What did those kids do to that nice lady?

Tuesday, June 27, 2023

I stood on the football field, a smattering of teenage adrenaline and body odor  circling my watery eyes. My son had just finished his first season of high school football, defeating their cross town rival in the last game. All of us parents made our way down to the field, greedy for a photo opportunity that couldn’t be refused with our pimply, sweaty boys. Of course my son still tried to escape my shutter happy finger but I chased him down anyway in a shameless, flip flop sprint, shouting his name with the desperation only a Mama can cull for she knows to ferociously grasp this moment before it slips too suddenly to that thief named Time who never gets caught despite such dirty antics. Because sure enough, there that thief sat on my shoulder as I watched my son disappear down the corridor with his teammates, laughter echoing then quieting, and into my ear he whispered: one season down. Only three to go. 

The days are long, they said. The years are short, they promised. 

 How true this promise felt in young motherhood where each day felt like a rinse and repeat of the one before. But standing under the dimming lights of a high school scoreboard, I grew resentful of this outrageous promise that nobody told you came with an expiration date. My days are now mercilessly ripped off the calendar and tossed aside into a blurry pile of practices and schoolwork and first dates and driver’s licenses and hormones and in the center of it all me, a mother, once young, now seasoned, standing in the eye of the hurricane as it swirls without my consent. Where are my long days, I scream into the storm. Take me back to a long day! Take me back to a day where the clock ticked molasses and two toddlers sat on my hips with little words on their little lips: What are we going to do today, Mama? 

Those early days so long with the weight of monotony that this young mother would fantasize of teenagers slamming doors in her face, demanding she leave them alone. The weight of days with mornings so early that six am felt late as a paddling three year old terrorist would poke me awake with demands and negotiations. The weight of days where I felt so grateful to be able to stay home with my kids while simultaneously drowning in it’s loneliness. The weight of days where the three of us watched as Daddy drove away and we were left, two of us in diapers and one of us the bearer of every giggle or gaggle, the singular witness of tantrums and traumas and tears. The lucky sole recipient of snotty kisses and tiny bear hugs. For better and for worse, I never missed a single thing. 

What a cruel twist of fate parenthood is. To spend so many long days dreaming of life outside constant mothering while all the while that mischievous thief assumes his position and does his deed. He takes each discarded day and crumples them into neat little balls before tossing them aside for me to wade through years later as I search desperately for the small faces and tiny voices of my children. The pile grows tall and thick and I sit in the middle of it as I watch my son sprint down the football field and dream of college. I sit in the middle of it as my daughter’s legs grow longer than mine as she morphs from girl to woman. I sit in the middle of this pile of days, my hands clenched around such carelessly discarded crumpled days, and I wish so very badly to open one and slip back into that day, even for just a moment. 

Slip back into a day so drenched in California perfection, it lulls us down to the beach, this Mama a pack mule with enough snacks and drinks and toys to occupy us for hours. I brush sand off pb&j’s, chase you with spraying sunscreen and hold you close as waves crash over us until we grow water weary and collapse for a few minutes, the sun warming our slick, wrinkly bodies as we all lie on the towel together, each one of my hips a home for one wet head, the tangled hair of my children indistinguishable. My eyelids grow heavy but then a head pops up and you ask for another round in the waves, another dig for sand crabs. Come on, Mama! you say and we shake the dry sand off our bodies and run back toward the glistening Pacific, sparkling with promise. Do we have to go home, you ask? And this time as I un-crumple this day to slip into it again, I say no. We don’t. Let’s stay a little longer and watch the sky turn from blue to pink to purple. Let’s stay until the only light to lead us home is from the moon. Let’s stay forever. Stay with me here forever. 

We’re not told how to grieve for the small children we leave behind as they grow into young adults. We’re not told how their pint sized faces will haunt each room and the pencil marks on the doorframe will mock our memories. We’re not told how our love grows and shifts and morphs as our children get further away from childhood and how our hearts will ache with bittersweet longing as they edge into adulthood. It’s silly, isn’t it, to miss something, someone, you still have? But this is why we sprint across fields or stages or lawns in questionable footwear, shouting out your name because we understand that this moment comes but once. I understand that yesterday I was Mama, today I am Mom and tomorrow you’ll be gone into a life of your own creation. A life I can’t wait to watch unfold even as I mourn the childhood you left behind, it’s echos forever ringing in my ears. 

But tomorrow has not yet come. It is still today. It is always today. See? that pesky thief whispers into my ear. You still have time. 

Now go get that photo. 







Saturday, March 25, 2023

And Then She Was 14....

Dear Daughter,

14.

Do I need to say it?

Yeah. I do.

WHAT IS HAPPENING WHY SO FAST SOMEBODY HOLD ME. 


Being a parent is an insane experience. Just yesterday I was peeling your limp body off the ground after you collapsed with protest of leaving the park after a measly two hours, dreaming about a time when I would have more than five minutes alone that didn’t include locking myself in the bathroom and now today I’m standing outside your bedroom door, gently knocking before I come in and lie on your bed hoping to get a little more than five minutes with you. I try to catch up on the latest hot goss and use words like ‘sus’ and ‘facts’ just to watch your cheeks flare with embarrassment at my pathetic attempt to sound current when we all know I can’t even send a text without proper punctuation and fully spelled words. But I do it just to hear you say, Oh my god, Mom! Stop it! and then we laugh and my five minutes is up and I close your door gently behind me and I don’t cry at all. Nope. I’m totes fine. (Yes I know we don’t say totes anymore but I do what I want.)


Being 14 is hard. 


Half girl, half woman; these two parts of you collide in confusion as each one fights for attention. I’m so comfortable with the girl inside of you; I know she likes to snuggle and be kissed goodnight and feel reassured. I know her favorite sandwich is salami and mustard and she prefers salt and vinegar chips. She loves to play with her slime and always makes time to find someone the perfect gift. Her heart is wide open, strong, flexible. And she will never deny that yes, she just farted as we all collapse with laughter covering our noses. This girl I know inside out; this girl who came from me, who grew within me. 


Your woman is still a mystery to me and I don’t always know when she wants to shine and when she wants to be left alone. I hear her flirty chatter as she sits and does her makeup while FaceTiming her friends. She pays a little more attention to what she wears; I can even spot your woman in a pair of once forbidden jeans from time to time. She shaves her long legs and uses shower gels and lotions and could spend hours in Sephora. Her heart is still big and cavernous but she can easily pierce and puncture her mother’s precarious heart with careless words that tend to pair so well with burgeoning independence. Your woman, your girl, they spin me round in a dizzy daze as I tend to one then the other, shunned then snuggled on repeat. I do my best to honor both; I do my best to know which one of me you might want….my woman or my girl. Because they’re forever entwined, my dear daughter. We can’t escape either one. And together they will carry you onward even as your grip slips from one to the other. 


So as your strong, capable girl collides with your bold, curious woman, I’ll impart some of my very limited wisdom with you. 


Remember to keep a part of yourself for you only; hold on to your mystery as it is yours and yours only. Cherish what makes you stand out and let it lead you. Slow and steady wins the race. There is no race. Keep all of your books and fill your space with them. Don’t wear anything that everyone else is. Having lots of things can be fun but never let those things define you. Feel big. Love big. Laugh big. Find power in stillness. And always….always…always….return your shopping cart to the proper place. 


Happy 14th Birthday, my sunshine, my only sunshine. Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.


Love,

Mama

Her girl. And her woman. 







Monday, January 23, 2023

Ready, Bruh?

I’ve officially reached that stage of parenting where a toddler throwing a tantrum in the middle of Target makes me want to cry. Because that little voice is just so cute! I’ll smile compassionately at the depleted mom as I pass by her raging, snot filled child, desperate to communicate through my dewy eyes the one thing that no parent ever wants to hear: you’re gonna miss this one day! I don’t say it of course. I’m not a monster. I just want to prepare her for the day when that same terrorist toddler becomes a hormone infested teenager that calls her Bruh, and wouldn’t be caught dead with her in Target and wants to do things like get swoll and make protein shakes and get a driver’s license. 


A driver’s license. How did I get to this part of parenting where my son needs a driver’s license? I am not prepared for this, but I suppose my son probably should be so recently I reluctantly found myself as a passenger in my own car, with apparent genius first time driver at the wheel; teenage hormones raging as we crawled up and down the aisles of a vacant parking lot, me being told to chill as he played Frogger with parking lot pillars that suddenly seemed soclose; my sweaty hand gripping the side handle of the door as if it was the last bottle of rosé on Earth; my face desperately trying to mask panic as I reminded myself that I was the adult here; I needed to impart wisdom, however unwanted, and remain calm. Patient. Chill.  


At one point he clicked the blinker to make a right turn, but like a renegade, went left. I opened my mouth to highlight this error, but, seasoned teenage mom that I am, recognized how futile that would be so instead I just suggested to him that maybe instead of this driving lesson, he could hop in the backseat and I’ll sing Wheels on the Bus as many times as he wants, all the parts of the bus and if he’s a really good boy we can drive through McDonald’s on the way home and get ice cream. He looked at me and smirked a smile, as if I wasn’t being completely serious and I smiled back, my eyes lingering a little too long, searching for that song starved little boy hiding inside this man child next to me. But before I even had adequate time to tear up:


DUDE PILLAR!


God, mom, please chill! You’re being so annoying, bruh!


Oh, I’m annoying??  I’m annoying? You wanna know what was annoying? That one time you didn’t poop for seven straight days when you were three years old and we couldn’t leave the house, held hostage by bowels. THAT was annoying. THAT was so not chill, bruh. 


But I didn’t say this. Because I’m the adult. The calm, patient adult. I just shove all my feelings down  like a respectable mother does and then suggested to my son that we should probably practice parking for a few minutes and he should probably pick a spot super far away from any pillars of any kind. He pulled into a spot and before he could begin to back out, we both noticed another car breezily entering the parking lot. The empty parking lot. The parking lot we came to specifically so we could endanger only the lives of ourselves and who do these people think they are entering public property when so clearly a mother’s life is flashing before her eyes? 


Oh shit, my son spurted, our brains finally connecting on the same vibration. His panicked eyes glanced over at me and I felt my rightful position of power taking hold once again. 


Put the car in park, I directed, authority dripping. We’ll just sit here and wait for them to stop driving. We sat in silence  and watched as the enemy vehicle circled before finally slipping into a parking spot and two teenage girls emerged, giggling and smiling and acting like they’ve almost never hit a parking lot pillar of any kind and I stared, amazed. They can’t even be a year older than my son and yet here they are, just driving around by themselves, not a care in the world, no parent to be found. Is that my future? 


I distinctly remember the first time I drove alone as a teenager. I was heading to work, ten minutes away, my mom’s Grand Marquis my vessel. She stood in the driveway, doing her best impression of not looking concerned, and it wasn’t until I pulled the door shut and saw her standing there in front of me, not here beside me, that I got a little nervous. Nobody was there to guide me, protect me, nudge me. It was just…me. I gave her my best impression of not looking concerned and a shaky little wave and off I went. Only now can I even imagine the lump residing in her throat as she watched me back out of the long driveway, disappear around the corner and wait for the phone call from my workplace signaling a safe journey.  


Parenting is terrifying. They should really make that more clear. 


After a few more minutes of arguing about which way to turn the steering wheel and a quick silent prayer to Our Father, who art in heaven, we decided to be done for the day. I found myself back in the driver’s seat and never had I ever been more aware of setting a good example in my entire life. I miraculously morphed into the most law abiding, cautious, patient driver the universe had ever known, not once having ever suggested that someone might be a fucking idiot and should get the hell out of my way as I speed up to be that last car hitting the left turn arrow from Manhattan Beach Blvd onto Sepulveda. TARGET WAITS FOR NO ONE PEOPLE. I made a quick mental note to stop broadcasting personal opinions of complete strangers while driving and also maybe ixnay of the uckfay. 


We pulled up to a stoplight; my son engrossed in sports on his phone, me engrossed with resisting all urges to pick up my phone at this 7 minute red light, reminding myself that I am now the world’s safest driver. As cars fly by, I shake my head at how unnecessarily fast they’re going. Teenagers whizz by on overpopulated e-bikes, their exposed skulls beckoning me to yell out my window WHERE ARE YOUR HELMETS, YOUNG PEOPLE?  And pedestrians! Just crossing the street, whenever they feel like it, heads down, eyes on Instagram, not at all concerned with oncoming traffic. Driving is not safe. 


You should never drive, son,  I decide. Yeah. I like that. That…feels safer. No driving. Ever.


Huh? he glanced up from his phone. 


Nothing, I say.


We sit some more, the whoosh of the cars hypnotizing as my over active imagination grips my conscience and my heart begins to pound between my ears as each and every horrible thing that could happen to my son while driving flashes before my eyes. What if someone hits him? What if he hits someone else? What if he is hurt? What if he is broken? Alone? Scared? What if he is gone? Where was I? Why wasn’t I there? Why wasn’t it me? I am the protector. I am the guardian. I keep you safe. What if I can’t keep you safe? What if? What if?


The light flickers green and I blink my eyes back to reality, my foot mechanically moving from one pedal to the other.  So silly, I chastise myself and shake away the imagined nightmares. So silly. He’s right here with you. He’s right next to me. He’ll be safe. He’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. 


It’s what I have to believe because I know he has to drive. I know he has to leave me and live his life outside of me. That’s all part of this terrifying job of parenting. Give them wings and all that shit. You sprouted this, mama. Now you gotta let em go. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s so hard. I want you to watch you fly, kid. I just…didn’t think it would happen so fast. 


A few days after this first driving lesson together, I picked my son up from football practice. He hopped in my jeep and he’s chatty. He always chatty after practice. I smiled as I listened to him, relishing in his animated warmth that can disappear at any second. I think of that mom in Target with her tantrum throwing toddler. Wasn’t that just me? I think of her and I just want to tell her what every parent does want to hear: you have so much to look forward to. 


I pull over to the curb. 


What are you doing, he asks?

You wanna drive home?

Okay, he says.


We swap spots. We buckle up. He looks over at me and smiles. He is safe with me now. He is here with me now. He is next to me now. 


Ready, bruh?


Ready, bruh. 





Monday, December 5, 2022

And Then He Was 16

Dear Son, 

Hey bruh. It’s your birthday again. You’re officially old enough to operate a motor vehicle, only two years shy of being able to vote and before we know it, you’ll be old enough to buy me a nice bottle of rosé. (Make sure it’s French and dry.) Honestly, I’m a bit at a loss of what to tell you. As teenagers go, you’re a pretty good one. You make good grades, you only smell after football practice, you are always exactly where you say you are and sometimes you even text me ‘Kk’ instead of ‘k’ which I think is a sign of your love and devotion to me. You still say you love me and although you will deny it, Mama still slips from your lips instead of Mom from time to time.  I can still make you laugh even when you’re trying to be too cool and I’m not sure there’s a better face than the one you make when you’re smiling that trying not to laugh smile. What you lack in embracing these days, you make up for by nonstop tackling, body slamming and back jumping which I know are just camouflaged hugs. At least that’s what I tell myself. I wish you were a little nicer to your sister and that you always remembered to close the refrigerator but…with time I believe that both of these will come to fruition. 

As I write this, our fridge full of photos stares back at me. Plastered on its doors are years of our lives; colorful faces of all ages, of many generations, peeking back at us. There you are as a toddler; fresh with delight at being able to walk. There you are with your face stretched to boyhood, trespassing on our lifeguard tower with your sister, your faces glinting with mischief. There you are with your cousins, drunk with lake love and teenage idolization. There you are with your barely there boy face, squeezing the love out of your first dog. There you are in your first high school baseball uniform, looking very much like a young man. And now there you are, football uniform on, helmet at your hip, dreams behind your eyes and the man you will become jumping out at me, forcing me to see him. 

It’s a great privilege to witness your growth. It does not escape me that I have been so lucky to raise you and to be present for so many hours, days, weeks, months, years of your life. I can feel the clock winding down on our every day life together and while I know you must and will eventually leave me, I just want you to know that I would do it all over again. From the beginning, always. All the good parts, all the hard parts. 

I want to feel the weight of you on my hip, I want to bend down and catch your hug in both arms, I want to watch your eyes sparkle and shine at the wonder of seeing Santa for the first time. l want to sing to you in the car and take you to Yogurtland for lunch and read you Knuffle Bunny one too many times at bedtime. I want to slip in your room at night and and watch your chest move up and down as your eyelashes twitch with dreams. I want to play two touch in the alley and knock out at the park. I want to go to the beach and lie in the warm sand with your head on my belly, our faces sleepy with salt water and sun. I want to go to all the games, even the early ones, and take you trick or treating and lie down next to you for “just a few minutes, Mama” so you can fall asleep. I’ll take the tantrums, your legendary stubbornness and all those years of picky eating. I’ll take the endless, monotonous days of isolating young motherhood. I’ll take the heartache, the pain. I’d take it all over again, each day of it, if only I could.

Time is whiplash, my dear boy. It shows no mercy, spares not one of us. I never feel ready for the next chapter, the next part, but it keeps happening so I’ll just keep hanging on tight, even though my grip is slipping, my fingers seemingly slick with butter as they slide off your hands. Together we will maneuver this teenage landscape filled with potholes and hilltops; with silence so deafening it pierces the heart, with joy so full it pieces it together again. Every day with you is a better day. Even when you're chasing me down the hall trying to jump on my back.

Baby mine, I love you endlessly.
Happy 16th Birthday.
Love,
Mama 




Thursday, May 26, 2022

To Rise



He has risen you say

It’s what you advertise

He has risen you say 

but I think He has slipped away


To bed He went once more 

after He woke to realize only 

the world He left is ash and blaze


The world He left

deserves no saint 

no all forgiving haze


He rose to realize only

He needs to rest again

because His name

You take in vain

and maim

His children

He has risen you say 

yet He needs to rest 

because down our throats you keep shoving

His name

while the flesh of your gun

is held to the temples 

of our children

so brave they were 

to die for your soul 

for your sin 


He has risen you say

yet He needs to rest 

for my body is your temple 

it is declared 

it is yours for play

it is yours to rule

and regulate

until our children 


Die 


His name

uttered upon your lips


as you cling to your cold metal

While screaming of your right 

To bear your arms

as our arms

are emptied 

of our children




He has risen you say

yet He needs to rest 

to beg you please 

take your bible

take His name 

take your bullshit

and pray


You better pray

On your knees

That He will rise 

 

You better pray 

that He will forgive your sins

your fucking murdering sins

as your glad-handing hands

congratulate your tax evading voters 

on their contribution 

to the murder

of our children 


He has risen you say


I hate to tell you


Jesus is tired


Jesus went back to bed


It is our turn 


To rise


You better pray 


Friday, March 25, 2022

And Then She Was Thirteen

 


Dear Daughter, 


Well, it’s official. I officially have two teenagers officially living under my roof. Because…have you heard? You are thirteen years old now. Which makes you….a teenager. Officially. 


I have been trying and failing to sit and write this letter to you. It’s not that I don’t have the words for you, it’s that I have too many words for you. A big, jumbled up love bomb just rolling around in my brain, bumping into stuff. Because when I think of you, I think of a thousand things that make you perfect to me. I think of a million moments I would give anything to have for just one more second all while trying to live in this moment because one day I’m going to write you a letter and you’ll be 20, 25, 30 and I’ll be crying, wishing I could be sitting here again, trying to find the words for my 13 year old daughter. 


So for future me, I’ll try and find some words and hope they do you justice. 


I admire you so much, Daughter. I really do. I know you’re a mere thirteen years old but you’ve already taught me so much about who I would like to be when I grow up. I hope I’m as curious as you, each thought that pops in my head a reason to explore. I hope I’m as kind as you, never forgetting a birthday and always buying the most thoughtful gifts. I hope I’m as confident as you, as self assured even when I feel different. I pray that one day I can work a room as well as you; that your gift of gab will grace my lips when I’d rather hide in the corner. I would like to be as brave as you, not afraid to ask questions. I wish to be as pure as you, your goodness spilling out, your heart so big it makes mine burst. And I hope I never bump into a tree I don’t try to climb. 


I told you it was a love bomb. 


But there are hard things, too, Daughter, because we are human. Challenges we face, tantrums we conquer. You can be a bit bossy. A tad stubborn. And you’ve made it very clear that a morning person you are not. Never has the push and pull of motherhood been greater as we circle one another, deciding to duel or duet. One of the relentless, perplexing problems of parenting is this lesson we must always keep learning: I am not you and you are not me. Just as I am not my mother and my mother is not my grandmother. We are bits and pieces of one another but we have whole parts that belong only to us. Mysterious parts even that we spend a lifetime trying to know and understand. I want to tell you so many things about us, Daughter, but I can’t because you must find them for yourself. Find them and then tell me all about it. Please don’t ever stop telling me all about it. 


When I pick you up from places, I like to arrive a few minutes early and watch you with your friends or just with yourself. I like to see you in a moment when you’re not aware of my eyes on you. I like to see who you are, all the bits and pieces, the whole parts and the mysterious ones. I watch you and I am filled with the most precious gratitude. Gratitude that I get to be your mom, that I get to be a part of you. Gratitude that I get to witness the totality of you, a big jumbled up love bomb just walking around, bumping into stuff. Gratitude that I happen to know that you are the best person I’ve ever met. But I do NOT have favorites, okay? We all know I worship your brother equally. 


But your light is different, Daughter. Even your brother cannot deny your shine. 

Keep lighting the way for the rest of us. 



You are my sunshine.

Forever.

Happy Birthday.


Love,

Mama 












Friday, December 3, 2021

And Then He Was Fifteen

 Dear Son,


Well this is just getting ridiculous. 


You’re thisclose to being the tallest in the family.


You’re in high school.


I had to buy you special man soap because football pads bring out a…special smell.


And the other day you shaved off your mustache. A very faint, baby mustache but still. You used a razor. On your face. 


Oh, Son. Another year has passed and you are now 15 years old and my 41 year old heart is heavy. 


Heavy with gratitude for your continued health. 

Heavy with tenderness for the secrets I know you hold from me.

Heavy with sadness as your little boy fingers slip from mine.

Heavy with the pressing of time, the ticking reverberating louder and louder; each goodnight more precious than the last for it has never felt more true, that tired old tale we can never fully accept:


It goes too fast. 


Something about you becoming a high schooler has had the seemingly impossible effect of making me an even weepier person than I am already tasked with. Case in point: out on a walk with the dog the other day, I witnessed a toddler having a tantrum, a complete meltdown, and I teared up. I watched this very gracious mother kneel down and wipe his snot tears and try to gratify somehow his surely insane requests and I cried. Because HIS LITTLE VOICE BROKE ME. 


Let me reiterate: A toddler. Having a TANTRUM. Made me miss toddlers. 


I may need professional help at some point. 


Days with toddlers are long and loud, a parent’s ears pleading for silence.

Days with teenagers are short and quiet, a parent’s ears pleading for chatty connection. You’re at the age now where this comes and goes for no apparent reason. At one moment, a cacophony of words spilling from your tongue, the next a closed door with just a grunt of acknowledgement. I never take for granted the momentary overflowing conversation with you as I sometimes do with Daughter. (My only defense is that she speaks approximately 37,000 words a day so I might zone out for a few hundred here and there.) 


I just don’t want to miss anything, Son. I have only four more years of being able to not miss anything and I really really really don’t want to miss anything. I know before I blink my eye you will be off on your next chapter, your next adventure, leaving behind my crumpled, conflicted heart. But my mother always let me fly, even when she was scared, even when she wanted nothing more than to hold me tighter. And I promise you, dear son, that I will do the same, even when I am scared, even when I just want to hold you tighter. 


Motherhood is not for the faint of heart. We are strong and soft. We are brave and terrified. We raise you each day to only then watch you go. So please just be gentle with me as I crowd your sidelines. I know you don’t want or need me to bear witness to each and endeavor you encounter. But try to remember that when I look at you, I can’t help but see my baby boy hiding in the shadow of my young man. Try to remember that even when you are taller than me, smell really nice, grow adequate facial hair and become a grown man, you can always come to me and I will kneel down and wipe your snot tears then lift you up so you can fly. 


Happy 15th Birthday, Baby Mine.


I love you forever.


Mama