Imagery as a goal

                                                

The caption said that the goal was to reach behind your back and touch your belly button.

The goal.

The average healthy person's reaction to this image and it's stated goal: that's ridiculous and disgusting and dangerous.

The average damaged and struggling person's reaction: close bathroom door, try to reach belly button from behind back, fail, make this an actual goal.

The goal.

This imagery is everywhere and not everyone is strong or comfortable enough to see the idiocy.  Not everyone can see the airbrush strokes or the broken capillaries.  This imagery is, for some, the real life goal.

And, it's not vanity.  It won't be a public victory.  It's the kind they'll reach in the darkened silence of their own sadness.  Then they will be battered with another image and a new goal.

Because there's always always always another image.

And another goal.

Until someone finds a solution and these images are replaced with healthy, smiling faces.

Until that is the goal.

Random advice inspired by the first cup of coffee on a rainy, quiet morning

Be an adventure.  Be the off-road.  Oh, girls, be the I've never been this way before and it looks too challenging for me but my God it would be worth the effort experience.

Wear the lacy, no support, thank goodness for youthful muscles bras as long as you can.  Later, they'll be strictly for function, so enjoy the form as long as you can.

Know the difference between what you can handle and what you should.  Some things have to be endured (death, knock down drag outs with your sisters, bad hair days) and some do not (cheating boyfriends, backstabbing friends, red dye #8).   You are worth more than struggles and not everything has to be hard.

There are a million types of boys.  It's fine to have a type.   Dark hair, light eyes, tall, broad shoulders, the "V" which you will discover one day, no one knows what it's called but everyone will follow it to the closest cliff, whatever you deem to be your "type" is fine.  But, know this:  lots and lots of types of boys, but only two types of men.  Good and not good.  When it comes right down to it, looks don't mean a single thing if all you're looking through are tears.

If you like it, that's all it takes to make it important.  Decide for yourself what floats your boat, then get in and row row row.  People of value will follow or cheer you on and that's how you will know who to leave behind.

Fall for an accent.  It's fine, everyone does it.  There's a lot to be said for having to lean in close and stare at a mouth as it forms "excuse me, miss, where is the library?  And one beer, please".

Love your mama.  She sat down one day and wrote random lessons she learned the hard way while praying you'd sleep long enough for her to finish the last sentence.

Then she made you waffles.

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