Where We Were

#thesummerofyes

11 roadtrips
4 tubes of SPF
1 new bike
6 pounds of coffee beans
7 new bathing suits
1 fairytale Fairy Godmother wedding
1 new Village people
13 ice cream cones
4,000 songs
7 growlers
900 cucumbers
90 good night kisses

109 Selfies

22 pounds of fresh cherries
73 bike rides
5 wishes made on shooting stars
9 quarts of pickles (and counting)
23 sunfish caught
3 buckets of ice water
3 face paintings
1,000 I Love Yous
8 airplanes
2 more baby teeth
5 gallons of coconut water
125 limes
1 happy family

That was the recipe for our summer. It was epic. It was tiring. But as someone mentioned to me over the course of the season, how lucky we are to have so many opportunities to love, and be loved. How lucky we are to have a datebook full of people, places, and things. I never took one second or one morning waking up in a different place for granted. If we could cram, we crammed. If we could show, we showed. If we could do, we did.

You, my best sidekick, grew up this summer. Your face is lean. Your legs are long. You pulled out more teeth, learned how to tie your Nikes, graduated to a bigger bike, and ponytailed your own hair. You stopped using your hooded baby towels and learned how to make a turban with your hair towel. You willed time to fly so you could get back to school- you miss math the most. You adopted vocabulary like frustrated, chaos, chemotherapy, and irate. There is no shortage of communication where you're concerned. You fall asleep talking, and wake up in the morning to finish your sentence.

When I was pregnant, your Auntie H. gave me the best advice of my life- put your baby into your life, not your life into your baby. Best. Advice. Ever. We've always done that, this summer was true testament. Baby, this life is one wild ride. I'm so glad you're here to share it with us.

Mama loves.
(Mama is TIRED)

The Summer of Yes

If this spring has me taught me anything, it's that life really is too short.

So I am embracing that this summer, and declaring it The Summer of Yes.
Less thinking, less rules, less contemplation.
More freedom, more flexibility, more fun.

We were on our way to my parents' at dusk last Friday.
They live in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by quiet woods, lakes, ponds, hills.
As we sped past a Painted turtle tucked into its shell in the middle of the highway, the Lil' Dude begged her Daddy to stop. Too late, we dodged it and flew past.

I told her how it seemed like when I was a little girl, I was always harboring a turtle or two. The perks of growing up in the middle of nowhere. She has already dabbled in some turtle-raising of her own; she mothered a 50-cent piece sized baby Painted turtle last winter named Florence.

RIP, Florence the Machine. You weren't long for this world. We won't forget.

So I told her as we left that turtle in our rearview, we would most definitely stop for the very next one we saw.

And of course we did. The Dad stomped on his brakes, and I sprinted back to the creature holding the Puke Bucket from the car. Car sickness; the struggle is real. I grabbed the turtle, allowed it to pee as they always do when a predator threatens, and stuffed it the bucket. Painted turtles are great pets because they are sweet, lumbersome, docile.

False. This particular Painted wanted to eat my face. Mean ... the remaining five minutes to my parents' seemed like forty as our beloved new pet clawed and hissed and clawed and scraped up my shins and arms as I tried to keep it contained.

The Summer of Yes. Hashtag; parenting.

My Dad always supported my creature-finding habit and this time was no different. He got down the kiddie pool and together he and the Lil' Dude set about arranging the turtle- a boy named Clem by now- in its forced habitat. Home sweet home.

It turned out Clem the boy turtle was mean for a reason- SHE, now renamed Jewel, had eggs to lay.

Oh Mama, I'm so sorry about the little adventure I just forced you to take as labor was imminent. How rude of me!

So we explained to Kid Rock that this particular turtle was not going to be part of her Summer of Yes. She could spend the night in the blue plastic pool, but the next day needed to go to a pond to let nature continue its course. She understood, however sad it made her. Some days I swear her bravery about does me in.

So that's what we did. Drove two miles to the nearest pond and furthest from traffic with Jewel tightly secured in a brown grocery bag. No more bucket turtle management for me. Hell no. I walked with my girl, her hand in mine, and the bag in her other, and we shimmied Jewel out of her cargo hold and she slid on her belly like a penguin directly into the water. Go be a Mommy! We shouted.

When she left, the Lil' Dude made her Papa promise pinky-swear he'd look for other turtles, and hopefully baby ones, for her to adopt since Jewel didn't work out so well.

Imagine our shock when my own Mama called tonight, asking to speak to her granddaughter. She had some news.

"Guess who is back? Jewel."

OMG SERIOUSLY SHUT UP HOW DO YOU KNOW OMG

Sure enough, that Mama turtle hoisted herself approximately 34,987 turtle miles, literally up hill both ways, back to where she was forced to temporarily reside thanks to The Summer of Yes. Two miles in real life. Without getting smashed on the road or eaten alive. She's currently furiously burrowing her nest right in my parents' dirt driveway to lay those eggs. 3 days after she left the premises.

And because we asked with incredulousness in our voices, how do we know it's our turtle?

She's marked- probably forever- with some doggie toenail marks right on the top of her shell. That poor girl is probably permanently terrified of dogs as the Beagle and my Dad's dog batted her around a bit when the Lil' Dude wasn't supervising Jewel's territory.

Now the Great Turtle Watch 2014 is underway, and someone way over here (135 miles) is already preparing to become a mother herself to however many babies a Painted usually produces in a ... what? Litter? Gaggle? Posse? of turtle eggs.

I could easily use this amazing tale to spin an analogy of mothering and sacrifice and resolve to protect our offspring, uphill both ways. But I won't.

Sometimes all it takes is one little Yes.

The Mighty

This week you told me it was no longer acceptable to refer to any part of you, physical or physiological, as little. Moving forward acceptable addressing includes Big Girl, First Grader, Child. You're my little girl with (some) little baby teeth and the littlest ponytail. It's your last day of school. 

For you, this has been a long time coming. I think the conscious countdown began around Day 47. I assume your wonderful teacher who is in her 20 or 30th-something season of teaching started said countdown. Even sunshine burns if you get too much; there IS such thing as too much of a good thing. And other assorted and relatable cliches. 

I talked to your Grandma G. earlier this week about my plans to volunteer at school all day today, and she told me to soak it up. She was a stay-at-home mom until I was a 6th grader and said right around 3rd grade I no longer passed the volunteer slips onto her. I no longer "needed" her to be part of my life at school. Shit. Hindsight is always 20/20. She went on to say "kids these days" probably are even younger than I was when they shut their parents out. Shit. 

Your Dad and I continually go back and forth on your life. I probably would have kept you as an infant ... Maybe until last year. He's been pumped for driving lessons and team tryouts since you were swaddled. I think that is just the dynamic of genders and parental roles. The bigger you get, so does your stuff. I liked having a diaper bag full of cups and compartments and extras and the things I needed to pacify or calm you. I carried all the answers and solutions around with me. But now, you carry your own bag. Your little (sorry) chin trembled last night as you replayed your day to me- why wouldn't your friend let you sit with her on the bus when she had just Tuesday morning? I don't know, sweetheart. I am 34 years old and I have no idea why people act the way they do from one day to the next. Maybe it's what the carry in their own bags, they stuff they don't let anyone see. I do know it certainly isn't for me to worry about and I try hard each day not to. You will have to, too. 

You had a wonderful year. You're a lot like your Mama- you love social settings, rules, routines. I loved school- ask your Papa about any of my GPA's and he'll tell you I learned a lot more outside the classroom than in! But my attendance record was sterling. I hated to miss out on ANYTHING. You're the same way. We call you the Mayor- you know everyone, and your school is large, spanning Pre-K through 8th grade. You know everyone's siblings and neighbors and cousins and daycare affiliates. Last names, first names. Today you attended the 8th graders' graduation and you are "just going to miss them so much!" Of course you are. You can't teach humanity or interpersonality so that's all you, baby (sorry) girl. I am so proud of you. I always, and still to this day, take great pride in being the girl my Grandma or own Mama ask about people- what was her name? Where did they move to? That skill will get you far. Keep honing. 

You're thrilled for 1st grade; you're excited for your own desk and to be able to read more. I just don't want you to grow up too much this summer. Sooner than later, we're going to tell you your beloved Grandma G. has cancer and that she will be working on her health and recovery for a long, long time. She will shave her own head before medicine makes her bald. She will look sick and act sick and not be the superhero you've always known. Up until now, you think she's had the world's longest lasting stomach ache. We didn't want to taint your last weeks of school with any of the above. I know, it's not my job to protect you from life's shitty stuff. But it is my job to put you first and make what I believe are the best decisions for you, while I am able. 

You had a wonderful year. I already said that. You had your locker moved once because you were too slow in the mornings, chitchatting with your neighbor. You also sat out a recess recently for The Woodchip Incident. But you know what? You told us about both of those occasions. The school didn't notify us. Hell, if they had to report every minor incident students do, they'd never be able to teach. Truth. Thank you for telling it. It's what I am most proud of you for all year long. I'm also pretty proud of you for not getting sent to the Principal's office, or setting fires, or taunting kids, or disrespecting your teacher. And there was just that time or two we let your lunch account balance slip below $0.00 and we forgot Sharing Day items three times. But who's counting?

I'm so proud of you. I am as excited for your summer as you are.

And I'm so dang lucky I get to be your mom.

To my mighty kindergartner!

Mama loves.

Sometimes the Shadows Cast

"Fear does not burn out, but sometimes the shadows cast by the thing you're afraid of are larger and more frightening than the thing itself." -Elizabeth McCracken

I found that quote in a magazine at a Delta gate in Chicago Friday morning.
I instantly Tweeted it, thus preserving itself forever unto my Internet.
I can't stop thinking about those words. I want to tattoo them onto my hip.
I just might.

Saturday night you lamented all your besties and villagers were out of town camping or at cabins. You were devastatingly lonely with a lot of weekend stretched out before you. After awhile, you asked us if you could set up your purple pup tent and inflatable pool in the backyard. Hey, second best thing, I get it. I was proud of you for suggesting your own adventure. As the sunshine burned into the west, you said you were going to sleep in your tent overnight and we gave you clearance.

You brave girl. You lasted all night until the sun crept back in from the east and baked you out of your purple nylon haven. You went back for a second night, too.

You weren't scared, and I wasn't either for that matter.

Letting you sleep alone in our backyard is safe. It's half-fenced in. Our neighbors are close- we like and trust them. We live in a quiet little town, in close proximity to a quiet girls' college, outside a quiet bigger city, and we're not scared of anything, really.

Yet- there are things to be scared of. Our beloved little town has seen its share of sadness. It bears the unfortunate 'fame' of being home to one of the most infamous (and unsolved) kidnappings in history, spanning over two decades. One of our favorite parks is named after a city police officer who was killed in the line of duty when he was just 25 years old. And, just nine miles from our driveway in another of our favorite tiny towns there was a school shooting where two students were killed ten years ago. So, while we would never say "that type of thing would never happen here," we don't let the knowledge or acceptance of it scare us. We simply can't live that way.

So you went to sleep all alone in the backyard when I went to sleep incredibly proud of myself for not letting fear dictate my parenting decisions. It was a great fortification for me in general- it reminded me there will always be months like this one where life changes in an instant. Where life's best laid plans are scrapped. Where fear of the unknown is completely inevitable. We still have a decision when it happens and are in control of how deeply we allow fear's roots to take hold. And it's never easy. Not one time has it been easy to choose to not be scared. After all, fear does not burn out.

Yet ... this month also brought sunshine. And blooming tulips and blossoming crab apple trees. It brought new babies- several! who are here and healthy and already so loved. This month we celebrated your Grandmas' birthdays and lost teeth and exciting things for Daddy at work. We broke in the Weber grill and sun tea pitcher and new tubes of SPF, pairs of flipflops, and stripey bathing suits. We've lit fires and made wishes and took nothing for granted and looked forward to everything.

And because it bears repeating and repeating and repeating;

"Fear does not burn out, but sometimes the shadows cast by the thing you're afraid of are larger and more frightening than the thing itself." -Elizabeth McCracken

Being There

I'll let you in on a dirty little secret: I'm no Supermom. Not even close. A lot of people in my life think I am. I got a few Mother's Day greetings this year that alluded to that fact. 

Yesterday was your spring concert. 12:55pm-1:20pm. Seriously. 25 minutes. No siblings, grandparents, or significant other important people were allowed to attend due to space constraints. The date has been circled on our calendar for weeks. I was thrilled to see it fell between two weeks of planned travel I had for work.

And then last week happened. And I kissed you goodbye a few times and left my returns open-ended. Which, while you rolled with it, beat my heart up pretty good. I've written about it before. I have always traveled and worked full-time (plus some!) while being a Mama. You're used to it. Daddy is our hero. And all last week, I kept thinking about your concert. May 13.

I'm no Supermom. But yesterday, when you marched up to those chorale risers in your perfect little maxi skirt and my borrowed dangly earrings and made eye contact with me and beamed, I felt like one. I was there. I kept my promise.

I never turned in my $20 fee to have my background checked to be able to volunteer at your school. There are just 17 days left of you being a kindergartner. 

I missed so much. 

After being so ingrained at your preschool and highly involved for two years straight, I guess I dropped the ball on your foray into elementary school. At times, I wonder if I did it intentionally. To give you that space, the room for you to have something all your own. Sure, I was there for ice cream socials, lunches, family nights. And I swear I never forgot to pick you up- never, not one time!

A note came home yesterday stating the need for parental support for a litany of things these last few weeks. You can bet your ass I still have my background check form from SEPTEMBER filled out so I'll be there. The Dad asked why I am even bothering at this point.

Because of that little face up there. It still doesn't take too much to make her day. A new cardboard box to decorate, a whole cantaloupe. Finding her parents' faces in a sea of them. 

Mama loves.

I'll be there.

Mother's Day

When I was born in 1980, you could smoke in the maternity ward.
You also were assigned a roommate.
My own Mama, knowing she didn't want her newborn baby girl exposed to the secondhand smoke her roommate was emitting, opted to keep me in the nursery. She herself would sit in the windowed lounge down the hall, where infants were not allowed.
That's right.
Not only was she, at age 18, all alone at St. Joseph's Hospital, she didn't even have her baby to spend immediate postpartum days with.

Because it was best for her child.
And because she is selfless.
She always has been.
That was her first decision in motherhood.
She hasn't ever let me down.

She just told me this story as I sat by her bedside all last week. It was the first time I had heard it.
And as she was discharged, she went back to campus to complete the last two months of her freshman year of college. I went home with her own Mama, my Grandma S. 

The House That Built Me.

God I love that story.
I love this story, our story.
My story.

She has taught me everything. By intention or design and even without her knowing she is.
She's a legendary cook. As we drove to their house on Good Friday this year, the Dad and I anticipated what our weekend menu consisted of. Randomly, I said, "how good would salmon be?" And by random, I mean, I eat salmon less than one time a year. It wasn't a staple in our house growing up.
Yes, that evening's meal was grilled salmon. She said she accidently walked by the fish counter that day and thought, how good would salmon be?

I mentioned a few days ago as I was online shopping that I was looking for a traditional pair of Birkenstock sandals- you know, the hippie-brown leather-Jesus style. I have never ever owned a pair even though I went to an extremely granola-y college. My own Mama looked me. I just ordered a pair last week and they were delivered Saturday, she said.

She's in everything I am. 

This Mother's Day, our first post-diagnosis doesn't change how I feel about her. It doesn't make me panic or stream through the what-ifs. It hasn't taken me to dark places. I for one know I have never taken my own Mama for granted. I have never wished I could take back the years where I hated her- or thought I did. I don't wish to apologize for who I was to her. I don't have to use today to make up for a year where she isn't high on my priority list. It didn't take a diagnosis for me to take stock in our relationship. Nothing has changed. 

In comparison, we're starkly different. I am an extrovert and thrive in social settings. I like attention! She abhors sunshine, makeup, hair color. She's practical where I am not. She was a stay at home mom until I was a 6th grader. I have a Village of girlfriends- some I've been friends with since I was that 6th grader, while she prefers my Dad's company nearly exclusively. I like the beach, she prefers the woods. I like reading and music, she likes sewing and flowers. I like fashion, tattoos, technology, and pop culture. She through all of my phases, insecurities, sizes, moods, statements, and announcements has been a resolute supporter and acceptor. I am emotional and nostalgic where she is cognitive and realistic. We fought over nothing. We fight over nothing. She doesn't judge me. She doesn't worry about hurting my feelings with honesty. 

She's taught me to be selfless. To put others especially my daughter, husband, and Village first. It's been easy for me to do that, because it's how I was raised. The greatest gift I can give her is to bloom where she planted me, to pay it forward in her homage. 

One of her favorite, oft-dry, overused cliches is Everything Happens for a Reason.

I guarantee she would accept she even has cancer for a reason.

She's already said she's going to be a beacon for recognizing symptoms and advocating self health. She's willing to be our revolutionary trailblazer to push people to talk about the ickier things in life. Ask uncomfortable questions of your elders. Be the martyr for her baby sister, daughter, nieces, and granddaughter.

Happy Mother's Day.

Mama loves. 

Four Little Words

She was calling my cellphone. She never calls my cellphone.
I mean ... we talk all the time.
But we're not talkers. We're communicators.
We swap emails rapid fire.
Me, the techy, from any device. Her, sitting at the antique dining room table, MacBook open, coffee nearby. I send photos of her granddaughter, the dog, my travels. We swap recipes, gossip, Pinterest plans, Pinterest fails. We like words and typography and quotes and Channing Tatum and Ellen and we communicate a lot.

She was calling my cellphone.
After a week of silence from Base Camp Mama, my body got tingly.
Hello? I ventured?
How's my girl today?
Good, I further ventured. How are you?
Not great. I have cancer.

The blood rushed to my ears and I couldn't hear what she was saying.
Who? Who has cancer?
WHO IS IT?
When I finally heard her, I stood up and took four steps before my legs gave out and I slid to the floor. Oh, it sounds dramatic. And it was. But there is a certain grace to handling news like that and having that be the honest to God reaction. In a way, that's what reactions should be. We shouldn't
have to condition ourselves for when it's our turn. We shouldn't alter the way in which we live to accept the inevitability of life. We should always be so fortunate to fall on the goddamn floor when we hear what we don't want to.

My Mom Has Cancer, I said to the Dad as he collapsed with me onto the floor.
I stopped wailing and dried my cheeks.
Okay, what next? I asked her, and we got right down to communicating the way we know how.
I swore a lot- I mean, I don't usually drop eff bombs in front of my own Mama, but there's plenty more where that came from. I already know that.
And she pretended not to hear me.

The first few times I said those four little words out loud, I could hardly enunciate. Each time since, it has gotten better. I won't say easier, because it will never be easier. I can now communicate without
the threat of hot tears or stomach-dropping fear taken over my nervous system.

My immediate concern was my daughter. At that very moment, she was in the shower singing Frozen at the top of her lungs, using nearly my entire bottle of $26 Philosophy Coconut Icing shower gel to
her heart's content. Blissfully unaware of what was happening down the hall. Timing is everything and we caught a break there. There, in that very instant, I was stuck in the middle- Mother, Child. Even Granddaughter as my thoughts stretched to my Grandma. Her baby has cancer.

We're taking it day by day because that's manageable.
Her surgery was successful and her pain is in control.
She's stage 2 and I hate that she has a stage, but that's how cancer rolls.


I am not sure what was worse- talking to my Grandma or Kid Rock.

My Grandma pleaded with The Lord- take her, she said. I am ready to die.
Hold the eff on here people. No one is going to die for eff's sake.
Kid Rock, my mighty kindergartener, just wanted to know what color her guts were they removed, (sic) and if she had staples or stitches. Ummmm, great questions baby girl.

I have read 37 magazines in the past three days. I read an article on TV host Robin Roberts and her new book called 'Everyone Has Something' and I think that's our theme here because it's true. It's a matter of how we respond and soldier.

And in our world that's with lots of hope, even more coffee, and a shocking amount of swear words.