Fan Mail

Our Village stretches far and wide. It's one of my favorite things in America. Our support system; our fan base;  our roster. We're crazy-lucky.

I've been waxing poetic about Kindergarten for months now. Bear with me; sorry, not sorry. My Village has heard my jam on repeat but they're faithful. They let me go on and on and let her go on and on. 

This week, the mail started rolling in. Last summer, when the Lil' Dude split her cheek wide open, I think she had mail to open for 10 days straight. Love via USPS is what that is! 

Grandma G. sent a box yesterday- the Lil' Dude spied it on the porch the minute we got home. It has stickers, she squealed. I know where it came from! It contained a new skirt and cardi- my girl's love languages. And two books- Miss Bindergarten Gets Ready for Kindergarten and Don't Let The Pigeon Drive the Bus. And a card ... Oh, the card:

To my Lil' Dude-Girl;

I am so proud of you starting kindergarten- you have grown up so fast. My first day of kindergarten in April 1967 is the only first day of school I remember. My outfit was orange and bright pink and my tennis shoes had zippers because I couldn't tie my shoes tight enough to keep the laces tied- Grandpa R. had to reteach me when he was done working in the fall! I rode the bus to school but got picked up before lunch- only went 1/2 days. I loved it and you will too. Have a fabulous year. Love, Grandma G.

Oh, man.

And that lady- Grandma G., my own Mama also sent me a letter, in a University of Minnesota card. 

Thought this card was most fitting as our favorite 5 year old heads to kindergarten. Maybe she will be 10 years old and ask, "Does this town have a college? I think I want to go there!" Like you did. Push U of M!!! Be thankful she is a bright and healthy little girl, able and willing to go to school. We are blessed! You will survive the first day- I promise. "You are amazing, competent, strong, and beautiful!" ... And so is Lil' Dude as she starts her road of education. You have done an amazing job being her Mom! Be proud. Love you bunches- M.

Oh, man-er.

Spin Cycling

Inspiration comes to me from everywhere; every single day. I act on a lot of it, but if you were privy to the folds in my brain matter, you'd have to sit down to catch your breath. My brain never, ever stops. My memory is even worse. Better? I don't know. Go, go, go. My brain looks like your Pinterest boards. Combined with your sister's. And your boss's. And your entire street's. To all of the college freshman, to all of the stay-at-home Mamas everywhere.

I was washing the Lil' Dude's school clothes the other night. I was snipping tags and sorta sorting colors. I washed the clothes alone, and I don't know why. I guess I didn't want their fluffy, crispy, newness to be ruined by older, dirtier, more experienced clothes. As I shut the washer, I was hit with a wave of nostalgia that you could have surfed on, right into the sunset.

I told you about my brain. I remember 3rd grade with great clarity. I can tell you all the outfits I've worn on every single business trip since 2005. I remember the songs, the scents, the scenes. I've got raging OCD ... but of the cute variety. Not of the clinical kind (for the most part).

So imagine if you will- me, pregnant. With OCD. And a strong, shared desire to not know the sex of my baby until its birth day. It was the first time in my life I didn't feel in control and it quite honestly, scared the shit out of me. But even worse, it made me insufferably insane.

I didn't know what I was carrying. I didn't know when it would be born, or how. I JUST DIDN'T KNOW.

As I amassed piles of gender-neutral clothing, bedding, and babyness, I realized in all my planning-glory I had enough heaps to do laundry. I bought my first bottle of Dreft, and swooned with baby anticipation as I took the first whiff. And I threw all those impossibly tiny onesies in with handmade fleece receiving blankets and burp rags and bibs and the cutest booties you've ever seen.

And as I closed the lid on the washer, I exhaled. Here goes nothing, I thought. What the Hell. Whatever happens, happens.

...

And as I closed the lid of the washer a few nights ago I uttered the same sentiment. Here goes nothing. What the Hell. Whatever happens, happens. I can't very well prepare myself, or worse yet, her, for what will happens as she starts school next week just as I couldn't prepare myself for pregnancy, childbirth, or parenthood.

And it's not about her; she's aces. She chose skinny jeans for her school debut, be still my heart. It's not about letting go. I've let her go one thousand times, and one thousand and one times too many. She comes back. My Dad was right, there are more than enough hours in a week to get your Mama on, and parent the way you choose. It's about me and what I can't be prepared for.

So I'll just keep washing clothes, load after load.

Cupcakes

Today is one of those days where I can't fix it for you.
Today you're saying goodbye to one of your best friends, your first crush, and probable first love.
Your buddy G. is leaving daycare for kindergarten, and had the audacity to make his departure a full week before yours.

Boys.

He was born five months after you, and started daycare as you were starting to produce teeth. That's a lot of days spent together. You have literally grown up together.

I remember the days he'd sit waiting for you on the steps, holding your "daycare NaNa". His drop-offs always prompt, ours notsomuch. I remember the one time I snuck up the stairs to see the two of you entwined on the couch, your head in his lap as he absentmindedly stroked your hair, engrossed in a cartoon. Every Friday morning he asks, "how was gymnastics last night?"

And like any couple you've had your rows. Called each other names. Hurt each other, physically, emotionally. Sold each other out to the highest bidder, and lunged for the soft spots in each other's lives.

But there were always Friday mornings. You two are both only children. Kindred to the core.

And today, you're saying goodbye to him.

Last night, you colored your heart out in a project of epic love proportion with his name on it. You included an address label bearing your info, lest that sweet boy ever forget where to find you.
And, you included a temporary tattoo with your Daddy's favorite local brewery logo on it. Matching tattoos, at five? Yeah, sweet girl, you got this thing called love on lock.

We stopped this morning at the bakery to pick out cupcakes in G's honor.
It took an excruciating amount of time.
Vanilla. They have to be vanilla. That's his favorite. They can't have girl sparkles or jewelry or Hello, Kitty or nothing.

I stood back and let you pick.
One of our extended family motto's is, when all else fails, bring food.
And cupcakes were your idea.

I hope today goes as best as it can.
I hope you hugged his neck, hard, and told him how awesome he is.
How much you'll miss him.

And how you'll never, ever forget him.

Wordless Wednesday

Word {From} Your Mama

Advice on Turning 30

I'm continually absorbing other people's words and stories, as I always have. I just read this piece by the lovely and talented Olivia Wilde as it appeared in Glamour's September issue. And while yes, my dear, you're just about to start kindergarten, I don't think there's any harm in reading her advice on turning 30. Life moves fast!

Photo Courtesy

DON'T freak out about all the brilliant people who accomplished more than you by 30.
Yes, Einstein had discovered the theory of relativity by your age, and Emily Brontë had written Wutheringfu*#ing Heights, but honestly, what you achieve is far less important than what kind of human being you are. What do you want people to say at your funeral: "Olivia may have cured HIV, but she ran over my cat and drove away laughing"? No, thanks! I'd rather be a good person who makes people happy than a dick who wins a Nobel by 32.

DO enjoy your sexual prime.
Hey oh! According to horny Professor Alfred Kinsey's 1953 page-turner Sexual Behavior in the Human Female, women really start heating up in their thirties, so let's just say it's finally your turn to act like an 18-year-old boy—except you'll be 1,000 times better at...everything.

DON'T cut your face.
I am so saddened and grossed out by young women who look like creepy, old aliens because of their new Barbie noses and lips. Is that a smile or a grimace? Did you melt hot wax on your face, or is that your skin? A better approach: Take care of yourself now that you're old enough to know how. Drink water, sleep eight hours (I wish), and don't go within 400 feet of a tanning booth or I'll slap you. Hard.

DO travel.
This is possibly the last time until retirement that you won't be considered a bad person for booking a last-minute ticket to Morocco with friends just because you damn well feel like it. You're old enough to know where not to go (Cancún) but young enough to feel guilt-free being entirely unreachable.

DON'T propose to the next guy you meet just because you worry he'll be your last chance at lifelong companionship.
Sure, you've attended more bridal showers than yoga classes in the past year, but that doesn't mean you're destined to be a craggy spinster, searching for roommates on Craigslist at 50. The danger with "husband hunting" is you start to see every date as a job interview ("He does seem to be homosexual, but that might be good for fatherhood!"); it clouds your ability to get to know someone.

DON'T feel pressured to pop out kids.
I love kids with a passion I usually reserve for hot cheese, miniature chairs, and Prince concerts, but I feel no stress to reproduce simply because of a fear of withering eggs. Wait for the right partner, and make sure you're where you want to be in life before picking neighborhoods based on school districts. This is not to suggest you should live irresponsibly for the next 10 years, then expect to get knocked up when your chosen dude finally sneezes inside you. But you'll never find the right baby-maker or enjoy baby-making if you're doing it out of anxiety. Relax, be good to your body, and when the time is right, get busy.

DO reap the benefits of your accumulated wisdom.
You're 30: You know stuff now. Your twenties were for "ducking up," as my auto-correct would say, and learning from those mistakes. (For instance, never again will I convince myself that sleep is for sissies and go straight from a party to the airport. You will not "sleep on the plane"; you'll vomit in the security line. Go to bed.) Now you get to live with that knowledge under your belt. Also, make it a nice belt. You're 30. Stop dressing like a hobo.

DO learn a new skill.
You've already lived longer than most women in the thirteenth century, so why not look at your thirtieth as a rebirth? I started stand-up paddleboarding at 29 and consider it my baby step toward becoming a badass 30-something semipro surf goddess (as long as the sharks go vegan).

And DON'T be bogged down by your past.
Saturn has now orbited the sun once since you've been alive; make this next go-round whatever you want it to be. Consider your baggage (bad boyfriends, job setbacks, body issues) lost by the airline of life, leaving you empty-handed at your new destination with only one choice: Go shopping.

That's it. Now go—be awesome.

It's Not About the Stuff

I've made no claims to be religious, but I am a spiritual person.
I have boatloads of faith.
I know things happen for a reason.
I know there is a greater power at work which is comfortable to me, and I see no desire to question it.

That being said, I think there is spirituality and healing powers in ...

... music. The louder, the better.
... fellowship. The louder, the older, the better.
... mint-flavored lip gloss.
... coffee. At home, drive-through, front porch, gas station, The House That Built Me, airport, dock.
... magazine subscriptions.
... sun. Sunlight, sunshine, sunblock, sunflowers, sun rays, sun salutations, sun dogs, sun roofs.
... and shopping. I mean, Target? Can I get an amen?

My own Mama and I have a long-standing history of shopping.
She's definitely not a thing-wanter or self-purchaser. For her, shopping meets a few of her basic needs. Deals, deals, deals, and shopping for the others, the ones she loves best.
From the time I was very young, this has worked to my advantage!

On her seventh day on this fine planet, my own Mama and I took the Lil' Dude on her very first shopping trip. We dressed her as a reindeer (I still stand by that decision) and pushed her through the mall. It was baptism by fire, really. If she's from my loins, she's gonna love her some shopping. And mostly, she has. There was that one time last spring when she and I were deep in the trenches, summer clothes shopping and wedding shopping and Mother's Day and Grandmas' birthdays' shopping when she sighed and said, I wish I was golfing with Daddy. I recoiled like I had been slapped.

Then I did was any self-respecting Mama would do and bribed her with a trip to Target's golden aisles of toys with a $10-bill upon compliance. (I also still stand by that decision)

Yesterday, yesterday was another day of firsts. We school shopped for the first time together, just Mama and daughter. We were hitting on cylinders of my holy testament with loads of sunshine, lots of coffee, and music; in fact at her discretion, we blasted AWOLNATION'S Sail on repeat all afternoon.

It was a glorious, rad day.

But, one with lesson woven through its fabric.

Shopping, by definition, is about stuff. The buying and selling and acquiring of cash or goods. Yes.

But what it means to me is different. It's about the time and the people. Something my own Mama instilled in me all those years ago I began shopping with her. If it's about the stuff, you're doing it wrong. In fact, I remember my senior year of college, that Friday in March when I called home to say I was en route- spring break meant going home to my childhood house. As ever, my own Mama and I had plans as we did annually for spring break, to shop our faces off at the midwest's largest mall.

When she answered, she was anticipating my call.
And she was crying.
Oh dear God, who? Is all I wanted to know.

The paper mill closed today and Dad lost his job. 

Oh. Well? I stood in my rented kitchen with the wall phone, age 21 and on the cusp of adulthood and completely unprepared for it, by the way, waiting. "Oh. Now what?"

Well you come home and we'll all talk about it, but we can't go shopping this weekend. I am so sorry.

No, no shit. That really hadn't crossed my mind. How could it hers?
That's what happens when you become a parent. Their stuff is now your stuff. She was anticipating my shock, sadness.

By the time I arrived home, a few hours later, my Dad had received a few calls from headhunters, etc. and was appearing nonplussed as his is ever-loving nature. My own Mama was still pacing and big-picturing the shit out of it all. We didn't shop that weekend. We didn't need to. It's not about the stuff.

And a few months later, on the very same June morning, my Dad and I both began new jobs and new chapters in our lives. When I called him from the floor of my walk-in closet that morning, he 3 hours away from his family at a new job, new town, and dealing with his own stuff, he walked me through my mine. I'll never forget that conversation. He ended the call with, "Now you and Mom can go shopping to celebrate your success! Get you some real world clothes and maybe a Palm Pilot."