THE SILENT YELLING IN MY HEAD THIS MORNING

IT’S BEEN TWO YEARS AND I STILL HEAR YOUR VOICE.

NOT IN EVERY WORD BUT IN JUST ONE - MY NAME.  I CAN STILL HEAR THE WAY YOU SAID MY NAME WITH THE TINY TILT OF YOUR HEAD THAT SAID ALL AT ONCE… I LOVE YOU BUT MY GOD YOU’RE MAKING THINGS HARDER THAN THEY NEED TO BE.

IT’S BEEN TWO YEARS AND SOMETIMES I STILL FORGET YOU’VE GONE.  EVERY SINGLE FIGHT WITH SOFIA BRINGS ME TO THE WISH THAT YOU COULD TEACH ME HOW TO FIX IT.  TEACH ME HOW TO DO THIS THE RIGHT WAY.  TEACH ME HOW TO SWIM RATHER THAN DROWN.

YOU WOULD’VE BEEN LAUGHING AT THESE GIRLS WITH ME.  YOU’D HAVE THROWN YOUR HEAD BACK AND LET OUT ONE OF THOSE LAUGHS THAT OPENED UP THE WALLS AROUND US.  AND DAMNIT I’M MAD THAT YOU AREN’T HERE.  I’M SO FREAKING PISSED OFF THAT MY GIRLS AREN’T GOING TO LOOK UP IN THE STANDS AT THEIR GRADUATIONS AND SEE YOU OR LOOK OVER DURING THEIR FIRST MARRIED DANCES TO SEE YOU WIPE AWAY THE TEARS.  IT’S BULLSHIT.

WHEN I TELL PEOPLE SOMETHING ABOUT YOU I HAVE THE HARDEST TIME SAYING “MY AUNT”.  EVERYONE HAS THOSE.  EVERYONE HAS AN AUNT OR FOUR THAT THEY SEE A COUPLE TIMES A DECADE OR EVEN A MONTH AND THEY LOVE HER, SHE’S GREAT.  SHE VISITED SOMETIMES WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN AND SHE WAS A GREAT SUPPORTING ACTRESS IN THEIR STORY.  OR THEY HAVE AN AUNT OR SIX THEY CAN BARELY IDENTIFY IN GROUP PHOTOS POSTED ON FACEBOOK.  SHE IS NICE- OR MAYBE NOT- AND THEY UNDERSTAND THEIR CHILDREN’S CRINGES WHEN SHE LEANS IN FOR A HUG.  MY GOD, THAT’S NOT WHO YOU WERE.  YOU WERE MY STEERING WHEEL WHEN YOU PROBABLY WOULD HAVE PREFERRED TO BE MY BRAKES.  YOU WERE MY ONE PHONE CALL.  YOU WERE MY CHILDREN’S FAVORITE LADY.  YOU ARE THE REASON I GET UP AND PUT ON MAKEUP EVERY DAY.    YOU WERE MY SAFETY NET.  YOU WERE ONE HALF OF THE ONLY DUO WHO COULD PUT ME IN MY PLACE.  YOU WERE TWO OF THE ONLY FOUR HANDS TO EVER TOUCH ME IN KINDNESS.

IT’S BEEN A LITTLE OVER TWO FREAKING YEARS SINCE I HELD THOSE HANDS.  YOU WERE IN THE CHAIR IN THE DINING ROOM WHEN WE LEFT FOR THE AIRPORT AND I CAN STILL SEE THE LIGHT SHINING OFF OF YOUR BARE HEAD AS THE GARAGE DOOR CLOSED BEHIND ME.  I STILL SEE YOUR BEAUTY IN THE SMILE THAT SAID GOODBYE.  THAT UGLY, STUPID, OVERFLOWING GOODBYE. 

THE YEARS WEREN’T LONG ENOUGH WHEN I COULD HEAR YOUR VOICE AND THEY’RE TOO LONG NOW THAT I CAN’T. 

DAMN I LOVE YOU AND THIS IS SO MUCH HARDER THAN IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN.

Dear Maya,

They don't make awards for daughters; but, if they did you'd certainly have a trophy shelf full.  And not even just for the ones you'd award yourself:

Most beautiful

Most fancy

Best dancer

Most hilarious

I know...I know...you tell us all the time and I'm sure you're right.

But how about:

Class clown. No one is quicker with a silly face or a new character's voice to get a giggle going.

Best actress. From the time you were a baby, you knew how to pretend.  To be hurt so we'd stop and you could race past us.  To be heartbroken so you'd get extra treats.  To be asleep so you could snuggle awhile longer.  To be cleaning your room so...well I don't know what that ones about but I'm sure you have your reasons.

Most likely to be famous.  Or infamous, whatever... as long as people scream your name, right?
Best laugh.  I mean, seriously, it fills up the room.
Most creative.  Your stories alone can stop me in my tracks.  Is she telling the truth?  Is it a lie?  I'll probably never know for sure... but it sure makes for good dinner conversation.

And on and on.

You, my last love, are so much more than anyone could have planned on or guessed.  You are everything all rolled up in one tiny little person.  Nothing was left out when you were made... except maybe a little humility and whatever it is that creates an even keel.  Lord knows I wouldn't know what that's called, let alone what that would be like.

Happy double digits, mija.  Thank you for letting me get you this far.  Thank you for holding my hand even today when we walked the halls of your school to lunch.  Thank you for keeping me company every Sunday morning during my quiet coffee time.  Thank you for still fitting on my lap.  And, thank you for letting me love you all the way.

Always, mama.

Talk to them

Last night, at Eva's track meet, I accidentally got schooled.

See, she always insists that I sit with her rather than with the adults.  So I'm inevitably the lone old lady in a sea of pre-pubescent, smooth skinned, braced teeth, giggly hormone bundles.  As long as Eva's happy, I guess.

Generally, I know they're all wishing I would go away so they wouldn't have to whisper and mumble.  I know I would've been if I was a middle schooler.  But I've never been one to shy away from disappointing someone, so I stay.

Anyway, yesterday it was cold and I'd come straight from work, so all I had to throw over my not appropriate for a rainy track meet but cute for the job clothes was the hoodie I keep in the trunk for soccer games.  First lesson yesterday:  a new trick to take years off - pop the hood over the ponytail.  Screw you, Estée Lauder, this is way cheaper and took about 20 years off.  Because I must've had them fooled.

Three feet in front of me on the grassy hill we were assigned, a small group of eighth graders were being normal obnoxious kids.  No problem.  Me and my little group of seventh graders sat and ate candy and told knock knock jokes (I know that sounds fake, but I swear to you they pulled out their phones and pulled up screenshots of the corniest jokes you've ever heard to entertain each other).  And, while I laughed at their "hilarity", a particular word drifted over the air that slammed into my left ear with the ferocity of an unhinged rabid chihuahua.

Vagina.

I don't know why, but I was intrigued.  The little girl standing in front of us was absolutely bursting with the excitement that can only come from complete certainty of fact.  So I listened.

And, I will not repeat everything she said, but let's agree that she should not have been teaching the impromptu sex ed lesson on that hillside.  But she did.  And she had quite the captive audience.  Other equally excitable kids who could not contain themselves over her "which set of lips" and "squiggly babies" descriptions.  She stood facing our little hill of 99% still too young for PG movies without the P part and stood with such confidence that I was convinced she spoke her own truth.

While I cannot say I know what my face looked like, I can assume it was less pink and more get the hell outta here than the others.  But she went on until finally her friend looked more closely at the tall one in the hoodie.

Oh shit... shut up... that's a parent...you said all that in front of a mom!!

That's when my kid started paying attention.  Mama, what are they talking about?  
Nonsense, mija.  That girl is nonsense.

Parents, please talk to your kids.  Tell them about sex and safety.  About their bodies and the ones they will one day be pressed up against in the shade provided by the closest tree (unless they're lucky enough to find space indoors and away from parenting eyes).  About protecting themselves physically and emotionally.  And don't leave out the details.  I promise you they need details so they don't fill in their own gaps with words like squiggly babies.

While it can be an uncomfortable conversation, know what is more uncomfortable?  Having a baby when your hips haven't even finished widening.

The car ride home last night was a long one.  Was Eva happy that I kept bringing it up during those 30 excruciating minutes?  Mija, please don't go to your friends with questions.  They don't know any more than you do.  Nope, she was not.  Seriously, love, just ask an adult you trust.  Your friends are idiots.  But it's not about making her happy.  It's about making her safe.

Mama, that's just her... she's always dirty.  I'm not surprised.
And don't be surprised when she has a baby before she graduates.
Mama!
I'm so serious.  If she doesn't know the basics, she clearly won't know how to protect herself.

Being *ahem* easily accessible to anyone who wants you doesn't make you an expert any more than being fat makes you a chef or playing tball makes you Babe Ruth.

So, please get to your kids before their much more experienced but no wiser classmates do.  I am completely sure some of those kids left that grass feeling like they had new insight into the big wide world of "semen and saliva".  And too few of them brought that newfound wisdom home to your dinner table.

Don't let that kid become your kid.

Also, if they still giggle at the word "tip"... they aren't ready for it.  They're just not.

Dear "Sweet" Sofia,

Diesiseis.

I've been in love with you for sixteen years, ten months, and 38 hours as of 2:01 pm this afternoon.

Now, you were twelve and fifteen in between that time - so I haven't always been in like with you for all of those hours.  But I've loved you.

The day we brought you home I remember thinking, wait... they're just gonna GIVE her to me?  No home check, no paper signing, no manuals?  Just:  here's a baby - try not to break her.  And I have tried.

Through your third year when you decided to flip the Brat switch and seemingly forever lose the docile button.

Through your sixth year when you realized we weren't kidding about a second sister.

When you were ten and really started honing your argument skills.

That twelfth year when I was pretty certain one of us would be brought up on charges.

Fourteen.  When you decided, after some serious restructuring, that we could be a team.

When you became a blonde at fifteen (not my favorite phase, but I remind myself daily that it's better than slamming doors and throwing things).

And last week when, after leaving a banquet honoring your academic prowess, you said:  "I know where I want to live: California.  The weather is perfect and I've seen in pictures that they have little like guest houses, so you can come too."  It's the first time your plans included me since I was barbie number three in your marathon lay on the floor and change tiny outfits a million times phase.  I was so thankful it was dark enough in the car that you couldn't see my watery eyes - the sigh and eye roll would've really ruined our moment.

They call this one Sweet sixteen.  I'm not buying it, though.  I'm guessing it's like the terrible twos that really weren't terrible at all.  Because, my first love, you are not sweet.  You are strong and smart and beautiful and mildly addicted to potatoes like your mama.  You are capable and thoughtful and the coolest kid Eva has ever met.  You are impressive and frustrating and difficult, all the things Maya strives for.  You are freaking blonde .  And you are unbreakable.

I couldn't be more proud and amazed by most of that.

Always,

Mama

Dear Eva,

Genuine heart.  Generous spirit.  Wicked left foot.  Honest eyes.  Gym teacher style.  Smiles for miles.  Corny sense of humor.  Beautiful girl.

Thank you for not giving up and for believing in yourself almost as fiercely as those who love you.  Thank you for letting me watch from the sidelines as you become a little more yourself every day.  Thank you for eating everything I put in front of you - except roasted broccoli, because you can't be perfect.  Thank you for loving me.

Your sisters always say that you're my favorite and that I think you do no wrong.  They're only a little wrong.  You are not perfect, my love.  Your ridiculous use of the words "bruh" and "lit" are all the evidence I need of that.  You are, however, so immeasurably wonderful that the lines are often blurred.  

Thank you for being such a bad liar that you usually give up halfway through.  Thank you for being the calming voice I hear when I come a little too close to crossing a line.  Thank you for still getting excited for driveway soccer.  And, thank you for the patience you show when I'm not able to go out and play.

Eva, your thirteen years have been full of sunshine and love.  Thank you for bringing that to all of us.  We could not love you more if you put on a real shirt more than once a month.  May this year show you more laughter than you will ever get from your silly google jokes.  And may you always remember our song.

You are my sunshine.  My only sunshine.

Always,

Mama