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.

Sunrise, Sunset

Dear Lucy,

I wrote the following while on vacation this summer:

There is comfort in resting my ear against the fingered tines of your ribs, my body next to yours, sleeping - so small in this moment - curled into the blankets, like a seashell found buried in the sand at the shoreline. This is me, listening to the air moving in and out of your lungs - it's what we do sometimes, us Mothers. We listen to the breath of our children, the rhythmic pull and rush, like waves rolling in on themselves, steady and even. There is solace here. And what I hear, the rush-rush of your breath, is juxtaposed to what I'm seeking against the rainbow pajamas you chose because they're cooler, and summer nights spent sleeping in Nana's sewing room are warm. It's this rush I want to moderate, measure out in half beats so that I may inhale all of who you are and were, who you are becoming amidst the thief that is Time. If there was a way to rewind your body into the velvety soft bundle smelling sweetly of some illusive combination of talc and milk and spit up, rewind you into the cradle of my elbow, when we spent long snowy days together, your body tucked neatly into the curve of my arm - I would. 

But this is not how it goes, my love - this rush is not to be damned, impossible. This is all you, rushing, rushing away, and into your own person.

We have spent a magical summer together, so many adventures, each one better than the last. Everything from airplanes, hiking to incredible heights, baking cakes, swimming, and sleepovers. 

In a few short days you will begin Kindergarten. The uniforms hang neatly, a new lunchbox and backpack await, a small desk area has been prepared, you chose to pierce your ears, and dye your hair a wildly fabulous hot pink.You have memorized mine and Daddy's phone numbers, our address. You are ever so close to reading, and you love "plus" and "minus" numbers. Your vocabulary will blow them away.

You are ready.

But I am not.

I was not prepared for the overwhelming wave of emotion that has grabbed hold of me. I wrote to my superiors letting them know that I'd be into work a little late on your first day, as I would not miss sending you off on the big yellow school bus. And when those doors close behind you, swallowing you whole, I know you will do well. In your education, I have full confidence - you will be fine.

It's all the other parts of school that are terrifying to think of. Ad nauseam, I have repeated that it's your soul I want to protect. That self-worth and confidence we have worked so hard to nurture - will it remain intact as the world of school and friends do their thing, sometimes so painfully cruel?


Did I do enough? 

I have learned to let others love you. It started with the morning I dropped you off at daycare, entrusting your care with those wonderful women as I returned to other people's children. It began then, I know. But this feels vastly different.

My Blueberry Girl, I hope you know, deep in your bones, that you are loved fiercely, that you remember all the times we told you, you were brave, and strong, and kind, and generous, that it is okay to fail, that you will fail, that struggle is necessary, to stand up for yourself, speak out against the bad, and compassion for others goes a long way - that you believe all these for yourself.

This is my wish for you.

I hope I have done enough.

Love, Mama.

Sleep

Every year, when I teach AP Literature & Composition, I begin with Shakespeare’s tragedy, Macbeth. In order to gain a deeper level of understanding of the story, students are instructed to follow various motifs throughout the play, one of which is sleep. For the most part, sleep symbolizes innocence, purity, and peace of mind. Sleep, as it pertains to Parenthood, is remarkably similar.

When our babies are wee little newborns, daily life revolves around the clock and sleep, or lack thereof. It comes to no one’s surprise, after having gone through the trenches of this early stage, how potent sleep deprivation is as a form of interrogative torture. Sleep is a keystone in any discussion involving newborns, either by way of ruminations from an exhausted parent, or a well-meaning inquiring mind – How is she sleeping?

News flash – the sleep issues don’t necessarily end with the newborn stage. They evolve into considerations of bed-sharing, then maybe getting littles into their own cribs, then out of baby jail and into their own beds, keeping them in those beds, and so on and so forth. We won’t even get into the challenges of time changes. And just as frustrating and mind numbing as the world of sleep can be during this period in life, so too, can it be the most incredible.

One of the most cherished images I have of me and my daughter is a picture I snapped on my terrible faux blackberry, when she was just a week and a half old. She is nuzzled on my shoulder facing me, peacefully sleeping. If I close my eyes, I can almost conjure up the way the weight of her tiny body felt in my arms, the sweet smell of her head, and the tiny baby breath sounds she made. I am literally awash with contentedness just thinking about it. Her skin against mine conducted a symphony of oxytocin through my veins, a glorious orchestral sonata from which I hoped never to hear the end.

It's quite easy to forget the poetic rhythm of these moments, especially when all I’ve wanted to do was sleep peacefully myself. Fear, too, is an immense force: fear that she’ll not figure out how to self-soothe, fear that she won’t ever sleep in her own bed, and the fear that she won’t learn to stay in that bed, because my goodness, all the stories circulating, the ones you hear about and selectively fixate upon when you’re knee deep into sleep-training, serve only to highlight what you can’t get your own kid to perform successfully.

But one day, the knot untangles, and she figures it out.

Hard to say if it’s because of the fairy you invented and convinced her lives in her room to protect her, or whether it was the rewards chart, or if it was the militant week you spent returning her to her bed a la Super Nanny, hour after hour, night after night. She got it. She understands now that in our home, her bed is for her, and ours is for us. That her five year-old body doesn’t quite fit as comfortably as it once used to, and her sprawling ways generally end up smacking someone in the face. In fact, she’s often more comfortable in own bed because of this. She realizes now we all sleep better this way.

I’d be a fool to tout some cavalier belief that all our sleep challenges are long behind us. That would be laughable, because occasionally, she has a rough day or evening, and requests to sleep in our bed. We oblige when we see fit, but these happen less and less. Nestled there, though, lies the quandary, the double-edged sword I now find myself learning to handle.

I miss her body. Her smell. Her breath. This is not a constant, but rather an interloper hiding in the shadows of our days. When the feeling crests, it is visceral. I can’t always name it, I just know, impulsively, that I miss her. Sometimes the decision is easy – no, you need to sleep in your own bed tonight. Other moments, there is a physical beckoning, something beyond and greater than my own control that wants to say, yes, you can sleep in our bed tonight because I need you near me. These are fleeting, I know – not my need to be near her, but her wanting to be near me. I expect that as we broach and dive headlong into the teenage years, she won’t be asking much at all. Because of this it is my personal goal to try to pay attention to these moments, to remember that now is now. There will come a day, I presume, when we've circled back around the sun of teenagedom, and she will be all grown up and out of the house. Her body will not be near mine - at all. 

The other day I’d spent entirely away from her, in a studio photographing mothers and their children. I was struck, once again, by a fierce compulsion to be with my daughter and wrote the following:

Once upon a time, so many sleeps ago, I did everything I could to get you into your own bed and out of mine. And here we are, on this night, when all I want to hear is the rhythm of your breath, singing me to sleep.

She’d had a long day and was particularly whiny and overly emotional. As we were lying in the dark, drifting off, my hand around hers, I said, “I love being your Mama.” She didn’t say anything back - just squeezed my hand for several seconds.

There she was, lying next to me, purely innocent, and I was peaceful. The recurring motif in our little world. I inhaled all I could of her.

She’d not asked to sleep in our room - I volunteered the offer.

Because I wanted it.

Selfishly, I wanted my daughter next to me.

I needed her there.

With me.

Reading

Last summer you read your very first words: hero and jumbo. You were excited, I was electrified – we were both proud. In that moment we both pulled back the curtain ever so slightly, peering out onto a stage illuminated with infinite possibilities.

Reading has underscored my whole life. I devoured books, often at such a breakneck pace, that they couldn’t be purchased or checked out quickly enough to keep up with my insatiability. As quickly as I could get my hands on one, I was turning the last page and searching for the next. When I became pregnant with you, many daydreams involved reading to you as an infant, and then cuddled next to you at night taking you on adventures of magic where owls deliver messages, into the Big Woods of Wisconsin with Laura Ingalls, and through wardrobes where White Queens reign. I filled your shelves with stories I loved, and hoped you would love, too. And you do. We read nightly, always two stories (one long, one short). 

Letters make more sense now, and the concept of stringing them together to make sounds is becoming more and more familiar. It’s there, Lucy – you’re so close. Words are also something with which you’ve been fascinated; fragments of a kaleidoscope you constantly want to make sense of. So many times you’ll look up from your iPad and the benign garbage you’re watching on Kids YouTube and ask about a new-to-you word – Mom, what’s mercury? What’s similar? What’s quizzical? What’s tender mean? I never tire of these kinds of questions, and I’m always in awe of your ability to remember what the words mean, and how well you put them into use soon thereafter – Mom, Lady Gaga and Gwen Stefani look very similar when they both have the blonde hair. Sometimes, at night, after we’ve read our stories and sang our two songs (currently “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and “Blackbird”), you ask me to tell you a story, and I am challenged to come up with something in the moment. It’s fun because you’ll pepper my narrative with plot twists your feel are necessary, or names of characters that seem to fit best according to your five-year-old fancy.

Last night I was upstairs reading, and you were downstairs watching “CHiPs” with Big Red, and I overheard you ask him, a few times, what the words on the TV said. In that moment, as my eyes slowed on the words in front of them, I set down my book and tried to imagine what it’s like to be you in this moment – to see letters and understand them as individual markers, to recognize a handful of words, but not be able to truly read. That the letters strung together are just fancy patterns, something to be admired, but a talisman not yet discovered.  

Photo by Pamela Salai Photography

You are Dorothy, Lucy, inside the ramshackle farmhouse, your hand on the doorknob. What awaits you on the other side is a world of Technicolor and enchantment. A seamless road that begins with words, and in which the in-between is colored by your imagination. There is no end, Lucy - only more.

You are so very close, darling. It’s all right there in front of you – the curtain begging to be drawn back, the stage revealed.

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.

On the Other Side of the Door

Dear Lucy,

In March of last year, Big Red took down your crib and I transformed your nursery into a big girl room, the hallmark of which was a twin bed. You loved it. There were little, if any, bumps in trying to convince you to sleep in the new bed. In fact, I don't recall anything at all.

And then three and a half months later we went to California for two weeks in which the three of us, me, you, and Nana, slept together in one bed. Upon return to your room, you decided sleeping alone wasn't cool anymore, so into our bed you migrated. You stayed there until your third birthday, in October, when I created this elaborate scheme to get you back into your own bed. Luna your personal fairy arrived, replete with a fairy door, and a picture of the two of you together while you were sleeping (thanks, Photoshop). Luna also left you a letter in which she explained that she would watch over you as you slept, and that three year-olds are brave and sleep in their own beds. She also left you a new night light that projected stars on your ceiling.

It was a hit, and back into your bed you went.

Until the novelty wore off, and somehow I found you right back at my side again a few months later. Shadows you said. You needed me, you said.

You needed me.

To feel needed is sublime. To know that my presence has the power to cure all your fears is, frankly, intoxicating. You and I both love Wonder Woman, and it's in these moments that I actually feel as powerful. I was never ashamed of the co-sleeping, and I enjoyed sleeping next your warm body. It was equal parts survival and IDGAF. It was, for the time being, working.

Then it wasn't. For a while we dealt with the tossing and turning, kneeing Big Red, and landing elbows on my nose. We were losing sleep. And then it got dramatically worse: you decided the act of going to sleep, at all, was purgatory, and by doing so, took us with you into the pit of hell.

Every single night was an ongoing battle to go to bed. Gone were the calm evenings of stories and songs. In their place were tears and screaming. We bargained, we pleaded. In our worst moments we stomped away frustrated, we yelled. I became angry that I was losing my nights to your hysterics. My darling, I love you in ways words cannot even touch, and yet in those moments, I wanted to mute your cries, to teleport myself out of our sweet home and into someplace, anyplace else. Some nights I was able to call up the patience that you required, and I saw you for exactly what you were: a little girl who felt safe at her mama's side. I would repeat to myself, a mantra: this is what she needs right now, lay with her, it's just a phase, you'll miss this when it's gone. That would get me through a few evenings, but surely as still waters run deep, that ball of anger and frustration would gurgle and rise like a geyser. Again I'd be all rage and fury.

Earlier this month, Big Red and I spoke after a particularly difficult evening and agreed it was time to help you back into your bed. We would draw a line in the sand upon our return from our annual trip to California. I would be as transparent as possible, and we would hold our ground. And by golly it worked. The day you went back into your bed, I told you what would be happening, and true to form, you responded with angry tears and arms crossed over your chest. Proclamations of I WILL NOT! filled our house. I explained there'd be a prize for which to work, which seemed to help.

As the day progressed, I remind you of what would happen. That night we read books, sang songs, and chatted. You asked if I would be in my bed. I explained that I'd be downstairs with Daddy, but eventually I'd go to bed, just like you were doing, and I'd be on the other side of your door.

You have successfully been in your bed since.

The last night you slept in our bed, I watched you and was drawn to the pulse in your neck. The way the rush of blood, sweeping back and forth, made the skin leap up and down. I tried to remain as present as possible, not projecting what would happen the next night, if it would work or not, but rather just being your mama, next to you. You are a fiery, independent, strong-willed little girl, Lucy. In those moments as my eyes traversed the beautiful contours of your perfect face, I thought about how I could best support you. Not just in that hour, but as you continue to grow into yourself, whatever self evolves. I asked myself how to always remain a reflective mama so as not to stand in your way, to never unintentionally clip those dazzling wings. My girl, light always finds you, and I never want to be the one who casts a shadow.

As I wrote earlier, it's absolutely marvelous to feel needed. There will come a day though, when your need for me will change. But darling - you take the lead. I will follow as you are not mine to hold onto; you are your own. Know though, that I am always here, your soft place to fall, just on the other side of the door.

Love, Mama

Mother's Day #4

Seems as of lately there have been plenty of back-handed jokes along the lines of, “You’re in for it with that one!” The reference to that one is, obviously, my daughter. She is willful, and contrarian, sass-mouthed, and rebellious. We are, without a doubt, neck-deep in the quagmire of preschooler defiance.

And yet, the peanut gallery commentary cautioning us to prepare ourselves for her teenage years really irks me. In fact, while I laugh it off publicly, deep down, I get kind of ragey. This quip of an observation serves no purpose – not a single one. It’s tossed into the universe with a laugh, but falls like rocks on the shoulders of a mama who doesn’t see, like you, a future riotess. Why do the behaviorally appropriate actions of a 3.5 year-old immediately qualify her as someone who will cause so much trouble?

She’s testing the limits. Her identity is stronger now than when she was a baby, and therefor she’s learning to pull away from us in an effort to be independent. It has, for me, been the most difficult stage of her childhood to date (yes, even including the newborn phase). There are opinions to manage, and fears to acknowledge, likes to incorporates, and hard boundaries that rest on our weary backs after long days at work, and house care, and groceries, and cooking, and taking out the garbage, and existing.

It would be INFINITELY easier to concede defeat when she digs in her heals over what X-factor is important right this minute. So much easier. And while there are plenty of times that I weigh the worthiness of the fight (sometimes, many times – it’s not worth it), Mothering isn’t in the dealings of being easy. That became excruciatingly clear on day one. I take my role as her Mother, quite seriously. And like a lot of other mothers out there of strong-willed young ladies, we’ve realized we’re not just raising kids – we’re raising leaders and innovators, scientists and illustrators, chefs and moguls. We’re raising bookworms and senators, teachers and makeup artists, anchors and musicians. We’re raising writers and presidents, Elizabeth Warrens and Angela Davises, Frida Kahlos and Virginia Apgars.

But to get there, we’ve got to get through the riot right now. The arms-crossed, peanut butter sandwich demanding, foot-stomping, screaming tantrum time-outs of the day-to-day. We are traversing the landscape of Joseph Campbell’s well noted Hero’s Journey. The ordinary world is long gone (possibly forever) and we are into the realm of the special world where there are allies and enemies, ordeals and rebirth. Sometimes it’s hard to tell for whom the test is – she or me? My best guess is it’s for us both.

My position in Lucy’s life is not to quell that which fuels her, but rather help her harness that fiery spunk. Encourage her to discover what her legacy will be. Mark Twain is the author of one of my all-time favorite sayings: "The two most important days in your life are the day you were born, and the day you find out why." I can’t tell her what she is meant to do – that’s not my job. It’s her life to live, hers to figure out. I’m her mama, the proverbial wall against which she will bash herself, as well as hopefully, lean against when she’s tired. My singular premium for being her mother, for investing in her well-being, for championing her spirit, is, in simple terms –  to have the privilege of watching her live the life she wants. To see her smile the kind of brightness that radiates from a life fulfilled.

On Sunday I will wake up next to her sweet face (I need to sleep in your bed, mama) as she points to the window and announces that it's morning time, mama, and she will give me a card she made (it's a surprise so she's already told me so). Perhaps there will be a few other acknowledgements, and a sunny day spent together while Big Red grills some steaks. Me and my girl. The girl who made me a mother. 

  

I’m not in for it with this one.

I’m in it, proudly, with her.