Job #1, check.

There's a jar that sits on our kitchen table marked "Family dinner questions".  It's been a staple of every dinner for a couple of years now.  We fill it with questions that provoke conversations (not the standard yes/no answers I got way too frequently before the jar appeared) and it can only be done when we are all at home (hence, a complete family conversation).  The questions are anything from "if you could create your own school, what would it be like?" to "if you could invent your own ice cream flavor, what would it be?" to "what do you think your parents were like when they were kids?".  Simple questions that often provoke some giggles and sometimes some disagreements.

The other night, the question was: "Who do you trust the most and why?"

Unanimously. 

Simultaneously.

And within a breath of the question being read.

"Mama."

I'm not much of a smiler.  I'm not much of a blusher.  Hell, I'm not much of a self-prider.

But I was all three in the minutes that followed.  Honestly, I'm feeling all of it as I write this.

My people aren't hurting in the love and support categories.  They are all incredible human beings, and that means they attract those kind of people to them.  My girls are surrounded by people who would, and have, dropped everything to help them.  There have been times when I felt the failure of doing the wrong thing for these, my completely right daughters.  There have been many nights when I broke under the pressure of trying to keep up with their needs and dreams.

And the moments when it is shown to me that they don't mind my frequent missteps flabbergast me every single time.

They trust me.  Most of all.

They have options, and they choose me.  They have evidence of my complete ineptitude, and they choose me.  No one has ever done that before - chosen me.  And I cannot imagine a better veteran victory.

These girls don't always like me.  They may not always respect my dinner choices.  They could, one day, not pick me for driveway soccer.  But they trust me more than anyone else on earth.

I must be doing something right.

The man. The myth. The legend.

It's Father's Day.  Honestly, not a big deal around this house.  For reasons too painful and numerous and confusing to parse out.

But there's this guy.

He's side-splitting funny.

He's honorable and generous.

He's reliable and kind and caring.

He makes the absolute best Caesar dressing.

He's never, not one single time in my whole lotta years, let me down.

He loves my girls as if they were the most impressive little people on earth.

He's always got a box full of Pirelli swag to hand out to the least automotive people he knows.

And, he is the only person to ever think, let alone say, that I am easy to love.

Happy Father's Day, Uncle Pat.

Thank you for letting Aunt Baba mother me.  Thank you for insisting on calling me Sari Sue despite the fact that I'm now old as dirt.  Thank you for being the only man my mother could tell her boyfriends "Don't talk to Sarah like that in front of him - he won't allow it."  Thank you for respecting my actions as a mama even when you thought (probably fairly) I was being too strict.  Thank you for waiting till I left the room to give them ice cream anyway.  Thank you for FaceTime conversations and one night in town quick lunches.  Thank you for loving me.

I couldn't be luckier.

Always,

Sarah

Anonymity turns your insecurity into false bravery

She friended him on Instagram because she thought the request came from a kid at school.  I have told them, from the time I granted supervised access to social media, not to friend anyone they didn't know in real life.  The only exception being, of course, Harry Potter.  Obviously, a wizard is an important ally in this muggle world.

So she allowed a kid she thought she recognized to follow her on Instagram.  Harmless because she posts pictures like 

And 

So what harm could come from showing her perspective to the world, right?

Wrong, of course.

Enter this person

This person went on a two day campaign of tagging my child in memes like "ugliest person on the Internet".  This person who, it turns out, has never met my child.  This person who, it turns out, actually lives in Texas.  This person who, it turns out, is just too far out of my range of annihilation.  

He hurt my child.  Obviously for no reason and obviously out of insecurity and inferiority.  But none of that mattered to the big brown eyes that poured out pleas for help.

So I researched.  I enlisted help from anyone I thought could give it.  I waited impatiently.  And all I could discover was his location and complete lack of responsibility.  The Internet offered him anonymity and he used it to interfere with my child.  To wander into her days and cause her to doubt things everyone who actually knows her tells her in real life.

Because that's what we do, right?  We, the "good" guys, allow the opinions of salt shakers (his Instagram profile) to shape our views.  While the bad guys hide on their neighbor's wifi and spew ignorance and judgements.  We set aside what we know to be true for things that maybe could be true because why else would a stranger say it to me.  

We give power to the simple minded and the weak.  We give our power to the unworthy and the cowardly.  Until we realize that those living in the shadows are there because we put them there.  They are living in the shadows of the rest of us who can stand tall enough in the light to cast a hiding place for the inconsequential and the insignificant.

My child doesn't stand in the light for this punk to hide behind her.  She stands there because that's where she belongs.

I can't talk to this person's parents, but I can tell my child exactly the same thing I would've told them.

He is nothing on the map of my kid's life and will be forgotten by next month.  As he should be.  But if I ever see him in real life, the shadows won't help him.

If you give a kid a box

If you give a kid a box, her eyes will light up and she will excitedly empty it of its goodies.  Then one of her sisters will use her best manners to ask to keep the box.  And the kid will say "ok" while she trots off with the goodies.  Then, out of nowhere, the other sister will declare the box is hers.

That kid will decide to create a getaway in the box. 

When the first sister cries foul, she will say mean, though basically true, things about the stowaway.

Then that sister will smack the stowaway on what she presumes to be the forehead.

This will cause the oldest sister to strike back using her words - as mama always taught her.

Finally, the manners using, sweet hearted middle sister will wrestle the box away and take her final revenge (?).

All because you gave a box to a kid who missed all the fun because she was off with the goodies and didn't recognize the value of the box.

The end.

Dear Maya,

Words fail, my littlest love.  

To define you.

To describe my love for you.

To characterize everything that you are.

I know because I tried.  I decorated your bedroom door last night in nothing but words I intended to capture you.  I got to forty seven before I gave up.  

Because you are so much.  You are every one of the basic qualities that all of the greats embody - smart, funny, beautiful, good.  And, you are all the important character traits of any good cartoon villain - wily, brilliant, ornery, and oh so very charming.

My love,  you have always been more.  And, every year, I find undiscovered territory through your eyes.  Challenging heights and breathtaking vistas.  Indescribable pride and unfathomable storylines.  Being your mama is, to put it simply, the source of most of my gray hair and almost all of my laugh lines.

Whether they're from your patient teachers, your impatient sisters, your many admirers or your exasperated mama, all stories begin with the same sentence :  "I love her, but you won't believe what Maya did."

We do believe it though.  Because, at nine years old, you are simply more than other kids.  Not better or worse, just more.

And we would have you no other way.  No matter how unbelievably ornery you are proven to be, you continue to be soft and loving.  Brave and strong.  Genuine and full of love.

More than forty seven words.  More than I could have ever dreamed of.  Undefinable and free from anyone's simplification of who you should be.

Happy birthday to the girl who overflows my patience and my heart.  Thank you for never giving me rest or calm.  I remain grateful you allow me to bask in your shine.

Always,

Mama

I'm NOT scared of you!

Every time one of you throws a fit I say it - I'm not scared of you.

During ever hormonal outburst and from in front of every slammed door I yell out - I'm not scared of you.

Even each time you're coming at me in driveway soccer and we both know you'll probably score on me - I ain't scared of you.

I'm not scared of a little eye roll or a foot stomped on my rules.  You don't make me tremble when you anoint me Meanest Mama Ever.  Not even a little.  Ok, maybe the ball flying at my head gives me pause, but I'm not scared of your athletic ability.

What I don't tell you, though, is this:  you three terrify me.

Like no one else ever has (and many have tried), like nothing else ever could (and we all know how I feel about snakes).  I am scared of you every day.

What if you wake up one day and decide rules and broccoli  just aren't for you anymore, and you decide you want to live with him?

What am I going to do when you realize that I'm just making this up as we're going along and I know no more than you do about raising three girls?

Not to mention the fact that there will come a time when you realize that I'm gravely outnumbered and sadly outclassed.

And, my biggest fear, what the hell am I supposed to do when you leave for "good"?

Every night I update my countdown to nothingness.  I have nine years, eleven and a half days left before Maya graduates high school.  And I'm scared for me.  

That's it.  I'm not afraid of you, but I am petrified for me.  You are the only people on earth I couldn't live without.  But I will.  

Three days are coming that will leave me breathless and empty.  Three days I longed for when you were throwing mashed peaches and diaper pails rendered my house unfit to breathe in.  Three days I thought would bring me full nights of sleep and full days of nothing Disney related.  Three days of completed thoughts and leisurely walks in the grocery store aisles with a basket instead of a cart.

So you don't scare me, my loves.  Knowing I'm working this hard to get you comfortable on your own feet does.  Understanding that nothing will make me more proud or more sad than watching you pack up the room I've rented to you for so long - those moments keep me up at night.  And the idea that I only have nine years, eleven and a half days left?  I'm shaking now just thinking of it.

When do I know I'm done?

Knowing you're done having kids is a lot like knowing you're ready to have kids.

You don't know until it happens.

I wasn't the person who grew up wanting to have kids.  I did a little babysitting, but that was for the need for money - not the need for a little person in my life.  I honestly don't remember a single instance where I just couldn't get enough of someone's baby.  Then, when I was about nineteen, I hung out with a group of slightly older people and they had kids.  I didn't relish their lives at all and I was glad to leave and go to my own quiet apartment.  Until, one day, I couldn't put down the baby girl they were babysitting.

* And, by babysitting, I mean they still had huge drinking parties but now there was a one year old attending too.*

I don't know if it was my protective instincts or my childhood filled with drunk and dangerous people in my personal space; but, I wouldn't put that baby down.  She sat on my lap while I played dominoes and I carried her around the empty bottles and full ashtrays rocking her to sleep and staring at her perfect face.

Still, I didn't contemplate having children at all.  I just didn't mind being an auntie when someone needed one.

Until Sofia came along.  The instant I knew I would be a mama, I knew I could be one.  I could do it.  I didn't know how or why I could, and I didn't know who she would be; but, I was ready for her.

And I was ready for Eva.

And I was ready for Maya.  

*in hind site, no one is ready for Maya, but I was as close as one will ever be.

By the time she rolled around to two years old, I knew I was done though.  That was the age each of the other two girls were when we started trying for another baby, but I didn't feel that urge at all after Maya.  She was supposed to be my last child, and I remain completely comfortable with that decision.

Babies are incomparable and amazing.  But so is eating dinner when it's hot because they can cut their own food.

Snuggling up with a warm, soft face pressed to your neck is quite simply the best feeling in the world.  But a close second is holding onto the edge of the bleachers while your kid scores a goal with a move she's practiced for years.

Little, high pitched voices calling your name because it's the only word they know is a beautiful song.  But hearing your child's name from the podium at awards night ain't too bad either.

Undoubtedly, there are things you just can't get once they're too old to scoop up and carry on your hip anymore.  And, yes, there are absolutely times that I would love to see the look you get when the school doors open and they catch sight of you through the crowd.  There is nothing that compares to tiny arms wrapped around your neck and the smell of baby hair pressed to your chin.

But it's so much easier to get that from other people's babies.

That way, they go home and you don't have to change the diapers.

I suppose what I'm saying is this:  I'm done having little black haired girls.  My hands are overflowing.

But there's always room for your little person to hang out for as long as they're willing.

 

Dear Sofia,

Fifteen.

An age I dreaded since you were three and discovered that your tongue could point out of your mouth like a dart.

The age I was sure would end me, only if your torturous angry squeal didn't kill me eardrums-first a decade earlier.

An age that, somehow, marked the beginning of what was sure to be the end of our glorious run at super duo.

The age when you would defy, desert, deny, demolish, and all around de-love me.

What I failed to factor into this uncharted territory was fourteen.

Holy moly.  Fourteen sucked.  Hard.

It was a beautiful tragedy and I wouldn't drown in that sea again for any amount of coffee. (Says the mother of two more girls coming up behind you.)

But I learned so much last year.  From you.

I realized your strength.  I stood in awe of your belief in yourself.  I proudly watched you own yourself in ways I will never master.  I fall in love with you, my first love, anew every day.  I have never respected a girl the way I do you.

And it has everything to do with only you.

You are no one's creation - no one else's hard work.  You are magnificent and awesome completely of your own energy.  And, believe me, I love to take credit for every little thing I can.  You, my eldest love, are your own young woman - walking, talking, "singing", "dancing", believing, loving, being of your own accord.

I have never had the pleasure of knowing anyone more beautiful, worthy, intelligent, strong, or genuine than you.  And, I couldn't be more proud to call you my daughter.

Yes, the first time I thought of who you would be as a teenager, I was terrified.  

Now I stand at the top of this mountain and all I can see is how short the journey from toddler to teen was.  And I'm not afraid anymore.

We are safe together.  Thank you for that.

Thank you for forcing hugs before I can brace myself.

Thank you for getting so much better at playing the clarinet.

Thank you for still posting pictures of us on Instagram with the caption "my favorite person".

Thank you for being so incredibly stubborn and hardheaded and for reminding me where you get it.

Thank you for not being one of those girls.

Thank you for letting me borrow your Chucks almost as often as you borrow my clothes.

Thank you for being patient with me as I adjust to you.

You are worth every hard fought battle.

Always,

Mama

#relationshipgoals

You've seen the memes.  There's a picture of two people in fabulously matching outfits.  Or two people holding hands in their Ferrari.  Or an Instagram moon-filtered photo of two absurdly beautiful people working out in their home gym with her 8 karat ring gleaming almost as brightly as his veneers.

#relationshipgoals.

Aren't they special?  

Isn't that an interesting standard to set for the lady picking up man socks for the bazillionth time or the guy dealing with her twelfth mood swing since lunch?

For these exceptions to the norm, I offer a different set of relationship goals.

Falling asleep first in a vain attempt to be in deep enough REM to ignore his snoring.

Choosing what to eat for dinner without breaking into "my god, can you just pick a place for once?  Must you always make everything difficult?"

Knowing which sushi roll she definitely didn't intend to share and keeping your chopsticks on your side of the platter.

Not wearing matching shirts, but at least looking like you're going to the same place.  See:  if she's wearing her best ceiling scrapers, he can't be wearing that shirt with the hole under the arm that, yes, everyone can actually see.

Seeing that your partner is preparing for hibernation, but not pointing out that they should probably stop shoveling in the chips and queso.  Warm, soft snuggles are better anyway.

Mow the lawn/do the laundry/cook the dinner without sending out an alert.  We get it, you did the thing.  Yay, you.  Move on.

Coffee.  Sweet, warm, un-requested coffee.  Delivered in a bigger than "needed" mug.

And, the number one #relationshipgoal:

Respect - mutual, unrelenting, loud and proud.

Ferraris and unnatural beauty can be a superstar fantasy, but the goal should be quiet peace.

At least for those few minutes before wanting to choke them while they sleep.

Dear Eva

My Eva, 

Happy twelfth anniversary of making me step up my game.  Happy twelfth year of genuine, overflowing love.  Happy twelfth straight victory in the purest heart race.

Every day I say to myself, "wow.  That kid is something special".  Every single year I say to you, "happy birthday, special love".  This year, this day, that all changes:

Wow.  Nothing could compare to the innocence in those big brown eyes.  No one comes close to touching the warmth of that wide open spirit.  Happy birthday, sweet girl.  And thank you for still being that genuine, kind hearted kid you have always been.

Thank you for being the kid whose top Google search is "funny comebacks".

Thank you for being the girl who writes me full page letters at least once a week.

Thank you for being the person who reminds me to be kind when I don't want to do it.

Thank you for being the daughter who never goes to bed angry at me.

Thank you for being brave and smart and sensitive and quietly funny.

Thank you for never giving up and for being the example of tenacity and belief.

Eva, thank you for loving me and for letting me love you so easily.

Happy 12th birthday to my favoritest middlest kid ever.

I could not be more in love with you.

Always,

Mama

Not a co- anything

Someone told me once I couldn't be a single mother - I must be a "co-parent" because he's still around.

You can imagine how that went over.

Um.  No.  I'm a single everything.

I singularly raised them from the moment they were an egg with no feet.

I singularly have met every teacher, sat through every doctor appointment.  I sit alone, in the dark or with the sun blazing through the windows, to rub their back when they are sick or hold their hair when they throw up.  I sit up by myself every night running through all of the things they need to take to school the next day.  Just last night, I was the single parent in the room reading spelling words off while making dinner and getting the class treats ready for two separate parties I can't attend.  Me.  Just me.  And it's been that way from the beginning.

Yes, he is absolutely more present now in their lives than he was when we shared an address.  He, without a doubt, knows them better now than he did when he had the opportunity to spend every day with them.  But, that doesn't diminish the facts.

Because, and I cannot stress this enough, paying for health insurance and a family size bag of Doritos doesn't make anyone a parent.

Paying for anything doesn't make you a parent.

There are a million ways to be a great parent and not a single one can be found on your bank statement.

There is no co- anything for me.  Heaven knows I would do backflips in a field of poseys if there could ever be a co-nversation that didn't end in frustrated anger and hurt feelings.  I would hand over all my top secret recipes for just one co-mmon goal.  

So, to everyone who thinks you can co-parent with a tiny portion of someone's paycheck:  find me one time they went stumbling in the dark looking for a checkbook to soothe them after a nightmare.  Draw me a picture of that time I could throw a $20 at their advanced math homework to get it completed before dinner.  Please.

I will appreciate your comments when they make even a penny's worth of sense to my situation.

Old keys to an old house made new.

Today was big for me.  Today, I did something I never dreamed I would accomplish on my own.  And, I did it all on my own size 8's.

Today, the house I've made into a home for more than nine years is mine.  All mine.  The ex-husband's name is off of the title.  My name is the only one you'll find on the papers linking me to the next thirty years of payments.  And, while that is an overwhelming prospect, I am proud of myself.

I said it.  I'm proud of myself.  Know how many times those words have passed my lips?  Wrong.  Not once.  Today, though, I can say it without reservation.

My mother never owned a house.  

It never occurred to me that one day THIS DAY (!!!!!!!!!) I would claim an address all my own.

Throughout the ugliest days of a truly ugly marriage, I knew I couldn't leave partly because I didn't want my children to lose their home.  

I mean, who is a stay at home mama for thirteen years and two short years later gets to sign the mortgage for the only home her children have ever known?

This crazy lady, that's who.

So, yes, people do this every day.  When I left the bank this afternoon, there were probably three couples waiting their turn.  Yes, single people buy houses every day.  Truly successful at life people who couldn't dream of depending on another person for anything.  And, yes, this house isn't much compared to most.  Indeed, now I'm officially in charge of keeping the roof hole-free and the plumbing flowing.

But I did what no one thought I could.  I walked free from an overwhelming sadness - without ever having to walk out the door.  My door.  

Six digit figures headed in the wrong direction never felt so good.

Not what I wanted to say

What I want to tell her is, "No.  Don't change who you are for any man - not even him."

But I can't.  Not about this one man.  This is the one man I have to keep my big trap shut about.

So, instead I tell her all the reasons no one should not love her.

I tell her she can do, say, be, love, dress, walk, act absolutely any way her heart desires.

I tell her that, while no one is perfect, she's as close as I've ever seen.

I tell her I will never ignore her texts or silence her ringtone.

I remind her that she is loved and adored and respected by everyone who really knows her.

And, I hug her hard enough that she squeezes me back in reassurance.

But what I want to do is different.

I want to get in my car, drive to this person's face, and tell him to wake the f&$@ up.  I want to take away his privileges and remind him that's what she is.  I want to shake him until he sees that her first lesson in pain should never have his stamp on it.  I want to give her what she deserves instead of what I mistook for an option.

I want to fix every hole that's been dug into her wide open heart.

I have always known I can't shield them from every bad guy.  It just never occurred to me that I'd be the one to introduce them.

What I wanted to say wasn't what came to her ears, but what she needed flowed freely.  

And that was my privilege as much as my responsibility.

New year, same-ish you

I am ashamed to say I had a conversation with myself yesterday morning that I've had every New Years morning since the dawn of time (because if you don't feel 1000 years old on any January first, are you even real living?).  And, no, I'm not ashamed of the fact that I was talking to myself.  It was only mostly aloud and the shower was running so I could've been talking to Poseidon - no one will ever know for sure.

Anyway, I'm ashamed that I seemed to be talking myself into a predetermined narrative.

I wanted to say this year should be better.  Better than last.  Better than what I got for working my behind off all of last year.  Better than the last twelve months I spent loving my girls and striving so freaking hard to make their lives better.

But, honestly, the last year wasn't so bad.

There were some absolutely awful parts.

I lost someone more important than most.  Not a single day has passed since May that we haven't talked about her and missed her and wished we could call her.

I also lost a lot who turned out to be less than important.  I started this year with a fairly wide circle and ended it with one I can reach my arms around.  And, I'm working on accepting that this is just fine.  My people and I are just fine on our own.

I let go of relationships that were beyond repair by learning to stop giving before I empty myself.  Some people simply aren't worth the gifts of patience and loyalty.

I realized some lessons had been forgotten...so I'm trying to relearn the scars.  This is the biggest struggle for me.  I tried so hard to get to a spot where I could say I wasn't so bad, that realizing I'm back to watching others spotlight my flaws feels like I'm at the bottom of the mountain again.  But I know this mountain and I've clawed my path to the top before, I can do it again.

Really though, 2015 wasn't too bad to us.

We have each other, day in and day out.  Sometimes we even like that!  

The girls are learning and growing and becoming so much.  I am so grateful to have the front row seat for the greatest show on earth (circus reference intended).  

Sofia and I had our first major war this year, and I truly wasn't sure we would make it.  But she held that hug just long enough last night (even though I thoroughly dominated our Uno tournament) for me to believe we'll be better than mortal enemies eventually.

These people - my people - and I had a pretty good year.  And, with a few big exceptions, we'd be alright if we had the same 365 ahead of us.

So, yes, I'm ashamed that I tried to talk myself into regretting yet another year of growth and kitchen dances.  I'm embarrassed to say I almost forgot the soccer celebrations and great broccoli debates.  I should have known better than to deny the silly faced selfies and car serenades.  

Talking to myself, though?  Nothing wrong with that at all - ask me.  But don't interrupt, that's just rude.

Here's to another year laid out ahead of us - all shiny and new.  May it be nothing we can't handle and only most of what we've seen before.