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.

Old keys to an old house made new.

Today was big for me.  Today, I did something I never dreamed I would accomplish on my own.  And, I did it all on my own size 8's.

Today, the house I've made into a home for more than nine years is mine.  All mine.  The ex-husband's name is off of the title.  My name is the only one you'll find on the papers linking me to the next thirty years of payments.  And, while that is an overwhelming prospect, I am proud of myself.

I said it.  I'm proud of myself.  Know how many times those words have passed my lips?  Wrong.  Not once.  Today, though, I can say it without reservation.

My mother never owned a house.  

It never occurred to me that one day THIS DAY (!!!!!!!!!) I would claim an address all my own.

Throughout the ugliest days of a truly ugly marriage, I knew I couldn't leave partly because I didn't want my children to lose their home.  

I mean, who is a stay at home mama for thirteen years and two short years later gets to sign the mortgage for the only home her children have ever known?

This crazy lady, that's who.

So, yes, people do this every day.  When I left the bank this afternoon, there were probably three couples waiting their turn.  Yes, single people buy houses every day.  Truly successful at life people who couldn't dream of depending on another person for anything.  And, yes, this house isn't much compared to most.  Indeed, now I'm officially in charge of keeping the roof hole-free and the plumbing flowing.

But I did what no one thought I could.  I walked free from an overwhelming sadness - without ever having to walk out the door.  My door.  

Six digit figures headed in the wrong direction never felt so good.

Not what I wanted to say

What I want to tell her is, "No.  Don't change who you are for any man - not even him."

But I can't.  Not about this one man.  This is the one man I have to keep my big trap shut about.

So, instead I tell her all the reasons no one should not love her.

I tell her she can do, say, be, love, dress, walk, act absolutely any way her heart desires.

I tell her that, while no one is perfect, she's as close as I've ever seen.

I tell her I will never ignore her texts or silence her ringtone.

I remind her that she is loved and adored and respected by everyone who really knows her.

And, I hug her hard enough that she squeezes me back in reassurance.

But what I want to do is different.

I want to get in my car, drive to this person's face, and tell him to wake the f&$@ up.  I want to take away his privileges and remind him that's what she is.  I want to shake him until he sees that her first lesson in pain should never have his stamp on it.  I want to give her what she deserves instead of what I mistook for an option.

I want to fix every hole that's been dug into her wide open heart.

I have always known I can't shield them from every bad guy.  It just never occurred to me that I'd be the one to introduce them.

What I wanted to say wasn't what came to her ears, but what she needed flowed freely.  

And that was my privilege as much as my responsibility.

New year, same-ish you

I am ashamed to say I had a conversation with myself yesterday morning that I've had every New Years morning since the dawn of time (because if you don't feel 1000 years old on any January first, are you even real living?).  And, no, I'm not ashamed of the fact that I was talking to myself.  It was only mostly aloud and the shower was running so I could've been talking to Poseidon - no one will ever know for sure.

Anyway, I'm ashamed that I seemed to be talking myself into a predetermined narrative.

I wanted to say this year should be better.  Better than last.  Better than what I got for working my behind off all of last year.  Better than the last twelve months I spent loving my girls and striving so freaking hard to make their lives better.

But, honestly, the last year wasn't so bad.

There were some absolutely awful parts.

I lost someone more important than most.  Not a single day has passed since May that we haven't talked about her and missed her and wished we could call her.

I also lost a lot who turned out to be less than important.  I started this year with a fairly wide circle and ended it with one I can reach my arms around.  And, I'm working on accepting that this is just fine.  My people and I are just fine on our own.

I let go of relationships that were beyond repair by learning to stop giving before I empty myself.  Some people simply aren't worth the gifts of patience and loyalty.

I realized some lessons had been forgotten...so I'm trying to relearn the scars.  This is the biggest struggle for me.  I tried so hard to get to a spot where I could say I wasn't so bad, that realizing I'm back to watching others spotlight my flaws feels like I'm at the bottom of the mountain again.  But I know this mountain and I've clawed my path to the top before, I can do it again.

Really though, 2015 wasn't too bad to us.

We have each other, day in and day out.  Sometimes we even like that!  

The girls are learning and growing and becoming so much.  I am so grateful to have the front row seat for the greatest show on earth (circus reference intended).  

Sofia and I had our first major war this year, and I truly wasn't sure we would make it.  But she held that hug just long enough last night (even though I thoroughly dominated our Uno tournament) for me to believe we'll be better than mortal enemies eventually.

These people - my people - and I had a pretty good year.  And, with a few big exceptions, we'd be alright if we had the same 365 ahead of us.

So, yes, I'm ashamed that I tried to talk myself into regretting yet another year of growth and kitchen dances.  I'm embarrassed to say I almost forgot the soccer celebrations and great broccoli debates.  I should have known better than to deny the silly faced selfies and car serenades.  

Talking to myself, though?  Nothing wrong with that at all - ask me.  But don't interrupt, that's just rude.

Here's to another year laid out ahead of us - all shiny and new.  May it be nothing we can't handle and only most of what we've seen before.