A dream is a wish your heart makes. Or something.

Let's talk for a moment about disney princesses, shall we?

I was once a preschool-aged girl myself. And I'm certain that I loved the princess set as is to be expected. In fact, I have a very vivid memory of standing in my grandparent's kitchen and proudly flashing half of my family my brand new Belle underwear. This memory haunted my pre-teen years as being the most mortifying thing I ever brought upon myself. 

I currently have a love/hate relationship with the disney princesses. I'm pretty vocal about the fact I am careful about what Grace watches on TV and how much she watches. Not in a judge-y way, because I am absolutely not above placing her in front of the television during that horrific hour after school and before dinner so I can cook dinner not totally lose my mind. But disney princesses? The messages their fairy tales impart...enchanting, yet terrifying.

In 2010, Disney played a mind trick on me. They released Beauty and the Beast "from the vault". Obviously panic ensued and I rushed out to purchase it BEFORE IT WAS TOO LATE (It went back into the vault last April. I'm on to you, Disney). Because Beauty and the Beast is my disney princess kryptonite. 

Cinderella? Glorified maid and full time doormat. Relied on a fairy godmother to fix her problems and then when she lost her shoe (sloppy) just waited around for her prince to find her and put it back on her foot. 

Sleeping Beauty? Literally forced to sleep through her life until her true love "awakened her" at age 16. That's the stuff of all parental nightmares. 

Ariel? Actually changed not only her geographical location but her physical attributes so she could be with her prince. Heidi Montag, I'm guessing The Little Mermaid was totally your favorite. 

Snow White? My mom actually refers to her as a "ho".  Cooked and clean for not ONE but seven little men. 

But Belle, she showed promise. She loved to read (which pleased my nerd girl self). She had goals. Her dad was bat-shit crazy, which is clearly character building. She saw past the superficial stuff and fell in love with a man who was quite literally a beast and always managed to tell the town "hottie" to shove it. 

Now granted, once she realized the Beast was a handsome prince and that giant castle stopped being so doom and gloom and got rid of those walking, talking, singing utensils and household items...she seemed pretty content to embrace that "provincial life". But all and all...Belle is my girl.

Grace also loves Belle. She tells everyone that Belle is her favorite because she reads books. Normally when I hear my words coming out of her mouth, I'm mildly horrified, but that is one statement I whole-heartedly endorse. 

This new adoration of Belle has led to lots of questions. About love. And getting married. We've been to a few weddings lately and the institute of marriage, a mystery to most adults, is an extremely difficult concept to explain to a 3 year old. And it has led me to face the terrifying reality that someday, sooner than I'm ready to admit, my baby is going to want to date. And someone is undoubtedly going to break that little heart that I so laboriously created, crafted to be kind and generous and open. And I'm going to have to resist the urge to break their face. 

I've learned a few lessons about love myself, but honestly, I'm still not 100% clear on the whole thing. My parents, who celebrate their 26th wedding anniversary today have also imported some lessons on me by osmosis. 

So Grace? Take my advice for what it is. Flawed and not foolproof and probably not even something I always take myself. But it comes from a place of love, of wanting the very best for you.  John Steinbeck wrote, in a letter to his teenaged son Thom on the subject of falling in love- "The object of love is the best and most beautiful. Try to live up to it". 

The first time you think you're in love? You probably aren't. But I promise to fluctuate between supporting you and being excited for you and threatening to lock you in your room until you're 30. 

Trust your instincts. There's never been a time that I've had a gut feeling about someone and been super glad I didn't go with it. Treat respect as the minimum, non-negotiable expectation. Everyone that you allow into your life is going to teach you some kind of valuable lesson. Sometimes, it just takes a lot of crying in the shower and Ben and Jerry's to decode it.  Try not to let yourself become too cynical and guarded. You get back what you give out. Not everyone who tells you they love you will mean it- so save it for when it counts, not to make someone feel better or because you feel pressured to do so. When someone loves you, you won't need to hear it because you will feel it, infinitely. Relationships are hard work, but don't confuse hard work with feeling like garbage all the time. 

Steinbeck also wrote "And don't worry about losing. If it is right, it happens- the main thing is not to worry. Nothing good gets away" Seems to me that guy really knew what he was talking about.

Nurture your passions. Dream so big that it scares you. My life thus far has been relatively happy. I want yours to be exponentially happier. The person you are meant to be with will encourage you, challenge to grow and be there by your side when you need them to be. Love yourself. Love your friends. Love your family. The rest will all fall into place. 

At least, that's what I'm hoping for. 

On your birthday...

Dear Mum, 

As a little girl, I was unequivocally a Daddy's girl.  I remember (with some horror now, as a parent myself) having this preference. For that, I am sorry. The fact that you even tolerated me, while working the night shift, is an amazing feat. 

And now?

It is unbelievably cheesy to say, but today you are truly my very best friend. There is a point you reach in adulthood where you begin to see your parents as flawed, actual human beings. What I have learned about you and from you as I have grown into my own adult skin has allowed me to appreciate you even more. 

Today is your 50th birthday. I share the number because it's only that- a number.You are vibrant, enthusiastic and far more fashionable than you were 10, 15, 20 years ago (you're welcome). I hope to be one ounce of the woman you are when I meet the half century mark.

You are absurdly funny (occasionally without meaning to be) and unendingly kind.  

When my friends or former boyfriends have met you, they often told me I suddenly made perfect sense in the context of you. My silly sense of humor, my unexpected and sparing snarkiness, my love of books, my abysmal math skills, my increased tolerance for shopping and finding bargains, my attempts at kindness and compassion- it's all you. Who I am, who I strive to be, as a mother- patience, love, resilience- exists because of who you have been for me. 

You have taught me many things in the last 25 years. 

How to quickly calculate what kind of savings a 20% off sale really means. 

How to be unafraid to dream. Unafraid to challenge myself. At 50, you are working towards your Master's degree. We received our bachelors degrees on the same day, after you had already been a nurse for over 20 years. This summer, the girl who failed gym class (seriously) ran her first 5k. I watch you change and grown and continue to push yourself and it reminds me to not ever become too comfortable.

How to create delicious concoctions out of tequila. You make the best margaritas of anyone I know and I am desperate to learn your secrets. 

How to be a better daughter. You expended endless energy taking care of your family, your parents. It is often thankless and always exhausting. But you do it because it is right. And I promise you, should a day come where you need to be taken care of, I will do the very best job. Because I learned how to do it from you.

That working hard and being kind will grant you the most beautiful and honest of successes.

That failure is relative. 

There are countless lessons you have taught me, things I have learned just by watching you. I find myself typing and the words falling short of the gratitude and love inked into my heart. 

I have written often about how grateful I am that you and Grace have a pure and  amazing bond. You have exploded into your somewhat unexpected role of Mimi. My daughter is unbelievably in love with you and I look forward to watching your relationship shift and stretch and strengthen as time moves on. She is so lucky. 

And I am luckier. 

There is so much strength in you that goes unnoticed. But not by me. 

I am prouder each day to be your daughter than I was the day before. 

Ugga Mugga, Mumma..and Happy Birthday, you old broad

Love, always...

Bean

A love letter...

It is so easy to take the most important things in your life for granted. 

We do it every day. Unfortunately, it's rarely a conscious choice.

As I've shifted and stumbled into my mid (hold me) twenties, I've shed friendships like a second skin. Some of them didn't fit within my "new life". Some of them imploded- firey and bright and blisteringly painful. Others just faded away- and one day I  realized it had been weeks, months since I'd heard from that person. 

2012 has been a YEAR. What is that saying? The only thing constant in life is change. My reality, things I thought were concrete and eternally true, splintered and fractured. I'm still trying to figure out exactly how to reset, expanding to fill a new space. 

So, what remained amidst the chaos? Those friends. The ones who didn't self-detonate or disappear. The ones whose presence didn't feel like a itchy wool sweater but fit like a favorite pair of sweatpants and that little black dress that always makes you feel amazing, in equal measure.

They closed ranks. They brought wine. When I cracked jokes and tried so hard to pretend like I had it all together- they played along. They showed up. 

In the midst of personal crisis, you are acutely aware of how much these people mean. You are constantly surprised by the ways they keep getting it right. When you are at your lowest point, when you truly begin to believe that the importance of your existence is equivalent to the dirt underneath the world's fingernails- they find a way to seamlessly integrate into the fabric of your everyday life, quietly but insistently reminding you that in some way- you matter. Filling spaces you didn't even realize felt empty. Anticipating the next backslide.

Eventually, the days get easier. You make the transition from crisis control to basic maintenance. When things are going well, or are simply interesting and mildly entertaining as opposed to catastrophically bad, it becomes easier to take those people for granted.  To place them in a warm and fuzzy, albeit dusty, corner of your mind. Suddenly, you're wrapped up in a new romance or a challenging job or you've shrunk your universe to include only yourself and your priorities.  You forget to be thankful.

So consider this a love letter. 

To those people in my life who love me for who I actually am as opposed to the person that they expect me to be. And not because they are obligated to by blood relation, but because they have gleaned something organically worthy from my presence in their life. To the ones who show up. To the ones who let me keep showing up, no matter how flawed my approach or delivery may be. To the ones who pacify me on the phone for hours, even when they have a million other obligations within their own life to attend to. To the ones who don't reflexively send my calls to voicemail when they register my number on their screen.To the ones who tell me when I'm being an asshole, but in a way that is just subtle enough it feels less like a reproach and more like a compliment. To the ones who share their left-overs and their beds and their secrets. To the ones who are only momentarily mad when you eat their pizza at 2 am on a Saturday. To the ones who watch game shows and don't cringe when I shout at the screen and think nothing of drinking a bottle of wine on a Tuesday night. To the ones who know just what to say, and, more importantly, know when to say nothing at all.  To the ones that encourage you to laugh at yourself because, let's be honest- nothing is that serious. 

I pride myself on being a good friend. Conscious, loyal, present. Lately however, I've realized that isn't always true. Life has a way of disarming you. Lulling you into this peaceful haze where you begin to believe that you'll never see rock bottom again. My personal chaos taught me a lot about the kind of person I am, as well as the kind of person I would like to be. This striking self-awareness walks in step with some amount of self-absorption because, gosh-world... look at how well I'm doing, all on my own.

Truth is...I'm not alone. And haven't ever been.

For that, I should be forever grateful.

So here's to falling in love again, with friendship. Because nothing keeps you quite as warm, quite as self-assured as the glow of an inside joke, a glance across a room that shouts a thousand unspoken things. Nothing makes you feel as safe, as sure as when those you hold closest rally around you, to celebrate success or obliterate disappointments .

I'm making a conscious choice. To be madly, passionately in love with THOSE friends. To nurture those relationships just like I would any other, to value them and not let them lazily acquire rusted edges. To appreciate them, not only in big moments but in the thousands of quiet moments in between. To make sure they understand they (and their perceived problems, issues, downers)  are never an obligation but always a privilege. 

Because unfortunately (fortunately?)  I already know who will show up when my world crashes down.  And you know what? 

They're pretty awesome. 

 So consider this my painfully awkward way of saying thanks. For supporting me, putting up with me..and letting me try to keep up. 

It's always ourselves we find in the sea

I've always had a thing about the ocean.

I spent my 25th birthday with the sun blistering my skin, salt water
caked in my hair and sand finding its way into places it certainly
didn't belong. I had my best girls at my side and a cooler full of
cheese, fruit and water at my feet. It was perfect.

There are many arguments to be made against the beach. I've heard them
all. I've side-eyed people who say "Oh, I just don't really like the
beach. I prefer a pool or a lake". I understand that sand is
annoying...that the water can be cold...and the space can be crowded,
less than tranquil- but it's just not a philosophy that I can get
behind.

My earliest memories are of summer trips to the beach. My grandmother,
my great aunt and my mother would pack up and head to York. We would
spend hours there. Initially, I wouldn't let me feet touch the sand so
I was dutifully carried, from my beach chair into the ocean, where
Nana held my hand and taught me how to jump the waves. My own mother
almost always stayed behind, content with her book and beach chair.

I've been lucky enough to travel a lot. I've swam in the Mediterranean
Ocean, as warm as bath water and in the crystal blue waters of the
Caribbean.

But the Atlantic, the water so cold it leaves you breathless, where
once your toes go numb it's really not so bad....that is the ocean I
like the best.

When I found out I was pregnant, the beach become my refuge. Even in
the winter months, I would drive the coast and find a place to park,
where I would open my window just enough to hear the waves and let the
sound of the saltwater overtake the sound of my own salty tears. It
was this same beach that I paced while urging Grace to make her
appearance into the world.

It is the one place where the sting of existing in a world without my
grandmother is softened. I feel her there always and perhaps that is
why it brings me so much peace. People are afraid of the ocean- of its
depths and imagined dangers. Songs have been written about feeling
small beside the ocean (hello, junior high graduation) but- I
disagree.  By the ocean, I am safe, but not diminished. I am content
in the knowledge, that no matter what, those waves will continue to
break upon the shore.

On vacation in the Cape earlier in the summer, I glanced up from my
own book to see Grace and her Mimi, hand in hand, jumping waves. Waves
she had been petrified of, a day before. I surprised myself with a
quick intake of breath, followed by a warmth that poured into my soul
as I was overcome with memories of moments spent in that very same
way. I then picked up my book and continued reading, intensely
satisfied once again by this natural role reversal.

I can’t say enough about how grateful I am that Grace is getting to
experience the same closeness with her grandmother that I was blessed
enough to share with mine. And if you read the latest guest post on
here you know that the relationship she has with her grampa is more
wonderful than I could have ever imagined

Right now? Grace loves the beach. Our last trip, she was entertained for hours just playing in the sand & "swimming" with Mama in the waves. I can only hope the joy she feels now when she gets her first glimpse of the shoreline is sustaining.

May the beach be where Gracie goes when the world is too crazy, when

her battered heart calls her home. And may she always feel, no matter
where I am, that I’m keeping a watchful eye on her, marveling at her
bravery, from my beach chair on the shore.

Guest Post (which should have come with tissues)

I received this in my inbox this afternoon. I immediately knew, as my eyes filled with tears- that I needed to share this tribute to the little girl who urges us all to be better just by standing by our side.

I am unbelievably lucky that we are loved in this way.

Thank you.




Dear Gracie,

Hi, it’s me – Grampa.

It may seem to be a bit odd that I am writing what is essentially a thank-you note to a three year-old, but read on, I hope and trust that it will make more sense.
Thank you for just being you and for being such a big part of my life.
You probably don’t realize it, but you hold more power in those little hands and those beautiful eyes than anyone else that I know.


When we had your Mom, it was the greatest and most exhilarating part of our life. The problem is we were WAY too busy being scared senseless half the time and run ragged the rest of the time to properly appreciate what a miracle a child really is. Don’t get me wrong. We enjoyed every birthday cake (including the “upside down” one that the dog got to eat), every graduation, and every recital, concert, play and dance. All the cookouts, the camping, the coffee milk in the mornings, and learning a new word every day in the car. The challenges, the drama, the achievements and the setbacks – we loved them all.

I remember the agony of holding Mimi’s hand on New Year’s Eve when we thought we had lost your Mom, only to have the ultrasound tech casually say, “…and there’s the baby’s heartbeat…”. Your Mom might not even realize it, but that’s why having a sparkling grape drink became a tradition on New Year’s Eve – that was my own way of celebrating.

All the fussing, fretting and yes, fights over things that seemed so monumental then but have faded out to dim memories. The days when Mimi was working nights, getting up in the afternoon to pick your Mom up from school, and then trying to sleep a few hours before work. The long flights back from wherever my work had sent me, so I could rush in to catch your Mom on the stage in grade school. Picking your Mom up from Nana’s in the middle of the night so I could go back to school and get my degree (another whole story here – we couldn’t have done it without Nana & Papa – and I completely understand now when she said the your Mom was “as good as Gold”).


We agonized over the choices we made for your Mom. All the things that we did that we were certain could mess things up forever if we didn’t get them just right. Trust me – we didn’t always get it just right.


You see, kids don’t come with directions. Most of the “free” advice you get is worth every penny you paid for it. We spent most of the time hoping that we weren’t screwing your Mom up too badly and the rest of our time trying to build a good life for our family. Everything seemed to go by in a blur. We were running so fast for so long that I just thought that was the way it was supposed to be.
 
And then you came along.
When I look in your eyes and see the pure joy of discovery – of seeing something for the very first time – it takes me back to when your Mom had the very same expression on her face.
When you dance around the living room to the song that is playing in your head, I see your Mom doing the very same dance.
Reading you a story – and having you catch me when I try to skip ahead – your Mom did that, too.
Beaming with pride when a total stranger says to me “What a beautiful little girl!”, yup, been there before.
You see, Gracie, I need to thank you. I need to thank you for allowing me to experience all of this again. The thousands of moments that might otherwise have been buried in the haze of the past. Thanks to you, this time, I can experience it all without the stress and pressure of “getting it right”.
And I get to re-live all those feelings, all those experiences we had with your Mom in a way I am very sure no other person could have unlocked.


I know that your Mom loves you more than life itself. I know that she agonizes over all the decisions she faces, the choices she makes, the thresholds she crosses over. I know that sometimes she is filled with doubt and uncertainty.  I also know a lot of things that your Mom doesn’t know – yet.
Like she will go through her life and have just a handful of friends that she will be able to count on when things get tough – and she hasn’t even met some of them yet. Like the fact that even when she thinks she can’t possibly take one more tiny bit of stress, she will somehow dig deep and find a way to persevere. I know that your Mom has more strength and courage that she can possibly imagine – and that there will be days when she will need every ounce of it.
She will learn to hold dear friends and family close to her heart – because in a flash they will be gone.

I know that someday you will cause your Mom unimaginable frustration, joy, anger and pride – perhaps even in the very same day. I also know that no matter how much anybody tells her not to worry – she will still worry. And I also know that in the end, it will all somehow work out.



Do you want to know how I know all this?



You told me.



 
You are God-given proof that we got it right.
 
Love,
Grampa

Things I have learned about being in my twenties (so far)

I am fast approaching my 25th birthday. While I have enough common sense to understand that 25 is not old no matter how I might be feeling about it, it still is looming ahead of me like it's intending to have some sort of significance.

I am, by all accounts, a full blown "adult" and am expected to act accordingly. My early twenties went a little differently than some, with a small child and graduate school and other things..but I think the overall experience remains fairly universal.

By the time Grace enters her twenties, I'll have forgotten what this time felt like. How the edges of the world were stretched full up with possibilities. How, as years passed, you felt like you were missing out on your chance to "be" someone.How you learned to tip-toe around adulthood until you couldn't hold out any longer.

This is the "wisdom" I'd like to bestow. A smattering of what I have learned about this decade of my life, halfway through...

When you graduate college, something within your universe irrevocably shifts. You have spent the entirety of your life on the same track as the majority of your friends and all the sudden you are forced to find your own way.


Sometimes, it will feel too good to love the wrong people. There are people in your life whose sole purpose is to make you realize things you never wanted to figure out.

Form the habits that stick with you forever. How you take your coffee (skim milk, please)... how much sleep you truly need to avoid becoming a shell of your former self.

Burn the candle at both ends. You will struggle to find a balance between being young and growing up. There is a certain kind of beauty in being reckless with your body and your mind, but eventually you will get tired of testing yourself and your limits.

Enjoy hating someone. A friend, a boss, an ex. Because it means you are able to love yourself a little bit more.

Embrace your parents as flawed individuals. It will make you so grateful to have them.

Learn that love is there. Until it's not. It may or may not have anything to do with you. This will seem unfathomably cruel during your first legitimate heartbreak. When you break someone else's heart for the first time, it will make perfect sense.

You are too young to be truly happy or to really know what you want. Be wary of people who think they have it all figured out.

People change and outgrow each other. You will most likely leave your early twenties with less friends than when you started them. It might be a big blow out fight, or a slow and steady drifting apart.

You will wake up after a morning of being out too late and will find yourself suddenly unable to laugh at the ridiculous things you did but will be geniunely horrified instead.

A lot of your friends actually suck. You won't figure this out until you begin to depend on them for more than the location of that night's party or a ride to the mall.

2 am cheese fries will seem like a really great idea, until you wake up with orange goop caked on your finger nails and the feeling of a brick sitting solidly in your stomach.


Everyone goes through hard times and allow themselves to feel completed alienated from their surroudings. You will need to start figuring out which emotions are legitimate and which are not.

Spend too much money on frivolous things, even if you have bigger responsibilities than yourself. It will feel good at the time and occasionally that's all you can count on.


Meet people who excite you. Who make you nervous. Who force you to question things. Don't push these people away, even if it means you wind up with a couple scars.

Discover that loving someone is a balancing act. There's you. There's them. You mix and stir and whisk and hope that it comes out ok. Eventually, you'll realize that if someone really loves you they don't want you to change. They simply want you to be the best version of yourself.

Your friends will start to get married. And have babies. And buy houses. Avoid envy and panic. Enjoy the open bars and house warmings. Your time will come and you will suddenly find yourself nostalgic for simplier times. Try not to get stuck in that waiting place. This is your life and this time is not simply a placeholder.

Love your body. Form healthy habits that are sustainable. Wear dresses that are a little bit too short and outfits that might embarrass your father.Embrace non-ridiculous trends. Get it out of your system before it's too late.

Find that friend that you can call and talk at for hours to dissect your latest personal drama. Who will fit in seamlessly with your family. This is the same friend who will pick you at the airport at midnight and who google the guy you just went on a blind date with. Don't let go.

There will come a moment, normally after a bad day or week or month, where you question your career path entirely. You will panic, wonder how hard it would be to start over. And then your paycheck appears in your bank account and you realize it's not so bad after all.

You'll spend a Friday night (or several) at home alone, watching a movie and being asleep by 9. This does not consistute a social failure. It means you are learning to take care of yourself.

Develop a backbone. Or at least wish you had one, or think about trying to get one.

Disappoint yourself by making a bad decision (or several) that felt very good at the time. This is a necessary lesson in humility.

Find a passion that doesn't involve the work you do to make a living. Do yoga. Take pictures. Play the guitar. Do something that makes it impossible for you to question whether you're interesting enough or not.

Stop buying bottom shelf liquor or cheap beer. When you're out of college, it's just not cute to show up to a party with a 30 rack of keystone.

Attend less house parties, especially if the host still lives with their parents.

Induldge. For me, it's as simple as buying a new color nail polish every time I go to Target. There was a time in my life when I couldn't afford something that small and my growing collection reminds me that I've gone forward and upwards.

Drink more wine. Out of legitimate wine glasses.

From bottles, not boxes.

Learn to cook. If you're male, this will serve you VERY well. And, as a woman, I don't care if it's sexist- I find pleasure in being able to prepare meals that are healthy and delicious (perspective: in college--- I burnt ramen noodles. Full circle)

Paying bills will always be horrifying, no matter how much money you have.

Stressful days are a necessary precursor to happiness.

Keep secrets.

You will question every decision you make. This uncertainty triples when you become a parent.

You're going to get a lot of things wrong. Try not to beat yourself up over it. The things you do to "screw up" your life may end up being, ultimately, whats needed to repair it.


You're going to wake up one morning in total awe of a life that suddenly feels like it belongs to you.


Every year goes by faster than the last and before you know it this time will be over.

I've run out of cliches and half-truths and advice that I sometimes forget to take myself. But between the letting go and holding on and growing up and staying young and the millions of other contradictions that define the young twenties- it's a pretty awesomely terrifying time.

On why my three year old is probably trying to kill me

Gracie,

This morning, I picked you up from your crib and you instinctively wrapped your arms around my neck and squeezed, burying your head of sweaty, sleepy curls into my shoulder. The sunlight was streaming through your window and for a moment, I stood, breathing in the scent of you, feeling the weight of your body against my chest and appreciating the potential of the day.

Because not every morning starts this way. More often then not, you stir as soon as you hear me enter your room and begin to screech with a ferocity I naively assumed was reserved for moody teenagers "Mama, I'm just trying to sleep! Leave me in my bed!!!"

Listen little duck...I get it. The internal dialogue I have when my alarm goes off at 4:45 am is even less pleasant. But starting my day literally dodging your flailing limbs and trying to reason with you about why rain boats are not appropriate footwear for a 95 degree day? No fun. Did I mention I attempt to do this before I've had even a single cup of coffee?

The term "terrible twos" is a joke. I don't know if it is evolutionary inflation or what- but, only a few months in I can tell you that three is undeniably harder than two.

A few weeks ago we were out having breakfast with Mimi and Grandpa. You had taken off your shoes, covered every available surface with maple syrup and were doing everything but eating your breakfast. I looked at them and in full seriousness, trying to mask the panic in my voice, said "I don't know if I can do this. I don't know if I can actually be the parent of a three year old child"

They politely attempted to hide their sly, satisfied grins. They had been waiting for this moment at least since I has hit adolescence and gained an affinity for eye rolls and door slams and blatant defiance (probably earlier). This is the just desserts, karmic comeuppance that every parent holds on to, clinging to the hope that just one day, their child will understand the beautiful and almost unbearable disaster that parenthood ultimately becomes.

G, you push every last button I have. And when you find one that evokes a particularly interesting response? You push it again and again and AGAIN. Our house will not stay clean for more than 5 minutes, unless you are not home or are sleeping. Our living room looks like an entire pack of toddlers breezed through on a seek and destroy mission and our kitchen floor is covered with pebbles because it was easier to let you "plant" them so I could finish cooking dinner.

The laundry? Oh the laundry. For a tiny person, you certainly dirty a lot of clothes. I just can't keep up and on more than one occasion I find myself picking an outfit for myself up off my bedroom floor, checking to make sure it appears to be reasonably clean and wondering, only for a minute , if I had already worn in that week.

You have this look, where you throw your hands on your hips squint your eyes and say phrases so loaded with disbelief and disdain that I swear someone has hit the fast forward button on my life to the time when you will discover that you obviously know better than I do. Because this is played out in miniature, tiny human fashion, I have to turn around so you can't see me laughing, every single time- which only serves to infuriate me more.


Just today, you poked me in the stomach and asked me if there was a baby in there because it looked like there was. Last week, we had an enlightening conversation about female anatomy and you informed me that you had "small boobs" (please don't repeat this at daycare) just like me. I can forgive you these discretions because I have a distinct memory of telling my own mother that her bum resembled jello jigglers (for the record, my mother is one of the tiniest human beings I know- I can't even begin to imagine a world where any of her body parts resembled jello) Children are not kind.


By the time our nighttime routine is finished, I am tired. And I don't mean a little bit tired. I mean to the bone, don't want to move a single muscle or exercise the use of even one brain cell, exhausted. I crawl into bed at 7:30, with the intention of watching just one episode of mindless television or reading one chapter of the book it's been taking me months to finish before moving on to housework or other more productive ventures.I always fall asleep, only to be woken up by a phone call or text message from a normal functioning adult and have to try to pretend like I wasn't out cold at 8:30 on a Friday night.


When you burst into an enthusiastic
rendition of "Red Solo Cup" (thanks Auntie Robyn) during our once monthly trip to the fancier (aka more expensive) grocery store nearer to our house I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. This is a common dilemma.


Typically, when we are in public or spending time with the people I have been complaining to... You are a vision of sweetness and light. With your gorgeous blonde curls and giant blue eyes that stare up at me behind fluttering lashes, willing me to just try and get too comfortable, to put my guard down for just one second (do you know what can happen in one second? iPads get smeared with Greek yogurt, milk is spilled all over the floor, hot pink nail polish decorates furniture, pages get ripped out of favorite books and the clean sheets of my bed become the perfect place to construct Play-Doh monsters). You make everyone laugh and run up to hug my legs just because and you make me wonder if it's not you, but me that is just a huge, inflexible ogre of a mother.


You, my dear, are sneaky like that.


I'm sorry. I'm sorry for losing my patience for the umpteenth time and raising my voice even though I internally cringe every time I do so. I'm sorry for threatening you with ridiculous things like ridding the world of pink ice cream. I'm sorry that sometimes we don't read books before bed because the idea of choosing just two books that we both agree on and reading them in a way that meets your requirements is just too overwhelming. I'm sorry sometimes we eat cheerios for dinner.

The things that make this time so difficult are the same that make it so wonderful. You are learning new things by the second, pushing the boundaries of your little world to the limit and sometimes, breaking straight through them.


You're already too smart for your own good and the number of moments I find myself in a viable battle of wits with a three year old is embarrassing.  Grandpa taught you about traffic signals recently and you are now my (literal) backseat driver, telling me when to slow down and when to stop and chastising me when I "cut it too close".


So let's keep on forgiving each other, ok? Choosing our battles and ignoring our messy house and bending the rules. Because if I'm not perfect, I certainly can't expect you to be.

In the moments you make me laugh until my stomach hurts, the times you do the right thing when you don't know I'm watching, the way you talk about being kind and thoughtful with a wisdom the defies your age...
I know we'll be ok.

I know you'll only be little for such a short while and before I know it I'll be looking back wistfully at these days and reveling in my slightly distorted memories of a simpler time.

And if we both make it to your 18th birthday, alive and relatively unscathed- I'm going to throw you myself one hell of a party


Just cut me some slack. Please?

I still love you to the moon and back,

Mama

Bandaids

We have entered the bandaid phase in my house.



If you have ever parented a small child, you will know exactly what I am referring to.
Bandaids are a strict necessity for every blemish, imaginend, implied or actual. I buy boxes of character themed (that was my first mistake) bandaids more often than I buy gallons of milk.



The smug, alpha asshole parent that existed in my brain before I became an actual parent of a three year old toddler terrorist is laughing at me, because certaintly I should be able to calmly explain the difference between when bandaids are necessary and when they are not. This, however, would imply that I am able to calmly accomplish ANYTHING these days and that logic is easily applied to an illogical situation. And if a Hello Kitty bandaid ends a tantrum that's been going on for 20 minutes? Then I'll buy stock in the damn things.





Given Grace's affinity for bandaids, I have also spent a lot of time trying to figure out the best way to remove a bandaid that has been stuck somewhere for so long it looks like it might be in danger of adhering to her skin.




We've soaked it off, painstakingly using a warm washcloth and soap. We've let it run its course until it fell off on it's own, but this has led me to finding bandaids in various unpleasant and embarrassing locations in my house. And I've done just what the old adage says- distracted her with something else and ripped it off so quickly she barely even noticed it was happening.

All of these methods have led to mixed results.


I recognize I just spent far too many paragraphs blabbering about bandaids- but there is a point to be made here, I promise.

My life has been....in flux...for these last few months (which is in large part to blame for my hiatus from writing in a public forum). Along the way, I managed to let my (emotional) self get pretty beat up. I sought solace where I could and I measured my success in continuing to wake up and will my feet to move with purpose across the floorboards.

With these wounds, came bandaids. Industrial sized, super adhesive, not going to budge bandaids.

For a while, I coddled myself. The emotional equivalent to the "soak off" approach, if you will. I wrapped myself in friendship and streaming Netflix and retail therapy. When the combination of wine and self-reflection became too dizzying, I became ambivalent. I started to allow life to happen to me. As long as Grace was happy and healthy, nothing else mattered. I had lost sight of the way my own fulfillment and happiness were inexorably intertwined with hers.

And then? One day...

I ripped that sucker off. I steeled myself for it, ignored the nagging voice of uncertainty inside my head and I just ripped it off.

It's not the initial pain that got me, because what had preceded it was worse. It's the residual sting. I'm finally feeling fresh air and sunshine but along with that comes the threat of further damage, of wounds that don't heal but simply worsen.

That sting...the insistent buzz of doubt and left-over insecurities...it's annoying, and sometimes worrisome but mostly it reminds me that,even with much work left to be done and the outcome of it all still unclear...things are healing.

If I'm going to expect Grace to rip off old bandaids with minimal screeching...then I most certainly better start doing it myself. I am constantly reminded that my daughter has made me stronger where I was once weak. Whenever I find myself questioning my decisions I imagine what I would want her to do in the same situation.


This is transition, but it's not the end of the story. I know I wont continue unscathed...there will be new challenges and injuries and mistakes.

But, in my house, there are always new bandaids.

Another year...

 

Dear Gracie,




Two days before your third birthday, you looked up at me from whatever mess you were making (have I ever happened to mention that you possess the most beautiful blue eyes that I ever have seen?) and declared "Mama, I don't want to turn three. I want to stay your baby forever".



I had been holding it together so well. You have a habit of doing that, by the way- totally disarming me. As tears blurred the edges of my vision, I told you that as much as I wanted to freeze time, to keep you just as you are-you were already growing into a beautiful little girl and before I knew it you would be an amazing young woman.



Last year, I wrote to you telling you the story of the day you were born. Now- you can tell me all about it. You tell me that you grew in my belly when you were a tiny tiny tiny baby. You kicked and squirmed and danced while you grew. And that one day, you decided it was time to come out. So you were born, and you made Mama and Daddy so happy and you made Mimi and Grandpa cry. And then you list off the people who came to the hospital to see you and love you- and if I tell you someone that you say wasn't there (such as Dakota, the dog), you become insistent. So I let you believe what you want. And you always finish by saying "And that was the day that I became the best thing to happen to my Mama". This abridged version, told in Gracie speak, never fails to warm my heart.



We have weathered a lot together in the last few months. Lots of change, the trials of potty training, the fierceness of your desire to be independent in all things that you do, growing and bending and stretching to fit this new reality we find ourselves in, together. You have been my constant throughout all of the changes. Right by my side, reminding me to laugh at myself, abandoning whatever you're doing to run up to my side, hug my leg and tell me you love me- always at the most needed moment.

(thank you).

Gracie- you are extraordinary. Our constant mantra is this- that you are kind, beautiful, funny and smart. But the truth is- you are so much more. You are unbelievably compassionate. You have decided that when you grow up, you would like to be a nurse, just like Mimi. When I broke my foot a few weeks ago, you rubbed my knee as you told me it would be OK, because you were there with me. You are the funniest person I know, without even trying- and once you realize you are making people laugh, there is no stopping you. Your facial expressions make up for whatever words you don't quite have yet and much like your mother, all of your thoughts, pleasant or not, show up clearly on your face (sorry about that).



You have quite the fan club of young twenty-somethings, given the fact that you offer none of the usual friendship benefits such as chipping in for gas money, playing wing-woman at the bar or sharing a box of Kraft macaroni and cheese (oh wait, that one you've got under control). You have "aunts" and "uncles" that love you as if you were their own, and probably more so because you are not. You have charmed your actual family as well- with one of your cousins delivering you a bouquet of pink tulips to you on your birthday. Quite franky- you enchant just about everyone you meet, regardless of their age or possible relation to you. We FaceTime on my lunch break every Tuesday and Thursday and the therapists that I work with all rush to say hello to you, because you make everybodys day that much brighter.



You have become your own little person, making choices and preferences separate from me at an alarming rate. You love motorcycles (where I am petrified of them) and the color pink. You are constantly playing in the dirt and then, in the next breath, asking me to paint your nails. You love music, but are quick to tell me if you don't like a song of my choosing and protest loudly until I find you something more agreeable. We have dance parties in the kitchen, in the car, in the aisle of the grocery store. You sing along to the radio, with invented lyrics that rival your Mimi’s in their hilarity. You love guacamole, squash, ranch dressing and above all- pink ice cream.

If there is one thing I ask of you on the brink of your 3rd birthday, it is to fight like hell to remain true to yourself. Sooner than either of us would like, you will start to feel the pressure of squeezing yourself into spaces that don’t quite fit, becoming what other people might expect...but the person you are right now? The person you have created of your own design? That girl is awesome. And I will remind you of that, every day. You are everything I might have imagined my daughter to be- but better. Often (more often than I’d like to admit), I find my breath catching in my throat as I marvel in the fact that you actually belong to me. As the days go by, I still see so much of Daddy and I in you- but more and more, it is your own self that is shining through.


Baby girl, I would love to spend the rest of my days being the buffer between you and the real world. Protecting you from the people who will hurt you, making your choices for you and having a kiss and snuggle from me be all you need to quiet your tears. But at just barely three, you are already showing me how capable you are to stand on your own. How proud you are going to make me. I worry constantly about how the choices I make will affect you. I wonder if I am doing the right things, teaching you by example.



Everyday, your smile...your kindness...your unflappable sense of humor. They assure me that, if nothing else, even on the days when we eat cereal for dinner, dishes are piled in the sink and the living room looks like fisher price threw up all over it- we’re doing alright.



                                             And G, do you want to know my secret?



                                                      You’ll ALWAYS be my baby.



                                     So go ahead, keep getting older and breaking my heart.


                                                        I love you to the moon & back,
                                                                Happy Birthday...
                                                                     Love always,
                                                                             Mama.