The table

In good times, I ate dinner on TV trays in front of prime time CBS dramas with my grandma beside me.

And I loved it.

Other times, I ate dinner on my lap with the dog as company.

And I knew no better.

Until I sat here:

This was the first family dinner table I ever knew.  There used to be a bench down one side where I could squeeze into the space I was so generously offered for a few weeks every summer.

And I couldn't believe it.

There was conversation.  And laughter.  And time.

It was foreign and odd.

And, from that first summer visit on, I couldn't sit alone with my dog and my chef boyardee without tasting the silence.

Dinners were supposed to be family and time and love, but I didn't know until I shoe-horned my way in.

Now my people sit here:

And there is conversation (so much conversation).  And laughter (with some tears).  And time (sometimes more than there is space for it).

And they know no better.

Every night I am reminded of that table and that bench - and the family that made room for me.

And I know that I could never know any better.

Patience is the hardest of virtues

Wait.  

Please, if you learn nothing else, learn to wait.

Trust yourself but be patient.

Waiting is hard and it's boring and often it is incredibly lonely.

Do it anyway.

While you're waiting, take a look around.  See those girls sneaking off into the shadows?  They're lining up for scars that won't heal.  Those girls running headfirst into the first boys to blink at them?  They're speeding down a highway where every lane should be the slow lane.

So, keep waiting, my loves.  Even when it feels you're being left behind.  Especially when it seems you'll never get off the curb.

Because you will.  I promise.

Patience will lead you to everything.

Waiting will mean you'll be standing in just the right place after the crowd clears.  And you'll be the one with the clearest view of...well...of whatever you've been longing for.

Taking deep breaths and counting to ten (or ten thousand) will give you the clearest mind to fill with the things that matter - even if all that matters is knowing those jeans are not flattering despite what the ad said.

And, my sweet girls, patience is the only thing that will teach you that the first to ask is often the first to run.  

Don't cling to the first hand when holding is plenty.  Don't jump headlong when wading in toes first is deep enough.  And, in the name of all that is holy, don't call it love when you don't even know his middle name.

Patience may be boring, but it's the only way to be sure.

And the things to be most sure about will always wait for you.

I have always been told my obsession with words is wrong.  Weird.  Hurtful.  A waste.  Stupid.  Every time I've tried to share something that made me tremble, the eyes turned glazed and the conversation screeched.

But words have taught me everything.

"You have to learn to get up from the table when love is no longer being served" N. Simone

"We are our choices." J.P. Sartre

"Walk your memory's halls, austere supreme" E. Millay

"I want to unfold.  I don't want to stay folded anywhere, because where I am folded, there I am a lie" R. Rilke

"I was more than your echo" M. Atwood

"You will always be too much of something for someone.  Apologize for mistakes.  Apologize for unintentionally hurting someone - profusely.  But don't apologize for being who you are." D. Laporte

"La vida sigue - dicen, pero no siempre es verdad.  A veces la vida no sigue.  A veces solo pasan los dias." P. Neruda

"I never saw a wild thing feel sorry for itself" D.H. Lawrence

"Does my sexiness upset you?  Does it come as a surprise that I dance like I've got diamonds at the meeting of my thighs?" M. Angelou

"There is always a time for departure even when there is no certain place to go" T. Williams

"You are not a burning building and pain is not the only way to feel alive." S. E.

"You have brains in your head.  You have feet in your shoes.  You can steer yourself any direction you choose." D. Seuss

"Be open to learning new lessons, even if they contradict the lessons you learned yesterday." E. Degeneres

"Thank the Lord for my kids even if nobody else want em" T. Shakur

"Smile and wave boys.  Smile and wave" Skipper

"Listen, Linda" cutest cupcake lover ever

"If you don't stick to your values when they're being tested, they're not values - they're hobbies." J. Stewart

"Yeah" L. Jon

"I love you more than chicken enchiladas...and that's a lot." M. Romero

"When you meet someone for the first time, you're not meeting them- you're meeting they're representative." C. Rock

"You're easy to love." P. Lowry

"If your kid grown enough to talk back, your kid grown enough to get fu$&@d up." B. Mac

"Peanut butter shotgun!" S. Romero

"It's far" C. Holliday

"Good night, mama.  I LOVE you." E. Romero

Words given have taught me so many things.  Words found have filled in the blanks.  And, words withheld have taught more lessons than anything ever found on paper.

And I can't keep trying to explain that to people.  

I won't apologize again for the solitary comfort only found in the stringing together of thoughts.

I've learned too many times how to drown carefully and purposefully.  I cannot tread lightly again.

Critique

Ohhhhhhhhhhhh.  You think I'm doing it wrong.  I'm not a good parent.  I could learn a lot from you.

Well, I'm sure you're right.

I could learn a lot from you.

Tell me about that time you did it all on your own.

Take a moment and describe how you got all three of your daughters to every activity known to man on time, dressed properly, and prepared for anything.

Please, describe for me how they all maintain straight A's, are each in advanced level courses, and consistently become some of their teacher's favorite students.

Enthrall me with your tales of how they always say "yes" and "no", "please" and "thank you", "excuse me?" rather than "huh?", and always "I love you".

Don't leave out how they race to greet you at the door every evening when you arrive home from work.

And please share the recipes you created to make sure they're fed better than you have ever been.

Remind me how you work a full time job, which you started after giving up any chance of a career to stay home and raise them for thirteen years, and run a very small business in the few minutes you're not at their beckon call.

And, don't leave out how not once have you been able to turn to your left and say "your turn."

Yes, please tell me again how you're an expert on these three girls.

Wait....nevermind..... that was me.  But, yeah, I'm sure you're right.

These poor girls and their successes.  

Whatever shall they do?

Messy breakups

I went through a pretty bad break up this weekend.

It had started with such promise - the relationship and the weekend, I mean. 

In the beginning of the relationship, we spent ALL of our time together.  We were completely devoted and 100% exclusive.  We could read each other's eyes and knew each other inside and out.

Then something just sort of switched off.  It was gradual before it was sudden.  Snuck up like a freight train, I suppose.

Saturday morning also came with promise.  Quality time and days laid out like a well wrapped present.  It was going to be absolutely perfect-ish.

Just the way our good relationship had always been.

Then.  BAM.

It was over.  Heart pulled from my chest, stomped on, shredded, decimated.

My oldest daughter broke up with me.

Of course, she says it was me, not her.

It's just not working for her anymore.

Now she won't speak to me.  The tension in our once-whole home is palpable.

We've been "on a break before".  She's looked elsewhere for the comfort I so willingly give (between the hours of coffee and moscato), but she's always come back by dinner.  Not this time.  I think she really means it.

I think my sweet daughter has really left me.

Which is bad enough.... but when you consider that she left an eye rolling, back mumbling (because she isn't crazy enough to back talk), door closing, whiny, cranky, full blown hormonal mess behind.... My lord.

This is why the dumpees end up on Snapped! and the dumpers end up grounded.

Tinkerbell-free zone.

I'm an adult.  I know this by more than just the calendar.  I get downright giddy over the thought of a nap.  I partake in an icy cold glass of adult on a quiet Friday night.  I drag my ample behind to the workplace without rampaging through it with a machete.  And I delight in the pleasures of the old school hip hop channel on Pandora.

So, yes, I'm all grown up.

One of the harder lessons that come with this age?  Realizing that not everyone gets the opportunity to share in adulthood.

Some, like Peter Pan, stay childish fools their whole lives.  Unfortunately, unlike the green tight-ed boy, they insist on leaving the island and invading our peace.

So, here's what we adults have to accept:  you can't meet everyone where they are.

Not everyone can put ego aside and do what's best for others.

Not everyone can take a situation, find the good in it, and move on down their path.

Some people just have to do their level best to drag you down to their wallowing mud.  

Some people are just impossible.

And that's ok.  Well...it's not really ok, but we grown ups call it ok so that we are able to keep our forward direction.

All we grown up, responsibility taking, bill paying, head held high walking, children raising, too good for this argument making people can do is shake our heads and say:

"Thank the good lord above that I got away from that".

And to you Pans, you ex husbands, you former friends, you parents:  you don't ever have to grow up - just go back to your island.

We'll just be here, sipping adult beverages and holding kitchen dance parties .  You know: adulting.

Jackpot

Sometimes they waste their dinner.

They spend way too long in the shower considering their hands are still vibrantly colored from art class three days ago.

I've bitten back countless four letter words from the indescribable pain of discarded Legos meeting soft arches.

They haven't put their laundry away properly since 1943.

There is a defined trail of sunflower seeds leading down the hall -- though no one did it.

The tears I wade through to get homework completed correctly could drown a country.  A mountainous country.  A mountainous country on Mars.

Their shoes cost more than half my closet.

Their bathroom floor hasn't been dry in months.

They clog toilets and peel paint and leave lights on.

There are fingerprints on every wall of my house four feet up from the crumb covered floor.

Socks stuffed between couch cushions and twisted jeans behind dressers reveal themselves to my nose before they reach my eyes.

Pink toothpaste should just be the official color of their sink.

And, if I won the lottery tomorrow, my luck factor won't have increased an inch.

This is the life no one tells you to aim for.  But they should.  This is the life.

And I'm grateful for every headache, every sleepless night, every slammed door.  I'm grateful it's my house they're destroying.  It's my heart they're filling.

Damn, I'm a lucky one.

Let them see you do good or they may never know how to do it themselves

We had just had the need vs want conversation for the zillionth the time.  They wanted the fancy cotton candy milk.  I said that's a want and we're not doing that kind of shopping today.  They tested me by pointing out the coffee flavor milk.  Would I be a hypocrite?  Of course not.  I again reminded them that I don't need coffee flavored milk, coffee flavored coffee is of course another matter.  So we made it all the way to the checkout line with only a cart full of vegetables, protein & plain old cow udder flavored milk.  Our needs met and my paycheck mostly gone, we declared ourselves victors!

In line in front of us was a familiar face.  A guy I had seen a few times at the bank who was always so very sweet and friendly to me.  He had a young boy no more than six years old at his side.  I don't think he noticed us at all, but I immediately remembered how nice it had been to see his smiling face on the days that tended to drag me through the muck of cranky at my former job.  

I heard him say, "I only have $50 on this card, so we won't get that stuff."  Still with that genuine smile, he gave the cashier his gift card and left the several boxes of jello pudding on the conveyor belt.  His son, only two years behind my baby girl, looked disappointed but didn't once even consider throwing a fit about leaving behind the only treat they'd chosen. The gentleman grabbed his two small bags of groceries and kindly thanked the cashier.

And I knew it wasn't much, but I couldn't just do nothing.

"Sofia, will you do me a favor?" 

"Yeah."

"We're going to buy that stuff the people in front of us couldn't afford, but I don't want to embarrass him.  So, I need you to run the bag out there as soon as I pay for it."

I quietly asked the cashier to pull the boxed pudding out from under the counter.  

"That's very sweet of you."

"No.  It's really just a tiny thing."

Sofia took the bag out and came back to the cash register quietly smiling.  

"He said thank you very much, mama."

Another daughter asked why I did it.  

As we walked our own groceries out, I explained.

That guy was always nice to me.  We had talked about his struggles to raise his son on his own.  He had never once complained about how hard it is.  And, an opportunity to put a smile on a kid's face is never one you should pass up.  Who doesn't smile at pudding?!

But I thought we were only doing needs right now - that's what you said.

Yep.  But sometimes we just need to do nice things for nice people.  One day I might not be able to make you dessert.  We'd want someone to help us.

My girls want for a lot.  They don't have the newest, nicest clothes.  They don't carry the shiniest gadgets or the name brand purses.  But they get pudding when they want it.

And, today with our little $4 donation, they gave a sweet little boy and his humble dad the chance to smile even wider.

So, here's to the dad that had to make some hard choices, but chose correctly.  Here's to the man who didn't take his money to the beer aisle, but put food on his son's table instead.  Here's to the little boy who's learning to sacrifice without letting it hurt.  And, here's to my three luckies who not once mentioned that I could've used that $4 to buy cotton candy milk instead.

The opportunities to teach right are always there. Take them and enjoy the pudding.

Confronting ghosts

She had been a giant.  Cast a huge shadow over every piece of light I tried to filter.  Directed and produced every imagined scenario for years after I last heard her voice.  She had been a battering ram in my glass house.

But not this day.  All that's left now is a shrunken, broken mosaic of anger, sadness and confusion. Still refracting my light while no longer controlling the scene.

That's what I'm left with two weeks after meeting my mother for the first time since she couldn't remember my face.

Before this starts to sound like some sort of tragic Nicholas Sparks novel, let me just say that she did this.  My mother isn't of an advanced age or suffering from some horrible fate of fate's design.  To save time, and a story that I may never be ready to share, let it just be known that her condition is entirely of her own making.  Pity her if you must, but she chose Jack Daniels over her responsibilities.  Worse - she chose numbing the present over knowing the future, and my girls deserved more.  The sole purpose of me walking into the facility where she will live out her days in comfort was to get out the words that might give me a little of my own.  

But first we had to meet.

From the end of the hall and around the corner where the nurse had disappeared, three people slowly came into view - two nurses and a small, round figure in between.  As soon as she saw me, she started yelling that she didn't know me.  

It had been nine years since we'd last spoken.  In that time, she had gone from living in a big house she didn't own and pretending to be the wife of a man who didn't love her - through several sinkholes of her own creation - into a nursing home in a condition I can best describe as what lies at the end of the road you pave with a child you abandon and grandchildren you forgot while you pour yourself another drink of self pity.

And she didn't believe that it was me.  Though, to be fair, if I hadn't been warned about what to expect, I may not have recognized her either.  Smaller than I remember, I suddenly couldn't recall why she scared me anymore.  

Over the next hour, I answered the questions she repeated and waited through her yelling at me for things I wouldn't try to understand.  Sometimes it felt like she was inches away from the woman whose messes my childhood hands had tried to mop, but she always faded back before I got a real look.  Her broken heart, the one I had spent so many years trying to glue together, almost appeared to be back in my grasp moments before she'd wander off again.

Finally, I realized why I was there.  

"They're good girls.

You would've liked them.

Sofia is a nerd and she's beautiful and special and smart.

Eva is an athlete and she's sweet and good and everything I could ask for.

Maya is my queen.  She's daring and freaking funny and three handfuls in one.

They're good girls.

I'm a good mom."

I had spent weeks trying to decide why I was going, trying to figure out if I even had anything to say to her.  Sitting in the well lit dining room of a place where she comfortably forgets our existence, I wanted to tell her that I did fine.  Turns out I didn't need her at all.  

And, though my grandmother in heaven would've never allowed me to say those words to her daughter, I knew she gave me permission to tell her in my own way.

You chose you, mom.  I choose them.

And we are fine for it.

I made it to the car before I cried.  I got my breath back before I made it back to the girls.  It took two weeks, but I finally put words to the healing.

And ten minutes after I left, she wouldn't have remembered my face again.

But I'm ok, mom.  

Paving my own road with real memories and undiluted love.

We're just fine.

The word of the day is

Progress.

I messed my back up over the weekend and ignored it.

I ignored it until Monday morning when I sat down to have my cup of coffee and very definitely couldn't get back up.

By Monday evening I was flat on my back with my knees in the air contemplating when that particular spider had made himself a trail across my ceiling.

Tuesday I sneezed once and knew in my soul that death would've been easier.

Thursday I sneezed again and would've only preferred a toe removal at best.

Progress.

Now I sit (really, I'm laying because sitting feels like I have angered the troll whose job it is to hold my ample rear end and my hips together but sitting just sounds better in this sentence) realizing that progress has been happening in me for a few months now.

When it didn't matter how pretty he was because every moment together felt empty and I walked away dry eyed.

Progress.

When I accepted that not being able to work out was resulting in the loss of a body I had worked really hard for but I had to stop anyway.

That was progress.

When I learned to stop being baited into endless arguments just because my attention was guaranteed.

Silence was progress.

When my old shadows came flooding back and I was able to avoid them once or twice.

Even baby steps are progress.

Holding my children to the standards they set for themselves rather than the bar I invariably raised over their heads.

Basic Dr. Seuss progress.

And, when I finally spoke into the darkness the words I had never said aloud knowing it would permanently change the way he looked at me.

Letting someone witness that fall was major progress.

Learning that it only takes an inch to show you're moving in any direction - and moving is everything.

Progress.

Soon, I'll be back to full, upright, non Neanderthal posture.

And that, I assure you, will be welcomed progress.

To the people who will one day break my daughters' hearts,

These are my girls.  My flesh and blood, walking on their own two feet, unique and beautiful people.  And, one day, you will wander by and decide to stay awhile.  It'll be great and you and I will hopefully be friends and get along great.  We will all hope to make it a lifelong union - you, her, and distantly me.

Unfortunately, there's a chance you will break her heart.  Or she will decimate yours.  Either way, you and my girl will break up.  It will be sad for both of you, and maybe even for me.

Maybe she will be the one at fault and maybe she won't.  Maybe you will have destroyed who she was as a person or maybe you won't.  Maybe it will be fast and loud and maybe it will be drawn out and bitter.

Either way, you will be on the outside.

Doesn't matter if you and I have bonded over cars or fishing or the color of the blissful morning sky.  Won't matter if she set your house on fire or snuck off with your brother or robbed your bank at gunpoint.

I will be on her side.  

Because there is absolutely nothing anyone could do to turn me against my daughters and toward a stranger.  Nothing.

She is mine, for more than better or worse richer or poorer in sickness and in health.

She is my daughter.  Nothing comes between that and certainly not some man who broke her into a million pieces, neglected his children and destroyed their peace.  Nothing.

I can promise you this from where I sit this morning, regardless of the backs turned to me today.

No, I can promise this because of them.

Imagery as a goal

                                                

The caption said that the goal was to reach behind your back and touch your belly button.

The goal.

The average healthy person's reaction to this image and it's stated goal: that's ridiculous and disgusting and dangerous.

The average damaged and struggling person's reaction: close bathroom door, try to reach belly button from behind back, fail, make this an actual goal.

The goal.

This imagery is everywhere and not everyone is strong or comfortable enough to see the idiocy.  Not everyone can see the airbrush strokes or the broken capillaries.  This imagery is, for some, the real life goal.

And, it's not vanity.  It won't be a public victory.  It's the kind they'll reach in the darkened silence of their own sadness.  Then they will be battered with another image and a new goal.

Because there's always always always another image.

And another goal.

Until someone finds a solution and these images are replaced with healthy, smiling faces.

Until that is the goal.

Random advice inspired by the first cup of coffee on a rainy, quiet morning

Be an adventure.  Be the off-road.  Oh, girls, be the I've never been this way before and it looks too challenging for me but my God it would be worth the effort experience.

Wear the lacy, no support, thank goodness for youthful muscles bras as long as you can.  Later, they'll be strictly for function, so enjoy the form as long as you can.

Know the difference between what you can handle and what you should.  Some things have to be endured (death, knock down drag outs with your sisters, bad hair days) and some do not (cheating boyfriends, backstabbing friends, red dye #8).   You are worth more than struggles and not everything has to be hard.

There are a million types of boys.  It's fine to have a type.   Dark hair, light eyes, tall, broad shoulders, the "V" which you will discover one day, no one knows what it's called but everyone will follow it to the closest cliff, whatever you deem to be your "type" is fine.  But, know this:  lots and lots of types of boys, but only two types of men.  Good and not good.  When it comes right down to it, looks don't mean a single thing if all you're looking through are tears.

If you like it, that's all it takes to make it important.  Decide for yourself what floats your boat, then get in and row row row.  People of value will follow or cheer you on and that's how you will know who to leave behind.

Fall for an accent.  It's fine, everyone does it.  There's a lot to be said for having to lean in close and stare at a mouth as it forms "excuse me, miss, where is the library?  And one beer, please".

Love your mama.  She sat down one day and wrote random lessons she learned the hard way while praying you'd sleep long enough for her to finish the last sentence.

Then she made you waffles.

One hour into a rudderless ship

She loved me back.

The woman who stood on a toilet to braid my hair

Who fed me at her already full table

Who taught me the proper way to size a bra

The woman who always tried to convince me to carry myself like I was someone.  Because, to her, I am someone.

I was someone.

I was her niece.  I was her goddaughter.  I was, sometimes, her headache.  I was the mother of her three "favorite" little girls.  

I was indescribably lucky.

I lost a huge piece of my map this morning with the loss of my Aunt Baba.  My girls lost the woman who showed them more love and fun than almost anyone else in their world.  My cousins lost their guide.  And, my uncle lost more than I can imagine.

It's hard to think happy when you're broken.  It's hard to feel anything through the avalanche.  But we wouldn't have just lost so much if she hadn't given so much.  Been so much.

She loved me back.  For my whole life.  Kindly but not gently.  Without fail or reason. 

She loved me back.

Thank you, Baba.  For braiding my hair and crying at my wedding.  For answering every call and knowing how to mother.  For taking me in and for bandaging my falls.  For adoring my girls and helping me get it right.  Thank you for telling me when I was stupid and being there when you were proven right.  I love you unbending and constant.  Thank you for always loving me back.

Sari Sue

Dear Maya,

And then there was you.

I can't tell you how many times that sentence has followed you into a room.  When you come bounding in pretending to be a princess cheetah invisible to everyone but loud enough to start an antelope stampede four continents away.  When you tell the most outlandish story any fiction writer would give his lifetime supply of gigabyte storage for just to explain why your socks don't match.  When you won't let go of the last morning hug even though you insisted I was so mean all morning for making you brush all of your teeth.  When you pair a pink pettiskirt with black sparkly boots and blue leggings to make our Target run.  And, most especially, when you insist on sitting on my lap for each and every movie night.

Oh, my littlest love, you bring life to a room stagnant with normal.  You take me from just being to neon colors and laughing fits.  You are a force that can't be managed, and I envy that most.  A triple layer cupcake atop a pile of day old muffins, you are.  And not even a little afraid to show it.

On the morning we were first introduced, you looked at me like we were going to be great friends.  And on this morning that marked our eighth year, you look at me like we always will be.

Thank you, my fiercest love, for continuing to bring light to my tired eyes.  Because, no matter what else comes my way, I am so grateful to be able to say - and then there's Maya.

Always,

Mama

Recognition

My girls know me.  They know me.  The way my voice rises at a much slower rate than my eyebrow.  The way the hollow of my collar bone smells at the end of the day.  That the speed of my step is exactly 42% faster than theirs, except Eva who could be lapped by a slug on a humid day.  They know how much coffee it takes to make me manageable and that they must always always leave me at least three shrimp from the platter.  They know me because I'm their mama and they know me in a way they can only share with each other.

Sometimes I forget I knew someone like that as well.

This morning I remembered, and it brought me back to her shadow.

I knew her.  And today, from half a country away and two different sides of a problem, we have forgotten each other.

Maybe if I called her "mom" one more time, all this ugly would heal.

If I saw the sharpness of the chin that jabbed my collar the time she hugged me at the airport.

If she said my name maybe I'd hear something different.  Some bit of recognition.  Something that would take the sting out of the last conversation we had.  The last time I knew her.

The gravel of her voice.  The distance in her eyes.  The laugh that showed no real humor.  The sadness in her steps.

My girls would recognize me in a crowd of a hundred brown haired, brown eyed, cranky women simply by the curve of my right cheek.  

Would I recognize her in a room of ten?  Would she know me in a room of three?

And would it matter if we did?

Today I wish I could find out.

Contact list

I go through my daughter's phone about once every couple of weeks.  This is a practice I am fully justified in doing for multiple reasons.  The main one being I know the difference between this is a great pic/message to send and nope....don't want this one wallpapering the halls of my Presidential Library.  Of course, vodka moves the standard line several feet - this is why I lock my phone every other Saturday night.

Anyway, in my random perusing, I've yet to find anything her mama...wait that's me!...would have a problem with.

In fact, last night I found something that made me so proud I almost woke her up to high five.

My girl has begun the process of assigning nicknames to people who matter.  It brings a sarcastic little tear to my eye to see "needs mental help" and "the psychopath" on her contact list.

I have been dubbed "life giver".  And, that's right, what I giveth I occasionally threaten to taketh away.

People.  This may be my proudest mama moment so far because, if you matter to me, you are not in my phone under the good name your mama gave you.  If you matter at all (good or bad) you are

#1 uncle

8 pack

Billie Jean

Redbull

Dear Leader

Eyebrows

Get Some Dignity

Holliday 

Lamb

Abs

Mother Google Earth

My Nerd

Price Chopper

Sunshine

Sexy Swede

Town Cryer

And several variations of no ranging from Absolutely Not to In case of Emergency Break Glass

Just to name a few.

You may not have memorized a number since the early 90s, but I can't remember a single legal name to put as a reference on job applications.  Well, maybe a few, but they wouldn't give me a rave review - that's why I still know what their Grandma calls them.

And now I can see my incredible wisdom taking shape on my eldest's phone. It makes my chest swell to see how well I'm doing at this parenting thing.  I may even change myself to "oh wise one" just to see how long it takes her to figure out who is calling.

Dear Sofia,

Fourteen years of these letters and I still never know how to start yours.

You were my first love at first sight.  My first grown up steps happened only shortly before your first wobbly ones.  You, my gorgeous girl, will always be my first happiness.  And that isn't only because you are my oldest child.  It's because you are happiness.  

Big things have happened this year, and you have handled each with the awkward grace I envy.  Your heart-deep laugh has carried us through some days we shouldn't have seen.  And that, among many other reasons, is why your sisters and I are so lucky to have you.

I couldn't be more proud that, despite every mistake I've made and every learning curve I've carved into our relationship, you have never been anything less than astounding.  You are a singular force, mija.  And no one can take credit for that but you.

Fourteen years ago, the nurse handed me a black haired beauty with no expectations and no plans.  I am so grateful I didn't know then where you were headed - I would've been too intimidated to call you mine.  

Thank you.  For making me look good.  For leading the way.  For being the band nerd I never knew I wanted.  For reading Jane Austen when other girls are sneaking around doing things you thankfully haven't dreamt of yet.  For loving me back.

Always,

Mama

A dream is a wish your heart makes... Unless it's one made fromheartbreak.

When I was young, I wanted to be a writer.  I mean, after I wanted to be an emporess and/or a teacher, I wanted to be a writer.  I imagined myself sitting behind a typewriter (yes, I am old) and rattling out brilliance at my leisure.  In these goals, however, I was always alone.  Always.

I had quite an imagination.  Colorful and far reaching, but always on my own.

I never imagined myself as a wife.  I didn't really know a lot of married women, so I didn't have any idea how to be one.  I also didn't have any real inclination to learn.

Then I became one.

And I rocked it.

Hard.

I mean, I was very, very good at some of it.

I packed lunches.  I made sure the bills were paid on time.  I ferociously took on the burden of raising children that would always represent him well.  I made coffee.  I washed dirty man clothes.  I took excessive care to not expand into a more comfortable size.  I took my job as a wife very seriously.

And it ended anyway.

Leading to my next discovery:  I had never imagined myself as an ex-wife either.

And, definitely no one walks you through how to rock at that.

Obviously, I anticipated some new struggles.  I get to take the trash out every time the bag fills.  I get to unclog every toilet.  I get to go to every event as the seemingly only single person in a room full of seemingly blissful couples.  I get to take the car for service rather than just taking a cup of ice water to the driveway while it was done between football games.

Good times, obviously.

But there is always a new surprise waiting for an ex.

Like, what do you do with the extra food you made because, for many years, your menu included a grown man that ate enough for four?  Or, what do you do when all of your clothes are dirty because it takes longer to make a full load?  What about that room no one uses now because that's where he lived for the last several years of your marriage?  

And, worst of all, who do you talk to about it?  You can't tell anyone about the loneliness because there are only two kinds of people left in your life.  The half who think being single is all hilarious dating stories and guilt-free gluttony.  And the half who know the hell you went through and can't imagine there being a piece that suffers the loss of your odd little piece of normal.

I never got to be the writer.  And, I live the life of an emporess vicariously through my little tyrant.  But I was a wife.  And, forevermore, I will be an ex-wife.  While I will probably never ace any of these tests, I am learning to take it as an adventure.  One more blinded step at a time.

Magazine aisle

I'm strictly a Bon Appetit magazine subscriber.  If I find a few minutes to peruse hot pictures, I prefer the braised variety.  Unless, allegedly, the doctor's office has a Men's Health with Cristiano Ronaldo or Charlie Hunnam on the cover.  In these hypothetical cases, I may take them home to inspect at my leisure.  The point is, I'm not a "woman's magazine" lover.  Looking at me, it should be obvious I am not Glamourous or even remotely en Vogue.  Unfortunately, sometimes these are the only things available to read when there's no wifi service.  And that's when I find this

I was skimming through the chapters of ads (I mean, seriously.  They could've been an epic saga unto themselves) when I had to go back to see this one more closely.  Weird, I thought.  Why would they put a boy in a peacock costume?

Nope.  That's a female.  That's definitely a girl.

My first thought was, what?!  This is the image my children are given as the ultimate in beauty?!

Then I realized, no.  This is Vogue.  My girls aren't the target - I am.  This is the image my grown up, post three babies, life's not been a dream, barely enough "free time" to paint my toenails self is supposed to aspire to.

The thighs of a gawky nine year old boy.  The flawless, porcelain skin of a... well, I don't even know a single living thing I could compare.  

Why?  Because if you can't be one of these forty something women who still look 24 then you must be a fourteen year old who has to show id before trying to exit the 1st grade hall?

No.  Because, for some people, you're never enough the way you are.  You could have the rock hard abs you're constantly told to crunch yourself into; but if you don't also have a thigh gap wide enough to drop the pizza you should never eat through, you're a waste.  You could buy the giant perky breasts all real women should hoist around; but if they don't have a set of matching protruding hip bones, get ready to die alone covered in cat hair.

Work harder at being someone else because no one will ever want you as you are.

The true success stories play on the 8th grade jv boys basketball team.

By the way, that's an ugly coat.

Dear Eva,

On the morning you turn eleven, I am sipping coffee and procrastinating.  You've already eaten your breakfast (4 courses, a new record for you) and bounded off to pajama day at school.  Class treats in hand and with the promise of our lunch date, you shouted "I love you!" as the car door closed in your wake.  I should be assembling your cake or starting your guacamole or picking up the house for your guests.  But I opened a picture album to find you on your first birthday.  So now I sit astounded at how far you've come since being covered in blue frosting and strapped into a high chair your tiny legs barely dangled from.

Who knew that, while you sleepily chewed through your first pound of sugar, you would grow into such a devoted lover of all things except pink and K State?  When you were lugging that giant red ball through our tiny yard, I could never have predicted that you would spend the next decade in perpetual motion slowed (though never fully stopped) only by sleep and nachos.  I remember you spent your whole party clinging to me, quietly begging the family assembled in our little living room to get the hell out of your house.  Tucked under my arm, my sweet round eyed girl craved the anonymity that we thought could only come with being a little sister... Years later we realized there's a more quiet place to hide - as the middle girl.

You, my love, are hopeful and brave.  You conquer fears and inspire goals.  You are the first plan I ever made that exceeded itself before my eyes.  You challenge and you change.  You love with complete abandon and you proudly wear the love you earn in the width of your grin.

I am your quiet, you are my wild.

I love you, sunshine.

Always, 

Mama

To you three

To the people who one day sweep my girls off their feet,

I wish I knew you now.  I'd really love to stalk your school recess or sit in the back of your band concerts.  I'd like to sit behind you in middle school Language Arts and see what you scribble in the margins.  I want to know you, while you're still innocent and open, and have a hand in guiding you down the right roads.  Because I worry that, before your path intersects with my girl's highway (or rose petal strewn red carpet - depending on who chooses you), you will make too many wrong turns to recognize the prize you win at the end.

My girl.

Whichever one you claim as yours, you will be getting the dream of a mother who just wanted more for them.  You will be the benefactor of every belief I struggled with and every moment of pride she inspires.  You are one of the luckiest three people on earth, and on this warm February afternoon twenty years too early - you have no idea.

The woman who will love you won't be easy, but I hope to not make her impenetrable.  She will know of my doubts in love, but I promise to let her believe.  While I will never tell her stories of happily ever after, ever after will always be her plan.  The woman heading toward you will be, if I have my way, mostly light with only slivers of shadow.  She will be strong without overbearing.  Cautious but never afraid.  Gentle with you but moreso with herself.

Or maybe she won't.

Because the woman you will one day sweep off of her feet is, at this moment, a girl with her mama's eyes but her very own spirit.  If you watched her at recess you'd see that she is equal parts shy and headstrong.  If you played the trombone in her jazz band, you'd already know that she has a laugh that makes the room grow - and a sense of humor that is completely her own.  If you tried to sit beside her in Language Arts, you would quickly discover that she cannot sit still nor be consumed with your affections.

Oh, sweet boy (or girl), the hand you will one day hold used to fit into my palm with room to grow.  So, please hear me when I say:  I would warn you now if I could.  She will be an extraordinary woman when you find her.  Just be patient with her heart.  If it's guarded, that's my fault.  If it is one day yours, that's her choice.  Be a good choice.  

And I promise to try to remember that you used to play on swings and sing off-key.  I promise to be exactly as soft on you as you are for her.  I swear to give you exactly one less chance than she does.  The best I can do is my daughter - the best you can do should hope to equal that.

Sincerely,

Her mama.

It's just fat

Can we talk about boobs for a second.

No, really.  Just for a second, draw your attention away from her eyes (why yes, they are a lovely shade of brown) and force your eyes upon her cleavage.  I know it's hard, but do it for posterity or whatever.

Two balls of fat.  That's it.  I don't even know what they're there for.

That's not true.  I try hard to maintain constant honesty, and I just lied right there.  I actually know exactly why those two balls of fat are placed on the front of the female human.

Free drinks.

And warnings rather than tickets.

And distraction from actual conversations.

Other than that, though, no real purpose.

So what's the big freakin deal?  

I posted a pic of myself on Facebook looking like a beached whale.  No kidding.  I had just finished my second sixty day round of the torture known as Insanity, and I took a quick picture of my revelry.

No makeup, sweaty, hair a mess, in an oversized workout top, sports bra & pants.

Absolutely nothing appealing about the photograph.

But apparently I was looking at it wrong because, according to the numerous texts I received, my boobs were hanging out.

My grown up, mama of three, not nearly as glorious as they once were, smooshed into a sports bra boobs.  

First of all, they are attached by muscle, nerves and skin.  I cannot remove them.  These boobs are here to stay - though I imagine their southern journey will someday place them somewhere in the vicinity of my shins.

Second, why is it such a big deal?  If my love handles and larger than life thighs can be whispered about, why must my more northern fat regions be exalted on high?

I want to understand.

That's another lie.  I really don't care to understand.

Though, if you have a reasonable answer, I'd love to hear it.