It was as sweet as it was hard

tomorrow Maya starts the 7^th grade.  the next day is Eva’s first day of sophomore year.  and, on Monday, my first born love will take her first college class.

they don’t hold my hand walking in the big, scary doors of the schools anymore (or anywhere else).  they don’t come running out at the end of their first days eagerly leaping into my arms, thankful that i showed up and didn’t forget them while we were apart.  i’m not even there when they throw their backpacks on the floor and rummage for snacks to spoil their dinners. 

we used to be a team, these three little people and me.  every morning we sat in the kitchen together slamming breakfast and excitedly deciding what the day would hold for each of us.  ok, that’s not true. three of us were excited.  one of us knew exactly what each day would hold because it was always the same.  after i dropped each of them at school and brought the baby home, i cleaned and parented and cooked and baked and fidgeted until it was time to retrieve the rest of my heart at the end of the day – and on Thursdays we ran to target.  every day.  exactly the same.  except Mondays when i did laundry.  and Tuesdays when i deep cleaned while maya napped.  but, definitely every day was the same.

and HOLY SHIT was it boring.  and hard.  and monotonous.  and exhausting.  and regimented.  but mostly, boring.

now, other than picking out first day of school outfits and going into debt buying notebooks and flash drives, there is no build up to the first day of school.  today is summer break and tomorrow we start the 9 month parade of “i don’t want to go, i hate school.”  “i took that yesterday for lunch”  “i forgot to tell you that i need *insert expensive/labor intense/baked items* in exactly 8 hours” “so-and-so doesn’t like me anymore” “don’t forget that thing you definitely forgot i didn’t tell you last week”.  and then i’ll blink and it’ll be summer again.  over and over again for eternity.

only not.  it’s not forever.  it’s for 6 more years.  that’s it.  in six years, maya will be a senior in high school.  and this exhausting, monotonous, boring, expensive parade will come to an abrupt end.  AND THEY DON’T EVEN THROW CANDY OR BEADS AT THIS PARADE.   

i don’t miss them throwing 3 year old tantrums or crying in the grocery store.  i don’t miss peeling boogers off of walls or wrangling pigtails into the baby-fine hair of a child who just CANNOT hold tf still so we can get out the door to go to the thing none of us really wants to go to anyway but if i HAVE to, than so do they.  i absolutely do not miss the hysteria of a mob of tiny girls all screaming at the same time that each was DEFINITELY not the one who stole that cookie and the crumbs at the side of their mouth DEFINITELY do not tell the tale of a lie. 

but they used to cling to me like a lifeline.  every day at 3:05, a set of big brown eyes met mine across a see of little people and reset the day.  a fluffy cheek used to press against my neck when so-and-so (that little bitch) wouldn’t play at the playground with my girl and we would discuss all the ways that we could enjoy a slide without a care in the world.  and every day EVERY SINGLE DAY began and ended the same.  my team and me.  ready to take on the world… maybe tomorrow.  unless it was Sunday, because we didn’t have laundry done yet.

i don’t miss the things that were hard, but i’m so very thankful to have had the parts that were sweet. 

"Racially motivated"

I've gotten two emails this morning from our school district.  One from each of my kids' schools, both on the same topic - spurred by multiple and separate incidents.  None of which directly involve my girls, this time.

"Racially motivated" is how the schools describe them.  At the middle school, there is derogatory language being thrown about freely in the hallways - sometimes aimed directly at a child, other times free to anyone within earshot.  "Some students feel unsafe and unwelcome".  Sticks and stones though, right? The high school says there was a physical altercation with direct evidence that it was based on race.  I'll have to wait until our family dinner table conversation this evening to hear more about that one, I suppose.

"Predominately Caucasian" would be a gross understatement when describing our tiny dot on the map.  Before this year, I could count the number of kids, outside of my home, who would check a box other than "white" on one hand.  This year, I'd say there were at least 5 at the 5th-6th grade band concert.  Eva, Sofia, and I were actually surprised at the number of families that more closely resembled ours in the audience.  I would say I am sad but hopeful that this marks the beginning of a shift in our immediate environment.

Is this influx of flavor the cause of the panic that must have incited the recent uptick in "racially motivated" incidents?  Is it the current occupant of the White House and his incessant fire starting?  Is it the schools' newfound realization that they cannot just allow the "kids will be kids" dismissal anymore?  Are parents really supporting the type of language and aggression that cannot be hidden by their children at home?

I don't know. 

Is this "racially motivated" harassment really new, though?  No.

"Burnt chocolate chip"

"Not the brown one!"

"So-and-so isn't allowed to come to our house.  Her parents said no."

"Do you even speak English?"

"Your mom shouldn't make you eat that (chile rellenos), it's weird." 

It goes on and on.  Since my girls started school, I have had meeting after meeting with teachers (not all going the way you'd hope they would), back and forth emails with administrators (increasingly positive and willing to listen and help), cornered parents at class parties, cornered children at class parties, dealt with people at the crosswalks. and removed my children from sports teams.  I have dried the stains left by heartbreak, explained bigotry to little minds too open to understand the concept, and reminded three pre-teen desperate for acceptance young ladies that there is beauty in everyone - but a little extra in them.  Because of course that's what a mama does.  Every mama wants her children to feel safe and wanted.  Unfortunately, not all kids are granted the luxury of feeling it in every space they occupy.

I grew up in a diverse area, surrounded by every flavor of person I could imagine.  And, while it was completely normal to me, I now see it as a luxury.  Now, through the eyes of my girls, I see that differences are so much more glaring when they are in the minority. 

"One of these things is not like the other...one of these things doesn't belong".  A song that plays in my head every time I can pick my kid out from a mile away and in the dark when I have to pick her up from a school event.  And, yes, she is not like the other... but she sure as hell always belongs.

2019 begins in 25 days.  2019.  And parent emails from schools still start with "Racially motivated".  Something as simple as some pigment and an accent is still enough to make an entitled child make another child unsure of safety and welcome.  20 fucking 19. 

It starts at home, people.  Clean up your messes before they leave a stain on my daughters.

Unfinished, four years and two months apart

I found this in a spot I used to write a lifetime or three ago, and I could've felt the words this morning just the same:

I want to write.

I want to love.

I want to show the girls the possibilities of a life well lived.

I want to become the women I admire most.

I want to chase down every fleeting fantasy I ever let go because of fear or doubt or indecision.

I want to give comfort and friendship and all the right things.

But most days I barely make it past coffee before wanting to give up.

The steps that follow the front door seem impossibly trying.

Most days, the ocean of energy it takes to feign indifference is dry before I'm dressed for work.

So I don't write anymore.  Nothing worth reading at least.

I don't love anymore.  

My example of how to keep putting one uninspired foot in front of the other is the only example  I offer the girls these days.

Those women I admire get further and further away every day that I'm stuck in the past.

And, the few who tried to stay see now that I have nothing to offer them worth holding onto.

So there is only this.  Deafening silence.  Walls unscaled.  Bridges burned.  And wounds unhealed.

This isn't living, and I know that.  Waiting for a reason to try


And this morning's unfinished attempt:

It's quiet this morning.  A peaceful quiet.  The kind that comes after the choice I wasn't sure of.  The kind of quiet that doesn't really hurt too much.  The dog has been let out and fed his breakfast.  I've had the first cup of slightly bitter coffee and we've retired back to bed for his post-yogurt and egg nap.  But the lonely isn't as harsh this Sunday morning.  Maybe I'm just finally used to the acceptance of it.  Maybe the paw resting on my belly- the closest I've come to being the little spoon in recent memory- is comfort enough.   Maybe I really have finally been rendered empty.  Truthfully, I hope so.

Two different mornings, four years and five inches apart.  One day maybe I'll finish something again.

Last night I told my daughters that there's nothing they could do that would make sexual assault their fault.

Last night, around the table where they used to draw smiling stick figures and yellow balls spitting out sunlight, I told my daughters that it doesn't matter if they've been drinking.

Beneath the stain from the peach puree Maya flung to the ceiling from her highchair a decade ago, I said it didn't matter what they were (or were not) wearing.

It doesn't matter if they're on a date.

Or if they really like(d) the person.

Into three sets of big brown eyes, I said it doesn't even matter if they thought maybe they wanted the person to touch them but then changed their mind.

Doesn't matter if they're two or sixty.

Or if it's a man, a woman, or a child.

Or if it's a relative, a boyfriend, a girlfriend, or a stranger.

If he's the most popular or powerful or scariest.  If she's important or well known or rich.

The moment they say "no" it's over.  End of story.

Anything after the no is assault, I told them. 

Anything after the no is wrong.  The other person's wrong.  Not theirs.  Never ever theirs.

And I will believe you, I told them.  I will always believe you.  Believe in you.

I read one report of a child who didn't tell her mother because her mother always said she would kill anyone who hurt her baby.  That little girl was so afraid her mother would go to jail for killing the man who hurt her that she stayed quiet.  That one got to me.  I told this story to my girls last night at the table where all important decisions are made. 
"You would do that, mama.  I know it."  
"I would want to, mija.  For sure.  But how about this.  I promise I would handle it in whatever way is best for you.  Whatever way you would want me to."
I bargained with my children about how I would handle the worst possible situation that would come across that table.  These aren't the kinds of conversations anyone can prepare you for. 

Last night I sat the three most important choices I ever made down at the table where we gather to eat or to laugh or to whoop each other's behinds at Uno and I did my best to ensure that they don't walk my path.  That's really the number one thing I've always tried to teach them:  please don't follow me,  you're so much better than that.

Guilt is a powerful thing and blame is a heavy burden.  Neither is something you grow out of either.  It isn't something you eventually shed and forget about.  Thinking your pain is of your own doing will change the entire way you move through the world until you cannot take one more step.

No more skipping or dancing or flying.  No more light.

The only thing more powerful than shedding unwanted weight from your shoulders is knowing it was never yours to carry.

Like every parent, I don't ever want to experience the pain of someone hurting my child.  But the idea of my child hurting and not reporting that suffering to the person entrusted to protect them?  That would be my ultimate failure.

Last night, around the table where I slowly watched their legs grow long enough for their feet to touch the floor, I told my daughters that there's nothing they could do to make sexual assault their fault.

All the while, fingers crossed that at tables around the world, boys were being reminded that no means no.  And hesitation means no.  And really anything other than yes means no.

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

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.