tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44354892432280370872024-03-13T17:15:40.478-07:00Gelato MamaYou say potato, I say vodka.YoMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07863208539045961636noreply@blogger.comBlogger147125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4435489243228037087.post-83162655311758444682023-06-27T12:48:00.001-07:002023-06-27T12:48:21.797-07:00<p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span style="text-indent: 18px;">I stood on the football field, a smattering of teenage adrenaline and body odor</span><span style="text-indent: 18px;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 18px;">circling my </span><span style="text-indent: 18px;">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.</span><span style="text-indent: 18px;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The days are long, they said. The years are short, they promised. </span></span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> 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? </span></span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">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. </span></span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">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. </span></span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">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. </span></span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">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. </span></span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">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. </span></span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Now go get that photo. </span></span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 18px;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNgbFlrBuzlez9DDL1tS5dCd2idNhcAoV9i04Y4hYPl3HM9gA_ZTfmPWmRTqIN-qLFfC2fCgP6cnv6-VfOgXgUJFrsh7PGYMChMXZsHTF7QZAc4zn_00YtNfzqJjF4ev4_iemZlF5nyrOzWirSRwGVAKGLrI44XOQgf7mWcSNzC2U16NTW5REyx3zlQsw/s2592/8421F0DD-DE0C-41FC-A685-B905FAF5B486.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2592" data-original-width="1936" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNgbFlrBuzlez9DDL1tS5dCd2idNhcAoV9i04Y4hYPl3HM9gA_ZTfmPWmRTqIN-qLFfC2fCgP6cnv6-VfOgXgUJFrsh7PGYMChMXZsHTF7QZAc4zn_00YtNfzqJjF4ev4_iemZlF5nyrOzWirSRwGVAKGLrI44XOQgf7mWcSNzC2U16NTW5REyx3zlQsw/s320/8421F0DD-DE0C-41FC-A685-B905FAF5B486.jpeg" width="239" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20px; text-indent: 18px;"><br /></p>YoMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07863208539045961636noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4435489243228037087.post-24048700473552387672023-03-25T12:43:00.001-07:002023-03-25T12:43:30.753-07:00And Then She Was 14....<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Dear Daughter,</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">14.</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Do I need to say it?</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Yeah. I do.</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">WHAT IS HAPPENING WHY SO FAST SOMEBODY HOLD ME. </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">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.)</span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Being 14 is hard. </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">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. </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">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. </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">So as your strong, capable girl collides with your bold, curious woman, I’ll impart some of my very limited wisdom with you. </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">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. </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Happy 14th Birthday, my sunshine, my only sunshine. Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.</span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Love,</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Mama</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Her girl. And her woman. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMyAs0WsDRmTZFFURUMRTFU3avuTS1lZcR0oEXFOeJzE1BnEp9vHVwprUC3poX05ktZmBhSPRE13E7MdE538tsql2Szry0JQZsb8uKUo0yKFeqQT7BG-mR9Mn_fxrB8Nn29jaYPchsIM6RCUOY3zFP-_tsFGn8CFa7ocMUxd9Y0xdNs8JUg3JZKQAq/s4032/D0E0003B-1A99-4E27-87A2-2D1304DEBCEF.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMyAs0WsDRmTZFFURUMRTFU3avuTS1lZcR0oEXFOeJzE1BnEp9vHVwprUC3poX05ktZmBhSPRE13E7MdE538tsql2Szry0JQZsb8uKUo0yKFeqQT7BG-mR9Mn_fxrB8Nn29jaYPchsIM6RCUOY3zFP-_tsFGn8CFa7ocMUxd9Y0xdNs8JUg3JZKQAq/s320/D0E0003B-1A99-4E27-87A2-2D1304DEBCEF.heic" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></p>YoMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07863208539045961636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4435489243228037087.post-44926495398433547382023-01-23T10:33:00.000-08:002023-01-23T10:33:17.403-08:00Ready, Bruh? <p><span style="font-family: verdana;">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. </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">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. </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">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:</span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">DUDE PILLAR!</span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">God, mom, please chill! You’re being so annoying, bruh!</span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Oh, <i>I’m </i>annoying?? <b>I’m annoying? </b>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. </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">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? </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">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. </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">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? </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">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. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Parenting is terrifying. They should really make that more clear. </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">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. </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">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. </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">You should never drive, son, I decide. Yeah. I like that. That…feels safer. No driving. Ever.</span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Huh? he glanced up from his phone. </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Nothing, I say.</span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">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?</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">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. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">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. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">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. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I pull over to the curb. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">What are you doing, he asks?</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">You wanna drive home?</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Okay, he says.</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">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. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Ready, bruh?</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Ready, bruh. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWbKjO_1-MDYdlOoS-yVKhARWfcgHQvkwKC5zsm3Wk7-OeB8QxN5AM5P7ir8U1O_HSmwQfIPZG8VOB_N1FlY2ftFjDZey5lIkOUr3lfCdWpZuVW1lzAFn5ajNUkOOmmqsp8cCnBI2HTXOCJUm_c4UoJHUHdWiXh47zPW3EkkwLSoo9sL9knpCp4Ara/s1440/867140AB-D39B-4BDA-8C8A-44C8A59F128E.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1114" data-original-width="1440" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWbKjO_1-MDYdlOoS-yVKhARWfcgHQvkwKC5zsm3Wk7-OeB8QxN5AM5P7ir8U1O_HSmwQfIPZG8VOB_N1FlY2ftFjDZey5lIkOUr3lfCdWpZuVW1lzAFn5ajNUkOOmmqsp8cCnBI2HTXOCJUm_c4UoJHUHdWiXh47zPW3EkkwLSoo9sL9knpCp4Ara/s320/867140AB-D39B-4BDA-8C8A-44C8A59F128E.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></p>YoMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07863208539045961636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4435489243228037087.post-85159584831397034732022-12-05T10:34:00.000-08:002022-12-05T10:34:08.196-08:00And Then He Was 16<div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Dear Son, <br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">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. <br /></span><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">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. </span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">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. <br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">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.<br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">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.<br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Baby mine, I love you endlessly.<br />Happy 16th Birthday.<br />Love,<br />Mama </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDDK4neZOl6L6R6afaTEdjtLkdfLay7oTyw_yJ9IIhCE30vFZpjAC8OAlyDO67OzvrsBcd1LQTAvCikZnYH8ECV3bEy1eNWkd3H7Mzt2CqsGL6N_8wqc9GXtPkRemMUs-9mlXPJhAE5ZHOk0BaGjw5KVUmp_SZozymle-IBqBasAN8KnJH4feQH1Ib/s1380/23479E63-2EF2-40C0-BD19-C36AC52BCC86.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1380" data-original-width="929" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDDK4neZOl6L6R6afaTEdjtLkdfLay7oTyw_yJ9IIhCE30vFZpjAC8OAlyDO67OzvrsBcd1LQTAvCikZnYH8ECV3bEy1eNWkd3H7Mzt2CqsGL6N_8wqc9GXtPkRemMUs-9mlXPJhAE5ZHOk0BaGjw5KVUmp_SZozymle-IBqBasAN8KnJH4feQH1Ib/s320/23479E63-2EF2-40C0-BD19-C36AC52BCC86.heic" width="215" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></p>YoMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07863208539045961636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4435489243228037087.post-87238586202215177462022-05-26T12:42:00.000-07:002022-05-26T12:42:37.283-07:00To Rise<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzkcgrC8UU-0f5AAPrgrT22cojbtq1O-NlqAd_SAXC7Hld2oB-nn5V_cb0QkeiVQhXrcgvOwnrz-oXdhA86rZIS5Qb8Fne1LkeOZbTdp4xR9TIJYyAc5nOuZywCz4GdIrRxUGP1wiZnFgkUKSzrGT7pWAj_XZnb1JCSFfsg7C0jDYMVKVzx4cColDd/s4032/47EF7E4A-B91E-4C55-ABA2-284C574AC4C7.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="377" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzkcgrC8UU-0f5AAPrgrT22cojbtq1O-NlqAd_SAXC7Hld2oB-nn5V_cb0QkeiVQhXrcgvOwnrz-oXdhA86rZIS5Qb8Fne1LkeOZbTdp4xR9TIJYyAc5nOuZywCz4GdIrRxUGP1wiZnFgkUKSzrGT7pWAj_XZnb1JCSFfsg7C0jDYMVKVzx4cColDd/w392-h377/47EF7E4A-B91E-4C55-ABA2-284C574AC4C7.heic" width="392" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">He has risen you say</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">It’s what you advertise</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">He has risen you say </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">but I think He has slipped away</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">To bed He went once more </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">after He woke to realize only </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">the world He left is ash and blaze</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The world He left</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">deserves no saint </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">no all forgiving haze</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">He rose to realize only</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">He needs to rest again</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">because His name</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">You take in vain</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">and maim</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">His children <br />
</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">He has risen you say </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">yet He needs to rest </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">because down our throats you keep shoving</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">His name</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">while the flesh of your gun</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">is held to the temples </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">of our children</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">so brave they were </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">to die for your soul </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">for your sin </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">He has risen you say</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">yet He needs to rest </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">for my body is your temple </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">it is declared </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">it is yours for play</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">it is yours to rule</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">and regulate</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">until our children </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Die </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">His name</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">uttered upon your lips</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">as you cling to your cold metal</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">While screaming of your right </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">To bear your arms</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">as our arms</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">are emptied </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">of our children</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">He has risen you say</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">yet He needs to rest </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">to beg you please </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">take your bible</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">take His name </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">take your bullshit</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">and pray</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">You better pray</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">On your knees</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">That He will rise </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">You better pray </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">that He will forgive your sins</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">your fucking murdering sins</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">as your glad-handing hands</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">congratulate your tax evading voters </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">on their contribution </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">to the murder</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">of our children </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">He has risen you say</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I hate to tell you</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Jesus is tired</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Jesus went back to bed</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">It is our turn </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">To rise</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">You better pray </span></p><div><br /></div>YoMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07863208539045961636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4435489243228037087.post-46888814723626005362022-03-25T10:26:00.000-07:002022-03-25T10:26:26.136-07:00And Then She Was Thirteen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRfHrOEtQZzsfcN-MtZXpGjyMtBM_F8YricIPKuq30vC4FIV9-qGe5z-qlIR6FRMZegpEukEjND9hNnGwPoRnEkM0TOuhNXGOkpmyyxFzhqUr4SxWReJrn7oMNmdZ1DMjC-te4XOVgPNyLp3ZMumMO31nbVDPxgXDAEegGxMWX3J8aYcaeuYXe3b42/s4032/fullsizeoutput_4d24.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRfHrOEtQZzsfcN-MtZXpGjyMtBM_F8YricIPKuq30vC4FIV9-qGe5z-qlIR6FRMZegpEukEjND9hNnGwPoRnEkM0TOuhNXGOkpmyyxFzhqUr4SxWReJrn7oMNmdZ1DMjC-te4XOVgPNyLp3ZMumMO31nbVDPxgXDAEegGxMWX3J8aYcaeuYXe3b42/s320/fullsizeoutput_4d24.heic" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span></div><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Dear Daughter, </span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: Helvetica Neue; font-kerning: none; font-size: x-small;"></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">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. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">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. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">So for future me, I’ll try and find some words and hope they do you justice. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">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. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">I told you it was a love bomb. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">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. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">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. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">But your light is different, Daughter. Even your brother cannot deny your shine. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">Keep lighting the way for the rest of us. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">You are my sunshine.</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">Forever.</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">Happy Birthday.</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">Love,</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">Mama </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />YoMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07863208539045961636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4435489243228037087.post-2117471464430930202021-12-03T11:30:00.000-08:002021-12-03T11:30:31.181-08:00And Then He Was Fifteen <p> <span style="font-family: verdana;">Dear Son,</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Well this is just getting ridiculous. </span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">You’re thisclose to being the tallest in the family.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">You’re in <b>high school</b>.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I had to buy you special man soap because football pads bring out a…special smell.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And the other day you shaved off your mustache. A very faint, baby mustache but still. You used a razor. On your face. </span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Oh, Son. Another year has passed and you are now 15 years old and my 41 year old heart is heavy. </span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Heavy with gratitude for your continued health. </span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Heavy with tenderness for the secrets I know you hold from me.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Heavy with sadness as your little boy fingers slip from mine.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">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:</span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">It goes too fast. </span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">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. </span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Let me reiterate: A toddler. Having a TANTRUM. Made me miss toddlers. </span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I may need professional help at some point. </span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Days with toddlers are long and loud, a parent’s ears pleading for silence.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">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.) </span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">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. </span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">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. </span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Happy 15th Birthday, Baby Mine.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I love you forever.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Mama </span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkagnuqOdQzMZ-qLyYJrTxPMJnIq8kzYUcV3FlbNMWo31q6rk5wMU_y23QVlzDVA0L6cICb-Woi60b4sQukMY9jYzWzJ_97oxQ9lZVjcfnMFY3yG8zoJ5JeVub2QgOj2XftBHNhLGQpew/s2048/TjrGyHtOTfmHLesiCqvjYA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkagnuqOdQzMZ-qLyYJrTxPMJnIq8kzYUcV3FlbNMWo31q6rk5wMU_y23QVlzDVA0L6cICb-Woi60b4sQukMY9jYzWzJ_97oxQ9lZVjcfnMFY3yG8zoJ5JeVub2QgOj2XftBHNhLGQpew/s320/TjrGyHtOTfmHLesiCqvjYA.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p>
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<p style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>YoMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07863208539045961636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4435489243228037087.post-76748343143464992012021-06-21T12:03:00.000-07:002021-06-21T12:03:16.074-07:00And Then He Will Be Off To High School <p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Dear Son,</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">It feels appropriate as we celebrate your 8th grade promotion to remind you of the 24 hours of labor, followed by a cesarean section, that I endured to bring you into this world. I mention this because I know that as we navigate your high school years together, we both might have some…moments…that maybe we don’t like one another and I just want to let you know preemptively that, yes, I will continue to refresh your memory of how it was, exactly, your birth was born and you should always remember to just give me a hug and say thank you. <span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">I also mention this because the day you were born was the most special day of my life. I can recall almost every detail. I can still feel the rush of emotion released when I heard your first cry. I can still see your face for the first time. I can still remember what it felt like the first moment your flesh touched mine. I remember the darkened nights in the hospital room, awaiting the nurse to bring you to me to feed because you had to be under the blue lights in the nursery. I missed you so much when they had to take you back. Even though I knew it was only a matter of a few hours before I would see you again, all I wanted was to be with you every minute. It already felt like it was going too fast. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">And it was in one of those quiet, darkened moments that you were handed to me silently, all swaddled up, face squirming with signs of hunger, that I looked down at you and wondered how it was that I could ever love you more than I did at that moment. That I wondered if I would ever have another moment of such pure love again. If I could have frozen time in that moment and stayed with you forever all swaddled up and tiny and perfect, I would have. I will never forget that moment, Son. It lives in me and I try to always parent you from the spot it shines from. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">Of course, I’ve failed many times as a parent. I’m sure I’ll fail many more. But what I didn’t realize in that moment, that perfect moment of absolute love that I wanted to be frozen in for eternity, was that I had already failed. Failed to understand that my love for you could only grow. Failed to realize that in surrendering to that one perfect moment, I would have sacrificed the million more to come. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">So as you stubbornly insist on getting older and bigger and manlier and we ride the bumpy years of high school together, I want you to know that that perfect moment of love was just the beginning of what I know now has no end to it’s capacity. Please just give me a proper hug now and then, please don’t get mad at me when I cry because we both know I can’t help it, and please please please….don’t ever stop calling me Mama. </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">Remember: 24 hours. Plus surgery.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Worth every second and then some. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">I love you endlessly, Babymine.</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">Love,</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">Mama </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxXJtTc0KSCATfXSDwIRz8XbIYghfso7Y63lIGNRRf_-gNhUTTfmsHQZDHpvHbSDlrUJRubcKeQymtNwV0wlg86vSchZ22fPZpAPHLm477Ght8KnZkGRvOYXsUCC7-S8NhdKe_e_YoBkA/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxXJtTc0KSCATfXSDwIRz8XbIYghfso7Y63lIGNRRf_-gNhUTTfmsHQZDHpvHbSDlrUJRubcKeQymtNwV0wlg86vSchZ22fPZpAPHLm477Ght8KnZkGRvOYXsUCC7-S8NhdKe_e_YoBkA/w196-h240/IMG_8396.jpg" width="196" /></a></span></div><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p>YoMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07863208539045961636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4435489243228037087.post-91781489000317039042021-03-25T10:03:00.000-07:002021-03-25T10:03:00.033-07:00And Then She Was 12<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"> Dear Daughter,</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 16px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Your 11th birthday marked the beginning of our pandemic journey through this vast landscape named COVID. Our plans to celebrate at a bakery with your friends decorating cakes evaporated so instead we stood in our driveway waving to your friends parading by as your birthday became one of the first casualties of life gone awry. I promised you that even if it took a few months, we would properly celebrate your birthday, at the bakery with your friends.<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Twelve months later, I have not been able to fulfill that promise.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 16px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Twelve months later we still feel the weight of the year of COVID. Twelve months later, you’ve barely stepped foot into a classroom and when you do, it’s with chrome books and headphones. Twelve months later we stand at the edge of your 12th birthday, reflecting on what we’ve lost, still somewhat shell shocked.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 16px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">It hasn’t been easy for you; I can see that. One of your great superpowers is friendship; the ease of your curiosity translates so effortlessly to making new friends. People are naturally drawn to you; your openness and silliness beckoning them, impossible to resist. A chorus of hello’s and goodbyes seemed to follow us as I would pick you up from school, your name echoed by so many. Yet you would privately struggle, confiding to me that you often felt left out; that you weren’t included, that she was mean to you today, that he called you a name, that you weren’t invited. I felt the pain it caused you; I shed quiet tears for you. But you always recovered so quickly, much of your anguish being the typical ups and downs of adolescence; whatever happened yesterday would be healed with today. But this pandemic has been relentless in it’s quest for loneliness leaving so many of us stuck in the yesterday, stuck in the pain of seclusion. A novelty for the first few weeks, even months, we isolated with Netflix and board games and bike rides, yet a year later, this loneliness sticks to us like an unwanted dinner guest, patronizing us with his persistent presence. </span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 16px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I see that that loneliness is still stubbornly clinging to you as our days are still long, even with the trickling flow of normality. I fear what’s been stolen from you is too great a burden to bear some days. But then I remind myself of life’s oft repeated lesson that this too shall pass and I wish I could let you peek into the future, just for a moment or two. Just so you could catch a glimpse of yourself, however brief, back at the life we shed a year ago, letting it’s skin grow on us again. Just one moment so you could know that it’s all going to be okay. </span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 16px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">You, my beautiful daughter, are such a great feeler of emotion. All of the emotions. No discrimination. Sometimes you experiment with feeling them all at the same time and that’s when I go to my room and hide. It’s such a strange realization as I watch my kids grow when I recognize that they have always been exactly who they are. That from day one, you, Daughter, were intent on always showing me how you felt. With gusto. You cried. A lot. You smirked. A lot. You laughed. A lot. You have racked up multiple academy awards with performances big and small, door slamming and body crumpling always ensuring that you take home the gold. But we can’t forget the impromptu fart jokes, the demand to cut your hair off, your penchant for using your body as a canvas and that phase where you insisted on being topless. As much as possible. Usually in public. I have always envisioned your spirit as a wild, beautiful horse, not meant to be tamed; a magnificent, feeling spirit. I love all your big feelings. I have big feelings, too. And while sometimes these giant emotions can be overwhelming, it is always better to have them than to hide from them. Now I’m not suggesting that we don’t continue to work on our….expression…of these feelings, but always remember that how you feel is valid. That what you have to say is important. That you bring meaning and joy to so many lives. Big feelings can carry a heavy toll; we experience the world differently. It’s brighter and darker so always remember to hold on to the light. </span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 16px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">While I wish for you to glimpse the future, I wish for one moment to live in a glimpse of your dwindling childhood. To once again hear that tiny voice with it’s big demands; to feel all four of your limbs clinging to me, wrapping me in a cocoon of love in it’s purest form. I will never, not for one second, ever, take for granted the gift it is to be a mother. To be your mama. </span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 16px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Happy 12th Birthday, my sunshine.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 16px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I love you more.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 16px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Mama </span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf-iqFyd4OrOr_5bpcno04Zd7Gpb2Ra_58tPAPpxO_PfkSaYDYt1ZuLcZpwB9reJc0OdEjDoW7tAPLHruLC924XipOkCD9HZmm38ucKaYmtchZElFXJwLsmFfOQdeT47NsYeyd5KwanT8/s2048/e61f6yu2SracNOLCcRpIdg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf-iqFyd4OrOr_5bpcno04Zd7Gpb2Ra_58tPAPpxO_PfkSaYDYt1ZuLcZpwB9reJc0OdEjDoW7tAPLHruLC924XipOkCD9HZmm38ucKaYmtchZElFXJwLsmFfOQdeT47NsYeyd5KwanT8/w310-h240/e61f6yu2SracNOLCcRpIdg.jpg" width="310" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p><div><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>YoMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07863208539045961636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4435489243228037087.post-5989446305973021142021-02-10T09:21:00.000-08:002021-02-10T09:21:47.763-08:00Enough is Enough <p> <span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px;">To Whom It May Concern,</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">And let me start by saying it does concern you. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I write to you today as a parent who yes, is frustrated. Who yes, is angry. Who yes, constantly questions the decisions coming down from the top with regards to getting our kids back in school. I write to you today with the full intention of admitting that I am not educated in all the ins and the outs; I cannot spew scientific stats; I am not going to yell and call you names. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I write to you today as a parent who feels as though the only choice she has is take pen to paper and hope at the very least your eyes have not glazed over these words. I write to you with sole intention of being heard. It’s the very least I deserve.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I have two middle schoolers; one who began her journey to middle school in distance learning and one who will finish his. One who finds it harder and harder to get out of her bed each morning and one who simply goes through the motions of his “school” day. One who roams the house with her school issued device because to be still for four hours is too much to bear; the other concentrated solely at his desk, his body stiffening each hour that passes as he stares at the blue light radiating always. When this school year began, we all lived with hope that soon….very soon…our kids would be granted the right to go back to the classroom, even if just for a few hours a week. We breathed that hope letting it suffocate us. Parents furiously texted and chatted back and forth, some of us optimistic, others proven rightly to be not as much. We rearranged our lives believing that surely if one could Soul Cycle, kids could go back to school. Believing that surely if one could dine out, kids could back to school. Believing that surely if they can open Disneyland, kids could go back to school. That if schools across the nation can open their campuses back up safely, surely our school would stand up to those who deny us this right. Surely our school would think outside the box; take advantage of large outdoor spaces and year round warm temperatures. Surely there is something…anything…that can be done. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">Instead here we are almost a year later feeling as hopeless as ever. I watch as the spirit slips from my daughter, as the motivation falls from my son, and I grieve for them each day. What can heal them is forbidden to them. What can help them is being rejected by those whom it seems self interest forever trumps the greater good. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I watch each day as kids gather together, roaming the streets, unmasked, unprotected. I do not blame them. We have stolen everything from them. Everything. Yet doesn’t it seem so silly that the idea you’re selling us is that they’re safer <i>away</i> from school? Away from regulations and safety precautions? That they’re safer away from the very thing that can save them? There is only so much we can ask these kids to sacrifice yet they keep being asked over and over and over and over and over. We’re losing kids to suicide, to depression. To the confines of isolation. Kids have forgotten the very things they used to love; the activities and hobbies that kept them engaged and boosted their mentality. Not all of our kids have an escape with expensive club sports or second homes in the mountains. Not all of our families can even entertain the option of private school. And they shouldn’t have to. THEY SHOULD NOT HAVE TO. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I know nothing will be done because of the words I write to you today. As I stated, my sole intention is simply to be heard. But as you read this, I want you to understand that the kids are wilting. They are regressing. They’ve lost hope in you. The domino effect this will have on them in years to come is too terrifying to ponder. There are no easy answers. I am assured that you care about these kids and that you are working harder than ever to maintain this unmaintainable learning model. But the fact remains that there are questions as to whether or not our kids will even be back on campus come September 2021 and that is absolutely unacceptable. Yes we must protect our teachers and staff at our schools but why are we all being asked to continue day by day with these unreasonable circumstances for almost a year now while union demands that seem unattainable, unreachable and unrealistic dictate the future of our children? Why are our kids the forced sacrificial lambs? They’re not blind to the world marching on as we trample over their discarded potential. They’re not blind to the gross mismanagement of their education. You owe them, at the very least, an explanation as to why their well being falls below so many others. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">So I write to you today because it’s all I have. Just pen to paper. One of a million tired, worn out, deflated voices.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I hope you heard me. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxikklsn7iHGTEnIP_jRMfOL5eKqtIN8GYi1cFnHZRG9D9euBBl5duRlHNfGtVCg0mKapCmx8LZ35Iwz4ClNx_7ObG_ixCmiSN5qGh7i-LIDPYOeQfIJR8TDHK8cSJwEhOpVwAAMTLGUk/s2048/TXgIW8odTIaIqTItyFZJhw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxikklsn7iHGTEnIP_jRMfOL5eKqtIN8GYi1cFnHZRG9D9euBBl5duRlHNfGtVCg0mKapCmx8LZ35Iwz4ClNx_7ObG_ixCmiSN5qGh7i-LIDPYOeQfIJR8TDHK8cSJwEhOpVwAAMTLGUk/s320/TXgIW8odTIaIqTItyFZJhw.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>YoMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07863208539045961636noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4435489243228037087.post-39808253699801335172020-12-03T10:24:00.000-08:002020-12-03T10:24:46.027-08:00And Then He Was 14<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"> Dear Son,</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">There are so many things I can’t believe about 2020. </span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">For example, you haven’t stepped foot into a classroom since March 13th. </span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">You’ve played exactly…three baseball games since March 13th. </span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">You’ve been in your room playing Minecraft since March 13th.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">On March 13th, you were a 13 year old seventh grader, anticipating your final little league season, getting itchy for a summer of long-planned adventures and a kid who was exploring newfound independence that comes with age and not yet having broken the trust of your mother. On March 13th, you and Daughter hopped into the back of my Jeep after the final bell rang and I silently prayed I had enough toilet paper (wine) Trader Joe’s frozen orange chicken (wine) and strength (wine) to get us through the next three weeks of our stay at home order. Three weeks had never stretched so long; endless, empty days waited for us, only an hour or two of schoolwork each morning to occupy the parts of your brain that wanted to work. Three weeks to three months to three more months and yet..here we are. Desperate still for an end to this pandemic chapter entitled 2020: Go F*#k Yourself. </span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But what’s most unbelievable personally for me in this year of 2020 that we all anxiously await to be rid of, is that it began with a boy of 13, face still clinging to boyhood, voice still ringing of youth and it is ending with a young man of 14, face hinting of manhood, voice leaving no question of it. It is your birthday. You are now 14 years old and I can no longer deny that the years are closing in confusingly quickly; I can no longer deny that I am a mother of Older Kids; I can no longer deny that while you still gift me with hugs and snuggles, not to mention a body slam here and there when you mistake me for an NFL player, our time together is precious. I can no longer deny that we are closing in on the final years of your childhood. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">So much of this year has felt exactly the same. So many days passed that we didn’t even bother to label. But in all that perpetual monotony, I watched as you changed, Son. I watched as the inches grew upon you, as your feet began to outsize mine. I watched, and sometimes cried, as your need for me dwindled. I know it’s what we want. I know it’s what it is supposed to be. I know that as a young mom with two toddlers clinging to me, I dreamed about what it would feel like one day to not always be so needed; to not always be so wanted. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And now I know. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Now I know it feels equally exhilarating and excruciating to watch you break away bit by bit to become your own man. To watch as you slip into your next skin, trailing the bits as they shed and me following behind, collecting them. I don’t want to ever forget any part of you, Son. I don’t want to ever forget any age. I don’t want to ever wish a moment away. Such a stubborn lesson we must keep learning; a lesson so often learned in retrospect that this too shall pass. Whether we beg for it stay, or beg for it to go, pass it will and we are simply left with the ghost of it. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I think your aunt, who has three grown boys, said it best, Son, when she told me that raising boys is like enduring the longest, most devastating break up you’ve ever experienced. But I would have to add that it’s also the most beautiful gift I could ever hope to receive. Because if this year, this god-awful, please let it end, soul sucking year has taught me anything, it’s that even as the clock ticks molasses and the days are only groundhog, your childhood is racing, sprinting to the finish line and I’m right there, clicking your heels, grabbing your shirttails, desperate to slow you down but amazed to watch you run. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I hope you never stop calling me Mama, baby mine.</span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Happy Birthday.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I love you.</span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Mama </span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS59L-RivjPtRbI7lN0XhWvc55klbJCcF07c5XA5S0eL_k8I0fcpQbBIUEPGnD9ervSkj0l1ILZu5ZS8Zismzaja7a5YsrWHDm5exldpAcwJIz9NieAyZW0JBUokwwHCwj7qQ-ncPnVN8/s2048/ko4Ve4noS6GfsdYVCN7fsg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS59L-RivjPtRbI7lN0XhWvc55klbJCcF07c5XA5S0eL_k8I0fcpQbBIUEPGnD9ervSkj0l1ILZu5ZS8Zismzaja7a5YsrWHDm5exldpAcwJIz9NieAyZW0JBUokwwHCwj7qQ-ncPnVN8/w300-h400/ko4Ve4noS6GfsdYVCN7fsg.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>YoMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07863208539045961636noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4435489243228037087.post-7244530002069564062020-10-29T08:54:00.000-07:002020-10-29T08:54:52.950-07:00Schoolhouse Diaries 6<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Listen, Target.</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">We’re going to need you to go ahead and open up the other entrance. <span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">You know…the good entrance. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The entrance that greets you with Starbucks and the dollar section. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The entrance that welcomes you with charming backpacks you feel overwhelmingly compelled to buy even though you can’t even remember the last time you used a backpack.</span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The entrance that blinds you with seasonal throw pillows that really make you contemplate your life choices. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">We know that you know why any of that crap sells. We know that you know your main customers are moms who just want to get away from their families for an hour and forget about their lives. We know that you know that all we want is a coffee and a throw pillow with cheery lemons on it because that really does seem like the answer to eternal happiness at that moment. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">So now what we want to know is why you’ve kept the good entrance closed for an impossibly long eight months and instead have directed us to the entrance that leads us NOT to a cornucopia of cheap, colorful earrings and display of v-neck t-shirts I must have or I will die, but to a wall of garbage bags and Tupperware. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Garbage bags.</span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And Tupperware.</span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Do you think that when I walk in to your store, Target, I want to remember that I’m out of garbage bags? </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">No. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Do you think that when I walk in to your store, Target, I want to remember that I don’t need Tupperware anymore because I don’t pack lunches anymore because MY CHILDREN DON’T GO TO SCHOOL ANYMORE? </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">No. Absolutely not. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">When I walk in to your store, Target, all I want is to be ambushed with my god-given right to waste my money on four different flavors of La Croix and also that sweater that yes, I might only wear for one season and then completely forget about but that’s what makes me happy, Target. Sipping sparkling water in my new sweater I got for $20. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">So please, I beg of you, for the sake of weary mothers everywhere who have spent enough quality time with their children in the last eight months to last eight lifetimes….open the good entrance. Let us delay indefinitely the things we actually need in favor of wandering your Magnolia dreamscape and Nate Berkus linens. Confront us immediately with the useless crap that makes our lives feel worthy, if only until we get home and realize that the only thing that lemon printed throw pillow goes with is our secret fantasy life we’re living in Greece with our boyfriend Adonis. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And lest we forget, Target…’tis the holiday season. Your time to shine. And if you <b>still</b> don’t open the good entrance and I forget to wander over to the fun part of the store because I’m busy being distracted with shelves filled with the banal needs of domesticated life and I don’t get a fucking Christmas door mat with a reindeer on it, you’re dead to me. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Save Christmas, Target. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Save 2020.</span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">There’s still time. </span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI7FE-2XuNorLMSj5uHayUNXwKeAFZlUBe0oAcVos6HE5uhGNqggMytnbL8JGykqiTOYjiCg0EgOngz2IFiWsbagDcSTioCm534dVxhMacXZCKUIQZkH1VKyFgpKsW8CEHxgTT3RLEqN4/s2048/IMG_8447.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI7FE-2XuNorLMSj5uHayUNXwKeAFZlUBe0oAcVos6HE5uhGNqggMytnbL8JGykqiTOYjiCg0EgOngz2IFiWsbagDcSTioCm534dVxhMacXZCKUIQZkH1VKyFgpKsW8CEHxgTT3RLEqN4/s320/IMG_8447.JPG" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p>YoMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07863208539045961636noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4435489243228037087.post-84751194097676384232020-10-19T10:50:00.000-07:002020-10-19T10:50:02.221-07:00Schoolhouse Diaries 5<p> <span style="font-family: verdana;">Here’s the thing.</span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I know Son is in 8th grade. Which means next year he’ll be in 9th grade. Which is high school. Which is kind of a big deal. But it didn’t really occur to me until a recent dog walk around the local high school that next year HE’S GOING TO HIGH SCHOOL. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Now I can physically see the high school from my house. I walk around it with my dog a dozen times a week, meandering through it’s parking lots streaming true crime and Conan. Yet…it never hit me…this whole high school thing. I didn’t think about it. Until one day I did. For whatever reason this one time walking by I just stopped and stared at the school and it hit me with a jolt of reality. Oh SHIT. High school. Next year. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Next year.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">High school. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And right after the inevitable tears clouded my vision, I just got pissed. At all the things for all the people. Stolen traditions. Stolen rights of passage. Hijacked dreams. Anticipation dulled. It’s not that I forgot that Son is shy just a year of entering high school, it’s that nothing feels real or valid anymore so it didn’t even cross my mind. I mean is he actually even IN 8th grade currently? Because as far as I can tell, he’s in his bedroom playing Minecraft on his four minute “breaks” after an 80 minute “class” while wearing his pajamas and counting down until “lunch” when “school” is “over.” </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Wow. I’m sorry. That was an excessive amount of quotations. I just couldn’t stop. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Remember when we were all freshly locked up and many of us (me) had never even heard of Zoom? That was so cute. And then we all had our Zoom happy hours with friends and family and commiserated while keeping the the alcohol industry booming. And then we were all yeah…I don’t want to Zoom anymore. Like ever. Even if I get to drink and see my friends. I.Can’t.Zoom.Again. Please, take the Zoom away from me and put the Zoom in the trash. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And yet-this is how our kids are learning every day. With Zoom. For hours. And they don’t even get to drink. And they barely get to see their friends. Our kids are Zoom Zombies, just staring at a screen with a desperate teacher trying so hard to do their job on the other side, maybe a little drool slipping down their chins before they perk up for a second and yell for a snack. And guess what? I just can’t care anymore if they eat during class. There’s no rules now. I mean if it’s okay for us to not prioritize education while we put spin bikes under tents in parking lots, I’m pretty sure it’s going to be okay if Daughter eats a banana during her zoom math class. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">These resilient kids, though. They keep finding ways to just be kids. The other night I stood in my driveway with the neighbors watching children swirl around us while they played hide and seek under a darkened sky and I couldn’t help but smile as I remembered my own childhood night games with my own childhood neighbors. It was a reminder that this period of life is simply a chapter in the whole book. A long, terribly repetitive chapter. At times a nightmare of a chapter; sometimes an apocalyptic chapter. But damn it. We have to keep reading. One page at a time until finally we reach the next chapter, a sigh of relief to put the last one behind us. It probably won’t be a fairy tale; I’m pretty sure it’ll still have a twisted plot. But what choice do we have?</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">This is life, not book club. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">We have to finish it. </span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And allegedly my next chapter includes high school, so I better keep reading. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje82DywPMkcWKxl9m8MM_Gvpe1pe8AJ5xrStb9wpXIgZmZYTlOj1podyIo7RI3xTZ-oBm2S05liq558iAd-gzFjU7Xpzb1kaNXzRK8xy_6aHWkqdCxjd3XB6M9E_6MwSxzSNM4FdSfSlk/s1440/IMG_3667.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1161" data-original-width="1440" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje82DywPMkcWKxl9m8MM_Gvpe1pe8AJ5xrStb9wpXIgZmZYTlOj1podyIo7RI3xTZ-oBm2S05liq558iAd-gzFjU7Xpzb1kaNXzRK8xy_6aHWkqdCxjd3XB6M9E_6MwSxzSNM4FdSfSlk/s320/IMG_3667.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></p>YoMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07863208539045961636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4435489243228037087.post-1313931218178510572020-10-12T11:58:00.000-07:002020-10-12T11:58:14.470-07:00Schoolhouse Diaries 4<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The other day a friend texted me that she forgot to pick her son up from practice. Because…you know…it’s been seven months since he had a practice and suddenly there’s practice and it might have slipped her mind that one has to be dropped off <i>and</i> picked up from practice so then there’s a text saying, um, Mom? You forgot me. I’m still at practice. </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Life lessons. Brought to you by Moms Who Forgot Stuff And Also Kids. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I forgot that I live in a place where my dreams of sweaters and boots and jackets and hats are never realized because it’s always too warm. Yet, all these retailers, they tempt me incessantly with these “seasonal” sweater displays and I’m not strong enough to say no. I’m weak. Weak with heat. It was 92 degrees last week and I bought three sweaters. It was too hot to even try them on, much less wear them out and about.</span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Oh shit. I forgot we don’t go out and about anymore.</span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Well, at least I can look cute when I pretend it’s cold enough to walk my dog in a sweater and promptly start sweating about two blocks in. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">We have forgotten how to wake up early. Without a pressing need to leave the house by 7:45 anymore, I languish with sleepy eyes until about 7:15 or so before slipping out of bed into another day of certain uncertainty. I fumble with the coffeemaker, displeased each and every morning that I forgot to prepare the coffee the night before. I flip on the news, attempt to digest whatever fire drill the world has set off overnight and begin to watch the clock so I can timely begin the process that is Waking Up Daughter. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Because Daughter has forgotten that she used to leave the house for school. So she has really upped her waking game. She needs time to grunt, moan, roll around, proclaim the pure unfairness of her life, curse out COVID, ask me to scratch her back, punch her pillow and be generally unpleasant all while yelling at me that SHE FORGOT HOW TO GET OUT OF HER BED. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Son has forgotten how to speak. I mean his lips are moving. Barely. I hear sounds coming out of his mouth but instead of concise words, it’s more like a collection of low, grunting noises with a splattering of coherency. Like an ancient Neanderthal discovering language for the first time. When I can’t make out what he is trying to communicate to me, I just hand him food and then he usually goes away. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">All these things we’ve forgotten; these habitual tasks of yesterday we now long for with increasing intensity even as world outside passes by each day, just as it’s always done, the sun and the moon rising and falling with their practiced predictability, not forgetting even once. March feels like a lifetime ago and I admit I do try to forget how those early days felt. Long and empty. I see photos of family and friends across the nation on social media doing things that seem normal. Friday night football games. Going to school. Pumpkin patches and sweater weather. I’m not here to say if it’s right or wrong, too soon or not soon enough. I’m just here to admit that I’m ready to stop forgetting. I’m ready to start remembering again. And I’m almost ready to wake up before 7 am. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But, Children? If you’re standing in the parking lot ten minutes after practice has ended, better shoot me a quick text. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">In case I forgot. </span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB4CeZ9Q_6XMGNmwuj_RqVGESfitB4SKir2NNFAoqRRbefGTR8ZzJ0kFClZjWfHY7mjmEHLM6nM0vply5p6fnTc66BPvv3NWFy176UKxSJdHyhQBc4IdVrHqznokSUkYFWhJgEBhL_GtA/s3088/fullsizeoutput_430f.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB4CeZ9Q_6XMGNmwuj_RqVGESfitB4SKir2NNFAoqRRbefGTR8ZzJ0kFClZjWfHY7mjmEHLM6nM0vply5p6fnTc66BPvv3NWFy176UKxSJdHyhQBc4IdVrHqznokSUkYFWhJgEBhL_GtA/s320/fullsizeoutput_430f.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p><div><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>YoMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07863208539045961636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4435489243228037087.post-29934524339695689522020-10-02T11:15:00.001-07:002020-10-02T11:15:43.981-07:00Schoolhouse Diaries 3 <p> <span style="font-family: verdana;">I think maybe the best thing that happened to me the past week was when I was asked for my ID while purchasing life support, I mean wine, and the cashier laughed and said Wow…no way! Good for you.</span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span>I</span> didn’t press him for details on what he meant exactly, because let’s face it; that could mean a number of things, but I chose to take it as complimentary because any jolt of positivity these days is a welcome one indeed. It was probably the mask and the fact I was freshly showered that really put me over the Is She 21? edge. But I don’t care; I’ll wear a mask just to get carded. I have no shame. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The Children had no school on Monday, which basically made it feel like…every other day but Daughter did really put her endurance to the test with a four hour marathon of The Office. I wanted to tell her that maybe she should stop but then I thought better of it and went to Target instead. Also, it brings a tear to my eye knowing I’ve done something right. You can’t teach good taste in television; you simply encourage and hope they spread their wings and make you proud. That’s what she said. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Tuesday I was bored. I was so. so. bored. I even took my pulse a few times which served the duel purpose of having something to do while reassuring me that yes, I was still alive. I hate even saying I was bored because what a luxury to be bored. But that was my reality on that day and I tried really hard to sink into it; to try and appreciate it to make up for all the other days that are the opposite of bored. But it was terrible. I was so bored I couldn’t even fold the piles of laundry that were just sitting there, mocking me, saying-hey. We’re here for you. We’re always here for you. Take care of us. No. I’m not going to. I’m just going to do nothing but hate myself and wait for tomorrow so I can start over. I know-really healthy mentality. I hope you’re taking notes. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">So many days I find myself glancing at the clock and take myself back to a pre-COVID existence. I imagine all the things I should be doing, instead of the things I’m actually doing. I should be picking up my kids from school, running them to a practice, complaining about 8 am baseball on a Sunday morning. I should be squeezing in a lunch with a friend before the bell rings. I should be thinking days or weeks ahead and planning and organizing for what’s to come. But instead I sit and stare at the laundry, dreaming of the magical mundaneness of a busy parent with rising adolescents. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And yet I don’t want to waste this time, wishing for it to be gone. Because as badly as I want a return to our old routine, I also have a teenage son who undoubtedly spends more time at home then he would otherwise and a preteen daughter who’s individuality and independence are growing stronger even in isolation. I get a few more hugs, a lot more eye rolls, and the sound of a french horn wafting through the house. And as much I want to resist, as many things that I hate about this chapter of our lives, I have to remember that with the speedy intensity at which children grow, all this extra time spent with them is actually a gift. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">A gift wrapped in caution tape, broken glass and super glue, but a gift nonetheless. Proceed cautiously. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">That’s what she said. </span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEzWS5YiGzPdsAT1ei2fhSS4HNgT4HguXVjgBO96HVQiDabNVJe7aPNs3ldlou1ftlQ1nS1oiD0jmCgNU3salBhHFih4hwyVM2YxlsvLZir60Xp79U_mlbj4wBHJNoTUH2wBirDVSZHtw/s4032/fullsizeoutput_42ba.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEzWS5YiGzPdsAT1ei2fhSS4HNgT4HguXVjgBO96HVQiDabNVJe7aPNs3ldlou1ftlQ1nS1oiD0jmCgNU3salBhHFih4hwyVM2YxlsvLZir60Xp79U_mlbj4wBHJNoTUH2wBirDVSZHtw/s320/fullsizeoutput_42ba.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>YoMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07863208539045961636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4435489243228037087.post-43997454454168223882020-09-25T11:51:00.000-07:002020-09-25T11:51:24.730-07:00Schoolhouse Diaries 2<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Well, it took a full eight days, but on the ninth, Daughter concluded she hates school. She even wrote it forcefully on a sticker on her wall. With a sharpie. <br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Son received an F on a math assignment, along with most of his classmates, because the Khan link they were using was glitching and their work wouldn’t turn in. When I asked Son about it, he laughed and said he didn’t care. It was only one point. His teacher didn’t believe he did the work anyway, so why bother?</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> <br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I got two migraines in three days, which hasn’t happened to me in years. And one of them began while I was in the holy land of Target. That’s just cruel.<br /></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">So things are going great. <br /></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">It’s great that Daughter has always loved school and now she cries every day. I mean at least in the good old in-person school days, I knew that throwing her math workbook across the room was a habit she saved just for me, just for home, never at school. At least in the good old days, her teacher could stand next to her and help ensure she doesn’t slip behind and now we just get to guess. Is she struggling? Who knows! Keeping us on our toes.<br /></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">And while Son has always been one of those frustrating humans who doesn’t seem to have to work very hard to make good grades, he has always <i>cared </i>about making good grades and completing his work. So I am also really happy that he’s finally okay with an F! Yes, Son! Way to lower expectations! I knew you could do it. All you needed was a little encouragement from your teacher and a bad wifi connection. <br /></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">How strange that migraines popped back into my life. What a great f*ing surprise. At least it was an excuse to close my bedroom door and lie in silence. The only sound the throbbing of my head; the only sight the flashing in my eyes. <br /></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I feel grateful that my kids are old enough to manage their schooling for the most part on their own. I can’t imagine how hard and frustrating it must be for younger kids, their short attention spans a challenge enough. And I feel grateful that as 6th and 8th graders, my kids will have some time and years to make up for this lost period in their childhood and schooling. But at what cost? <br /></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">And when is this going to end? Somedays I feel like they’ll go back soon, they have to go back soon….right? And other days…other days I just feel so defeated. And does anyone else feel like their kids have been awake since March and they just won’t go to bed? Like these last six months have been one long day and all you want….all you want…is a glass of wine, a quiet house and a new season of the Real Housewives but all you get is Mom Mom Mom Mom Mom Mom Mom. A relentless need for things and stuff and food and attention and cruise directing; the demand of these needs no longer broken by thirty hours of school each week. <br /></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">And under no illusion am I that my kids aren’t sick of <i>me</i>. How many glasses do you need to use each day? Why is the bathroom floor a flood? Did we forget how to open the dishwasher? Can you use a napkin for christ’s sake? Give me your phone. Stop staring at your iPad. Go outside. Oh I don’t know you can….play basketball, ride bikes, skateboard, color, draw, practice your instruments, do a puzzle, play cards, bake something, or just stab my ears out with a pencil and leave me alone to suffer. Oh and did we forget I GOT THIS DOG FOR YOU SO WHY DON’T YOU TAKE HER ON A WALK? <br /></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">Okay so maaaayyybeeee I’m feeling a little on edge today. <br /></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">But I’m willing to bet you can relate. <br /></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">Still…there are moments like last night when Daughter was really pushing for Most Likely To Keep Mom Awake As Long As Possible. Her toe hurt, her tummy hurt, her shoulder felt funny. She was having scary thoughts. She can’t sleep. So at last, near midnight, in search of sleep for us both, I relented and climbed the ladder to her loft bed to sleep beside her. And as were drifting, she grabbed my hand and said-thanks, Mama. All I really need is you. And a baby brother. <br /></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">Well, one out of two ain’t bad. <br /></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">But thanks, kid, for the reminder that while each day will bring it’s own fresh set of challenges and a roller coaster of emotions, we can always hold hands and know it’s going to be okay. <br /></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">Now please go back to school. </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSm2qUsYMVOcJswTaK1f_Rsku6tBtig4vpK_0fe116G9kXVmbueCGPPJwFs2rpYX2G3O4ovULipX1l8AOB4Ge-LljnWOJTMHxQCZqWfc4BymLNbaqsabIqE60ZvOXFlIYY9TNW_UwdxDg/s2048/05168F2E-E98D-4E9E-A31D-7EACF0ABBD97.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSm2qUsYMVOcJswTaK1f_Rsku6tBtig4vpK_0fe116G9kXVmbueCGPPJwFs2rpYX2G3O4ovULipX1l8AOB4Ge-LljnWOJTMHxQCZqWfc4BymLNbaqsabIqE60ZvOXFlIYY9TNW_UwdxDg/s320/05168F2E-E98D-4E9E-A31D-7EACF0ABBD97.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /><br /><br /></span><p></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>YoMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07863208539045961636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4435489243228037087.post-8741420963547226772020-09-18T11:51:00.001-07:002020-09-18T11:51:57.219-07:00Schoolhouse Diaries 1 <p> <span style="font-family: verdana;">How is this okay? </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Remember last March when we all looked around to one another, anxious for acknowledgement that surely after a few weeks, we would move back to “normal?” The angsty plea in our eyes, searching for validation from whomever would give it to us? Who can forget, as much as we try, those long, long, looooonnnnnggg first few weeks, the days dripping by slower than molasses? One endless afternoon merging into the next, after we proclaimed each morning…that’s it? You’re already done with school? It’s 9:30. In the morning. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Remember how we went from…okay…three weeks. I can handle three weeks. We’ve got Netflix, Hulu, and Amazon Prime for god sakes. And then it slipped into…okay…maybe May? That feels far away. Maybe I should buy some more board games to make everyone hate me just a little more. And then it was…oh…okay. So we’re not going back to school. So I just gotta get through the summer. We can make it through the summer.</span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And all along…September was just in the wings, waiting for his light, to deliver his message: Here. Hold my beer. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And now here I am, sitting in my house, listening to Son in band class and Daughter in gym class, the musical scales pairing nicely with the thud thud thud of jumping jacks I’m guessing. I would go look, but I don’t want to. Why purposely place myself in a position where surely I’ll either be yelled at or dismissed with an eye roll? I’m supposed to be doing the yelling and the eye rolling but instead here I am, tip-toeing around my house so as not to disturb The Zooms, dreaming about the days I used to be able to just plop down at the bookstore with a coffee and my computer and my headphones and not be bothered while I try and tap out a few thoughts. Instead here I am, hiding in my bedroom, drinking water because I already drained the coffeepot, taking a defiant stance against my chores in favor of trying to tap out a few thoughts, only to be interrupted by Daughter, who wants lunch and when I question her Zoom whereabouts she simply confesses that her teacher is babbling on and on about earthquakes and she’s not missing anything. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Except she’s missing everything. </span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">We’re failing our kids. </span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I don’t know why this is okay.</span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">It’s as if we’ve wrapped our kids in red tape, concerned less about their mental health and education and more about if we get to watch Monday Night Football. We’ve figured out a way to dine outside, but not educate outside. These young humans are the future leaders of our nation and we can’t be bothered to figure out a way to keep them in school? I know most educators every where are busting their asses but if every other industry can find a way to think outside the box why can’t our schools? You can go to a f*ing soul cycle class! YOU CAN GO TO A F*ING SOUL CYLCE CLASS. </span></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">How is this okay?</span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKd_by0dGhpOaMVN468ihCMwfiOzIFlL-6H1QXRrMn8DBomXvLfSuYaOhE_Hn1YexKIMxvIC4Sz4jPOKgMBJgNRpOYmRPDixZJnXuBeRJXhQtMvlR6UQkM2KxajaUD1xb2zGogIuJd02Q/s4032/fullsizeoutput_422c.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKd_by0dGhpOaMVN468ihCMwfiOzIFlL-6H1QXRrMn8DBomXvLfSuYaOhE_Hn1YexKIMxvIC4Sz4jPOKgMBJgNRpOYmRPDixZJnXuBeRJXhQtMvlR6UQkM2KxajaUD1xb2zGogIuJd02Q/s320/fullsizeoutput_422c.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>YoMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07863208539045961636noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4435489243228037087.post-45692996730095056712020-05-25T13:19:00.000-07:002020-05-25T13:19:55.464-07:00Corona Diaries: Week 9 and 10<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Because whoops. I ran away last week. And it was glorious. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I wasn’t sure if we should leave, given the way of the Corona these days. But we ran away to the countryside of wine vines and closed tasting rooms so it seemed like a safe bet. I packed up the bathing suits and the dog bed and the school supplies and off we went, up the 101 and into the magical valley of Santa Ynez. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I can’t count the number of times I’ve been up there, just inland of Santa Barbara, up and around a mountain pass, for those not in the know. It has always brought me such peace to take the 154 exit and begin the curvy ascent towards picturesque bliss. Once upon a long time ago, I got married up in that land and I remember wondering after I got divorced if the place would feel the same or if it had been poisoned by memories past. It took but just one trip to be reminded that although the valley is the holder of all those memories, the land is so vast it leaves you begging to give it more. So give it more I have done. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Having been sheltering in place for ten weeks, I had almost forgotten what it felt like to pack a suitcase (exhilarating), fill the car with gas (exciting because it was so cheap) ((well, cheap for California)), and yell at the kids to make sure they don’t forget shoes. (Because they quite literally never wear shoes anymore.) I was filled with joy simply at the prospect of driving on the open road for two hours that it mattered none if there was traffic. (There wasn’t.) </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have to say it was a strange feeling to be away from home in the middle of what’s supposed to be a school week. While it was a huge relief to have a change of scenery, especially such a comforting, beautiful one, it was also a stark reminder of the times. Each morning as the kids logged on to school, I’d think-oh yeah; they’re supposed to be <b>at </b>school right now. Oh yeah; they’re supposed to be playing a baseball game tonight. Oh yeah; this still sucks. We’re all supposed to be doing so many other things. And instead, this strange time has brought me to this vast land, holder of memories past and present, on a Monday afternoon on a week in which we had so many other plans, so many other memories we were supposed to be creating. I fluctuated between gratitude and anger; frustration and contentment. Even now, hot tears fill my eyes as I mourn all the things that were missed, that will be missed, that may always be missed. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I came home to a city that is desperate to trickle back into normalcy. With the beaches finally open, we’ve already been a handful of times. We flock there because it lets us feel that sense of normalcy. We flock there because it comforts us. We flock there so we can sit six feet apart and share a cocktail and a laugh and forget for just a little bit about all that we are missing. Our vast beach, holder of memories, always waiting to help soften our fall; the tide pulling our eyes and our ears and our feet to it’s shore, clinging to the only thing that feels familiar in this unfamiliar experience. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We have a few more weeks of school left and then I suppose it’s summer. Whatever that means. I, like so many, had to cancel a pretty special trip I’ve been saving for for a pretty long time so summer suddenly seems pretty wide open. Hours upon days upon weeks upon months of wide open time. But who knows? Maybe we’ll pack up our suitcases, gas up the car, grab our shoes and drive down a new road to some vast land somewhere that is simply waiting for us so it can hold our memories.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Maybe…just maybe…we’ll get to run away again. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And once again, it shall be glorious. </span></span></div>
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YoMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07863208539045961636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4435489243228037087.post-79745641816018153052020-05-12T09:24:00.000-07:002020-05-12T09:24:13.509-07:00Corona Diaries: Week 8<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’m bored.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Everybody’s bored.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We’re so bored of doing the stuff we usually do when we’re bored. We’re so bored we don’t remember the stuff we did when we were bored before. We’re so bored we’re too bored to do anything except talk about how bored we are. Sometimes we’re even too bored to talk about how bored we are so we just sort of make eye contact and shrug and understand that we’re bored. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There is a lethargy creeping upon our bodies, slowly suffocating our will to move. Even the most mundane things, like folding those towels that have been sitting in the basket for two days, are beginning to feel like a momentous task. Yes I know it will only take me two minutes to do it, but I just don’t want to. Because I’m too bored to do anything anymore. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And now that things are allegedly going to start opening up again, I can’t help but wonder…am I going to remember how to do stuff again? And am I even going to want to? Because let’s face it; we still really shouldn’t be dashing out the door to congregate; there are still no sports or extracurricular actives for the kids; there’s not a whole lot of reasons to be running around town searching for some normalcy. We still have many weeks of wide open, long days ahead of us. And if I can’t even take my damn towel to sit on the sand as I watch my kids in the ocean, can we even go to the beach? And if we do go to the beach, are all those psychos on Nextdoor going to be stalking everyone with their nifty camera phones and keyboard warrior fingers? </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I used to be so good at being bored. I was a child of the 80’s and 90’s; we were created to survive boredom. We came home to houses empty of parents after school and watched one episode of The Brady Bunch before there was nothing on so we just wandered outside and maybe spotted a neighbor kid and rode bikes aimlessly until dinner. We filled thousands of summer hours with nothing to do expect our daily chores and watch the clouds drift by as our imaginations wandered the world while we laid with our backs pressed against the scratchy grass. As I grew older and left home and moved to cities where I was a stranger to it and everyone, I filled my time with solo trips to the movies and the bookstores and sometimes long walks through Target. (For the record-still all my favorite things to do alone.) And then I had babies and I was home with them and though no one can prepare you for the isolation and loneliness that go hand in hand with being a stay at home parent, we eventually found our little ways to keep our long, groundhog days full. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But my brain is so tired now. My brain got so tired of trying not to be bored of being bored I think it shut off; the lack of activity sending a signal that said, okay. We got her. She’s done. Shut this baby down and run her on autopilot. Wake up. Work out. Start school. Walk dog. Clean house. Make food. Wake up. Work out. Start school. Walk dog. Clean house. Make food. Each day crawling by with the hands of the clock ticking as if covered in molasses. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I bear no brunt that is greater than someone else’s. My situation comparatively is fortunate to many others and I don’t forget the sacrifices so many are making. But I think I speak for all of mankind when I say: I’m done. Please we promise to be good can we please be done? Pretty pretty pretty please? With a cherry-printed mask on top?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I can’t think ahead to fall and the idea that we may still have to distance learn. I can’t think ahead to the summer weeks when the days will still be stretched out long before us with limited activities to entertain us. I can’t think ahead to next week, wondering if it’s okay to try and leave on a three day weekend or is that just stupid and selfish? I can barely think ahead to tomorrow when I might try and go to the car wash because it sounds nice to have something “normal” to do again. I’ll just be here, getting though today, hour by hour, as gracefully as I can. Like we all are.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So I guess that means I should go ahead and fold the damn towels already. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Just in time to wash them again. </span></span></div>
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YoMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07863208539045961636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4435489243228037087.post-41779358438662501402020-05-04T13:54:00.002-07:002020-05-04T13:54:56.434-07:00Corona Diaries: Week 7<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’m ready for everyone to go away now. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Just please can everyone go away for like two hours a day. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That’s all I need. I promise I will put it to good use. I mean I’ll probably watch like 20 minutes of some terrible reality show that I just can’t shake, but that’s it. I swear I’ll be productive. Or not. But I want the chance to find out. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Listen, I’m happy to do the cleaning and the cooking and the laundry. I’ve been a stay home slave for years now-I’m used to it. I’m happy to help with the schoolwork, I’m happy to nag about the daily Zoom schedule, I’m happy to see only blank faces stare back at me when I say things like-Anybody want to play a game? Jesus, I’m even happy to be the constant audience that Daughter so desires for basically…anything…she does all day. Mom! Watch me do a cartwheel. Mom! Watch me ride my bike. Mom! Watch me watch this show. Mom! Watch me breath. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It’s fine. It really is. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But can they just please go away for two hours? </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(I’m willing to negotiate to one hour.)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And I don’t mean go to your rooms and become one with your device.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I mean go away. Leave this house. Let me be alone.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You remember how when the kids were little and you would sneak off to pee in the hopes of having one moment to yourself and the second your ass hit that seat you would hear….Mama?? </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That is quarantine. I just want to pee by myself and I can’t. Ever.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It doesn’t even make sense that I can’t seem to find the time to take care of things besides the aforementioned slaving because all there is is time. So much time. We’ve been told our entire lives that there are 24 hours in a day but in the time of Corona, however, it seems that there are 24 hours between lunch and dinner <i>alone</i>. Which makes each day at least 107 hours long. In all of those 107 hours I should be able to find just one or god forbid two where I can….I don’t even know, people. I don’t know what it is I want to do. I can’t remember stuff we used to do. I just want them to go away so I can then discover what it is I will do. Because every time I start to do a thing for myself, my ass hits the seat and all I hear is…Mama? </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The fatigue of this quarantine is settling in pretty strong now. Along with some strange “new normal” is the growing longing for some semblance of our old lives to come back. Just a glimmer of the old ordinary would sooth these restless souls. How I long to plop down a chair and a blanket at the beach; to bounce from game to game over the weekend; to be The Children’s unpaid Uber driver; to go on a date to the movies; to have Target be fun again. Of course I can’t wait to go on a vacation or plan a trip to see my family or head to a Dodger game but all I really want right now is the most benign of normal to begin again. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And to be alone in my house. For one hour. </span></span></div>
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YoMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07863208539045961636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4435489243228037087.post-69250548806637560672020-04-27T14:04:00.000-07:002020-04-27T14:04:28.311-07:00Corona Diaries: Week 6 <div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Remember when kids went to school? </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Man, that was awesome.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Learning stuff. Seeing friends. Being gone until 3 pm each day. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’m learning things during this quarantine. Like how 13 year old boys apparently don’t need sunshine to survive. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Oh yes, I’m learning all kinds of things about teenagers and I’m taking notes.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Things I’ve Learned About Having a Teenager During Corona:</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>I am only allowed a certain number of questions each day.</b> It’s important to pick questions carefully because while each one will certainly cause an eye-roll, at times I do actually need an answer. So instead of saying, How did you sleep?-I say, Good Morning. A grunt is all I need for affirmation and by that I mean a grunt is all I’ll get for affirmation so I’ve learned to accept it. I don’t ask- are you hungry? Because again, limited words per day and can’t waste time asking the obvious. Instead it is: how <i>many</i> grilled cheeses/hot dogs/quesadillas would you like for lunch thus saving myself from wasted questions and also the opportunity for Son to remind me that I’m stupid for asking the obvious. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It’s important to note that asking follow up questions is crossing into dangerous territory. For example:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mom, I’m going on bike ride.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Okay, Son. Where are you going?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I don’t know. Just around.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Do you think you’ll head down Artesia-</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mom! Just around!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Okay. Don’t forget your helmet. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">While “just around” is not normally an acceptable answer with regards to teenage whereabouts, Corona basically guarantees that his direction is aimless and harmless and also obviously I’ll be tracking him on my phone so really the follow up questions are just wasted breath and wasted chance for more viable, necessary questions that may come up later in the day like- Can you please stop torturing your sister? Choose wisely. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Teenagers like doors closed.</b> <b>Parents like doors open</b>. Parents are the boss but teenagers are moody so I close the door as requested, then push it gently open so I can quietly spy on him while he does math that I’m certain I could never do even if you pointed a gun at my head. Have I told you guys that I hate the math? I hate the math. I know closed doors can be a divisive topic in many households, but we have a cozy little house and there is no where to hide and I know this because I’ve searched. For now, I concede to him the almost closed door because I still barge in multiple times a day as his room holds the closet that holds the things that clean the house. I just have to accept the bonus eye rolls that come with getting the broom because along with getting the broom is the reminder that I am always watching. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Teenagers would like to just be left alone, please.</b> This is a tough one for me as I am desperate for his love and affection that was once so abundant I would find myself peeling him off my body. The departure of such displays of affection have me mourning those sweaty, doughy hugs that I clearly took for granted. I know, I know….it’s only natural. And while I want to prove my excellence at being cool and stuff, I really do feel for these kids during this quarantine. These poor budding teenagers. I mean, they’ve finally reached the age where their independence is blooming and their identities are forming and their friend groups are growing and now they’re basically just stuck at home with their parents all day? Even us parents have to admit that’s rough. I’m even willing to go on record that I probably deserve like…half of the eye rolls I receive each day. I’m trying so hard to respect his need for space and give him whatever sort of independence he can find during this very unique chapter in our lives, but I mean, also…like, you need some vitamin D, kid. Your eyes need to feel the fresh air. Your legs need to run. And you still have to clean the bathroom. So I am still your annoying mother who loves you and would really like to shoot hoops with you one day if you want but it’s cool if you don’t but I’m available if you want to play cards or something but I get it if you don’t and that’s fine just go back to your room and close the door and I’ll open it gently and I’ll see you at dinner. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>It’s hard out there for a teen. </b>Who knows how this is going to affect these kids. Who knows what consequences or gifts this quarantine will provide in the weeks, months, even years to come. But to all the kids, the budding teenagers, the young adults-we feel you. You’re doing awesome. And as much as we can’t wait to drop your asses off to school, we know you are equally ready to get back to your own lives. But for now, we try to enjoy the time together (so much time) and the meals together (so much cooking) because I promise you, that will always count for something. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go get the chicken out of the fridge. </span></span></div>
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YoMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07863208539045961636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4435489243228037087.post-49872376221589197752020-04-20T13:45:00.000-07:002020-04-20T13:45:01.170-07:00Corona Diaries: Week 5<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Here we are. The end of each week is accompanied by a depressed victory.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We made it-again. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We have to do it-again. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Will this ever end?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I miss things. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I miss baseball. And my gym. My friends in the flesh. Making plans to visit my family. I (really) miss watching my kids’ games. I miss going to the movies. I miss being alone in the house, eating my morning veggie bowls and watching 20 minutes of trashy television before I get on with my day. I miss writing stuff in my calendar that doesn’t start with ‘zoom.’ I miss carefree trips to Target. I miss my clothes. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Which brings me to something else. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’m really sorry I ever said I hated all my clothes. That I would repeatedly stand with my closet open, cursing every last article, sure that I had absolutely nothing to wear. Ever. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I mean, I didn’t know, Clothes. I didn’t know how long we would be apart from one another. I didn’t know, Cute Jacket I Bought Right Before Pandemic, that we didn’t even stand a chance to bond. I didn’t know, Perfect Shade of Army Green Sweater, that I let my one opportunity to show you off slip by and months will pass before I won’t sweat to death while wearing you. To you, Perfect Leopard Print Maxi, I await with baited breath for causal summer days made better with you and a Perfect Hat. To my Cowboy Boots…I want you to know that we can still make it work. I promise, Boots, that when this is over, you, me and Shirt Dress will go wine tasting and we will be so happy. Black Eyelet Top? My God we are going to have the best reunion. Imagine us together with those leopard wedges!? Whaaatttt!!! I mean even you, Random Button Sweater That I’m Not Sure Is Cute or Ugly…I would like a chance to discover that together. These are the images we must hold onto, Clothes. We must remember the good times and look forward to coordinating once again. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I can’t talk about my earrings. It’s too painful. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Which brings me to something else. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I wear a little mascara most days. Because I want to. And I slip on my jeans instead of leggings after a shower. And I wore a dress to Trader Joes because it was warm outside and it felt lovely. And the other day, Anthropologie was fully taunting me with their shiny 50% Off Dresses emails and I took that clickbait and I bought myself a new, gorgeous maxi dress that I fully intend to wear while cooking chicken and doing laundry. This is risky, I know, because ladies-we are all familiar with the pure witchcraft that is an Anthro dressing room, what with that lighting and those magic mirrors and I am never one to order clothes online which I know makes me some kind of freak, but I have the hips and the butt and one size here and another size there….just let me try it on first please. But the pure thrill I felt at the idea of receiving something fun in the mail that I can wear and feel pretty in was too much for me to bear. I broke and I bought it and I hope my mirror is as magic as those in-store. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">These little things…a dab of mascara, jeans instead of leggings….a new dress that could look awful on me….they boost my mood just the tiniest bit. A closet full of clothes I once cursed and now look upon longingly is not really important, I know. It’s not anything that actually matters in times of such strife and hardship and sacrifice. But standing in front of my closet, staring at all those things I was so sure I hated…well….it evokes gratitude. To have so much. Not the clothes but the times spent in them. The times spent packing to visit family; to go grab a drink with girlfriends; head to Dodger games with my kids; go on a date to the movies; to settle in comfortably for a marathon day of the kids’ games. All these outings and experiences we took for granted because we just didn’t know. How could we? What I see now when I stand in front of my open closet is life. I remember all the cherished memories, I feel the stillness of time that is now, and I look forward to all the life we have yet to experience when this, too, does pass. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’ll be the one in the maxi dress, big hoops adorning my ears and the perfect hat upon my head. </span></span></div>
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YoMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07863208539045961636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4435489243228037087.post-27597007201586700292020-04-11T11:48:00.000-07:002020-04-11T11:48:17.818-07:00Corona Diaries: Week Four<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Week Four.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Or Week Sixty Four.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I don’t know…do you? Does it matter?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Week Four was Spring Break, so The Children had no schoolwork to occupy them for even just a mere two hours a day. So…yeah. There was….Nothing. To Do. All Day. Just wake up whenever, do whatever, for however long you’re doing it, eat a bunch of food, complain that it’s chicken, then go back to doing whatever for however long you’re doing it while creating just a freakish amount of laundry. Actually, come to think of it…that was exactly how we spent Spring Break last year. Huh. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">This no routine routine is something I am not cut out for. Last week, you could find me wandering my living room, which is about the size of your master bathroom most likely, saying things like, cards? Yahtzee? 15 more minutes until you take a break. Cards? Yahtzee? 14 more minutes until no more Minecraft. Cards? Yahtzee? 13 more minutes….</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">A numbness took over and I aimlessly circled in white space, certain that the only thing this pandemic is proving is how useless I am because I can’t drive my kids to sports. What good am I if nobody needs a ride anywhere? </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">To this, I texted one of my besties who is working from home alongside her husband and two teenagers and asked her- am I an asshole because I wish I had a job to do right now other than cook and clean and feel constant guilt and beg my kids for love and attention? And she said no you’re not (she has to say that because she’s my friend) and agreed that she hasn’t even had a second to feel guilty because she’s so busy working but she wonders if she’s missing out on all the kumbaya family time social media is busy distorting for us. I assured her it wasn’t all kumbaya over here because at that very moment, Daughter was busy lighting things on fire in the driveway and Son left on his bike to go find a Dr. Pepper because I’m a terrible mother and did not buy any at Target and declined his offer for me to jump immediately in my car and go get him some. (Cue Dr. Pepper Shamers.) </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I gotta hand it to us, ladies. Not even a quarantined pandemic can quell our self doubt and questionable worthiness and usefulness as a human, mother, friend. Maybe we <i>should </i>stop being so hard on ourselves. It’s exhausting. I mean, if I can not give a shit about Tik Tok and don’t even have a desire to understand it, that means I must have some redeemable qualities, yeah? </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">See what happens when I have no routine or direction? I start comparing my self worth to Tik Tok.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I gotta get out more.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Oh yeah. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Never mind.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">While nothing can compare to the thrill we once knew of dropping our kids off at school for eight hours a day, I joyfully welcome the return of digital learning next week. I think The Children will too. We all need a little routine, a little direction, to keep us motivated to keep on keeping on during this quarantine; one long day followed by the next. But I have learned that some days, it makes me feel better to wear real clothes. That some days, it’s okay for me to read on the sofa instead of cook chicken. That some days I can be the boss of screen time and other days I do not give a rats ass. That some days, I’ll be damned if I don’t win the family board game battle, and other days I let it go. I have learned that my kids can do more than just put their dishes in the dishwasher (like total sociopaths, but still they always have) and it does not, contrary to their very popular belief, kill them to do <b>all </b>the dinner dishes. I mean, what a relief that at the very least, we’re safe from death by dishes. (So many dishes.) I have learned that being bored does not translate to desire to clean closets or craft or learn a new language. I have learned that being outside is vital for survival. That feeling the sun on my face is a reminder that life is still happening. We are still here. We still have a purpose. And mine is for chicken. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Lastly, I have learned that each day, I grow more and more motivated to cut my own hair. Carson Daly can do it. What could go wrong? And if it does go wrong…I mean…who cares.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Because…quarantine. </span></div>
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YoMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07863208539045961636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4435489243228037087.post-26568399547114733122020-04-06T09:48:00.001-07:002020-04-06T09:48:49.514-07:00Corona Diaries: Week Three<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Week Three.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Week Three brought some fairly disappointing news. School is closed. Until September.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Damn. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I was being honest with myself, I knew the kids weren’t going to go back this year, but that didn’t stop me from twisting and turning my thoughts into the idea that there was a <i>chance.</i> I desperately gripped that lingering hope that maybe, just perhaps, somehow, just maaayyyybee….this would all end and they could go back, even for a few weeks. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Obvious reasons I want to them to go back:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">1: please go away from my face</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">2: yes, I’m dumb because I can’t do your math</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">6: the fighting</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But the real reason I was holding on so tight to that lingering hope was everything else the return of school would signify. That maybe we could see the light at the end of the tunnel blinking faintly. Not fully able to bask in it’s glow, but to just feel a simple sliver across our faces to begin to heal this heaviness in our hearts; to be able to regain a few of our basic freedoms we now cherish so deeply. Each day I wake up searching for some sort of validation that we’re going to get through this; each day I text or chat with various friends and family trying to find that angle, that silver lining, that light at the end of the tunnel but each day still ends just as the last. I got that email from the school and I cried. For all the things it signified. For all the memories stolen from us, big and small. For that light I’m still squinting to see.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">These weeks, they go by day by day and within each day is a whole week it feels. We have our ups and downs. An endless, hopeless day has been followed with a lighter, more content one, which makes the next day more bearable because we survived the one before, so we can survive the one tomorrow. It’s this mindset that keeps me from falling down the rabbit hole of anxious, fear-riddled doom. I can’t control this. I can’t control what’s going to happen, I can’t control this economy, I can't control the future. What I can control is making choices that do not put others and my family at risk. What I can control is this day, hour by hour. What I can control is how much Minecraft Son can play each day. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Just kidding. I can’t control that and I stopped trying. And that feels right. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We’ve all been through dark times, some darker than others. I look back to the very darkest of days I had during my divorce where it felt like I was drowning in the blackest of waters and although it’s painful to reflect upon that period of my life, it’s also a gracious reminder that time marches on. Bad times turn to good. Hard things become easier. Black water becomes blue again. Together, we’ll just sit afloat for a bit until this, too, shall pass. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And who knows how we’ll reflect upon this time when the dust has settled and we resume a new normal. Will we miss the afternoon forced family walks that sometimes end with belly laughs? Will I see as many families riding bikes together, destination endless? Will all the neighborhood kids once again entertain themselves with a big game of hide and seek? (Is there a more perfect social distancing game?) I daresay we will look back and we will miss it just a bit. Just for a moment. A very fleeting, brief moment while we run our kids around, do our jobs, make the dinners, go to the games, yell for shoes to be put on, over schedule our lives; I daresay we might close our eyes and remember that really, really, <b>really</b> long summer we once had where we could hug no one but our children but oh so many hugs they did get and we might smile.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Like a-teeny-tiny, barely perceptible, blink and you might miss it-smile, but a smile nonetheless.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Until then, we march forward. To Week Four we go. </span></span></div>
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YoMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07863208539045961636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4435489243228037087.post-52777358376258348902020-03-30T08:01:00.001-07:002020-03-30T08:01:40.681-07:00Corona Diaries Week 2<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This last week felt a little endless. It felt like quarantine might go on for a lot longer than is mentally available for me to think about. Which, I mean….I can’t let myself go there. We get through today. We go to bed. Maybe we sleep, maybe we don’t. We wake up. And through the day we go. Rinse. Lather. Repeat. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The fatigue has set in on my eyes. As grateful as I am to our little front yard, I kind of don’t want to look at it anymore. As nice as it is to take long walks with the (world’s happiest) dog, I’m really sick of the same routes. As cozy as it is to sleep past 6 am each day, I would love to get back to my gym after dropping MY KIDS OFF AT SCHOOL. I’m sorry I ever yelled at you, Children, to put your damn shoes on because at least that meant we got to leave the house. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">God, I miss yelling at my kids to put their shoes on.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I know these sacrifices are small in the greater picture of this pandemic. I know how fortunate we are to access our school digitally, prepare meals each day and stay healthy in our little 1500 square foot bubble. The fact that the front lines of this crisis seem far away and can just be switched off with a click of my remote does not elude me. We all need to do our part; we all have sacrifices big and small that we must make so others can simply survive. So our first responders can stay healthy and keep aiding those in need. When faced with the dire reality of life and death, watching Daughter do her self taught gymnastics routine 567 times each day suddenly seems pretty fucking amazing. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But I think it’s important to be gentle with ourselves; to remember that we can be grateful and yet still cry under shaded eyes while walking the (world’s happiest) dog. That our hearts can be full with love for so much time spent with our children while also wishing they would please just go back to school and sports and friends. That one day we might crumble beneath a mountain of fear and anxiety and the next we are helping another climb gently down from that same mountain. That virtual happy hours are fun but what we wouldn’t give to wrap our arms around our loved ones and over pay for cocktails simply for the atmosphere. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Daughter had a birthday this past week. She turned 11. Of course her birthday plans were cancelled and she was super disappointed, but she handles things so well. Said no one ever. We had a lot of talks, mostly me talking to a slammed door in my face, about how it’s okay to be disappointed, upset, sad, frustrated but we can still have a special day. She wasn’t having it. I let her cry into her pillow because I understand the therapeutic value of crying into a pillow. And even though her dramatic antics were wearing me down, I really did feel so badly for her. And that pillow. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The big day came and there were balloons and hot chocolate and pizza and presents and one spectacular meltdown over a non-existent phone she felt she felt entitled to receive. And just when all felt lost, there was a parade. Friends and family who decorated their cars and made signs and threw candy and beaded necklaces out their windows and honked their horns and toasted our girl from six feet away while blasting birthday songs from their vehicles. There was a small, appropriately spaced gathering of old friends and new who went out of their way to make the day of a very special 11 year old. Then came endless smiles and waves from Daughter who only hours before had self quarantined during quarantine. What could more appropriately symbolize the ups and downs of this new normal than being deep in the trenches of adolescent pain one moment then wrapped in a warm cocoon of kind gestures and simple love the next? I know that one day, dear Daughter, you will look back on this birthday and realize just how lucky you were to see what a treasure it was to receive the best gift that humans have to offer: love. And Reeses Peanut Butter Cups.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Onward we march into week three. We get through today. We sleep. We get through tomorrow. Rinse. Lather. Repeat.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">See you on the flip side. </span></span></div>
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YoMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07863208539045961636noreply@blogger.com0