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.

On Seven

You turned seven a few days ago. Your Golden Birthday!
You had an epic Frozen party; your mother took it over the top.
No surprise there.
It was awesome.
The end.

Oh, seven. Those days ... those days are long.
The years ... the years are so very short.
Time's a jerk.
I held you last night at bedtime, like you were an infant.
A 60-pound+ infant, at that. We swayed back and forth.
And I whispered to you seven years ago that very night, we brought you home to your house for the very first time.
We had no idea what we were doing.
We knew you needed to wear diapers, so had a pile of those.
We knew you needed to eat, so had a pile of formula measured into bottles at the ready.
We knew we loved you, so had a pile of that, too.
That seemed to be all you ever needed.

This year for your annual birthday letter, I want to share with you why being a girl is so awesome.
The list of pros is infinite, actually.

We're pretty by nature. Lipgloss is a weapon.
We can eat chocolate and shop at Target when we're sad.
People are always surprised at what we accomplish, regardless of arena.
Our intuition is unrivaled.
We smell amazing.
We get to have the babies, new boots, and ability to wear our men's clothing.
Men are often afraid of us.
It's okay when we cry.
We have ridiculous routines and hallmarks and things we celebrate.

And specifically speaking, you and I have some of the most amazing women surrounding us. I know, while I was pregnant I swore on Starbucks you were a boy. Don't tell anyone, but I am THRILLED you weren't. I know. Parents should never be glutton-y in that regard, but wow, am I so, so glad I have a daughter. The women around you are, too.

You have always had an "I can do it myself!" attitude about life. You have since you were miniature. It's simultaneously heroic and aggravating. Yet as you continue to grow and develop into the person you are, I see it emerging as your most distinct personality trait. And it's no damn wonder given your lineage.

One of your favorite people in the universe, your great-Grandma S. was unable to come to your party Sunday as she was sick. An illness stretching into its third week, she called with the sad news Saturday, and delivered it to you straight. Lesson number one- do it yourself. Go straight to the source and own what you should. At age 83 we talked about her throughout your party, how she A) never goes to the doctor and B) doesn't take any medication nor has she, ever. Her familiar phrase is, going to the doctor will only result in learning things you don't want to learn. Amen, sister. Ignorance is bliss, eight decades later.

Well, one of your equally stubborn aunts drug your great-Grandma to the doctor Monday. Rapid heartbeat, cloudy lung, they admitted her to her first hospital stay since she had her last baby, 48 years ago. Bless her heart! Which is fine, by the way. Viciously pumping away, just a little faster than necessary. She was released 24 hours later- you can't keep a good woman down- and upon hearing her discharge orders of slow down (never) and make sure you keep your follow-up visits (not on your life), she was back where she belongs in her ancient little farmhouse nestled on 180 snowy acres, feeding those sketchy barn cats all her table scraps.

So, to summarize, your great-Grandma S. is our matriarch and if there is anyone you want to be like, be like her.

Happy, happy golden birthday to my best sidekick, my mini-me, and favorite four-foot wonder.
You're going to have one hell of a year, and I can't wait to watch.

Mama loves.

Ordinary People

Ordinary people do extraordinary things every single day.
Most the time, these ordinary people don't make headlines.
They aren't setting out to cause a ruckus. They are not attention seeking.
They are simply people making some pretty awesome decisions.
Every once in awhile, these people are actually your people.

Your Papa tutored an elderly woman and helped her earn her GED as a Septuagenarian.
Your Auntie SG moved to Las Vegas at age 23.
Your Great-Grandma S. has handmade thousands of mission quilts.
Your Grandma G. submitted herself to genetic testing in the name of her family.
Your Daddy learned to eat (and like!) vegetables.
Your Auntie T. became a Mama.
All of your Great-Grandpas fought for their country.
Your Fairy Godmother got an early mammogram.
Your Bestie B$'s parents have fostered a bunch of littles.
You're surrounded by badass, selfless, brave people.

And then there's this guy.

Your Grandpa T.
One day he just up and started running.
In his '60's, he just walked out the front door one day and ran down the street.
And he did it again and again and again.
We joke he had on his standard denim with all that change in his pocket, flannel, & ancient Nikes when he first started running. It's actually not a joke. We're certain he did just that.

Because to him, it didn't matter.
Use what you got, where you are.
We also joke he enters his races because A) he loves free stuff like shirts and water bottles and B) what's better than being excused for work than running a 5k?
The answer to your Grandpa T. is, nothing.
Nothing is better.

Recently, your Grandma S. has been entering this races with him.
Bananas!
She is quick to add, "but I don't run! No way."
She's doing it for her husband of 40 years.
Support and camaraderie and the like. And matching t-shirts to boot!
It's quite the story, and we're so proud (and inspired!) of our people.

As with anything, there's a lesson here for you.
Use what you got, where you are.
All it ever takes is opening the door and beginning.

The Monuments

A year ago, on the night before you started kindergarten, I wrote you a letter.
In that letter I told you all sorts of truths and wishes and asked you a favor.
And that favor was:

I know you are going to be so rad tomorrow. I am not worried about you.
I am worried about them.
All the other children who will be your classmates and village and community for a long, long time.
You have your Mama's instinct and sensitivity, so you'll know who I am talking about, I just know it.

And I knew I could have faith in you.
You exemplify stewardship and have such a servant's heart.

When your classroom schedule came out this fall, you were disappointed with a capital D to learn you only have art once a week now, on Thursdays. As a kindergartner you had art three times a week which rocked your face off. We talked about the importance of balance and how as a first grader, your schedule is different. You're bigger, smarter, more capable. You accepted art would be a weekly treat, and you'd be happy to go to music and phy. ed. three times a week each. We pointed out places in your schedule where you could "freelance" art- during morning readiness, free time, Freedom Friday, and of course, at your rad after school program. So much time for art! And of course, Thursdays have quickly become The Best Day of the Week, Ever. Your favorite- just like mine!

I've mentioned before, but I have an antique dresser in a bedroom closet downstairs that solely houses your art projects, paintings, doodles, drawings, experiments, all your heart and soul on paper and various mediums. It's seriously jam-packed and you're just shy of seven. And the collection probably only represents 10% of your life's work. Parting with your artwork breaks my heart, it does. You have read me the riot act on disposing of your stuff for years! Often times, I feel like a Mexican drug lord trying smuggle construction paper and patterned ephemera into the recycling bin like they're drugs I'm trying to get into Texas. It's serious. It's on my Mama-resume, this highly felonious and never-ending task of deciding what stays, what goes. It doesn't help that I'm extremely OCD about order and an advocate for anti-hoarding. I tell you not to take it personal; you always take it personal. It's hard to not involve the heart in the matters of things you love.

That being said, art is arguably the most important thing to you. It goes without saying your people, faces, Village, Beagle are truly first. But art is a hair's width behind.

On Friday's at your after school program, they clean out the Art Cart. Sounds so simple, but it's an act you take very ceremoniously. Throughout the week, the kids are constantly creating projects and baubles and pieces on display that require ample time to dry, set, heal. There's a giant baker's rack that houses the week's art, and at closing time Friday, the kids stash it or trash it. And when I show to claim you, your first concern is A) have I interrupted the second installment of art leadership time (and I usually do, so I just find a chair in the corner & let you do your thing- I know better than to get between my girl and her art) and B) have you assessed your Art Cart slots yet?

Last week, when I went to find your purple unicorn backpack and striped fleece at pickup, I noticed a large trundle of stacked art projects by your things. I walked back to find you. You held up one finger to me to indicate you needed a minute and ran. You came back with the trundle of artwork under your arm, saying you were ready.

One of the program's staff commented, "Thanks again, Lil' Dude. You're a good friend, and I appreciate your help, and your friends will too."

I asked you what she meant- and you explained you noticed so many of your classmates were absent when they emptied the Art Cart, and it positively, 100% devastated you to see their hard work and creativity being subjected to the garbage. So you raised your hand time and time again to save piece after piece of glitter and gold and felt and Elmer's love for the people who were not there. Like a tiny soldier in the Monuments Men army, rescuing condemned art to return to its rightful owners.

Now, I'm used to my heart exploding with love and pride when it comes to you, so Friday was no different. You're making a difference each day, kid, in the lives of the people around you. I hope you know how good that feels, how natural it feels to think of others before you think of yourself.

Keep that shit up.

Mama loves.

Radio Personality

Monday night at the dinner table, I asked Kid Rock about her day.
She reveled us in her usual tales, mouth full of food.

Oh and I'm gonna be on the radio and I got free pancakes for doing it.

Well, double score!

The local AM station in our city runs a "Kids Speak" program that includes its morning deejay interviewing select students in first grade all about their summer vacations, what they like about school, and various other topics. The segments run on-air later that week.

Behold, baby's first radio interview!
Paraphrased, obviously.
9/15/14
Age 6 years, 9 months, and 8 days

Deejay: Lil' Dude. Ok. That's a great name! I bet you don't know anyone else with that name!

Lil' Dude: Ha. No!

DJ: Okay, okay, (laughing). Did you do something fun with your summer vacation?

LD: I did. I did go to the Black Hills.

DJ: What did you do after that?

LD: I did go to a Little Red Cabin, and I also went to my Grandpa and Grandma's for the whole entire week.

DJ: Wow! What did you do with Grandpa and Grandma?

LD: I had a few sleepovers with my friends from down there, and I went swimming with my friends.

DJ: Ok. Did Grandpa and Grandma give you a lot of sweets?

LD: No, no! I just only had ice cream.

DJ: Ice cream! What kind of ice cream is the best?

LD: Ice cream sandwiches.

DJ: Oh those are good. Do you like chocolate ice cream?

LD: Silence

DJ: How about ... ice cream with chocolate chips?

LD: Silence

DJ, obviously segueing way off course: What do you think it means to be a good person?

LD: I don't know.

DJ: You don't know? So if your mom says, 'Lil' Dude, be a good person today', what do you think she is trying to tell you?

LD: Be good and be yourself.

DJ: Be yourself? That's a good thing. And nice to other people? Yeah. Have you ever thought what a cool job to have would be? What do you want to be when you grow up?

LD: A teacher. At this school.

DJ: What would you have the most fun teaching?

LD: Math! And reading, too.

DJ: Who do you think is smarter: boys or girls?

LD: Girls. 

DJ: Why are girls smarter, do you think?

LD: Because they like to learn about horses, and lots and lots of girls like to learn about fairies, and ponies, and they like to learn about more stuff than boys.

DJ: Yes, boys are that way, aren't they!


So she already knows being a good person simply means being yourself, and that girls are smarter than boys. My work here is done. Fistpump; parenting.