One hour into a rudderless ship

She loved me back.

The woman who stood on a toilet to braid my hair

Who fed me at her already full table

Who taught me the proper way to size a bra

The woman who always tried to convince me to carry myself like I was someone.  Because, to her, I am someone.

I was someone.

I was her niece.  I was her goddaughter.  I was, sometimes, her headache.  I was the mother of her three "favorite" little girls.  

I was indescribably lucky.

I lost a huge piece of my map this morning with the loss of my Aunt Baba.  My girls lost the woman who showed them more love and fun than almost anyone else in their world.  My cousins lost their guide.  And, my uncle lost more than I can imagine.

It's hard to think happy when you're broken.  It's hard to feel anything through the avalanche.  But we wouldn't have just lost so much if she hadn't given so much.  Been so much.

She loved me back.  For my whole life.  Kindly but not gently.  Without fail or reason. 

She loved me back.

Thank you, Baba.  For braiding my hair and crying at my wedding.  For answering every call and knowing how to mother.  For taking me in and for bandaging my falls.  For adoring my girls and helping me get it right.  Thank you for telling me when I was stupid and being there when you were proven right.  I love you unbending and constant.  Thank you for always loving me back.

Sari Sue

Dear Maya,

And then there was you.

I can't tell you how many times that sentence has followed you into a room.  When you come bounding in pretending to be a princess cheetah invisible to everyone but loud enough to start an antelope stampede four continents away.  When you tell the most outlandish story any fiction writer would give his lifetime supply of gigabyte storage for just to explain why your socks don't match.  When you won't let go of the last morning hug even though you insisted I was so mean all morning for making you brush all of your teeth.  When you pair a pink pettiskirt with black sparkly boots and blue leggings to make our Target run.  And, most especially, when you insist on sitting on my lap for each and every movie night.

Oh, my littlest love, you bring life to a room stagnant with normal.  You take me from just being to neon colors and laughing fits.  You are a force that can't be managed, and I envy that most.  A triple layer cupcake atop a pile of day old muffins, you are.  And not even a little afraid to show it.

On the morning we were first introduced, you looked at me like we were going to be great friends.  And on this morning that marked our eighth year, you look at me like we always will be.

Thank you, my fiercest love, for continuing to bring light to my tired eyes.  Because, no matter what else comes my way, I am so grateful to be able to say - and then there's Maya.

Always,

Mama

Recognition

My girls know me.  They know me.  The way my voice rises at a much slower rate than my eyebrow.  The way the hollow of my collar bone smells at the end of the day.  That the speed of my step is exactly 42% faster than theirs, except Eva who could be lapped by a slug on a humid day.  They know how much coffee it takes to make me manageable and that they must always always leave me at least three shrimp from the platter.  They know me because I'm their mama and they know me in a way they can only share with each other.

Sometimes I forget I knew someone like that as well.

This morning I remembered, and it brought me back to her shadow.

I knew her.  And today, from half a country away and two different sides of a problem, we have forgotten each other.

Maybe if I called her "mom" one more time, all this ugly would heal.

If I saw the sharpness of the chin that jabbed my collar the time she hugged me at the airport.

If she said my name maybe I'd hear something different.  Some bit of recognition.  Something that would take the sting out of the last conversation we had.  The last time I knew her.

The gravel of her voice.  The distance in her eyes.  The laugh that showed no real humor.  The sadness in her steps.

My girls would recognize me in a crowd of a hundred brown haired, brown eyed, cranky women simply by the curve of my right cheek.  

Would I recognize her in a room of ten?  Would she know me in a room of three?

And would it matter if we did?

Today I wish I could find out.

Contact list

I go through my daughter's phone about once every couple of weeks.  This is a practice I am fully justified in doing for multiple reasons.  The main one being I know the difference between this is a great pic/message to send and nope....don't want this one wallpapering the halls of my Presidential Library.  Of course, vodka moves the standard line several feet - this is why I lock my phone every other Saturday night.

Anyway, in my random perusing, I've yet to find anything her mama...wait that's me!...would have a problem with.

In fact, last night I found something that made me so proud I almost woke her up to high five.

My girl has begun the process of assigning nicknames to people who matter.  It brings a sarcastic little tear to my eye to see "needs mental help" and "the psychopath" on her contact list.

I have been dubbed "life giver".  And, that's right, what I giveth I occasionally threaten to taketh away.

People.  This may be my proudest mama moment so far because, if you matter to me, you are not in my phone under the good name your mama gave you.  If you matter at all (good or bad) you are

#1 uncle

8 pack

Billie Jean

Redbull

Dear Leader

Eyebrows

Get Some Dignity

Holliday 

Lamb

Abs

Mother Google Earth

My Nerd

Price Chopper

Sunshine

Sexy Swede

Town Cryer

And several variations of no ranging from Absolutely Not to In case of Emergency Break Glass

Just to name a few.

You may not have memorized a number since the early 90s, but I can't remember a single legal name to put as a reference on job applications.  Well, maybe a few, but they wouldn't give me a rave review - that's why I still know what their Grandma calls them.

And now I can see my incredible wisdom taking shape on my eldest's phone. It makes my chest swell to see how well I'm doing at this parenting thing.  I may even change myself to "oh wise one" just to see how long it takes her to figure out who is calling.

Dear Sofia,

Fourteen years of these letters and I still never know how to start yours.

You were my first love at first sight.  My first grown up steps happened only shortly before your first wobbly ones.  You, my gorgeous girl, will always be my first happiness.  And that isn't only because you are my oldest child.  It's because you are happiness.  

Big things have happened this year, and you have handled each with the awkward grace I envy.  Your heart-deep laugh has carried us through some days we shouldn't have seen.  And that, among many other reasons, is why your sisters and I are so lucky to have you.

I couldn't be more proud that, despite every mistake I've made and every learning curve I've carved into our relationship, you have never been anything less than astounding.  You are a singular force, mija.  And no one can take credit for that but you.

Fourteen years ago, the nurse handed me a black haired beauty with no expectations and no plans.  I am so grateful I didn't know then where you were headed - I would've been too intimidated to call you mine.  

Thank you.  For making me look good.  For leading the way.  For being the band nerd I never knew I wanted.  For reading Jane Austen when other girls are sneaking around doing things you thankfully haven't dreamt of yet.  For loving me back.

Always,

Mama

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.