. Antagonists may come and go but I will always rise above them. This is the commitment that I have made to my family, God, and myself.

I don't want my kids to be perfect. In fact, I relish in their missteps because they allow me to teach them how to overcome them. This is not to say that I enjoy watching my kids make mistakes (what mother doesn't want to protect her children from ever feeling pain?), but the reality is that they are going to make them, a lot of them, and that is OK. What I don't want is for them to act like victims and curse the world for their bad fortune. Instead, I want them to grab the universe by the horns, look it in the eyes, and say with confidence "I will overcome this obstacle and come out of the other side a better person." Life is like a giant obstacle course. Why is it that we find obstacle courses fun as children but not as adults? Maybe it is the need to be in control, or maybe it is the desire to predict everything that may come so we can avoid the negatives. I think I am just a realist because I know that, no matter how hard I try, bad things are going to happen. I do not live in a protective bubble void of all evil. If I can give my children this perspective and the tools they need to maneuver it, I know they will always be alright.

I definitely don't have everything figured out. I feel like every day brings with it a moment where my eyes have been opened to something new or different. Perhaps the trick is not being afraid to open your eyes and grasp the world, even the parts that are less than savory, but instead to accept life for how it is: full of moments and experiences that are often challenging. Don't these moments help us to appreciate the beauty even more?

After all, dessert is always sweeter after choking down a plate of lima beans.

Tis the season....

I always find that the holiday season is a very contemplative time for me. Maybe it is the abundance of events that makes me remember how fortunate I am to be surrounded by the family that I have. I know that not everyone is as lucky as I am, and I always take time over the holiday season to stop and be truly thankful for what I have.

Of course saying I am thankful for my family brings up an entirely different question: what defines a "family"? In these times with so many blended families, it has long been accepted that your family can include people who are not your blood, but for me it reaches much further than that. I have co-workers, acquaintances, friends, and family. Some people span through many of those categories; others only one. It was actually during Mass this past weekend during a quiet moment of prayer that I thought about the people that make up my family and realized that blood actually has very little to do with it. The people that my heart classifies as family are those that I trust not only my heart and soul with, but also with the protection and care of my children and their well being. If I trust someone completely enough to know all of me and guard my children....well then, they are family.

It is interesting because I used to be much more guarded with myself. In part this was due to immaturity and needing to seek approval from others to feel redeemed, but it was also due in part to my own insecurities. If you can't see enough of your own value to love yourself then how are you ever going to believe that other people can love you too? When I say "you" I don't mean the controlled and censored version that if often displayed to strangers, but the "you" that has flaws, tells raunchy jokes, is hideously sensitive, and sometimes, just sometimes, farts in her sleep. There is nothing quite as rewarding as letting the real you out there to people and learning just how many people value you, blemishes and all.

None of this means that I am just like everyone in my "family." In fact, we are nothing like Stepford but actually all very unique and dynamic individuals. I have to admit that I have been known to express to my husband that the way some of the people around me do things is "weird" to me. One day he calmly pointed out to me that if they seem weird to me then I certainly seem weird to them. This may seem like such a non-impressive statement to some people but it was hugely impactful to me. I realized that he was 100% right. Since then, instead of being tempted to judge something that I perceive to be "weird," I instead focus on the values found in doing it this new and different way. Through doing this I have learned so much about the family around me that I love and also how "weird" some of the things I do must seem to them.

Differences are beautiful.

I remember when I was little thinking that my mom was surely lying when she claimed that she really did not want or need any presents for Christmas. I always felt a twinge of guilt when she would only have a few "lame" homemade gifts to open from us kids while we had mounds of presents to tear through. It wasn't until I had my own family that I realized how superficial gifts actually are. That doesn't mean that I don't love giving and receiving gifts, but rather that I don't need a physical gift to realize that I already have more than I could have ever dreamt for. Getting a handmade ornament from my kids? Well, that's just icing on the cake.

Tis the season to be grateful.

Sometimes you just have to use your good china

I think that all responsible parents, no matter how much money they make, constantly worry about how much money they have. For me this comes from years of stretching every single penny to pay the bills. After putting myself through college and supporting myself and Hunter single-handedly after my divorce, having extra money in the bank has become an addiction of sorts.

I can remember so distinctly being poor in college. Now I'm not just using the word "poor" for dramatic effect; I was POOR. I was the kind of poor that caused me to take actual money to the grocery store and grapple with how to make $23.46 buy enough food to last me two entire weeks. I was the kind of poor that caused me great angst when it started approaching time to do laundry because using all those quarters to wash clothes REALLY hurt. And buying gas to drive the two hours home to see my family...well that was not always an option.

The worry I felt in those days didn't even come close to the gut-wrenching fear I felt when I left my ex-husband and knew that 100% of the responsibility to care for my infant son fell on me. I knew the second I walked out that door that I was the only parent who gave a damn about giving Hunter the best life possible. Talk about a sobering reality, especially when it hit me at only 23 years of age.

I tell these stories to explain a bit of the path that led me to today. Did I worry myself sick? Yes. Did I scream into my pillow at night after my baby had gone to sleep? Yes. Did I cry in the shower because I felt utterly alone and exhausted? Yes. But...I kept going. Every day I put one foot in front of the other and forged my path. The day I decided to have a child was the day I committed to giving all of myself to someone else, and that was something I took very seriously. Not only did I want my son to be happy, but I wanted him to have the best life possible. It wasn't easy working at home from the time Hunter went to bed until 3am and then getting up with him at 6:30 but I did it, and it got me to where I am today.

Feeling the pang of not having enough money to pay the bills is something that never leaves you. I think that is why I struggle to spend money on "non-essential" things. It feels frivolous....almost reckless, to be honest. I think I feel like I am protecting my children from the frustration I felt for so many years by doing this. It may sound silly to some people but it is my reality.

Recently I have made a commitment to try to enjoy a little "reckless" spending. Mark and I work hard, very hard, and provide our children with a good life. We live in a beautiful home, drive new cars, send our children to the schools of our choice, and pay the bills without stress. I have to constantly remind myself that it is OK to sometimes just spend money on something fun. I have to coach myself that this is not selfish or reckless but normal and important.

On Sunday when the opportunity to buy tickets to the Ray's game presented itself, I didn't hesitate. Is this $100 something I could put into the savings account? Sure. I do that all the time. But this time instead I decided, "to Hell with it." That $100could sit in my savings account and be long forgotten or it could give my husband and I a date night memory that will stay with us forever. I chose the memory.

It's kind of like fine china. I always think it is so odd when people have beautiful china that lives behind a glass pane protecting it from breaking. I always think it is such a waste. What is the point in having beautiful things if you are afraid to enjoy them? I guess it seems to me that breaking one plate is worth it if it gives you the opportunity to enjoy the things you love.

Sometimes you just have to buy tickets. Sometimes you just have to use your good china. Enjoying life, well, that's why we're here isn't it?