They Really Ought to Meet Your Mother

Today wraps up your first grade year. I had the notion to write another recap blog, about how smart and capable and kindhearted you are. How much you'll miss art class and the graduating 8th graders and how insanely proud of you I am. How proud we are.

But you know all that. You are all that.

Instead, I paraphrased part of an incredible Ted Talk I saw at work this week. Before the video played, I leaned forward and said to my Tribe, "I'm in a weird, emotional place this week so I'm sure this will do a little damage," because I knew by topic alone this spoken word, this poetry would hit me where I love to be hit- in my Mama heart.

If I Should Have a Daughter

by Sarah Kay

Instead of "Mom," she's going to call me "Point B," because that way she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me. 

And I'm going to paint the solar systems on the backs of her hands so she has to learn the entire universe before she can say, "Oh, I know that like the back of my hand." 

And she's going to learn that this life will hit you. Hard. In the face. Wait for you to get back up just so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air. 

There is hurt, here, that cannot be fixed by Band-Aids or poetry. So the first time she realizes that Wonder Woman isn't coming, I'll make sure she knows she doesn't have to wear the cape all by herself, because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I've tried. 

And, baby, I'll tell her, don't keep your nose up in the air like that. I know that trick; I've done it a million times. You're just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house, so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else find the boy who lit the fire in the first place, to see if you can change him. 

But I know she will anyway, so instead, I'll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boots nearby, because there is no heartbreak that chocolate can't fix. Okay, there's a few heartbreaks that chocolate can't fix. But that's what the rain boots are for, because rain will wash away everything, if you let it. 

I want her to look at the world through the underside of a glass-bottom boat, to look through a microscope at the galaxies that exist on the pinpoint of a human mind, because that's the way my mom taught me. That there'll be days like this. There'll be days like this, my mama said. 

When you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises; when you step out of the phone booth and try to fly and the very people you want to save are the ones standing on your cape; when your boots will fill with rain, and you'll be up to your knees in disappointment. 

And those are the very days you have all the more reason to say thank you. Because there's nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline, no matter how many times it's sent away. 

You will put the wind in win some, lose some. You will put the star in starting over, and over. And no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute, be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life. 

And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting, I am ... pretty damn naive. But I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily, but don't be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it. Baby, I'll tell her, "remember, your mama is a worrier, and your papa is a warrior, and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more." 

Remember that good things come in threes and so do bad things. Always apologize when you've done something wrong, but don't you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining. 

Your voice is small, but don't ever stop singing. And when they finally hand you heartache, when they slip war and hatred under your door and offer you handouts on street-corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.

Watch entire Ted Talk here.

Why I Let My Daughter Watch the Avengers

I overheard two guys say, “what’s this thing rated?” when we walked past them and into the theatre to see Avengers: Age of Ultron last night. It’s rated PG-13 and I assume they were commenting because we had Kid Rock, age 7, in tow.

That’s right. I let my daughter watch the Avengers and you should, too.

I’m kidding. I don’t care what you do with your kids, just as I assume you don’t care what I do with mine. But yes, I let my daughter watch the Avengers for a couple reasons.

One. It shows her that there are good guys in this world. That’s it, more than anything. Yes, you can argue the franchise is violent. Graphic. Gory. It’s not, really. It’s sort of like Coyote trying to blow up the Road Runner with dynamite – it’s implied. The violence is sci-fi. Captain America throws his shield, Thor his hammer, Hawkeye his arrows. The bad guys stop pursuing. We need heroes in our everyday lives. She needs to know that bad guys – even if they win a battle but not the war – will be met with a troupe of superheroes. She needs to know that you can be a girl and kick ass, too. Thanks Black Widow.

Two. Because I’m so glad she’s moved on from princesses. I wasn’t a girly child. At all. I fought when I had to wear tights and dresses, and sleeping in those pink plastic curlers the night before Easter made me cry. While I revel in Kid Rock’s affinity for piles of jewelry and the-fluffier-the-better when it comes to her skirts, a (large) part of me is rejoicing in her tomboy-ish ways … and I know her Daddy concurs.

Three. Be careful what you wish for. You can argue that Tony Stark and his unwillingness to accept just good enough created Ultron. Just let shit go, man.

Four. It’s OK to root for the protagonist every now and again. I mean, who didn’t love Loki just a little bit? And also – don’t judge a book by its cover. The Twins, as they’re referred to in this film are nasty, evil-filled little humans. They are Romanian, to boot. You want to hate them and hope for their demise. Yet underneath those covers are their hearts and stories and you might change the way you previously judged them.

Five. Finish what you start, and carry a big stick … or, hammer. There are some intense scenes near the end of the film as the Avengers discuss how they’re going to proceed. They’re injured. They’re weary. They’re outnumbered. They’re pissed off at each other, at odds with personal decisions. But, Avengers always avenge even when they assume they’ll die trying. Hawkeye has always been my favorite Avenger, and his speech to Wanda … Academy Award-winning!

            You go out there and you fight, okay? And you fight to kill. If you stay in here, you’re good. I’ll get your brother to come and fetch you. But I need to know, okay? I’m going back out there because it’s my job. And I can’t fight and babysit. So I need to know because the city is flying, we’re fighting an army of robots, and I have a bow and arrow. None of this makes sense, but if you step out that door, you’re an Avenger.

Six. It teaches her to appreciate the theatre. I just spent 12 years in the cinema industry and I know how magical, how tangible Hollywood is. Even when we have 2008’s and budgets have been stripped to the minimum, there’s always a way to buy a ticket at the box office. She might not get to go to Disneyworld again, but I can promise her we’ll take her to see every single Disney film in the theatre and for those few hours, life is sweet.

Seven. The power of the sequel. And sequels and franchises. I’ve always been a huge proponent of giving my daughter something to look forward to, no matter how big or small. As the film wrapped up, there were conclusions drawn that allude to a sequel. She loves to know she’ll get to see her heroes in action again, even if it’s not for a few more years.

Eight. Find someone to be your lullaby. When Hulk smash gets really Hulk SMASH, he needs someone to be his touchstone, his reality. He finds that in Black Widow. Only she can calm him down, and she knows when to apply it. When you can't see past your rage, sadness, anxiety, whatever it is, count on someone to tell you, Hey big guy. The sun's getting real low.

So, yes, two grown-up men sitting in the first row of auditorium six last night ... it's rated PG-13 and I parental guided the shit out of the movie for my under 13 kid. She loved every single scene, and clued her Mama in on the subtle nuances and character references even I missed.

Teach Them Well

There was a commercial from the 1980’s – “I learned it from watching you,” it was when Say No to Drugs became America’s anthem. The commercial featured an angry father discovering his teenaged son was getting high, and the kid’s response was, well, “I learned it from watching you.” Dad gets high, kid gets high. Do as I say, not as I do.

Kid Rock wants long, brown hair like her Mama. She always has. She loves to wear my heels in the dining room, so she clicks on the hardwood floor. She prefers her lipgloss very, very dark. Make it noticeable! She pleads. She sets her alarm extra early so during the week, she can lay on the bathroom rug near my feet as I get ready for my day. It’s here with her at my feet I realized the opportunity I have to teach her well. After I’ve busted my ass at the gym pre-dawn and just before coffee, it’s there in those moments she trusts me and loves me most. She taught me that in order to teach her, I have to trust myself and love myself most. So instead of studying my profile in those awful bathroom lights, looking for the things – and there are always things – I despise, abhor, and possibly hate, I love, accept, and appreciate. She’s learning it from watching me.

Mothering a girl is by far my greatest gift and absolute privilege. Each day over the past seven-and-a-half years, I’ve rejoiced in that fact. It’s scary as hell. The future is terrifying. I was talking to a friend a few weeks ago who has younger siblings, and she asked if mothering is like that, going into freak-out Mama Bear mode at their defense. I said well, yes. Kind of. What the Dad and I agreed to do somewhere along the line is empower her. To teach her well, and then let her do it on her own. Because that’s the way this is built. Parenthood. We’ve never been helicopter parents, or rescue parents. When pushed on the subject matter, I’ll admit I might baby her too much, whereas the Dad admits he holds her to too high of a standard. After all, she’s only seven. After all, she IS seven and she’s empowered. We can’t be on the bus with her, the hallways, art class, or the playground. She has to know how to navigate that on her own. I love her stories, her indignations. What she deems unfair. How she defends her people. She’s a storm trooper already and I suppose I’m waiting for the principal to call. If you empower them, realize all that might encompass. She might throw a punch. Throw a can of paint. Throw a party.

One of my favorite quotes (and I am a word junkie) is, “We must be our own before we can be another’s”, by Ralph Waldo Emerson. In motherhood, I’ve taken that to mean – I have to take care of myself first, before I can successfully do that for my daughter. It was a hard transition, almost fighting against nature, when I realized I had to be my own before I could be hers. Because childhood is fleeting. 18 years is not a lot of time. Yes, I’ll be her Mama forever, but 18 is sort of the expiration. What would happen to me after that? What if I spent two decades not being my own? What would the shell of me look like? Teach them well.

Since she was born, I’ve traveled. I spent the first 7 years of her life kissing her goodbye more often sometimes, than I felt I was kissing her hello. I joined clubs and boards and teams – all obligations that while taking me away from her, in a sense, would make me my own. I maintained precious friendships and date nights and girls’ weekends and road trips and projects. I choose my freedoms and expressions of fashion including green extensions, a roadmap of tattoos, a nose ring more than a decade old. But you’re someone’s mom. But I’m this girl, first. I showed Kid Rock it’s impossible to physically be in two places at once – like a conference in Miami Beach and parent-teacher conferences, but spiritually and soulfully, it’s not impossible. I worked two jobs for years, missing more bedtimes and the sweet, sleepy routines than I made. I missed practices, presentations, celebrations, milestones. In reality, I missed nothing. I began a new career I’m incredibly passionate about, but removed the flexibility I had to favor her. I skip a lot of early weekend wake-ups with a warm, heat-seeking missile of kid so I can train for things that are important to me, to make her proud and inspire her to never be too afraid to try anything. The better I am, the better she is.

Together in the bathroom each morning, we love, we highlight, and we celebrate.

Teach them well.

If You Don't Do It, They Will Do It Themselves

Life is a shitshow.

One perpetual sprinting, marathon.

Glorification of busy is the new black.

There are Post-Its reminding us to take vitamins, plug meters, drink more water, buy more bananas, stamps, uniforms, yearbooks, propane.

Autopilot kicks in thank Jesus or we’d never get anything done.

Balance is a sexy word.

Maybe balance is the new black.

As a mother, I feel balance is a requirement.

It doesn’t matter if I’m good at it or bad.

Mothers are supposed to strive for balance.

It’s a buzzword in our industry.

You, me, him, us, work, play, passion, work, growth, obligation, health, spirit, them.

There is one of me and look at how many of them.

But there is also only one of you. My sweet girl.

I heard somewhere recently that age nine is considered “halftime,” as a parent.

Holy hell. Halftime. We’re at seven. We’re hurtling and barreling towards that locker room and I asked myself, have I taught her everything she needs to know? Like how she should get 90% of her music from the library? If she falls in love with a shirt at full price, to return in 10 days for it to be clearanced? Does she know the secret ingredient in my marinara sauce? Has she memorized all her friends’ birthdays? That she should always listen to hear instead of respond? Does she know all of that yet? Have I taught her how to be incredibly kind to servers and tip them overly well?

Does she know that when it comes to jewelry, more is more? Does she know her food should come from the grocery store’s perimeter only?

Balance. Busy. Please tell me I haven’t been too busy that I’ve neglected to show her how to be a person. This parenting gig - relentless. Just when I think I’m doing an excellent job, she reminds me I’m not. Casually one night over French toast and French fries at our favorite diner, she told me I’d been letting her down for quite sometime now. I had fallen prey to whatever other humans falls prey to, and that’s life. I had been promising her things and not delivering.

If you say things we can do, you need to make sure we do them. Like that one time you said we could have breakfast and we never went.

Well sometimes we say things just … you know, to talk about ideas. It doesn’t mean we’re going to do it all, I told her.

But I think it in my head and if we don’t do it, it makes me sad. Like breakfast.

Okay. Okay, I need to be intentional. Follow through. Got it.

The point is, when I don’t think I’m teaching her enough, she’s learning on her own. That’s the beauty and brutality of motherhood. If you don’t do it, they will do it themselves. And they probably will turn out pretty damn OK.

We had parent teacher conferences this week. And I tried really hard to not bawl my eyes out as I sat in that tiny chair in her classroom, listening to her teacher, the other woman in her life who actually sees my own daughter more than I do, talk about her.

“I do want to mention the Lil’ Dude and her big heart. She’s often the only student in our class who doesn’t hesitate when it comes to the kids who are different from her. She never sees the differences. She never is shy or scared. She’s such a good friend and you should be proud of her.”

Afterwards, I talked to her about it.

I always help them. Just because they need more help or more time doing things, doesn’t mean they’re not my friends. I just act the same as I always do.

Yes.

She’s turned out pretty damn OK.

2015

Good riddance 2014. You were worthless. No no no okay, I take that back. There are no such things as bad years. There are missed opportunities, let’s leave it at that. Look at me, putting a positive spin on things!

Regarding you sweet girl, you became a real-life cousin. Your darling cousin Dubs was born May 8^th, the same day as your Grandma G. who spent that particular birthday of hers, #53, recovering from surgery. That was the very same week I said Those Four Little Words and rushed from one hospital to the next, three hours in between my emotions ranging from dark end of the hallway and being immobilized with fear and grief to that of sunshine, rainbows, glitter, and new baby girls. I’ve personally never experienced bipolar disorder, but that week let me dip my toes into the realm of mental illness for certain.

I wrote some longtime-coming truths and laid my heart on the Internet for your sake, in hopes you’d never take your self perception anywhere but toward solid gold and love. I learned how to consume and how to work and never looked back. We walked down the aisle just prior to your Fairy Godmother- a favorite love story of ours. Your Daddy and I made all your six-year-old dreams come true when we roadtripped to the Black Hills in June. It was your only wish for all of 2014. Those were probably my four favorite days of the entire year. There, you rode your first horse- something admittedly we should have made a priority much sooner, but again, that was a missed opportunity. Consider it your kindergarten graduation gift. So yes, 2014 was full of beauty. Yes indeed. 

Your Dad and I both faced surprising challenges within our careers because as you may very well know, just when you think you have it all figured out, everything is dumped upside down, and turned inside out. That’s real life, homie. Your great-Grandma S. was hospitalized for the first time since 1966 but you can’t keep a good woman down and we savored another Christmas Eve with her as our matriarch stuffing ourselves silly with her lutefisk and lefse. Those few weeks were pretty formidable for me. My selfishness regarding that lady truly came to light as I struggled with the what-ifs and ultimate inevitability of life. In that same vein, I mustered the courage to replicate her recipe for homemade dill pickles, and spent the remainder of my summer (and our garden’s cucumber bounty) making jar after jar of her legacy. I’m sure those first jars are extra salty as they contained my tears- you know what they say is the cure for everything- salt water. Sweat, tears, or the sea. One of my favorite quotes.

Our Villagers around us announced babies and new puppies and engagements and we applauded, cheered, toasted, and met tiny humans. You lost your front baby teeth and I secretly hoped your gap-toothed smile would always stay that way. Our teams won and lost and were demolished and rebuilt. We found new music and artists and causes and strength. In my single biggest move in my professional life, I karate-chopped complacency in the face and swallowed my fear and began a whole new adventure January 5 where I’m supported and appreciated and above all, paid to do the things I love and am best at. Albert Camus once said, “You will never be happy if you continue to search for what happiness consists of. You will never live if you are looking for the meaning of life.” There were phone calls that made me cry, tributes and memorials that were heartbreakingly beautiful, and plenty of things that required fixing, time, patience, and the cash for it all. There were close calls and unanswered prayers, bonfires, drive-thru coffee, plastic horses, half-assing, full throttle, intention, abandon, and plenty of love.

So no. 2014 wasn’t bad. We were lucky to live its 365 days, and grateful to know what a gift that is- simply living. I’m not superstitious but I adore odd numbers so 2015- I gotta mad crush on you.