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

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

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

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

Then I became one.

And I rocked it.

Hard.

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

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

And it ended anyway.

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

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

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

Good times, obviously.

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

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

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

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

Magazine aisle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By the way, that's an ugly coat.

Dear Eva,

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

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

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

I am your quiet, you are my wild.

I love you, sunshine.

Always, 

Mama

To you three

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

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

My girl.

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

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

Or maybe she won't.

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

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

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

Sincerely,

Her mama.

It's just fat

Can we talk about boobs for a second.

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

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

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

Free drinks.

And warnings rather than tickets.

And distraction from actual conversations.

Other than that, though, no real purpose.

So what's the big freakin deal?  

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

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

Absolutely nothing appealing about the photograph.

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

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

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

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

I want to understand.

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

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

If you're a good one, they're listening... And I found proof.

A pretty remarkable thing happened - happened three times, actually.  Someone made me a mother.  Not someone really, three daughters made me a mother.

Am I a good one?  Eh, on a good day, I'd say I'm averaging a 60% chance they won't ever work a pole or release a video shaking what their - well, what I - gave them.  On a forGod'sakejustputonacleanshirtbrushthetoptwolayersofslimefromyourteethandlet'sgo day, I'd say that average drops a few points.  But, hey, I'm trying.

The thing about daughters though, at least the thing I've worried about most lately is:  are they paying any attention?  When they see me keeping a house clean and safe, do they store that in their cluttered minds for the day when they finally (?) stop shoving Pandora's spare closet under their beds?  When I stress how important school is, can they hear me over the monotonous drone of the pretty definitely future dropout teen mom besties?  And when, at the end of a particularly trying day, we still snuggle for an extra minute and read that last book one more time; will they remember that I love them regardless of the attitudes and angst?

I guess there's no way to know but to wait.

Except, I got to see what is at the end of the road when a truly superb mother rests with her daughter.

A mother who also wondered if her baby girl was hearing her at all.

Guess what:  if you do it right, they're listening.

They're watching you mop those floors, and they will stay up late to do it when you can't.

They're standing in your bathroom doorway rolling their eyes, but they will lotion your head while waiting for your hair to grow back.

Yes, you are driving them crazy, but they will keep your wig fabulous and make sure your meds are taken on time.  They will drop everything to wear your shoes and hold your hand - if you're a good one.

If you're the kind of mother that inspires the kind of selfless devotion that brings a remarkable daughter to your side, there are certain undeniable truths to be found.  Number one being this:  you did it right.

They are definitely listening.

Goodbye

Goodbye is brutal.

It's looking at every breath you have left and knowing their eyes will never fall on yours again.

It's marking off a destination, a haven or a hole, that you called your own on the only map you have to use.

And, whether it's a choice or a misfortune, goodbye changes the shape of your step.

Goodbye is honest.

It's letting go because of every reason you can't deny and every excuse you are blinded by.

It's accepting the power you wield or the complete impotence you despise.

Sometimes, saying goodbye is the most truth you can carry with you out the door.

Goodbye is a gift.

Not every love knows how deep it runs and the weight of honor isn't felt on the shoulders of everyone who earns it.

Not everyone gets to see the hole before they're chest deep; and, being able to take a deep breath first gives you a better chance at making it to the other side.

On the hardest of days, the last goodbyes are the ones you unwrap slowly.  Savor the flavor of their voice as the last honor they give to you.

Goodbye is brave.

And, whether quiet or deafening, in a crowd or the privacy of a warm kitchen table, challenged or broken, goodbye is impossibly beautiful.