It will get easier, but it doesn't get better

I read those words today.   Well, I read a lot of words today.  Those stuck out though.  Not like a sore thumb... they stuck out like a neon sign on the darkest of nights.

See, there's a lot going on over my head right now.  A lot of struggles and pressures and storms.  I'm sitting at my kitchen table surrounded by papers that I can't handle right now.  Tired in ways I can't wrap words around.  Broken in ways I know too well.

And, I needed a day to try to pull it all together.  I really needed to spend some time on the floor while I worked on growing some more strength.  I desperately needed to put the mask down for a little while today.

But the phone has been ringing almost nonstop since they left for the weekend. As they always do, the girls have called a zillion times on my weekend "off".  To tell me they miss me.  To tell me what they're watching on tv.  To tell me the sky is blue.  To hear my voice.  They do this so many times that I start to let it ring a few times before I jump up to answer.  They do this so often that I almost turn the ringer down when I'm trying to sleep.  But I don't.  I don't because I'm theirs.  I don't belong to myself or a man or the world.  Three little people own every piece of me, including the few peaceful hours I had been hoping for today.  So, when the phone rang before 7am this morning, I rolled over to answer.  My Maya.  I could see her plain as if she were hovering over my bedside.  Crazy morning hair, rumpled polka dot jammies, and half opened eyes.  She wants to come home.  "Of course you can, my love".

After hanging up, I sighed.  For the disappointment I shouldn't feel.  For the day I needed to regroup.  For the coffee I wouldn't enjoy.  Then I remembered - I belong to her.  

I am home.  For this kid, my lap is where she pulls it all together.  For this kid, I am where no mask is needed.  For this kid, nothing else will do.

One day, she won't want to spend a Sunday curled up at my side.  One day, I'll be calling her at 7am... And she'll turn the ringer off.  One day, she won't beg me to come hold her hand.  She won't always want me to come have lunch at school.  And she won't rest her head on my chest in front of all of her friends.  One day, this kid will not need me.

Yes, it'll get easier.  I'll get to sleep and read.  I'll complete a thought or a sentence or even a day without being interrupted by an update on the happenings in Gotham.  One day, I'll get to the papers that overwhelm me and I'll be able to fall apart in the solitude I would covet today.  I'll be able to go for long runs and take short naps.  There will come a time when my full time, no day off, just be happy you were able to slam the coffee before the raven haired beauty peeked around the corner days will be easier.

But it won't get better.

Nothing is better than being homebase.  Nothing beats being the only human on earth whose voice can soothe a hurting heart or an upset belly.  There is no greater feeling than a tiny hand sneaking into the hands you've been clenching in stress and fear.  A full night's sleep would be nice and a break in the barrage of problems would be practically orgasmic, but opening the front door to find a relieved smile and the gentle eyes of a child come home?  It doesn't get any better.

Dear Eva,

Ten years ago today, I packed you up and brought you home to stay.  From tiny and dressed in a pink and white dress, to my own 77 pound wrecking ball who wouldn't wear pink (or a dress for that matter) if it killed her.  You have shown me what quiet strength is.

No, you aren't a typical kid.  Because typical is boring and predictable and average.

You are a pinball, a whirling dervish, a gift of life.

This year, you have changed so much.  From the quiet kid in the back of the class to the flourishing girl who can stand her own.  From the timid soccer player who didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings by stealing the ball to the first girl (and behind only 6 boys) to finish the cross country race that included much older kids.  From the whateveryouwantisfine kid to the nothanksilikethisbetter girl.  

This year, my love you found your voice.

And, you are less afraid to use it.

I couldn't be more proud of that.

You have handled every change and every struggle with a grace and a strength that I can only watch from the sidelines.  You have faced confusion and hurt and mistreatment with the kind of dignity that they name saints after.  You have continually shown me the way, and there's not a better shadow for any of us to stand in.

Eva, you are one of a kind.  Others may doubt you or misunderstand you or tell you different, but there is no one more valuable than you.

As I sang to you ten years ago, you remain my sunshine, my only sunshine,

Mama

Thank her.

You're lucky she is who she is.  Seriously, you should be thankful she is as genuinely good as she is.  In all seriousness, if she weren't the kind hearted person she is, your parents and I would be having an old school sit down right now.  

But Eva is a gentle soul.  And she asked me to stay on the sideline (for now), so all I can do is anonymously call you out on this blog.  So...

To the hateful, spiteful, jealous, unfit to smell her dirty soccer socks, 4th grade bully brats who made my girl cry into my sweater today:  you will never hold a candle to the kid you pick on so relentlessly.

You will never know the warmth of an open heart or the pride of academic accomplishment.

You will never understand the appreciation of the teachers or the humility of a quiet smile.

You will never have your mama's bursting pride or your little sister's complete devotion.

You, who call my girl names on the basis that the teacher praises her and leave her out of activities because she follows the rules; you, who look down at kids because of their clothes or their complete sense of self confidence.  You, who can only dream of the day you can hold your head as high as my girl can.

You.  Should.  Be.  Ashamed.  

Your parents should be ashamed.  

At least as ashamed as I am proud of my girl.

Because, even through her tears, my Eva showed you compassion - an empathy you don't deserve and could never understand.  And, it's the only thing that stops me from walking into that classroom tomorrow and making a scene.  Trust me, every ounce of self control I have ever needed can't begin to make a dent in what it will take me to not pull you aside when I am at the class Valentine party on Friday.  But she knows I will swoop in and save her, so she's asked me to let her try to handle it.

I've promised her that I will wait for her ok before I step in.  I've assured her that she is exactly who every kid should strive to be, and she has my complete support.  We agreed that you're just jealous little girls who should be more like her.  And, we hugged it out until the tears stopped.

But, know this:  if I have to hold a quivering kid in my arms again this week, it will be from your knocking knees - not her shaking shoulders.

Sunday mornings

We sat across the table drinking coffee.

Calm and quiet as a Sunday morning.  Calm and quiet on a Sunday morning.

Me - pinteresting words that find my soul.  You - learning to snowboard via you tube.

And, as the girls awoke, the table filled still more.  One by one, your side of the table filled.  Rather, the side newly claimed as yours.  One chair pulled close to your left side to watch the lessons.  One pulled to your right to shyly join the crew.  The final girl, always the one in her own world, quietly staking her claim to your presence in the background.

Me, watching the world get a little tighter at my little table.

Is this what we should have always been doing?  My girls and I?  Should we always have had someone to slip so easily into our Sundays?  Was there always supposed to be someone to smooth my edges and warm the big chair in the room?  Is it supposed to be this easy?

Warm coffee in my hand, more snowflakes to add to the pile of reasons to stay inside, three subtly happy girls, and you.

One look across the table and every question was answered.

Sunday mornings have come home to my table, and I will forget the time we didn't know their name.

The radio

She used to blast Jackson Browne on the 4 watt speakers in the car we had to use a seatbelt to hold the door closed.  In her own world, I don't know what or who she was thinking about; but, I remember more words to Running on Empty than I do to Mary had a Little Lamb.

So at the last stop light before Home Depot, when we were flipping through the radio, my mother jumped in the car with us.  It's funny how the simple melody of a song I haven't heard since I could drive so far away could make me a confused kid again.  My mother, the biggest mystery in my life.  I could only listen for a verse or two.  By the time the chorus had repeated twice, I could feel the quiet panic setting in.  Pulling into the parking lot, my hands were shaking.  What was wrong on those days?  Why was she always so.... not just sad or angry or melancholy, but all of those things at once?

The girls in my car might have wondered the same thing sometimes.  What songs will they remember me disappearing into?  Which station will leave them unsteady on a Saturday afternoon errand run?  Will they also remember the mornings we blasted Beastie Boys and car danced through the drop-off line at school?  Will they forget how we always, always, always throw our hands in the air when the song demands it?  And, will we ever learn the words to every Macklemore song?

All I know for sure is that my mother had a soundtrack that only she could illustrate.

I couldn't tell you if it was heartbreaking or healing for her on those car rides.  I can only say that, last Saturday afternoon, she sat beside me in a life she's never seen.  Still as lost as she ever was.  And, amid my own quiet happiness, I was a broken little kid again.  This time, though, I could just change the station.

Two guys walk into a bar

No, really.  They did.  

First, the cute one.  I saw him come in as we were watching the game.  With his hat pulled low over his eyes, the emphasis was on his perfect mouth.  He was maybe 21 and full of the confidence that comes with being that young.  The hostess brought him to the booth next to ours and, being the curious person I am, I was interested to see who would join him.

The second one came in completely unnoticed a few minutes later.  Just an average looking guy that no one, and I do mean no one paid any attention.  

The game was a good one and the friends around were fun, so I forgot about our next booth neighbors until a quiet moment in the action allowed their conversation to leak into my ears.

And, I was hooked.

Cute One's girlfriend is newly pregnant.  He seemed to have the unsure happiness that can only come from being that young and newly burdened with responsibility that may prove to be too much for those broad shoulders of his.  He wanted to talk to his friend about his job and general things that showed he was trying to grow into his big boy britches.  Captain Average wasn't having it.  CA wanted to talk his friend into "banging" the waitress at the bar.  "That's not the dude I know!  The dude I know would've banged anything that would stand still!  C'mon, bro.  She's hot!  Your girl doesn't have to know.  Is she even f@&$ing you anymore?  I bet she's getting big now."  

Cute One was trying to relate.  He was clearly torn between growing up and maintaining his impressive player status with his friend.  "Nah, man.  She's hot, but I can't.  My girl isn't fat, but she isn't skinny either.  When she's not pregnant, she maintains 145."  Side note.... Do not broadcast your woman's weight.  Unless she's a professional wrestler, she doesn't want it to be public knowledge.  Trust me.

This conversation went on for the rest of the game.  Cute One trying to talk about his company being bought out.  Captain Average rating every single backside that walked past.  CO explaining that he couldn't stay to hit on women because he had to go buy some tires.  CA harassing the poor waitress who just wanted to avoid their table.  CO politely asking for more water.  CA trying to smooth talk his way into free shots, but being relegated to the pop he could afford.

It was like a bad Facebook post with a string of comments that ranged from sexist to sleazy to pathetically sad.  

When they finally left, we got our first real look at CA.  Everyone agrees that he couldn't find a willing participant for his almost-definitely subpar 2 minute performance if he paid them.  And, while CO could've had his pick of several, he quietly left to go get his tires and return to his average weighted woman.  The yin and yang of young men today.  

Thank you, Captain.  You gave me a rather terrifying glimpse into what it means to be young, small minded, and desperate.  It was like watching a car wreck minutes before the collision.  You know it's coming and you're so thankful you turned off that road awhile ago.

Oh, and my team won.  RCJH!

19, 25, 15..... No, uh uh, and no effing way.

The dinnertime question tonight inspired quite the exuberant conversation.

"What age do you think is the right one to get married and why?"

Maya's answer came first...

19.  Because then you can find a cute boy and you won't have to be old and still be looking for one.  You can just spend your time looking for a boy and not baby stuff.

While I can't argue her logic of time management and I'm certainly all in favor for not "baby stuff" shopping at nineteen, I can't say I agree with the grab a cute boy and hang on approach.  Everyone over the age of 29 remembers the 19 year old boys they were surrounded with.... and we all avoided those imbeciles when we were 19.  So, let's all have a moment of thankfulness that we didn't marry them, and cross our fingers that my sweet baby girl realizes what a foolish plan this is before she brings that cute boy to my house.

Sofia was next...

25.  Because then you've had a chance to look around and you're not grabbing the first boy you see.  And you're not just having a baby and stuff.

Well, I married her father at 25.  We had already had a baby (her), and I knew I wanted more.  So, I agreed to marry the boy who asked me.... and we had two more babies....and then we, well, you know.  So, again, I appreciate her thought that at the ripe old age of 25, you've had plenty of time to look around.  And, for some people, it is plenty of time.  But, for others, you're still in rush mode, when you really need to be stuck in slo-mo for a few more years.

Finally, Eva says...

15.  Because that's when you're old enough to get the good boy.

Let's all pause for a moment and pray that this child's common sense catches up with her intellect before her mama's quick hand speed catches up with the "good boy" she brings home.  There's not much else I can say about her answer other than "oh.HELL.no."

Mama, what's your answer?

When you're old enough to really know who you are...and that is WAY after 19, 15, or 25.  I was 25 when I married your papi, and I had no idea who I was.  I knew who I wanted to be, but that's not the same.

Obviously, this was a silly conversation and I don't actually expect one of them to come bounding in at 15 engaged to some idiot hormonal boy from algebra class.  Though, I assure you that if one does, that pimple faced gutter-minded jackass will be History and his parents will be choosing a tombstone instead of which vocational academy to ship him off to.  And, it's fun to see how the mind of a six year old views such serious things as choosing a life partner.  And, if she's half as picky about her husband as she is about her rubber band color, it'll be long after her teen years before I have to worry about her wedding dress shopping.  The fact is: one day my girls will probably be wringing their hands trying to figure out how to tell me that they're getting married.  The truth is: no one will ever be good enough.  But, the reality is: it won't be my choice.  

Unless she's 15 then, while it's illegal to get married - I do believe you're still allowed to shoot an intruder.