I've gotten two emails this morning from our school district. One from each of my kids' schools, both on the same topic - spurred by multiple and separate incidents. None of which directly involve my girls, this time.
"Racially motivated" is how the schools describe them. At the middle school, there is derogatory language being thrown about freely in the hallways - sometimes aimed directly at a child, other times free to anyone within earshot. "Some students feel unsafe and unwelcome". Sticks and stones though, right? The high school says there was a physical altercation with direct evidence that it was based on race. I'll have to wait until our family dinner table conversation this evening to hear more about that one, I suppose.
"Predominately Caucasian" would be a gross understatement when describing our tiny dot on the map. Before this year, I could count the number of kids, outside of my home, who would check a box other than "white" on one hand. This year, I'd say there were at least 5 at the 5th-6th grade band concert. Eva, Sofia, and I were actually surprised at the number of families that more closely resembled ours in the audience. I would say I am sad but hopeful that this marks the beginning of a shift in our immediate environment.
Is this influx of flavor the cause of the panic that must have incited the recent uptick in "racially motivated" incidents? Is it the current occupant of the White House and his incessant fire starting? Is it the schools' newfound realization that they cannot just allow the "kids will be kids" dismissal anymore? Are parents really supporting the type of language and aggression that cannot be hidden by their children at home?
I don't know.
Is this "racially motivated" harassment really new, though? No.
"Burnt chocolate chip"
"Not the brown one!"
"So-and-so isn't allowed to come to our house. Her parents said no."
"Do you even speak English?"
"Your mom shouldn't make you eat that (chile rellenos), it's weird."
It goes on and on. Since my girls started school, I have had meeting after meeting with teachers (not all going the way you'd hope they would), back and forth emails with administrators (increasingly positive and willing to listen and help), cornered parents at class parties, cornered children at class parties, dealt with people at the crosswalks. and removed my children from sports teams. I have dried the stains left by heartbreak, explained bigotry to little minds too open to understand the concept, and reminded three pre-teen desperate for acceptance young ladies that there is beauty in everyone - but a little extra in them. Because of course that's what a mama does. Every mama wants her children to feel safe and wanted. Unfortunately, not all kids are granted the luxury of feeling it in every space they occupy.
I grew up in a diverse area, surrounded by every flavor of person I could imagine. And, while it was completely normal to me, I now see it as a luxury. Now, through the eyes of my girls, I see that differences are so much more glaring when they are in the minority.
"One of these things is not like the other...one of these things doesn't belong". A song that plays in my head every time I can pick my kid out from a mile away and in the dark when I have to pick her up from a school event. And, yes, she is not like the other... but she sure as hell always belongs.
2019 begins in 25 days. 2019. And parent emails from schools still start with "Racially motivated". Something as simple as some pigment and an accent is still enough to make an entitled child make another child unsure of safety and welcome. 20 fucking 19.
It starts at home, people. Clean up your messes before they leave a stain on my daughters.
Ponytails and pancakes
Friday, December 7, 2018
Sunday, November 18, 2018
Unfinished, four years and two months apart
I found this in a spot I used to write a lifetime or three ago, and I could've felt the words this morning just the same:
I want to write.
I want to love.
I want to write.
I want to love.
I want to show the girls the possibilities of a life well lived.
I want to become the women I admire most.
I want to chase down every fleeting fantasy I ever let go because of fear or doubt or indecision.
I want to give comfort and friendship and all the right things.
But most days I barely make it past coffee before wanting to give up.
The steps that follow the front door seem impossibly trying.
Most days, the ocean of energy it takes to feign indifference is dry before I'm dressed for work.
So I don't write anymore. Nothing worth reading at least.
I don't love anymore.
My example of how to keep putting one uninspired foot in front of the other is the only example I offer the girls these days.
Those women I admire get further and further away every day that I'm stuck in the past.
And, the few who tried to stay see now that I have nothing to offer them worth holding onto.
So there is only this. Deafening silence. Walls unscaled. Bridges burned. And wounds unhealed.
This isn't living, and I know that. Waiting for a reason to try
And this morning's unfinished attempt:
It's quiet this morning. A peaceful quiet. The kind that comes after the choice I wasn't sure of. The kind of quiet that doesn't really hurt too much. The dog has been let out and fed his breakfast. I've had the first cup of slightly bitter coffee and we've retired back to bed for his post-yogurt and egg nap. But the lonely isn't as harsh this Sunday morning. Maybe I'm just finally used to the acceptance of it. Maybe the paw resting on my belly- the closest I've come to being the little spoon in recent memory- is comfort enough. Maybe I really have finally been rendered empty. Truthfully, I hope so.
Two different mornings, four years and five inches apart. One day maybe I'll finish something again.
And this morning's unfinished attempt:
It's quiet this morning. A peaceful quiet. The kind that comes after the choice I wasn't sure of. The kind of quiet that doesn't really hurt too much. The dog has been let out and fed his breakfast. I've had the first cup of slightly bitter coffee and we've retired back to bed for his post-yogurt and egg nap. But the lonely isn't as harsh this Sunday morning. Maybe I'm just finally used to the acceptance of it. Maybe the paw resting on my belly- the closest I've come to being the little spoon in recent memory- is comfort enough. Maybe I really have finally been rendered empty. Truthfully, I hope so.
Two different mornings, four years and five inches apart. One day maybe I'll finish something again.
Monday, September 24, 2018
Last night I told my daughters that there's nothing they could do that would make sexual assault their fault.
Last night, around the table where they used to draw smiling stick figures and yellow balls spitting out sunlight, I told my daughters that it doesn't matter if they've been drinking.
Beneath the stain from the peach puree Maya flung to the ceiling from her highchair a decade ago, I said it didn't matter what they were (or were not) wearing.
It doesn't matter if they're on a date.
Or if they really like(d) the person.
Into three sets of big brown eyes, I said it doesn't even matter if they thought maybe they wanted the person to touch them but then changed their mind.
Doesn't matter if they're two or sixty.
Or if it's a man, a woman, or a child.
Or if it's a relative, a boyfriend, a girlfriend, or a stranger.
If he's the most popular or powerful or scariest. If she's important or well known or rich.
The moment they say "no" it's over. End of story.
Anything after the no is assault, I told them.
Anything after the no is wrong. The other person's wrong. Not theirs. Never ever theirs.
And I will believe you, I told them. I will always believe you. Believe in you.
I read one report of a child who didn't tell her mother because her mother always said she would kill anyone who hurt her baby. That little girl was so afraid her mother would go to jail for killing the man who hurt her that she stayed quiet. That one got to me. I told this story to my girls last night at the table where all important decisions are made.
"You would do that, mama. I know it."
"I would want to, mija. For sure. But how about this. I promise I would handle it in whatever way is best for you. Whatever way you would want me to."
I bargained with my children about how I would handle the worst possible situation that would come across that table. These aren't the kinds of conversations anyone can prepare you for.
Last night I sat the three most important choices I ever made down at the table where we gather to eat or to laugh or to whoop each other's behinds at Uno and I did my best to ensure that they don't walk my path. That's really the number one thing I've always tried to teach them: please don't follow me, you're so much better than that.
Guilt is a powerful thing and blame is a heavy burden. Neither is something you grow out of either. It isn't something you eventually shed and forget about. Thinking your pain is of your own doing will change the entire way you move through the world until you cannot take one more step.
No more skipping or dancing or flying. No more light.
The only thing more powerful than shedding unwanted weight from your shoulders is knowing it was never yours to carry.
Like every parent, I don't ever want to experience the pain of someone hurting my child. But the idea of my child hurting and not reporting that suffering to the person entrusted to protect them? That would be my ultimate failure.
Last night, around the table where I slowly watched their legs grow long enough for their feet to touch the floor, I told my daughters that there's nothing they could do to make sexual assault their fault.
All the while, fingers crossed that at tables around the world, boys were being reminded that no means no. And hesitation means no. And really anything other than yes means no.
Last night, around the table where they used to draw smiling stick figures and yellow balls spitting out sunlight, I told my daughters that it doesn't matter if they've been drinking.
Beneath the stain from the peach puree Maya flung to the ceiling from her highchair a decade ago, I said it didn't matter what they were (or were not) wearing.
It doesn't matter if they're on a date.
Or if they really like(d) the person.
Into three sets of big brown eyes, I said it doesn't even matter if they thought maybe they wanted the person to touch them but then changed their mind.
Doesn't matter if they're two or sixty.
Or if it's a man, a woman, or a child.
Or if it's a relative, a boyfriend, a girlfriend, or a stranger.
If he's the most popular or powerful or scariest. If she's important or well known or rich.
The moment they say "no" it's over. End of story.
Anything after the no is assault, I told them.
Anything after the no is wrong. The other person's wrong. Not theirs. Never ever theirs.
And I will believe you, I told them. I will always believe you. Believe in you.
I read one report of a child who didn't tell her mother because her mother always said she would kill anyone who hurt her baby. That little girl was so afraid her mother would go to jail for killing the man who hurt her that she stayed quiet. That one got to me. I told this story to my girls last night at the table where all important decisions are made.
"You would do that, mama. I know it."
"I would want to, mija. For sure. But how about this. I promise I would handle it in whatever way is best for you. Whatever way you would want me to."
I bargained with my children about how I would handle the worst possible situation that would come across that table. These aren't the kinds of conversations anyone can prepare you for.
Last night I sat the three most important choices I ever made down at the table where we gather to eat or to laugh or to whoop each other's behinds at Uno and I did my best to ensure that they don't walk my path. That's really the number one thing I've always tried to teach them: please don't follow me, you're so much better than that.
Guilt is a powerful thing and blame is a heavy burden. Neither is something you grow out of either. It isn't something you eventually shed and forget about. Thinking your pain is of your own doing will change the entire way you move through the world until you cannot take one more step.
No more skipping or dancing or flying. No more light.
The only thing more powerful than shedding unwanted weight from your shoulders is knowing it was never yours to carry.
Like every parent, I don't ever want to experience the pain of someone hurting my child. But the idea of my child hurting and not reporting that suffering to the person entrusted to protect them? That would be my ultimate failure.
Last night, around the table where I slowly watched their legs grow long enough for their feet to touch the floor, I told my daughters that there's nothing they could do to make sexual assault their fault.
All the while, fingers crossed that at tables around the world, boys were being reminded that no means no. And hesitation means no. And really anything other than yes means no.
Friday, May 12, 2017
THE SILENT YELLING IN MY HEAD THIS MORNING
IT’S BEEN TWO YEARS AND I STILL HEAR YOUR VOICE.
NOT IN EVERY WORD BUT IN JUST ONE - MY NAME.
I CAN STILL HEAR THE WAY YOU SAID MY NAME WITH THE TINY TILT OF YOUR
HEAD THAT SAID ALL AT ONCE… I LOVE YOU BUT MY GOD YOU’RE MAKING THINGS HARDER
THAN THEY NEED TO BE.
IT’S BEEN TWO YEARS AND SOMETIMES I STILL FORGET YOU’VE
GONE. EVERY SINGLE FIGHT WITH SOFIA
BRINGS ME TO THE WISH THAT YOU COULD TEACH ME HOW TO FIX IT. TEACH ME HOW TO DO THIS THE RIGHT WAY. TEACH ME HOW TO SWIM RATHER THAN DROWN.
YOU WOULD’VE BEEN LAUGHING AT THESE GIRLS WITH ME. YOU’D HAVE THROWN YOUR HEAD BACK AND LET OUT
ONE OF THOSE LAUGHS THAT OPENED UP THE WALLS AROUND US. AND DAMNIT I’M MAD THAT YOU AREN’T HERE. I’M SO FREAKING PISSED OFF THAT MY GIRLS AREN’T
GOING TO LOOK UP IN THE STANDS AT THEIR GRADUATIONS AND SEE YOU OR LOOK OVER
DURING THEIR FIRST MARRIED DANCES TO SEE YOU WIPE AWAY THE TEARS. IT’S BULLSHIT.
WHEN I TELL PEOPLE SOMETHING ABOUT YOU I HAVE THE HARDEST
TIME SAYING “MY AUNT”. EVERYONE HAS
THOSE. EVERYONE HAS AN AUNT OR FOUR THAT
THEY SEE A COUPLE TIMES A DECADE OR EVEN A MONTH AND THEY LOVE HER, SHE’S
GREAT. SHE VISITED SOMETIMES WHEN THEY
WERE CHILDREN AND SHE WAS A GREAT SUPPORTING ACTRESS IN THEIR STORY. OR THEY HAVE AN AUNT OR SIX THEY CAN BARELY
IDENTIFY IN GROUP PHOTOS POSTED ON FACEBOOK.
SHE IS NICE- OR MAYBE NOT- AND THEY UNDERSTAND THEIR CHILDREN’S CRINGES
WHEN SHE LEANS IN FOR A HUG. MY GOD, THAT’S
NOT WHO YOU WERE. YOU WERE MY STEERING
WHEEL WHEN YOU PROBABLY WOULD HAVE PREFERRED TO BE MY BRAKES. YOU WERE MY ONE PHONE CALL. YOU WERE MY CHILDREN’S FAVORITE LADY. YOU ARE THE REASON I GET UP AND PUT ON MAKEUP
EVERY DAY. YOU WERE MY SAFETY
NET. YOU WERE ONE HALF OF THE ONLY DUO
WHO COULD PUT ME IN MY PLACE. YOU WERE
TWO OF THE ONLY FOUR HANDS TO EVER TOUCH ME IN KINDNESS.
IT’S BEEN A LITTLE OVER TWO FREAKING YEARS SINCE I HELD
THOSE HANDS. YOU WERE IN THE CHAIR IN
THE DINING ROOM WHEN WE LEFT FOR THE AIRPORT AND I CAN STILL SEE THE LIGHT
SHINING OFF OF YOUR BARE HEAD AS THE GARAGE DOOR CLOSED BEHIND ME. I STILL SEE YOUR BEAUTY IN THE SMILE THAT SAID
GOODBYE. THAT UGLY, STUPID, OVERFLOWING
GOODBYE.
THE YEARS WEREN’T LONG ENOUGH WHEN I COULD HEAR YOUR VOICE
AND THEY’RE TOO LONG NOW THAT I CAN’T.
DAMN I LOVE YOU AND THIS IS SO MUCH HARDER THAN IT SHOULD
HAVE BEEN.
Thursday, May 4, 2017
Dear Maya,
They don't make awards for daughters; but, if they did you'd certainly have a trophy shelf full. And not even just for the ones you'd award yourself:
Most beautiful
Most fancy
Best dancer
Most hilarious
I know...I know...you tell us all the time and I'm sure you're right.
But how about:
Class clown. No one is quicker with a silly face or a new character's voice to get a giggle going.
Best actress. From the time you were a baby, you knew how to pretend. To be hurt so we'd stop and you could race past us. To be heartbroken so you'd get extra treats. To be asleep so you could snuggle awhile longer. To be cleaning your room so...well I don't know what that ones about but I'm sure you have your reasons.
Most likely to be famous. Or infamous, whatever... as long as people scream your name, right?
Best laugh. I mean, seriously, it fills up the room.
Most creative. Your stories alone can stop me in my tracks. Is she telling the truth? Is it a lie? I'll probably never know for sure... but it sure makes for good dinner conversation.
And on and on.
You, my last love, are so much more than anyone could have planned on or guessed. You are everything all rolled up in one tiny little person. Nothing was left out when you were made... except maybe a little humility and whatever it is that creates an even keel. Lord knows I wouldn't know what that's called, let alone what that would be like.
Happy double digits, mija. Thank you for letting me get you this far. Thank you for holding my hand even today when we walked the halls of your school to lunch. Thank you for keeping me company every Sunday morning during my quiet coffee time. Thank you for still fitting on my lap. And, thank you for letting me love you all the way.
Always, mama.
Best laugh. I mean, seriously, it fills up the room.
Most creative. Your stories alone can stop me in my tracks. Is she telling the truth? Is it a lie? I'll probably never know for sure... but it sure makes for good dinner conversation.
And on and on.
You, my last love, are so much more than anyone could have planned on or guessed. You are everything all rolled up in one tiny little person. Nothing was left out when you were made... except maybe a little humility and whatever it is that creates an even keel. Lord knows I wouldn't know what that's called, let alone what that would be like.
Happy double digits, mija. Thank you for letting me get you this far. Thank you for holding my hand even today when we walked the halls of your school to lunch. Thank you for keeping me company every Sunday morning during my quiet coffee time. Thank you for still fitting on my lap. And, thank you for letting me love you all the way.
Always, mama.
Friday, April 28, 2017
Talk to them
Last night, at Eva's track meet, I accidentally got schooled.
See, she always insists that I sit with her rather than with the adults. So I'm inevitably the lone old lady in a sea of pre-pubescent, smooth skinned, braced teeth, giggly hormone bundles. As long as Eva's happy, I guess.
Generally, I know they're all wishing I would go away so they wouldn't have to whisper and mumble. I know I would've been if I was a middle schooler. But I've never been one to shy away from disappointing someone, so I stay.
Anyway, yesterday it was cold and I'd come straight from work, so all I had to throw over my not appropriate for a rainy track meet but cute for the job clothes was the hoodie I keep in the trunk for soccer games. First lesson yesterday: a new trick to take years off - pop the hood over the ponytail. Screw you, Estée Lauder, this is way cheaper and took about 20 years off. Because I must've had them fooled.
Three feet in front of me on the grassy hill we were assigned, a small group of eighth graders were being normal obnoxious kids. No problem. Me and my little group of seventh graders sat and ate candy and told knock knock jokes (I know that sounds fake, but I swear to you they pulled out their phones and pulled up screenshots of the corniest jokes you've ever heard to entertain each other). And, while I laughed at their "hilarity", a particular word drifted over the air that slammed into my left ear with the ferocity of an unhinged rabid chihuahua.
Vagina.
I don't know why, but I was intrigued. The little girl standing in front of us was absolutely bursting with the excitement that can only come from complete certainty of fact. So I listened.
And, I will not repeat everything she said, but let's agree that she should not have been teaching the impromptu sex ed lesson on that hillside. But she did. And she had quite the captive audience. Other equally excitable kids who could not contain themselves over her "which set of lips" and "squiggly babies" descriptions. She stood facing our little hill of 99% still too young for PG movies without the P part and stood with such confidence that I was convinced she spoke her own truth.
While I cannot say I know what my face looked like, I can assume it was less pink and more get the hell outta here than the others. But she went on until finally her friend looked more closely at the tall one in the hoodie.
Oh shit... shut up... that's a parent...you said all that in front of a mom!!
That's when my kid started paying attention. Mama, what are they talking about?
Nonsense, mija. That girl is nonsense.
Parents, please talk to your kids. Tell them about sex and safety. About their bodies and the ones they will one day be pressed up against in the shade provided by the closest tree (unless they're lucky enough to find space indoors and away from parenting eyes). About protecting themselves physically and emotionally. And don't leave out the details. I promise you they need details so they don't fill in their own gaps with words like squiggly babies.
While it can be an uncomfortable conversation, know what is more uncomfortable? Having a baby when your hips haven't even finished widening.
The car ride home last night was a long one. Was Eva happy that I kept bringing it up during those 30 excruciating minutes? Mija, please don't go to your friends with questions. They don't know any more than you do. Nope, she was not. Seriously, love, just ask an adult you trust. Your friends are idiots. But it's not about making her happy. It's about making her safe.
Mama, that's just her... she's always dirty. I'm not surprised.
And don't be surprised when she has a baby before she graduates.
Mama!
I'm so serious. If she doesn't know the basics, she clearly won't know how to protect herself.
Being *ahem* easily accessible to anyone who wants you doesn't make you an expert any more than being fat makes you a chef or playing tball makes you Babe Ruth.
So, please get to your kids before their much more experienced but no wiser classmates do. I am completely sure some of those kids left that grass feeling like they had new insight into the big wide world of "semen and saliva". And too few of them brought that newfound wisdom home to your dinner table.
Don't let that kid become your kid.
Also, if they still giggle at the word "tip"... they aren't ready for it. They're just not.
See, she always insists that I sit with her rather than with the adults. So I'm inevitably the lone old lady in a sea of pre-pubescent, smooth skinned, braced teeth, giggly hormone bundles. As long as Eva's happy, I guess.
Generally, I know they're all wishing I would go away so they wouldn't have to whisper and mumble. I know I would've been if I was a middle schooler. But I've never been one to shy away from disappointing someone, so I stay.
Anyway, yesterday it was cold and I'd come straight from work, so all I had to throw over my not appropriate for a rainy track meet but cute for the job clothes was the hoodie I keep in the trunk for soccer games. First lesson yesterday: a new trick to take years off - pop the hood over the ponytail. Screw you, Estée Lauder, this is way cheaper and took about 20 years off. Because I must've had them fooled.
Three feet in front of me on the grassy hill we were assigned, a small group of eighth graders were being normal obnoxious kids. No problem. Me and my little group of seventh graders sat and ate candy and told knock knock jokes (I know that sounds fake, but I swear to you they pulled out their phones and pulled up screenshots of the corniest jokes you've ever heard to entertain each other). And, while I laughed at their "hilarity", a particular word drifted over the air that slammed into my left ear with the ferocity of an unhinged rabid chihuahua.
Vagina.
I don't know why, but I was intrigued. The little girl standing in front of us was absolutely bursting with the excitement that can only come from complete certainty of fact. So I listened.
And, I will not repeat everything she said, but let's agree that she should not have been teaching the impromptu sex ed lesson on that hillside. But she did. And she had quite the captive audience. Other equally excitable kids who could not contain themselves over her "which set of lips" and "squiggly babies" descriptions. She stood facing our little hill of 99% still too young for PG movies without the P part and stood with such confidence that I was convinced she spoke her own truth.
While I cannot say I know what my face looked like, I can assume it was less pink and more get the hell outta here than the others. But she went on until finally her friend looked more closely at the tall one in the hoodie.
Oh shit... shut up... that's a parent...you said all that in front of a mom!!
That's when my kid started paying attention. Mama, what are they talking about?
Nonsense, mija. That girl is nonsense.
Parents, please talk to your kids. Tell them about sex and safety. About their bodies and the ones they will one day be pressed up against in the shade provided by the closest tree (unless they're lucky enough to find space indoors and away from parenting eyes). About protecting themselves physically and emotionally. And don't leave out the details. I promise you they need details so they don't fill in their own gaps with words like squiggly babies.
While it can be an uncomfortable conversation, know what is more uncomfortable? Having a baby when your hips haven't even finished widening.
The car ride home last night was a long one. Was Eva happy that I kept bringing it up during those 30 excruciating minutes? Mija, please don't go to your friends with questions. They don't know any more than you do. Nope, she was not. Seriously, love, just ask an adult you trust. Your friends are idiots. But it's not about making her happy. It's about making her safe.
Mama, that's just her... she's always dirty. I'm not surprised.
And don't be surprised when she has a baby before she graduates.
Mama!
I'm so serious. If she doesn't know the basics, she clearly won't know how to protect herself.
Being *ahem* easily accessible to anyone who wants you doesn't make you an expert any more than being fat makes you a chef or playing tball makes you Babe Ruth.
So, please get to your kids before their much more experienced but no wiser classmates do. I am completely sure some of those kids left that grass feeling like they had new insight into the big wide world of "semen and saliva". And too few of them brought that newfound wisdom home to your dinner table.
Don't let that kid become your kid.
Also, if they still giggle at the word "tip"... they aren't ready for it. They're just not.
Thursday, April 6, 2017
Dear "Sweet" Sofia,
Diesiseis.
I've been in love with you for sixteen years, ten months, and 38 hours as of 2:01 pm this afternoon.
Now, you were twelve and fifteen in between that time - so I haven't always been in like with you for all of those hours. But I've loved you.
The day we brought you home I remember thinking, wait... they're just gonna GIVE her to me? No home check, no paper signing, no manuals? Just: here's a baby - try not to break her. And I have tried.
Through your third year when you decided to flip the Brat switch and seemingly forever lose the docile button.
Through your sixth year when you realized we weren't kidding about a second sister.
When you were ten and really started honing your argument skills.
That twelfth year when I was pretty certain one of us would be brought up on charges.
Fourteen. When you decided, after some serious restructuring, that we could be a team.
When you became a blonde at fifteen (not my favorite phase, but I remind myself daily that it's better than slamming doors and throwing things).
And last week when, after leaving a banquet honoring your academic prowess, you said: "I know where I want to live: California. The weather is perfect and I've seen in pictures that they have little like guest houses, so you can come too." It's the first time your plans included me since I was barbie number three in your marathon lay on the floor and change tiny outfits a million times phase. I was so thankful it was dark enough in the car that you couldn't see my watery eyes - the sigh and eye roll would've really ruined our moment.
They call this one Sweet sixteen. I'm not buying it, though. I'm guessing it's like the terrible twos that really weren't terrible at all. Because, my first love, you are not sweet. You are strong and smart and beautiful and mildly addicted to potatoes like your mama. You are capable and thoughtful and the coolest kid Eva has ever met. You are impressive and frustrating and difficult, all the things Maya strives for. You are freaking blonde . And you are unbreakable.
I couldn't be more proud and amazed by most of that.
Always,
Mama
I've been in love with you for sixteen years, ten months, and 38 hours as of 2:01 pm this afternoon.
Now, you were twelve and fifteen in between that time - so I haven't always been in like with you for all of those hours. But I've loved you.
The day we brought you home I remember thinking, wait... they're just gonna GIVE her to me? No home check, no paper signing, no manuals? Just: here's a baby - try not to break her. And I have tried.
Through your third year when you decided to flip the Brat switch and seemingly forever lose the docile button.
Through your sixth year when you realized we weren't kidding about a second sister.
When you were ten and really started honing your argument skills.
That twelfth year when I was pretty certain one of us would be brought up on charges.
Fourteen. When you decided, after some serious restructuring, that we could be a team.
When you became a blonde at fifteen (not my favorite phase, but I remind myself daily that it's better than slamming doors and throwing things).
And last week when, after leaving a banquet honoring your academic prowess, you said: "I know where I want to live: California. The weather is perfect and I've seen in pictures that they have little like guest houses, so you can come too." It's the first time your plans included me since I was barbie number three in your marathon lay on the floor and change tiny outfits a million times phase. I was so thankful it was dark enough in the car that you couldn't see my watery eyes - the sigh and eye roll would've really ruined our moment.
They call this one Sweet sixteen. I'm not buying it, though. I'm guessing it's like the terrible twos that really weren't terrible at all. Because, my first love, you are not sweet. You are strong and smart and beautiful and mildly addicted to potatoes like your mama. You are capable and thoughtful and the coolest kid Eva has ever met. You are impressive and frustrating and difficult, all the things Maya strives for. You are freaking blonde . And you are unbreakable.
I couldn't be more proud and amazed by most of that.
Always,
Mama
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