Corona Diaries: Week Four

Week Four.

Or Week Sixty Four.

I don’t know…do you? Does it matter?

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. 

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….

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? 

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.) 

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 should 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? 

See what happens when I have no routine or direction? I start comparing my self worth to Tik Tok.

I gotta get out more.

Oh yeah. 

Never mind.

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 all 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. 

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.

Because…quarantine. 

Corona Diaries: Week Three

Okay.

Week Three.

Week Three brought some fairly disappointing news. School is closed. Until September.

Damn. 

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 chance. 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. 

Obvious reasons I want to them to go back:

1: please go away from my face

2: yes, I’m dumb because I can’t do your math

3: You can’t be hungry all of the time in all of the days 

4: the fighting 

5: the fighting 

6: the fighting

7: the dishes

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.

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. 

Just kidding. I can’t control that and I stopped trying. And that feels right.  

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. 

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, really 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.

Like a-teeny-tiny, barely perceptible, blink and you might miss it-smile, but a smile nonetheless.

Until then, we march forward. To Week Four we go. 

Corona Diaries Week 2

Oh vey.

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. 

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. 

God, I miss yelling at my kids to put their shoes on.

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. 

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. 

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.  

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.

Onward we march into week three. We get through today. We sleep. We get through tomorrow. Rinse. Lather. Repeat.

See you on the flip side. 

Corona Diaries

Well, here we are. 

As I type this, it’s a quiet Friday morning, day five of homeschooling, day seven of being home. The Children are blessedly still asleep and school will start eventually as there is no way in hell that I will wake them up. That’s the thing about having your own school; you can do what you want. 

I am of course having ups and downs. Yesterday I was walking my dog and out of nowhere, tears just dripped down my face. I’m a crier, (I mean, I still cry every time Goose dies. Why does he have to die every time?), so this isn’t too alarming, but this sudden flourish jolted my emotions. Emotions that seemed too large to encapsulate so my body had to release somehow. It sort of set the tone for my day and to no surprise, it ended up being a hard day. It felt weighted. It felt endless. I gave everyone a pass, including myself, and as a result, Daughter spent most of her day doing her best to become one with her iPad. She was feeling all the feels yesterday, too. When not physically melting into technology, she worked on perfecting her door slam, which was already amongst the highest rank in the land, but practice does make perfect. 

I will say that I’ve never been in more constant contact with friends and family. I guess there’s a thing called Zoom and it’s sole function is to have virtual happy hour with friends. I mean, I assume that’s why it was invented. Also, I’m learning that I actually know less about technology than originally thought. Thank god I have a 13 year old who thinks I’m dumb and helps me. 

As my phone dings all day with messages, bringing little bursts of much needed laughter, it’s a reminder of this messy but beautifully ragged silver lining. We really are all in this together. So often during troubling times, we feel so alone and isolated. And now it’s in our isolation that we remember we’re all together. I’m right here with you, neighbor. Friend. Parent. Sister. Brother. Kids. I’m right here. And so are you. 

I want today to be a better day. The sun is shining and the sky is blue and it’s very confusing for it to be such a beautiful day when life right now is a great big unknown. I like to think that perhaps the sky is just trying to cheer us up. Remind us that each day will come to an end and then begin again and all we need to do is look up to know that we will stand the test of time. 

In an effort to make today a better day, some things about the corona that aren’t so bad:

If my dog could talk, she would tell you she is living her best.life.ever.

My kids sleep in every day. Son specifically is really making me proud with his efforts.

I get a good laugh thinking about all the people who do weird shit to their face and now they can’t. 

When I’m out walking the happiest dog on the planet, I see families I didn’t even know existed in my neighborhood out together riding bikes. Where did you people come from? And why am I just now finding out about you? You should really come outside more often. 

It’s not what ARE we going to have for dinner…it’s what AREN’T we going to have for dinner! Dinner for days and days and days is just waiting patiently in my freezer. Maybe I should take this corona lesson with me and keep planning monthly dinner menus. Oh my god, somebody slap me. 

The other day, I posed a question online about where I could find tortillas. I came home from an errand to find a bag of tortillas outside my door that a friend in the neighborhood dropped off. (Hi, Zoe.) See? In it together for our love of tortillas and tacos.

No more FOMO! Because we all know exactly what everyone is doing and none of us are invited. 

Spending this much time with my kids makes me realize that I’ve always spent a lot of time with my kids. Obviously when the day comes that they get to go back to school, we will all be weak with joyous laughter, tears and relief…but I think I’ve been doing right by them all these years. My buddies forever. (Talk to me on Day 27.) (Or maybe 17.) (Actually, maybe just on Monday.)

We made it to our first Friday. And we’ll make it to the next. Be safe. Stay healthy. Wash your hands. Don’t harm your children. And by all means, let’s takedown Common Core. Together, we can do anything. 

And Then He Was 13....(last month)....

Dear Son,

Well….it was your birthday. In December. And I missed it. 

I mean I didn’t miss it. We celebrated and you got a bike and a beach party (yes, in December) and I was a nerd and hung balloons from your door and got up early to make you coffee cake and bacon for breakfast and like the true Southern California boy you are, your only birthday dinner request was for Mexican food. 

What I meant is that I just haven’t had time to sit down and reflect on your birthday. Part of it is just this crazy time of year your birthday happens to fall into; right after Thanksgiving and right before Christmas. Having a Christmas newborn was one of the most special experiences of my life but, quite frankly, each year after, your birth day timing has kind of been a pain in the ass.

But the other part of my procrastination is that I’m having a hard time accepting this teenager you’ve suddenly become. This 13 year old young man who resides in my home. And it’s not you…oh no, no, no. You’re doing great. I mean….you have acne and your voice is changing, you don’t really smell yet, but I know it’s coming, and also, you brush your hair every day. And….you wear PANTS! now. PANTS! It’s been my dream for so many years after your rejection of PANTS! of all kinds and seemingly eternal devotion to Old Navy nylon shorts every day no matter WHAT that not only do you brush your hair in a cute little wave every day, you. wear. PANTS!. 

You do have your mood swings, although seeing as you’ve always sort of been a stubborn old man, they don’t shock me. The eye-rolling is impressive and frequent but…I…you know….I did birth you. It’s only natural (punishment) that both My Offspring can roll a good eye so I can’t be too mad about it.  

You are on the precarious precipice of social awareness and making your own plans and I know that soon enough your friends will be the only people you want to be around, so I am trying to relish the fact that you still like to be home most of the time. Even though that means you are constantly body-checking me and disguising it as a hug. 

We are working on your penchant of that agitated tilt to your voice when I ask you things like…How are you? Do you want breakfast? Do you have homework? Can you please not make your sister cry? I try to remember that you need your own space and I shouldn’t smother you with questions so instead I delicately inquire, knowing all too well that sometimes what you need from me is silence, sometimes what you need is a good listener, and sometimes what you need is a good laugh. And on the occasions when you jump in the car and chatter nonstop about music or gym class or baseball, my heart skips a beat and I listen and then take the opportunity to smother you just a little bit with my questions. 

See, Son? You are doing just fine. 

It’s me.

I’m kind of a mess.

Each time I look at your face that’s changing and shifting (into quite handsomeness I might add), I stare a second longer to find the toddler there. When I say goodnight to you, I let my nose linger against your neck, searching for that doughy smell of little boy. Your ever-deepening voice has me tearfully watching home videos, longing to hear that small, pre-adolescent talk just one more time. I know all of these experiences are gifts of healthy, growing children and the natural progression of life but the knowing of that and the living of it don’t always harmonize. As I watch you grow from boy to young adult, Son, I didn’t realize how much I was going to mourn the leaving of childhood into the entering of manhood. And I’m not ready to lose all of the boy yet. I find myself clinging to it, despite my awareness that as you shift, I also must shift. That despite my desperate longing to kneel down and feel your reckless arms fly around me in a squeezing embrace, I settle for a side hug. And as I wink down at you, my eyes twinkling with adoration and a secret message that I’m trying to be cool and not embarrassing with my side hug, I wonder if there’s a part of you that wants me to kneel down and capture you with arms wide open. I think there is. I hope there always is. I hope you always carry with you the protective arms of your mother, wherever it is that life will take you. 

So here we are together, entering this unknown territory of your teenage-hood. I’m not always going to know what to do or what to say, Son. I’ll probably screw up. No, I will screw up. And you will too. But I’m the lucky one that it’s you I get to screw up. I mean love. I mean guide. I mean….you know what I mean. I’m the lucky one that it’s you. 

Happy (belated) birthday, Baby Mine. 

Love, Mama. 

Gypsy

Change is good, so they say. 

Be it a throw pillow or a color scheme, or my inevitable desire to move someplace after I visit, I’ve always liked change. This year round warm weather does not do my soul good when all it craves is a tree of many colors or the grace that freshly fallen snow can bring. I have a gypsy soul with a thirst for wandering and a fear of stagnation and for years my gypsy and I journeyed joyfully together, from Midwest, to South, to East, to West, our adventures always outweighing the risk; our youthful spirit always confident of landing on our feet.

Then came marriage.  And a baby. Then another. And a separation with a finale of divorce.  Change. Change. Change. Change. Slowly my gypsy silenced as she watched from the sidelines and the years passed and her retreat grew long.  A sort of hibernation, awaiting her role, awaiting her turn to come around again. She knew she had to let me be because gypsies want to run away, but mothers have to stay. 

Change is good, so they say. 

But sometimes it feels like being chained to the back of an 18 wheeler and dragged across a gravel road for a few (hundred) miles. I wave frantically trying to get the driver to see me in the rearview mirror but it is useless as I am trapped in the blindspot. So instead I settle into the discomfort, convincing myself that the gravel isn’t really so bad. The gravel doesn’t really hurt so much. I drift to sleep thinking of my gypsy, dreaming of what adventure she might be on. I wonder if she’s disappointed in me, watching as I navigate my way. How did we land here,  she must wonder. Divorced in an isolated land of little boxes on the hillside, little boxes all the same. I take a chance. Gypsy? I whisper. And then I feel her nudge, her hibernation awakening. Gypsy-may I please run away with you? No you cannot, she replies. You must stay. I know, I say, and I arrange the gravel so it sits just right; so I can stand with it on my shoulders and not collapse from the weight. Gypsy retreats. 

Change is good, so they say.

 But it isn’t always recognized. Most people don’t want to recognize change, especially when it doesn’t pertain to them. It’s too scary. It’s too risky. Too comfortable to stay just where you are. I wonder what my gypsy thinks as she sees me smile to these swirling faces surrounding me, eager for my acknowledgment of contentment. Awaiting my approval of their decisions. Gypsy nudges me, and I push her down. Tell them, she whispers. Tell them about me, about us. No, no, it’s okay, I try to convince her. It’s okay. They can’t feel the gravel. It’s too much; I’ll just hold it for them. Gypsy retreats, having lost her round and as she begins to fade, I confide to her again. I want to run away. I know you do, she says. But you must stay. I try to offload some of the gravel, but it upsets my balance, so I pick it back up and rearrange once again so my legs don’t bend. 

Change is good, so they say. 

Gypsy, I panic. I need you. I have so many things to do. I forgot how to do all these things while in my warm cocoon of mothering.  Please will you help me? Scoot over, she whispers and there she sits as I trudge through piles of neglected mail, open my own bank accounts, leave my home, try to make a new one, call utility companies, pay my taxes, buy a car, acquire health insurance, pay them bills….all these things we are all supposed to do. She high fives me after each task, telling me it’s all going to be okay. We can land on our feet! We can still do this! We can still figure it out! Our adventures aren’t over yet! Her exuberance is infectious and I ask her again-can we run away?! No, she says. You must stay. Okay, I say…but then I feel some bits of gravel fall away. I wobble, then regain. A few freed pieces, just a tiny few, but then I hear her whisper…I’m proud of you.

Change is good, so they say.

Gypsy! I yell. We had so much we were going to do! All the things we were going to be! All the people we wanted to see! I’m trying to get this damn gravel off of me! Why won’t it be free? Why is it so stuck to me? How do I get back to you, Gypsy? Where do you sit when I’m trying to decide what I need to be? I’m sorry I left you alone all those years! I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I couldn’t be there, gypsy. Don’t you see? I had to quit raising me for a mother I was to be. I didn’t know how to be both; I didn’t know how to take you along. And now I want to run away and you refuse! I’m holding all this fucking gravel and you stand there watching me! I know it’s mine, I know it’s not yours but please can you free me of just a few more pieces? Please can you promise me that one day we can run away? 

Gypsy is quiet. She lets me cry, she lets me scream for no one knows me quite like…me. 

Gypsies want to run away, but mothers must stay. 

Gyspy, she whispers to me. You’ll always be a mother; that cannot be took. But don’t forsake me because one day you’ll find your gypsy soul exactly where it’s supposed to be because you weren’t afraid to change. You weren’t afraid to be who you are meant to be. 

A piece or two of gravel is quietly set free.

I wobble, then regain.

Change is good.

So they say.

These are the days....

Well, ho-ly shit.

Another school year come and (almost) gone. How is it possible for each year to pass more quickly than the last? Is this some sort of competition?  I don’t mind losing if it is. I mean I’m not a hugely competitive person, unless there’s board games involved obviously, but I’ll gladly take the loss here and just put the brakes on the clock even if that means bedtime gets further and further away each night.

The rapid, unforgiving passing of time is pretty much the one thing parents of the world can universally agree on it seems. Well… that and a deep seeded hatred of common core math. (And if you like that math YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH and pretend you hate it like the rest of us so you can still have friends at parties. Also, call me so you can come over and do math with Daughter.)  The end of each school year is always a trigger for an avalanche of mixed emotions, especially as the kids get older. Where once the mere thought of summer would conjure fear and panic at the idea of so much unscheduled time, that same thought of so much unscheduled time now feels less like a burden and more like a prize. I say this full well knowing that my kids will be driving me absolutely mad at some point (immediately) over the summer and I will be fully kissing the floor of school grounds jubilantly come the first day of school. I mean we all know I’m not some kind of delusional, Pinterest parent with a whole box full of things to do when you’re bored. Frankly I am way too lazy to create such a box and also, I have always been in full support of boredom. Boredom sparks creativity. And naps. 

But as this school year ends and I look forward to lazy days with The Children, the passing of another grade has encouraged this very weepy phase of parenting I have found myself in recently as I watch Son grow from boy to  young man. As a human who has no shame in public crying (Hi, divorce), even I must admit it’s getting a tad embarrassing how easily and frequently I find myself tearing up at the simplest glance at Son. The older he gets, the more he naturally slips a bit away from me and while I know this is okay, this is what he’s supposed to do, this is healthy for him to discover who he is outside of being my son, (blah blah blah), I admit it breaks my heart a little more each day as my baby boy keeps getting further and further away and this teenager keeps getting closer and closer. Because that baby boy….wasn’t he just right here, holding my hand as we crossed the street to go to the park for the fourth time in one day and now that baby boy is almost a seventh grader and he kinda smells and he has a wart on his elbow that won’t go away and doesn’t even want to play board games with me anymore and DON’T YOU REMEMBER HOW MANY GAMES OF MONOPOLY JR YOU MADE ME PLAY WHICH IS THE WORST GAME EVER CREATED  SO PLEASE PLAY YAHTZEE WITH ME TO PROVE YOUR LOVE. Also, hand me a tissue. Also, you’re so handsome I could just cry. Oh wait, I am. 

I get tripped out as my kids get older and it becomes that much easier to remember when *I* was that age.  Seventh grade? Mrs. Bye was my favorite teacher, rivaled closely by Mr. McKay who drove a red Miata that was the envy of us all, I did this ah-maz-ing presentation on the wonderful country of Hungary, had a crush on Mike Ohotto, let Nate Stanton cheat off my paper in English class, Anderson Cooper and Lisa Ling gave us the news each morning on Channel 1, and Mr. Glenn was the cutest gym teacher in the land. I feel so close to my childhood self, even though it was a long time ago and I can’t help but see all the years, past, present and future, slipping through my fingers like grains of sand. What will my kids hold with them as they move through their lives? What simple moments will get stuck in their heads for reasons we can never understand?  Because as I reflect on my childhood, it is always the simplest of memories I carry closest to my heart. Summer walks to Birdsall’s Ice Cream. Jumping off the dock into a warm lake. Shucking corn in the backyard with my siblings while lightning bugs gently glowed beside us. I wonder if my parents took a mental snapshot of those moments as I try to do with my own kids. I know we can’t relish each and every moment. People are busy; we got shit to do. Some days are meant for memories and others will slip by unnoticed. But the gift, I suppose, is in the not knowing where each day will land in our memory, hopefully forcing us to try and be as present as possible as these years unfailingly fly by. 

Growing older is a privilege, not a guarantee and no matter how hard I cling to my babies, I have to remember that we raise kids so they can be independent of us. I know I’m holding strong, Children, but I’ll keep loosening my grip. Just know that you can always hold tighter when you need too and you can even let go when it’s time. Also know that I’ll be crying a lot but I cry at choral music and every time Goose dies so don’t worry too much about me and all this weepiness. It just comes naturally.

Now…who wants to play a board game with me? 

Bueller…..