She's Eight

Dear Lucy,

In keeping with looking up the meaning behind the number you’re turning, I should not be surprised at the uncanny alignment; how appropriate that the number eight encompasses virtues like inner wisdom, inner strength, and self-confidence. These are all traits of which you have in abundance.

It has been quite the year. We are still living in / through / a pandemic. There was a brief downturn in cases, a vaccine was approved; both Daddy and I got our doses, thankfully. Just around the time of our vaccinations, the Delta variant appeared in March of 2021. Currently, Pfizer, is on the docket for approval of the vaccine for kids as young as five. 

Beyond the trappings and what has become an odd normalcy of living in a pandemic, for you, most notably, included the successful completion of the entirety of first grade via virtual learning. You were fortunate in that your Kindergarten teacher, Mrs. R., was able to loop with your class from Kindergarten. Having a teacher with which you were already comfortable, helped significantly. The other big factor was Daddy. He quit his job to stay home to get you through the whole school year. You both had your good and bad days, but in the end, I saw how this time together changed your relationship for the better. You and Daddy are much closer now, and it’s a beautiful bond to see. It’s clear how much you love each other. When second grade started, there were some jitters, as it had been since March of 2020 when you last step foot both on a school bus or in a brick-and-mortar classroom. Thankfully, once again, you were fortunate enough to land an incredible teacher – Mrs. C. She has been nothing short of wonderful, and you delight being in her classroom; she has said as much that she feels similarly having you as a student. Just a few years in this building, and so many adults know who you are, and smile brightly at your presence – we saw it firsthand when we attended your Back-to-School night.

After the stilted summer of 2020, this past summer was heaps of fun. We were able to go on a few adventures and get out of town, as well as host some visitors. We spent two weeks, you and I, in California. While there, we were fortunate enough to attend Aunt Shannon and Uncle Mike’s long-awaited baby shower. You were Aunt Shannon’s helper, passing out party favors to the guests who drove up, as it was a drive-by shower, given the precautions required in a pandemic (which continues, unfortunately). While in California, we also took a mini vacation with the family to Palm Springs. It was HOT, but you never complained, just happy to spend the hours away in the pool. The final highlight of our trip to California was the movie you began filming with Uncle Mike. A horror one to boot! It was both an eye-opening and unforgettable experience.

We also took an amazing family vacation in Michigan. None of us were prepared for how beautiful it is there; lakes Michigan and Huron were stunning with clear waters that looked as if they were straight out of the Caribbean. We hiked, we canoed, we kayaked, and we paddle boated. It was an awesome time, to say the least.

Singing and dancing remain a staple of yours, and we outfitted you with your own Spotify account, and you have made tremendous use of it, discovering new music, and surprising us with how many songs you know. One of the musical highlights for you this year was your first concert. Grandma took you to see the KISS tribute band, Mr. Speed. According to Grandma, you sang along with every song played, and when you got to meet the band during the “Meet & Greet” after the show, they both complimented your look (pleather pants and jacket and a bedazzled KISS mask) and gave you a fist-bump.

You are physically growing, growing, growing. All legs! Currently you stand at 4' 5", which is a whole three inches since your seventh birthday. Currently, your aspirations include being a singer, a model, a YouTuber, possibly a writer/director, or maybe hair and makeup. This past year your reading skills have exploded and to date, you have read two Dog Man books. Our roles have flipped, and you now read to me in the evenings, which is lovely for the both of us. "The Amazing World of Gumball" is still your go-to show. You are slowly becoming more adventurous with food, showing a willingness to try things that previously, you’d quickly dismiss. This summer you conquered your fear of jumping into the deep end of the pool, and I now feel confident in your ability to be safe around deep waters. You have a lovely circle of friends, and it never fails that wherever we go, you quickly find someone to play with.

Lucy, you make an impression on everyone you meet. I say this all the time and stand by it: you are so deeply self-aware with an uncanny ability to articulate your thoughts. You are in tune with the world around you, observing the nuance in both people and situations. Your heart is one of the biggest spaces you occupy, and the kindness you exude is limitless. You have mentioned to me, on more than one occasion, that you’d like to foster and adopt older children because you know that babies are more desirable, and you want older kids to feel love and acceptance. Your personality often shines through your fashion choices, of which you are fiercely unapologetic. For this year’s birthday photos, you decided to style yourself in a suit. In support of this decision, I sourced a suit and had Nana’s help in altering the pants, because suits tailored for girls are impossible to find. When we were out and about that morning, several folks passed by us, and all of them complimented you on your look which was stunning, fierce, and beautifully sweet. The camera never lies, and you posed yourself, owning and rocking that suit like a pro with the confidence of someone who has lived beyond just eight years. Conventionality has no hold over you, and I reminded of a passage in a beloved story. In the sequel to The Wizard of Oz, known as The Marvelous Land of Oz, L. Frank Baum writes: “That proves you are unusual,” returned the Scarecrow; “and I am convinced that the only people worthy of consideration in this world are the unusual ones. For the common folks are like leaves of a tree, and live and die unnoticed.”

In response to me saying something about how lucky I was to be your Mama, when you were just three, or perhaps it was when you were four, you responded with complete conviction: But I chose you. I picked you. Aside from the eerie sincerity of this celestial kind of declaration, to this day, I’m not sure what I have done in this lifetime of mine to deserve such a magical human to mother. But every day – even the difficult ones – I am grateful for your existence.

You are, unequivocally, noticed and loved by all you meet. What you’re destined for, I have no idea; and let me be clear – I am not holding my breath for something out of this world. You are to be exactly whomever you want. If that’s keeping a low-key life, then so be it. Whatever it is you will do, no matter what form it takes, no matter who you evolve into – you will no doubt leave an impact on the lives you encounter. I have seen it already.

The world is your red carpet, kid.

Happy eighth birthday, my sweet Lucille,

Love, Mama

 

 

 

 

She's Seven

Dear Lucy,

Seven is the number of luck and magic and folklore.

Every birthday, I write to you in an attempt to capture how much you’ve grown and the ways in which your existence is a recurrent metamorphosis. This year feels a little different – this year our little bubble has been permeated by the world and the hammer that’s been dropped. Our country has experienced incalculable losses, incredible divisions in politics, and the systemic racism that has been the underbelly of our nation, has finally reached a boiling point. If there was ever a moment in history that we needed some luck and magic, it is right now.

Your ability to see the world has become more focused. The commercials on television, the signs in peoples’ yards – all of it is noted. When you ask questions such as what does Black Lives Matter mean, I answer. There is no point in hiding truth, however I privately struggle between wanting to keep you wholly innocent and wanting to help you understand. Therein lies my inherent privilege – our privilege: the choice (for better or for worse) to keep certain truths from breaking the surface. And because literally all of parenting is making a billion choices a day, some of those require a leap of faith. A trust in my fundamental beliefs; as such, I choose to answer your pointed questions in language you can understand. In doing so, I am aware that my responses are always underscored by my own bias – I would be foolish to believe otherwise. So while I want you to think for yourself, I know that what I say carries an enormous amount of weight in these early formative years. This is not something to be taken lightly, so my words are selected as carefully as possible and delivered in a manner that hopefully allows you space to question and consider. There is no topic off limits, nor do I wish there ever to be – I want you always to be able to seek me out, and if I don’t know the answer I will humbly admit it so, and perhaps together we’ll dive into the unknown. I’m doing my best, kid, but yeah let’s acknowledge that your Mama is most certainly a liberal who believes that women, not laws, should manage their own bodies, science is legitimate, love is love, and the right to be viewed and treated as an equal, no matter where you are from or the color of  your skin – are human rights. If those inherent biases make you a "bad"  person, I will still sleep well. Sometimes, my love, good trouble, is good.

Aside from the gravity of the world’s turmoil, you are experiencing some on a personal and developmental level. Dad and I have noted that the sass factor is off the charts. Holy smokes, kid – you are pushing the limits, and often. Just when I think I’ve gotten a good foothold on my patience, an eye-roll, or undesirable tone of voice response, sends me reeling. You ALWAYS have to have the last word. You are challenging us in ways that have tested our follow-through, and I’m going to be honest – we’ve definitely faltered. We are humans and often exhausted, and follow-through requires attention to detail and discipline.

But more and more, you are also recognizing the impact of your actions. Just the other day after some unfavorable response, through tears, you asked if you were a "bad" kid – this to which I quickly corrected explaining that sometimes you make bad choices, but are most definitely not a bad person. You were forthcoming in expressing that you don’t always know why you do or say things in a way that’s upsetting, and we talked that through. Lucy – you are so aware. So incredibly aware and introspective for your age. Mistakes happen, it’s inevitable. And yes, there will be consequences, but no matter what, we love you always. We are your safe space, where mistakes are met with forgiveness and nurture.

It is during these windows that I am most cognizant of what feels like the colossal responsibility of being your Mama. When you find yourself questioning your own integrity, and especially when you question your own beauty. Out of nowhere, you have decided that the freckles on your face are undesirable. Where you received or conjured this message is beyond me. This is the slippery slope – the one I would much rather avoid all-together, the one I know has the ability to unravel even the most tightly woven net of confidence. At just seven years old, you have begun to question what you see in the mirror. This, out of fear, pokes the ferocious bear inside me. As your Mama, as a Feminist, and as the fierce champion of your confidence, I want to smash this doubt dead on the spot. How do I convey to you how beautiful you truly are in such a way that you believe me? And as well, that you understand worth is not determined by beauty. It's so much, and maybe too much for you to understand right now. Perhaps you are testing me? To see what my response is? Regardless, I will tell you endlessly, when you come to me with questions of your beauty, that you are in fact, beautiful. That I look at you and see exquisite art in your face, the way your eyes smile – and yes, those endearing and delightful freckles. You are a magical vision, my love, and so much more. 

Your sense of rhythm is quite impressive and you can often be found twirling and dancing downstairs to your own Spotify playlist. Lucky for you, our neighbor, two houses down, was a dancer. She has offered private lessons in tap and ballet. Should the dancing lessons not work out, then let it be one step closer to finding what makes you most happy. You continue to love watching Portlandia with Dad, and Schitt’s Creek with me. Barbie has entered your world, and you are all about the dolls and accessories. You learned to ride your bike during the quarantine, and enjoy taking walks with me when the weather allows for it. Your love for Olive has grown exponentially, and I love how you love her. Virtual learning has had its perks, like staying home with Dad, but you are bored and have even remarked that you wish you were back in the school building – I think mostly to see your beloved teacher, Mrs. Ritson, and your friends. School still really isn't your jam, though, and that's okay. You are getting better and better at reading, and still cite this skill as something you hope to master soon.

Seven years ago today you rewrote the blueprint of my daily existence. Seven years you have afforded
me the privilege of being your Mama. You emote with fervor, you question with command, and you love so affectionately and openly. You are a prime number divisible only by yourself, and you govern what autonomy you have with a healthy dose of moxie and a confidence I never knew so young.

Happy birthday, my sweet Lucille.

Love, Mama

She's Six

Dear Lucy,

In doing some research on your name, the etymology – Lucille is a diminutive of the Latin, Lucia. Keep digging and Lucia is the feminine of Lucius, which is derived from Latin Lucianus, an offshoot of the Roman Lucius — also known as "light."

From the beginning, I’ve known this: you are light.

What a perfect reflection of the six year-old you have become. Radiance that turns into prisms, the soft Autumnal shine that filters through trees bleeding their colors into winter – the kind of light that flickers and shimmers, light so bright it stings the eyes. Lucy, you are all of this and more.

This past year has been a series of remarkable events and moments, many that that have shaken our understanding of the footing we held. We were so cavalier. Kindergarten, bowled you over, and took me down too. And we are not out of the woods yet. This new place that holds so much promise has intimidated and frightened. It is not the familiar space where you reigned so comfortably for the past five years – where everyone literally knows your name, and you know every smile that has cared for you. Kindergarten is too big right now, and we are slowly chipping away at the scary. Sometimes this looks like happiness stepping off the school bus, and sometimes it's nights in tears begging me not to leave your side because you, “will miss [me] so much tomorrow at school.” So we’ve taken a step back, and I lay next to you, my hand on your back, whispering encouragements, and sometimes nothing at all – just being present with you, and existing in the fear,  in tandem. By your side I remain, as much as I can be, until the sun orchestrates a new day, and you are left to square up, once again.

The weight of this new challenge comes on the heels of an incredible summer. Dare I say a storybook couple of months. You’ve nearly nailed down the skills to swim, moving longer and longer stretches across the skin of the pool and beneath. You love the water, Lucy. We went more times to the pool this year than in any summers past. We traveled, hiked, climbing mountains in Colorado, touched waterfalls. You became my assistant on photography shoots, for which you charge $5. And to be quite honest, you’re immensely helpful, holding the reflector when need be, and getting the attention of easily distracted little ones. There are moments when you even pipe up and suggest a shot! It’s fabulous to see you thinking in terms of light and composing a frame. And the camera – it loves you. You remain my favorite muse.

Gymnastics has fallen by the wayside, and currently you’re not involved in anything. I panicked for half a second, worried the absence of organized sports or activities would lead to your eventual downfall, but then quickly righted my thinking: You. Are. A. Child. You need not do anything but explore, and play, and exist. I suspect you’ll eventually find something, but for now, we’re all okay just living the day to day.

Current favorites include The Amazing World of Gumball, Nailed It, Sugar Rush, and Portlandia. Yes, Portlandia. Taylor Swift is often requested, purple and turquoise are colors of choice, you’re all about expression through makeup and hair (dyed pink just before school started), and you chose to have your ears pierced. Crafting and drawing drive your creativity, and there’s not an empty paper towel cardboard roll that stands a chance against your scissors. Empty toilet paper rolls become bejeweled bracelets worn as high fashion. You love spending time with Daddy outside tossing the ball, and you’ve become friends with neighbors Nick and Charlotte, both three years your senior. Occasionally you lament being younger, only because you wish you were in their same grade at school, otherwise the age difference is irrelevant. Your reading skills continue to progress and you can now sound out short simple words, on your own.

The thing about light is, it will always find the seam through which to shine. In your ability to make it through this phase, I have no doubt. These tough moments are what build backbone, and while painful to experience (and to watch as your Mama), are necessary. Today you are six and tangled among all the changes that have recently occurred. You are slowly navigating your way through, and I watch, as always, in awe at your resilience and simultaneous fragility. My little Libra, searching so hard for balance, wanting to do what’s right, and yet taking risks. Clouded under confusion, with moments of brilliant clarity.

Nothing good is built with hollow stones. Each milestone is a brick placed on the foundation to which you’re constructing – the eventual woman you will become. No matter the burdens you’re tasked to shoulder, remember always, in me, Lucy, you’ll forever have a space in which to rest and renew your spirit. 

You are light.

And because of this, I know you will be okay.

I know you wish / You had a brother who had blue eyes just like you / I know you wish
You had a sister you could tell your secrets to / Maybe we'll miss
Having four sets of china on the table / But I guarantee you this

You mean more to me than branches to a maple

Pink painted walls / Your face in my locket / Your daddy and me
Your tiny back pocket / Mama's first love / Last of my kind
You'll always be my only child

Happy Birthday, my sweet Lucille.

She's Five

Pamela Salai Photography

Dear Lucy,

Today you are five years old. Half a decade. A whole hand. If you look up numerology, five is described as being the most dynamic and energetic of the single digit numbers. 

My gal, you are just that.

This past year you have grown in ample strides. Intellectually, your need to understand the world around you is insatiable, your ability to hear, remember, and put into use new vocabulary, is remarkable, and your independence has touched every part of our lives. You are growing up right before my eyes.

Like a rolling stone, milestones this year evolved at an alarming pace as your neared your birthday:

·         You can now draw stick figures that actually resemble people, and have created several family portraits of our trio.

·         You conquered your fear of being submerged in water, and now freely jump into pools, and swim below the surface.

·         You can take care of your basic hygienic needs, including successfully showering yourself.

·         You read your very first words: “hero” and “jumbo.”

·         You can get your own snacks and glass of water.

·         You know how to work the TV and access your favorite shows on Netflix.

What is most memorable for me was the summer – you and me. It was, by far, the most enjoyable summer as your Mama. In the past, I often struggled to come up with activities that we could both enjoy, that you would be able in which to participate, and that were appropriate for your age. This summer blew the lid off of all those previous parameters. You are old enough now that the activities we can do together are fun for the both of us, and the places we can go are with minimal preparation, and your willingness to experience new adventures is awesome.

We did so much!! Most notably, we took our first “girl’s trip,” where we drove down to Pigeon Forge, TN, to meet up with my long-time friend and her daughter. It was a lengthy drive down, but you managed like a seasoned pro, exceeding all my expectations. My girl, you were in fact, good company. We listened to stories on a CD and discussed what happened. We laughed a whole lot. Our visit to Tennessee was incredibly fun, and you made fast-friends with R, who is several years your senior. From Tennessee, we headed to Asheville, NC, for a couple days and you continued to enjoy the adventure just as much as I did. When all was said and done and we were home, we both decided that an annual girl’s trip was going to have to become our tradition.

At five years old, your love of music continues, and you thoroughly enjoy artists such as Imagine Dragons, Lady Gaga, Camila Cabello, and Taylor Swift. I see a concert in your near future, darlin’. With music comes dancing, and you are often twirling and creating routines. Crafting is your go-to pastime, and the table you occupy in the living room is often happily covered in markers and remnants of whatever picture you created or construction paper you’ve cut and glued. A slight obsession with makeup has developed, and this one has been a challenge for me. It’s not that I believe makeup is bad; I have grown to love it as I’ve gotten older. I just don’t want you to ever feel the need to wear it, to hold yourself to some unrealistic and unhealthy standard. For now, we allow you to play with some makeup, but when you exit the house, for the most part, we don’t allow any. For special occasions, a select almost translucent eye-shadow, with some sparkle, is allowed, and perhaps a touch of lip gloss. I won’t pretend to know that I know the best way to approach makeup in terms of developmental appropriateness; I’m trying very hard to tread the line with what I think is acceptable, and not squelch the fun you have with it. When asked the other day what you wanted to be when you grow up, you said, “A hair and makeup lady.” Frankly, I think that’s fabulous, and I will champion this path should you someday actually walk it.

You tried out soccer for the very first time, and decided it wasn’t for you. Totally fine. I’m not seeking a legacy in you, nor do I care if you ever love soccer. My girl, I just want you to find something to love, to be passionate about - something to make your own. Gymnastics continues to reign as the desired activity. We took a break for several months, partly because I did not want you to be over-scheduled, but mostly because I wanted to give you an opportunity to try a new sport (soccer), and I wanted to be sure that your participation in gymnastics was because you wanted to be there, and not just because Mama had enrolled you. It’s clear you enjoy bouncing and flipping around. Our living room has become your personal gymnasium, and I chuckle when I see you flip onto the couch, almost knocking the picture frames off the wall. Lucy – it’s as if I’m looking at my past self – I did the very same thing. You have learned how to do a cartwheel, and are working towards a solid handstand.

Pamela Salai Photography

You are so well-immersed in your current pre-school setting; you’re top dog - but the concept of kindergarten has found its way into our world. It’s right around the corner.

This is your final year as a pre-schooler, and while I know you’ll be more than ready to enter the halls of traditional schooling, I understand it’s a little terrifying. You have asked on more than one occasion, “What if I don’t know what to do in Kindergarten?” I try my best to explain that a teacher will be there to help, and that you are a wise girl, and will figure things out as they come, but also that asking for help is all part of the journey.  Next fall will bring big changes, and I will ride them out with you as much as I can, but for the most part, it will be on you, big girl. You will have to navigate new spaces, new friends, and new rules. It won’t all be easy, and some of it may be quite trying. My Mama heart aches knowing this fear floats around inside of you, and I wish with everything to absolve you of this pressure, but I also know it is necessary, and will be good for you. My sweet girl, we only grow when we are pushed outside of our comfort zones.

A month ago I broke my ankle participating in the Tough Mudder. You asked why I had to, “do the race.” My answer was that I do these races because I enjoy challenging myself – this to which you replied, “But you don’t need to challenge your body anymore, because you get boo-boos.” It was sweet and I understand it’s uncomfortable for you to see me hurt, but I needed you to know that this is a fundamental part of who I am. I explained this to you, explained that the fear of getting hurt should never stop you, as it has never stopped me. If I stopped “races” then a part of who I am would cease to exist. I know in your young mind this doesn’t make total sense, but at the very least, I hope you see a Mama who put herself out there, fell hard, and came back to be even stronger. It’s not the fall, Lucy, that defines who we are, but rather the way in which we rise afterwards. We are strong women, cut from the same cloth. We are here to blaze through this world, both warrior and woman.

In June, just a few weeks before I turned forty, we did a photo shoot together. We had such a blast, and I’m so grateful to Pamela Salai Photography for creating and capturing such stunning images. I hope in these you see how good this life really is, how fierce and exquisite you are, and just how much your Mama loves you.

Pamela Salai Photography

You’ve recently taken to falling upon me, hugging and kissing me, and saying, “I just love you so much, and I never want to let you go.” As if my heart could not swell any bigger, I find it doing just that. Growing exponentially, five years and counting. 

There is an image that Pam captured which perfectly encapsulates parenthood. You, twirling in all your tulle and moto jacket glory, and me, your Mama, just slightly behind, looking on in admiration at the remarkable girl you have become.

Someday you will let go, and move on to your own life, but I will always be there. Giving you space to create your world, but always within reach, championing your radiant spirit, always ready for hugs and kisses. And baby, I will always believe you. Always.

Happy Birthday, my sweet Lucille - love, Mama

Forty.

Today I am forty years old.

Forty.

One of my favorite authors, Joan Didion, explained her personal purpose for penning words: “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.”

Most of my friends know me as a gregarious, bawdy, ridiculously unfiltered figure. Rules, in my world, exist on a sliding scale. I prefer to ask for forgiveness.  I am the thrill-seeker, the comedian, the one who says all the things. Recently a colleague joked that no one would ever be able to “one up Marshall” because I don’t subscribe to a definable line in the sand. I own, entirely, my enjoyment of pushing boundaries and buttons, walking the tight-rope between what is acceptable and what is inappropriate. For better or worse, I’m that friend and colleague and I’d like to think everyone needs someone like this in their lives, if not for simply to add some color – but that may just be me rationalizing my, sometimes, less-than choice antics.

Friendships are very important to me; I rely on them heavily. For those whom I count as the inner circle, I am ferociously loyal and protective. If ever a moment has occurred where I feel I’ve made a misstep, I am wrecked. Not just sad or apologetic but riddled with anxiety until the air has been cleared of any transgressions. Beyond this, the friendships that I hold close are immensely fundamental to my life. I just got back from having spent three nights in New York with my local tribe and it was nothing short of fabulous. These women and their friendships are infinitely validating and what sustain me. They are the constant when other parts of my life have gone, or go, haywire. 

At my core, I am hard-wired to be an athlete. Over the years, athletics have manifest in various iterations. At six, I began gymnastics. I was certain I was going to be the very next Mary Lou Retton, and cartwheels I turned, relentlessly on our front lawn. There was a brief stint on a swim team – breast stroke and freestyle were my jam. At thirteen I donned my first pair of soccer cleats, and I was hooked, riding the sport all the way into college on a partial scholarship to a Division I team.

I started on the field as a defender, made my way up to an offensive half-back, and just as my skills were becoming laser sharp, I tore my ACL. After recovering from surgery, I was put into the goal as a way to preserve my knee and as it turned out, the position came naturally to me. The acrobatic skills I’d acquired as a gymnast, served me well. And I was a bit of a kamikaze.

My senior year of high school, I blew out my knee, again, busted my ass to come back from that, and then months before graduating, I tore my shoulder on a dive. Because of the shoulder injury that required surgical intervention, I had to red-shirt my freshman year of college. By the time I made it back onto the field, my sophomore year, I was running on steam. In one of the hardest decisions of my life, at the end of my sophomore year of college, I chose to relinquish the scholarship, and turned in my jersey.

Never have I ever won an MVP award. Never. But – I’ve won, more times than I can count, “Most Inspirational.” In high school I became comfortable in my role as the underdog, always climbing my way back from some injury, some surgery – in fact, I got really good at it. No bigger was there a challenge than rehabbing reconstructed knees and shoulders. I love physical challenges, and it’s precisely why in the years that followed soccer retirement that I ran a marathon and competed in sprint triathlons. It’s why, today, I’m running consistently again, and lifting weights. I completed a half marathon in May, with, as it turned out, undiagnosed pneumonia. I thought I had a bad cold. My bad. It’s tempting to do another half, but I haven’t committed to it just yet; to keep things interesting, in September, I will be participating in a Tough Mudder. You know – for fun.

It is clear to me now, more than ever, that I have enjoyed the struggle – the climb. Making progress, and showing measurable advancements is incredibly motivating. I’ve never been a first-place finisher, and frankly, I’m not interested in winning races, but instead completion and working towards personal bests. I have nothing to prove to anyone but myself. If a mile takes me twelve minutes one day, and nine the next, so be it. At this point in my life, sustainability is the brass ring. Setting an example for my daughter as a woman who takes care of her body, who runs and lifts because it makes her feel good – that’s where I win.

When I began college, I thought I wanted to be a pediatrician. Several bombed math and science classes later, I realized that while I loved the idea of working with kids, I did not love the science behind medicine. There was a brief period where I reasoned that teaching elementary school would fit me best. Laughable, I know. Late in my sophomore year, I heard author John Edgar Wideman, speak. During the Q&A at the end, he said something that would change my life forever – he said, “If you want to do something easy, eat bananas. If you want to be a hero, teach high school.” Done. I declared myself a writing major with the intent to teach high school English. And that’s what I’ve been doing for the past fourteen years. Beyond teaching English though, I do plenty of the less academic: I’m in charge of our social committee, so when babies are born, vows are made, or someone must bury a loved one, it’s me who makes sure that gets recognized. I’m also in charge of putting on prom. It’s not a role for which I win Staff Member of the Month, but every single year, I put together a beautiful party for my seniors and juniors. It’s a gorgeous evening, and it happens because of me. But the best and most rewarding facet to my career is getting to know my students – their lives, and who they are beyond the essays they write for me. There’s payoff in these efforts, because long after they’ve graduated, a handful stay in touch. Some have even thanked me. I keep those letters they’ve written close at hand; they are treasures.

Motherhood: I have waxed poetic, pondered, scrutinized, and emoted all over the page with regards to being Lucy’s mama. As she grows, I grow too. It has become clear there is no finish line, and the ravines are oftentimes steep and dark. The mama I aim to be to this stardust little girl, is a mama who recognizes her missteps, can reflect on them, and do better next time. I want to be the mama to give her space to climb the tallest trees and allow her to fall – to not catch her (even when my hands compulsively want to reach out), so that she learns the value in overcoming the break. But make no mistake, I want to arm her. My history is inscribed with #metoo. The stories, yes plural— I don’t tell often, not out of shame, but more so because they don’t arise in typical pedestrian conversation. The gritty details are unnecessary, but these experiences most certainly inform how I parent my daughter and the conversations we have about consent. Much as I want to shield her from the ugliness lurking beyond the walls of our home, I know I cannot. What I can do is make sure she knows that no one, man or woman, will trespass the geography of her body without her explicit consent. She will also know what it means to be groomed, and when she’s more emotionally capably of understanding, I will tell her of the red flags I missed, and I will watch for those with her, always an ally. The horrifying reality is even in doing so, I know I still won’t be able to stop all the monsters. I can only hope that if the ugliness should reveal itself to her, she has the wherewithal to recognize the situation and save herself. It’s a lot to ask, I know.

She has been the mirror into which I see myself, every flaw and virtue. The brilliant in her, is a piece of the best in me. The dark in her, are the shadows in me. Love is too precise a word when it comes to my daughter. We are messy, a calamity, unbridled laughter and tears. We are both I’m sorry and I’m scared. We are try harder and I love you most. Together we are Wonder Women. I repeat to myself, constantly, that she does not belong to me. She belongs only to herself. She will have her own ideas, opinions and desires. I cannot get in her way. What I wish to foster within her, for as long as I have any kind of influence, is a stockpile of grit, empathy, and confidence. The rest is up to her. And if she talks about smashing the patriarchy in first grade, well then, we’ve added a cherry on top – nolite te bastardes carborundorum, my darling.

Big Red. I don’t speak of him often in this space because he largely likes to remain anonymous, and while our story together belongs to me, so too does it belong to him. What I can say about the past eighteen years with this man is that it’s been about learning, evolving, and adventure. Like every other couple on the face of the planet, we experience a range in delights and misfortunes. He pisses me off. I piss him off. He rolls his eyes at my political statement t-shirts in which I express my love and support for those on the fringes and he braces himself when I propose crazy ideas. He thinks I’m bananas for waking up at “four ass early” to go running and can’t for the life of him understand why I’d lay down $100 to run a muddy obstacle course with my friends. He doesn’t stop me from talking to our daughter of the importance of busting through the glass ceiling or ranting about the social constructs of bras. It’s cool. We’re two wildly different people. Listen, he may not bring me random gifts, or may falter with words of affirmation (my love language), but for eighteen years, even in our darkest hours, he’s never gotten in the way of me being me. He’s never once tried to change who I am. Never. He loves me in his own way, no flash, no pretense - and that’s not for nothing.

I have never jumped out of an airplane.

I have four tattoos (and an upcoming appointment for another, maybe two).

I have never been asked out on a date. Yes, really.

I love photography.

I want to be loved.

I want to be wanted.

I have a terrible temper, but a long fuse.

I have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

I love sushi and ice cream. Not together.

I do not embarrass easily.

My emotional side overrules my logical side, often.

I have no regrets, just lessons learned.

That has to be enough.

I am enough.

I am a walking dichotomy, more resolved than ever to be a strong and confident woman, feminist, mother, partner, and friend.  Forty years has amounted to a series of moments that, collectively, create my wondrous life. Magic, really. I don’t know what it all means, so I’m just going to keep on, keep’n on. One foot in front of the other, face to the sun, learning, and living my best life.

I listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.

She's Four

Dear Lucy,

Today you are four. Four whole years old. At the risk of waking you this morning, I went into your

room and kissed your cheek, wishing you a happy birthday. Four. When I say it aloud it seems like such a big number. Four years of watching you, petal by petal, reveal the little girl you’ve become.

Last week, there was a day you and I went to the park. When it was time to go, we agreed to race home and you took off sprinting towards our house down the street. Your arms pumping, hair swishing back and forth across your back. Flying, you never looked back – until the one time you did and a tree obstructed your view of me. When I finally reached the porch, I discovered you’d been crying. Crying because you couldn’t see me and thought you’d lost me.

This is four. So desperately eager to be independent, yet still needing to know I’m there. This is where we find ourselves, daily. The pendulum swinging wildly back and forth between demanding to open the string cheese on your own, and dropping to the floor in tears because you don’t want to go out on the deck by yourself.

You have also really started thinking about some bigger concepts: life and death. You want to know

where babies come from and how they get into the bellies of mamas. You want to know if we get old and die. In all honestly, I’m much more prepared to talk to you about reproduction than I am of death. You caught me off guard the other day when asked if I would get old and die. My response was simple and direct – yes, I will get old, and someday I will die. We’ve made it our policy to be as honest with you as we can, at least meeting you in your level of understanding when possible. Your reaction to my honest answer what a dramatic downfall into crying and a true expression of fear. Through your tears you pleaded with me not to die, asking over and over if I would just please not die.

I did my best to reassure you of what I know: that I am here, now. That I do not want to die and leave you, and neither does anyone who loves you. This appeared to assuage some of those fears, but the idea has popped up every now and again. We do our best to explain death in simple terms, but I know your mind is whirling.

While you wrestle with some ideas about life, you are also growing a big heart of empathy. We were reading the story of Rosa Parks the other night just before bed, and your sweet little face furrowed at the idea that black kids could not be at the same school as white kids. I explained how this was how it used to be and you quickly pointed out that it wasn’t fair, and that there are black kids at your school, and everyone should be friends with everyone no matter what color they are.

It has been heartwarming to watch your developing relationship with Daddy. There was a time when you two had cursory interactions, but that’s the case no longer. You’re excited when he comes home and you love playing with him. You’ve even requested, on occasion, that he read you books at night –unheard of or tolerated previous to now. We have also recently begun to hear about the downside of finicky schoolyard friendships, how sometimes kids can say mean words, and how friends can become exclusive. This is uncharted territory, and we are doing our best to help you through it. We explain that sometimes friends need play breaks, that everyone has bad days, and that you should always stick up for yourself. These newest developments in the landscape of social navigation are somewhat daunting, and surely just the tip of what's to come. It appears that you are handling these new challenges well, because your response to one group of friends not wanting to play (according to what you tell me), is simply to go find other friends who do. And when you're feeling sad because ________ would not be your friend, we hug and talk it through, but mostly I just try to listen. 

Wonder Woman reigns queen of your world, Moana has captured your heart, you love watching movies, you thoroughly enjoy music and singing along, recently getting into the work of Queen (We Will Rock You, We Are the Champions, Bohemian Rhapsody), and dancing. Gymnastics remains a weekly activity, and I’m seeing you become more coordinated and skilled. I know there’s a cartwheel about to emerge.

Kid – daily life is a tangle of overblown meltdowns and deep belly laughs. Your need to assert dominance and control, and my need to teach you boundaries and respect, while still making sure you understand that mama’s love will always be there, are definite friction points. I am your greatest champion, my darling daughter. And even when you are behaving in a manner that bespeaks the most challenging facets of your personality, I still love you. I still love you — we say this often, per your request after having been reprimanded. Mama, do you still love me? Yes, Lucy, I love you so much.

You are the little girl who, spirited by confidence and what I believe to be a touch of wildfire, sprints away from me as we leave the park, running as fast as your strong legs will pump, eyes ahead. You are pushing boundaries and growing and falling. And each time you get up, I rise with you. Because you push me and you knock me down – relentlessly. We are growing together. This is my pride and pain, my sweet burden as your mama. Ever so slowly, with each candle we add to your cake, you move a little closer to the edge of the nest, eyeing up the world and all that’s out there.

Happy Birthday, my sweet Lucille.

She's Three.

Dear Lucille,

Photo Credit: Horseshoe Hill Photography

Today you turn the magical number three. Three. I’m going to let that rest on my tongue a minute, and slowly digest this fallen snowflake of amazement because I can hardly believe how far we’ve come since your birth. Three is a lucky number according to the Chinese, partly because it sounds like the word that means life – and life, my sweet Lucille, is what you radiate.

You are a full-blown little girl who still loves to swing on the swings at the park and has developed a passion for riding the “carouself.” The purple dragon, on our favorite carouself, is your steed of choice. I’m pretty certain that if we allowed it, you’d eat “broccomole” and chips every day for dinner, and guzzle down chocolate milk (cut with regular milk: “…first we add the chocolate, then we add the milk, and that’s how you get chocolate milk!”) by the gallon. We still, every night, read two books, and I sing you two songs. The books are on rotation, but the songs remain constant. It’s always out of your favorite, four: Somewhere Over the Rainbow, You Are My Sunshine, Go to Sleep You Little Baby, and Hush Little Baby.

Over the past year your imagination has exploded, and I mean, really taken off. It’s fascinating to see you create scenarios with your toys, talking about where you and your “children” are going. You have named all your stuffed animals, and while some include obvious monikers of Piggie for a stuffed pig, there’s also Roberto (a dog), Dorothy (a unicorn), Becky (a monkey), and Margaret (a tiger). To date, Tiger, the original, remains your absolute favorite. You named your three baby dolls, Sara, Ella, and Audrey.   

Of note, you’ve also added to your extensive vocabulary, the most notable word being fucking. Yes, that’s correct – fucking. Your Dad and I are clearly the ones to blame, that’s no secret. I suppose we have to try a little harder in the potty-mouth department, but fuck damn, it’s hard. The good news is, if there is any concerning such language, that you use it in correct context, and only at home around us. That’s a plus, right? Frankly, I’m a fan of words (shocker), and I do believe words, all of them, have a place in our vernacular. When used in a well-timed manner, they can give power and punctuation to ideas and meaning. We’ve never admonished you for the use of the F word, because we don’t want to make it any more seductive than it already is. That’s as far as we’ve gotten on that front. Hold your applause.The end.

Music remains a constant development in your life and your current top three favorite tunes are, All Through the Night, Run the World (Girls), and Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds. Television shows include Daniel Tiger, Doc McStuffins, and Sofia the First. The most notable addition has been the 1970s Wonder Woman series. To say that you’re obsessed with Wonder Woman would be an understatement of gross proportions. The Wonder Woman outfit that Nana sent you is worn SEVERAL times a week. Just the other day, we were watching an episode we’ve all now seen twenty-two thousand times, and you looked at me and said, “Mama, Wonder Woman is going to save herself because she’s strong.” #momwin #wwscreentimeallday

My sweet Lucille, for all the good and growing you’re doing, we’ve stomped right into the treacherous land of Three. Your independence and need to do things your way is in full bloom. We are growing alongside you and are working hard to meet you head-on as these challenges appear. Sometimes following directions requires multiple redirections and the threat of taking something away, but in the end, more often than not, you make the right choice. Your energy is boundless, and we’ve recently enrolled you in gymnastics. You LOVE it. And I love that you love it. It matches your need to be physical and active, and provides such a wonderful healthy outlet. I don’t know if you’ll be doing this for a few months or a few years; I have zero expectations. My only expectation is that you enjoy what you’re doing, and when it becomes un-enjoyable, should it ever, we’ll reassess and move on if need be.

You are an undeniable and unavoidable mirror. It’s because of you I have had to learn, and continue to learn, to manage and reshape my innate temper and call upon the grace of patience and understanding. You are a chimera; a little girl with so many facets and faces, that sometimes, I’m certain breathes fire. Even when you are at your worst, my dear, I still love you with an explosion that is unrivaled. It is because of you I am becoming a better person. That I think about what I’m doing, and saying, more than I have ever considered in my life. And I’m learning to take better care of myself, an important part of being your mama, something I take very seriously. This world can be unkind to women, and I want to arm you with a tower of confidence, strength, and an awareness. I can say all the things, but if I do none of the things, then it’s all for nothing. You are watching me closely, and I know this.

Friday was your final day in the toddler room; you were Queen of the hill. On Tuesday, you will move to the preschool room, whiplashed back to the bottom. As with all starts, I expect there will be a transition, but I think you’ll find this new room to be fun and exciting.

Your birthday falls shortly after the autumnal equinox; a time of transition and reflection, a phase of duality where both light and dark exist, and the ushering in of the long shadows of winter. Some fear this darkness, this silence, but this is where we learn and reflect upon the harvest reaped. Right now, this is you, my love, and my most favorite time of the year. While I am challenged by your shifting moods, it has also forced me to look inward, and I’m pacing myself to keep up with you.

On this birthday I wish for you more discovery of the world. You are everything I never knew I ever wanted, and needed, in a daughter: a fierce, furniture-climbing, armchair-jumping, somersault rolling, happy, determined, strong, twirling, imaginative, bright-eyed three year-old.

Happy Birthday, my sweet Lucille.

She's Two.

Dear Lucille,

Today you are two years old. My daughter is two.

I believe Jerry Seinfeld once said that having a two year-old is like owning a blender with no top. The man was definitely on to something...You, my fiammetta, are strong of body and character. That ever present twinkle in your eye, the one that has been there since birth, has remained and shimmers with a sense of humor and mischief. We are lucky that on *most* days, you choose your powers for good. Unfortunately, we are not spared the moments where you decide to exert your will and test us – but this is not wrong or bad. This is how you learn and grow. This is how we all learn and grow.

You, Lucille, are a glittering rocket, hurling yourself towards independence, determined to put your socks on by yourself, to put on your shoes, to hold the cup and drink, to pour large quantities of liquid into your cup, to clean up the spilled mess, to brush your teeth, to wash your hands, to jump from the last stair onto the floor. And the stardust trail you leave behind sometimes involves tears, but often reverberates with the sound of laughter, an infectious melody and second only to the radiance of your smile.

Reading still remains a love of yours, and there are several books you have memorized – Goodnight Moon, Where the Wild Things Are, Rad American Women A-Z, and Knuffle Bunny – to name a few. There is a tender side of you that is emerging, and the baby doll you named Audrey, is often cradled in your arms. You talk about how she’s a “cutie pie,” and how she “needs her mommy.” You deposit kisses to her plastic forehead and gently pat her back so she can “sleep.” Nature or nurture? I’m not certain. It has been rewarding to see this facet of you emerge. You are concerned when you see another child crying, asking why, then suggesting that he/she needs to be comforted by “a mommy” who can give “huggies and snuggles.” I hope this empathy continues to grow. You love dinosaurs, and animals in general, and are currently obsessed with watching E.T., and “da piggy movie,” Charlotte’s Web II. You also like Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood, Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, Sofia the First, and Curious George. I still have to sing to you at night before bed, and our most recent rotation include Baby Mine, Somewhere Over the Rainbow, Ants Marching, the Star Spangled Banner (I know, weird…), Go To Sleep You Little Baby, and of course, You Are My Sunshine. Always with the “more sunshine, mama.”

There is no boundary when it comes to vocabulary; you say everything you hear and you remember it, too. Mornings are often your chattiest, and you wake with stories about things you’ve done in past days, or perhaps even dreamed. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference, but nevertheless, you love to talk.

And as you take these giant roaring leaps of learning that are catapulting you towards independence, you still have a very strong tether to your base of comfort. Most days, it’s me you want. To bathe you, to get your food together, to hold you, to play with you, to rock and sing to you. I would lie if I didn’t admit that this is both endearing and exhausting. We’ve been told that one day the tide will turn and Daddy will be the one you call for. I’m keenly aware that there will come a time when you won’t need so much from me, so lately, I’ve been working on staying in the present, savoring these fleeting moments. This, I’m understanding, is the dichotomy of Toddlerhood: the need to feel independent while still clinging to the only assured safety you’ve ever known.

But you are slowly letting go, and forcing me to do the same. You spent, for the first time ever an entire day away from us. You left our house in your grandmother’s car, in a car, that for the first time, wasn’t one of ours. I know it isn’t right to keep you caged, but it was so hard, so hard to relinquish control, to see you go. You had a wonderful day, and I was incredibly happy for you. And in that happiness, I allowed myself to be excited for your future adventures, renewing my vow to let you fly, never to stand in your way. I missed you, and the house was eerily quiet, but once in a while, it will be good for all of us; a change of scenery for you, a break for me and your daddy.

I have to remind myself, often, that you growing up is not immediate or instant, it’s a constant state of change – a long winding road of transition. And as you walk among the timber and through the prairies, your velvety little hand still reaches up for mine, or you ask, “mama, I need a hold you,” we cross the chasms, together.

On your second birthday, this is my promise to you: I won’t leave you behind. I will work to meet you on your level when the world is too big, and your emotions don’t have names yet, and the only thing you can do is scream and cry. I will try to meet you in that place, to be your repose. Because my darling, you are an incredible little girl – smart, loving, brave, aware, strong, determined, funny, and fierce. All those qualities – both the ones that make us laugh and even the ones that force us to plumb the deepest recesses of patience we never knew we had — I promise to foster. You are so much like the two birthstones designated for October – opal and tourmaline. An array of colors, beautiful and unique.

Your grandfather, who you refer to as “Papa,” has nicknamed you Unstoppable. And you are exactly that; not because you’re perfect or that your life is extraordinary, but because you charge forward, a fire at your heels and in that mighty beating heart.

My little wonder woman, my wild thing with eyes that shine, my unstoppable, exquisite, beautiful daughter, I am still – even more now, in love with who you are becoming.

Happy Birthday, my sweet Lucille.

She's One.

Dear Lucille,

Today you are one year old. Your age is no longer relegated to the obligatory month-count; when folks ask how old you are, I can now say, “she’s one.” You’re one. Already your life of one year is replete with memories, none that you’ll remember, and some of which, for me, will certainly collapse under the weight of time. But there are many, many moments, hallmarks and milestones that have stitched themselves onto the fabric of my life. And because you won’t remember, there are stacks upon stacks of images, both in video and photograph, that document this first year.

Lately, I’ve been replaying the days leading up to your birth, your arrival, and the days that followed. Scenes from your first few weeks queue themselves like stills from a movie. Feeding you bottles in the wee hours of the morning, my eyes barely able to focus on the clock tick-tocking on the wall across from us. Visitors coming in and out to meet you, dropping off trays of food, and the moment your grandparents met you for the first time.

There is still clarity in many of those memories, but the raw pink flesh of newborness and motherhood have since callused over. Who you and I are today are not the gals we were then. More than anything, you have single-handedly taught me to trust my instincts. That mother’s intuition is the real deal, and no one knows you better than I do, my darling. No one, not even, dare I say it, your dad.

This past year wasn’t always masked in buttery bokeh and soft twinkling light. There were more than enough pitfalls and days laden with a suffocation I was certain would get the better of me – but somehow, we weathered the mighty white-capped swells. And in doing so, something has been forged between us, you and me. It was built in the fractured menagerie of all the hours and minutes of the past year. In the innumerable tears spilled, the frustrations, and the successes. It was built in the time spent making your food from scratch and spooning the brightly colored purees into your little bird mouth. Learning each chord of your cry, my ear tuned to precision, often times in scattered fragments of desperation. In washing and folding your miniature clothing, the socks unfathomably tiny. In the naps you took on my chest, your face turned up to mine so that every exhale was my inhale, your breath and the weight of your body an intoxicating elixir.

While I mourn the passing of your babyhood, I am giddy with excitement over what lies ahead. Your proficiency in walking will lead to running, and beyond. Your babbling and the few words in your vernacular will turn into phrases and then sentences. We will go places that you will be able to experience and understand in a way that you could not as an infant. Through your eyes, I will see the world anew.

This life you begun a year ago is off to a remarkable start. I can only hope that down the road, when we enter the quivering grounds of the pre-teen and teenage landscapes, you don’t disappear for too long, that even though you may become distant, you will always be just on the horizon. My hope is that by then we will have built such a strong relationship it is able to weather any dark storms. A mama can wish, right? Let’s not be the cliché.

You make us laugh, your smile is brilliant and there is an unmistakable twinkle in your eyes. Your curiosity is insatiable, and the learning and growing you've done this year have been humbling to watch. It has been, my darling, an absolute honor to be your mother. You are delightful and comical, affectionate and clever. More than anything, more than your exquisitely beautiful face, I am in love with who you are.

Last night you fell asleep, a baby, under a gloriously bright moon. Today you wake up a wide-eyed toddler. Tonight we will sing Happy Birthday to you, and the very same style of Cuban cake your mama ate when she turned one, will be the cake you get to have as well.

Happy birthday, my sweet Lucille.

Month Nine.

Last month was brimming with milestones and changes.  We’d hardly have expected to repeat shut feats, but sure enough, this past month was replete with such feats.

While it wasn’t something Big Red and I cared to repeat, Lucy did come down, again, with croup. The difference was this time we knew exactly what it was and were familiar with the drill. Off to Children’s Hospital Emergency we went, late one Monday night. Turns out it was, thankfully, a slow night and we were in and out in about an hour. Whatever virus caused her to develop croup, this time around, wasn’t as strong as the last one. She quickly got over the bug, and returned to her happy self.

Then, soon after, we experienced a week of what I would just characterize as Lucy Fussy McCrankerson. I was concerned that, although mild, the congestion left by the virus that had initially caused her to develop croup, had gone to her ear again. Because we would be flying out to California in a few weeks, I was adamant about having her checked out and addressing anything that might have come up, but nope, her ears were perfectly clear and healthy. The doc did mention that infants can often go through a fussy period just before reaching new milestones. I did relay the fact that our gal had been up on her hands and knees and was scooting backwards, but working hard to figure out the forward movement. Turns out, the doc had sniffed out what was wrong. Within a matter of days of having been to see the doc, on June 24, Miss Lucille figured out how to crawl. And within 48 hours of that, had figured out how to pull up and stand.

Miss McCrankerson turned back into her jovial self.

Homegirl is ON THE MOVE. She’s not interested in sitting in one spot that is unless Tiger, her favorite stuffed animal, is nearby. In order to better accommodate the moving babe, I rearranged some furniture so that she’d have some space. We also busted out the Pack’n Play, because now if we need to leave the room for longer than a millisecond, the little miss needs to be safely contained.

Lucy continues to forge into the food world with gusto, adding waffles, broccoli pancakes, strawberries, salmon, apricot, nectarine, pasta, pineapple, kiwi, turkey – and finally – she now likes avocado!! She’s had a couple bites of French fries, and not shockingly, loved them. Smart girl. We celebrated the fourth of July with little fanfare, but Lucy did experience her first taste of steak and King’s Hawaiian rolls. And just like her folks, she housed every piece offered.

She loves all mirrors and goes nuts when she sees one. She also loves to play peek-a-boo with herself if there's a blanket handy. As of lately, she's begun to parrot what we say; not so much words, but sounds. As of right now, she repeats, "uh oh." And it's just about the cutest thing ever.


Just a day ago, Lucy experienced her first, of what will surely be many more, flights out to California. She did SO WELL! While she only napped for 45 minutes of each leg, she didn't fuss, she was smiling at other passengers, and checking out all parts of the seat in front of us. We arrived to her smiling Aunt Shannon and her elated Abuela.

My girl is spending her nine month mark in my hometown, and we share this day, as it's my 36th birthday.

Happy nine months, my sweet Lucille.