Job #1, check.

There's a jar that sits on our kitchen table marked "Family dinner questions".  It's been a staple of every dinner for a couple of years now.  We fill it with questions that provoke conversations (not the standard yes/no answers I got way too frequently before the jar appeared) and it can only be done when we are all at home (hence, a complete family conversation).  The questions are anything from "if you could create your own school, what would it be like?" to "if you could invent your own ice cream flavor, what would it be?" to "what do you think your parents were like when they were kids?".  Simple questions that often provoke some giggles and sometimes some disagreements.

The other night, the question was: "Who do you trust the most and why?"

Unanimously. 

Simultaneously.

And within a breath of the question being read.

"Mama."

I'm not much of a smiler.  I'm not much of a blusher.  Hell, I'm not much of a self-prider.

But I was all three in the minutes that followed.  Honestly, I'm feeling all of it as I write this.

My people aren't hurting in the love and support categories.  They are all incredible human beings, and that means they attract those kind of people to them.  My girls are surrounded by people who would, and have, dropped everything to help them.  There have been times when I felt the failure of doing the wrong thing for these, my completely right daughters.  There have been many nights when I broke under the pressure of trying to keep up with their needs and dreams.

And the moments when it is shown to me that they don't mind my frequent missteps flabbergast me every single time.

They trust me.  Most of all.

They have options, and they choose me.  They have evidence of my complete ineptitude, and they choose me.  No one has ever done that before - chosen me.  And I cannot imagine a better veteran victory.

These girls don't always like me.  They may not always respect my dinner choices.  They could, one day, not pick me for driveway soccer.  But they trust me more than anyone else on earth.

I must be doing something right.

The man. The myth. The legend.

It's Father's Day.  Honestly, not a big deal around this house.  For reasons too painful and numerous and confusing to parse out.

But there's this guy.

He's side-splitting funny.

He's honorable and generous.

He's reliable and kind and caring.

He makes the absolute best Caesar dressing.

He's never, not one single time in my whole lotta years, let me down.

He loves my girls as if they were the most impressive little people on earth.

He's always got a box full of Pirelli swag to hand out to the least automotive people he knows.

And, he is the only person to ever think, let alone say, that I am easy to love.

Happy Father's Day, Uncle Pat.

Thank you for letting Aunt Baba mother me.  Thank you for insisting on calling me Sari Sue despite the fact that I'm now old as dirt.  Thank you for being the only man my mother could tell her boyfriends "Don't talk to Sarah like that in front of him - he won't allow it."  Thank you for respecting my actions as a mama even when you thought (probably fairly) I was being too strict.  Thank you for waiting till I left the room to give them ice cream anyway.  Thank you for FaceTime conversations and one night in town quick lunches.  Thank you for loving me.

I couldn't be luckier.

Always,

Sarah

Anonymity turns your insecurity into false bravery

She friended him on Instagram because she thought the request came from a kid at school.  I have told them, from the time I granted supervised access to social media, not to friend anyone they didn't know in real life.  The only exception being, of course, Harry Potter.  Obviously, a wizard is an important ally in this muggle world.

So she allowed a kid she thought she recognized to follow her on Instagram.  Harmless because she posts pictures like 

And 

So what harm could come from showing her perspective to the world, right?

Wrong, of course.

Enter this person

This person went on a two day campaign of tagging my child in memes like "ugliest person on the Internet".  This person who, it turns out, has never met my child.  This person who, it turns out, actually lives in Texas.  This person who, it turns out, is just too far out of my range of annihilation.  

He hurt my child.  Obviously for no reason and obviously out of insecurity and inferiority.  But none of that mattered to the big brown eyes that poured out pleas for help.

So I researched.  I enlisted help from anyone I thought could give it.  I waited impatiently.  And all I could discover was his location and complete lack of responsibility.  The Internet offered him anonymity and he used it to interfere with my child.  To wander into her days and cause her to doubt things everyone who actually knows her tells her in real life.

Because that's what we do, right?  We, the "good" guys, allow the opinions of salt shakers (his Instagram profile) to shape our views.  While the bad guys hide on their neighbor's wifi and spew ignorance and judgements.  We set aside what we know to be true for things that maybe could be true because why else would a stranger say it to me.  

We give power to the simple minded and the weak.  We give our power to the unworthy and the cowardly.  Until we realize that those living in the shadows are there because we put them there.  They are living in the shadows of the rest of us who can stand tall enough in the light to cast a hiding place for the inconsequential and the insignificant.

My child doesn't stand in the light for this punk to hide behind her.  She stands there because that's where she belongs.

I can't talk to this person's parents, but I can tell my child exactly the same thing I would've told them.

He is nothing on the map of my kid's life and will be forgotten by next month.  As he should be.  But if I ever see him in real life, the shadows won't help him.

If you give a kid a box

If you give a kid a box, her eyes will light up and she will excitedly empty it of its goodies.  Then one of her sisters will use her best manners to ask to keep the box.  And the kid will say "ok" while she trots off with the goodies.  Then, out of nowhere, the other sister will declare the box is hers.

That kid will decide to create a getaway in the box. 

When the first sister cries foul, she will say mean, though basically true, things about the stowaway.

Then that sister will smack the stowaway on what she presumes to be the forehead.

This will cause the oldest sister to strike back using her words - as mama always taught her.

Finally, the manners using, sweet hearted middle sister will wrestle the box away and take her final revenge (?).

All because you gave a box to a kid who missed all the fun because she was off with the goodies and didn't recognize the value of the box.

The end.

Dear Maya,

Words fail, my littlest love.  

To define you.

To describe my love for you.

To characterize everything that you are.

I know because I tried.  I decorated your bedroom door last night in nothing but words I intended to capture you.  I got to forty seven before I gave up.  

Because you are so much.  You are every one of the basic qualities that all of the greats embody - smart, funny, beautiful, good.  And, you are all the important character traits of any good cartoon villain - wily, brilliant, ornery, and oh so very charming.

My love,  you have always been more.  And, every year, I find undiscovered territory through your eyes.  Challenging heights and breathtaking vistas.  Indescribable pride and unfathomable storylines.  Being your mama is, to put it simply, the source of most of my gray hair and almost all of my laugh lines.

Whether they're from your patient teachers, your impatient sisters, your many admirers or your exasperated mama, all stories begin with the same sentence :  "I love her, but you won't believe what Maya did."

We do believe it though.  Because, at nine years old, you are simply more than other kids.  Not better or worse, just more.

And we would have you no other way.  No matter how unbelievably ornery you are proven to be, you continue to be soft and loving.  Brave and strong.  Genuine and full of love.

More than forty seven words.  More than I could have ever dreamed of.  Undefinable and free from anyone's simplification of who you should be.

Happy birthday to the girl who overflows my patience and my heart.  Thank you for never giving me rest or calm.  I remain grateful you allow me to bask in your shine.

Always,

Mama

I'm NOT scared of you!

Every time one of you throws a fit I say it - I'm not scared of you.

During ever hormonal outburst and from in front of every slammed door I yell out - I'm not scared of you.

Even each time you're coming at me in driveway soccer and we both know you'll probably score on me - I ain't scared of you.

I'm not scared of a little eye roll or a foot stomped on my rules.  You don't make me tremble when you anoint me Meanest Mama Ever.  Not even a little.  Ok, maybe the ball flying at my head gives me pause, but I'm not scared of your athletic ability.

What I don't tell you, though, is this:  you three terrify me.

Like no one else ever has (and many have tried), like nothing else ever could (and we all know how I feel about snakes).  I am scared of you every day.

What if you wake up one day and decide rules and broccoli  just aren't for you anymore, and you decide you want to live with him?

What am I going to do when you realize that I'm just making this up as we're going along and I know no more than you do about raising three girls?

Not to mention the fact that there will come a time when you realize that I'm gravely outnumbered and sadly outclassed.

And, my biggest fear, what the hell am I supposed to do when you leave for "good"?

Every night I update my countdown to nothingness.  I have nine years, eleven and a half days left before Maya graduates high school.  And I'm scared for me.  

That's it.  I'm not afraid of you, but I am petrified for me.  You are the only people on earth I couldn't live without.  But I will.  

Three days are coming that will leave me breathless and empty.  Three days I longed for when you were throwing mashed peaches and diaper pails rendered my house unfit to breathe in.  Three days I thought would bring me full nights of sleep and full days of nothing Disney related.  Three days of completed thoughts and leisurely walks in the grocery store aisles with a basket instead of a cart.

So you don't scare me, my loves.  Knowing I'm working this hard to get you comfortable on your own feet does.  Understanding that nothing will make me more proud or more sad than watching you pack up the room I've rented to you for so long - those moments keep me up at night.  And the idea that I only have nine years, eleven and a half days left?  I'm shaking now just thinking of it.

When do I know I'm done?

Knowing you're done having kids is a lot like knowing you're ready to have kids.

You don't know until it happens.

I wasn't the person who grew up wanting to have kids.  I did a little babysitting, but that was for the need for money - not the need for a little person in my life.  I honestly don't remember a single instance where I just couldn't get enough of someone's baby.  Then, when I was about nineteen, I hung out with a group of slightly older people and they had kids.  I didn't relish their lives at all and I was glad to leave and go to my own quiet apartment.  Until, one day, I couldn't put down the baby girl they were babysitting.

* And, by babysitting, I mean they still had huge drinking parties but now there was a one year old attending too.*

I don't know if it was my protective instincts or my childhood filled with drunk and dangerous people in my personal space; but, I wouldn't put that baby down.  She sat on my lap while I played dominoes and I carried her around the empty bottles and full ashtrays rocking her to sleep and staring at her perfect face.

Still, I didn't contemplate having children at all.  I just didn't mind being an auntie when someone needed one.

Until Sofia came along.  The instant I knew I would be a mama, I knew I could be one.  I could do it.  I didn't know how or why I could, and I didn't know who she would be; but, I was ready for her.

And I was ready for Eva.

And I was ready for Maya.  

*in hind site, no one is ready for Maya, but I was as close as one will ever be.

By the time she rolled around to two years old, I knew I was done though.  That was the age each of the other two girls were when we started trying for another baby, but I didn't feel that urge at all after Maya.  She was supposed to be my last child, and I remain completely comfortable with that decision.

Babies are incomparable and amazing.  But so is eating dinner when it's hot because they can cut their own food.

Snuggling up with a warm, soft face pressed to your neck is quite simply the best feeling in the world.  But a close second is holding onto the edge of the bleachers while your kid scores a goal with a move she's practiced for years.

Little, high pitched voices calling your name because it's the only word they know is a beautiful song.  But hearing your child's name from the podium at awards night ain't too bad either.

Undoubtedly, there are things you just can't get once they're too old to scoop up and carry on your hip anymore.  And, yes, there are absolutely times that I would love to see the look you get when the school doors open and they catch sight of you through the crowd.  There is nothing that compares to tiny arms wrapped around your neck and the smell of baby hair pressed to your chin.

But it's so much easier to get that from other people's babies.

That way, they go home and you don't have to change the diapers.

I suppose what I'm saying is this:  I'm done having little black haired girls.  My hands are overflowing.

But there's always room for your little person to hang out for as long as they're willing.