Today I got a rare peek into the bliss that parenthood promises is coming one day. Someday my kids are going to be functioning, responsible adults, capable of completing tasks without my help and delighting in each other’s company. (Right? That’s gonna happen some day, right??) It’s hard to see the bliss sometimes…it gets a little lost in fights over who gets to sit in the front seat and endless loads of unwashed laundry.

It took a lot longer than I thought it would, but Dad finally completed the project he and Mom set out to do three years ago: he moved to Fairmont. I could go into complicated details and ramble on for pages about all the ups and downs they encountered along the way. It was certainly no small task to pack up 30 years of their life and move it, and that came after the epic search for the perfect house. But find it we did. Dad is settled and comfortable in the new place, and now it’s time to get the other house ready to sell.

     My kids are a little on the competitive side. All of them. I don’t know how this happened; I’m sure neither Aaron nor I had anything to do with it, genetically or otherwise. But it is what it is, and so we live with it and try to manage it to the best of our abilities. I could tell you that this particular character trait is a recent acquisition, but that would be a lie. They’ve had it since birth, it seems, and my life’s mission is to mold them into kids that may like to win but can handle losing gracefully and even grow from it. They sure like the winning part, but we are still figuring out sometimes how to lose.
     Fortunately, they don’t often put their disappointment on display in public; they get emotional, they withdraw a little, and Aaron and I see it in the car on the way home. They’re all a little different: Emma fuels her losses with an increase in focus and intensity. She’s by far the most aggressive of all my kids; she likes the weight room, thrives on hard work and never backs down from competition. Have you ever seen her get fouled on a lay-up and miss it? You can pretty much guarantee there’s a retaliation foul coming. I have tried and tried to soften this particular response, but when your mom is your coach, that’s tougher to do. This summer Coach Junkermeier is working on that and I’ve been delighted to see a new level of control creeping into her game.
     Depending on the situation, Carys goes full-on emotional when she loses. Like, meltdown central. I’m talking tears, slamming doors, the whole nine yards. She doesn’t do this in front of people – we mostly see it when she’s playing video games with Cooper or getting beat in pretty much everything else by her sister. I was really really worried that this might bleed over into school and organized sports, but the exciting thing is that I’ve seen no trace of it in individual competitions. She seems to be very calm when competing against herself for scores in gymnastics or times in her races. Maybe the emotion is connected more to sibling rivalry than anything, so my fingers are crossed on that one.
     And then there’s Cooper. What can I say? Cooper hates losing so much that he doesn’t even want to TRY sports that he might fail at. He’s all about the things he has confidence in; he can lose at tennis and chess, because he feels like he’s pretty good in those arenas and losing is just an opportunity to get better. But if he doesn’t feel a level of confidence going in, he has almost zero interest in trying. He hates to feel weak, I think. We encourage him to try lots of things, but I suspect he’s going to stick with the things he feels good at already.
     I have been pondering this competition thing my family has going a lot lately. I’ve gotten to watch softball and basketball and tennis and swimming and running all week and I have seen how my kids handled it each time they had successes and failures. I think we’re getting better, I truly do – Carys missed a first place by .03 in a race and rather than melt down she just said, “Dang it! I can do better than that next time!” Emma played a varsity scrimmage at league for basketball and managed to play an entire game with no fouls. Cooper’s team lost the big Coaches Vs. Players tennis competition, and while he was disappointed, he was looking forward to the next session so he could have another attempt. I’d say that’s progress.
     Tonight I was scrolling through old photos and videos on my phone and I stumbled on a folder of video clips I found on my Mom’s phone. My mother had her own way of managing my kids and their special eccentricities – she was brilliant. She and my dad played games with them all the time, and often had to deal with the competitive meltdowns when somebody lost. I had completely forgotten what she came up with to deal with it. Rather than focus on the negative behaviors of the “losers” my mom turned it around and forced the “winners” to do something ridiculous. She told them they had to make up a Victory Dance and made them perform in front of the whole group when they won. Suddenly winning maybe wasn’t their favorite thing, as they became extremely self-conscious, and the “losers” so thoroughly enjoyed the performances that they forgot to be mad. Brilliant.
     One summer they rented a cabin for a weekend of camping and fishing. They played endless games of dominos and chinese checkers and chess and cards with my kids. Mom made every single winner get up and dance, even my Dad. The kids are hysterical with laughter at each other and themselves. And I get to hear my mother’s voice, doing what she did best: teaching and playing and loving on my kids.

I have always been my Daddy’s girl, forever and for ever. I don’t tell him enough, or ever, how deeply my attachment to him resides. I don’t know if I need to; I think he knows. He was always always the good guy, the one who cuddled and laughed and played. I haven’t forgotten a single childhood regular event: riding on his back all over the living room, wrestling and rough-housing until he finished with The Claw on my face and a massive tickling session. While Mom played word games with me all day long, it was Dad who read books to me every night. He played catch with me all summer in the yard, made me read the newspaper, taught me about current events and was always my biggest fan. 
     I admire my father’s infinite patience, his easy smile, his compassion, his intelligence,  and his unwavering commitment to my Mother and our family. 
In the months since we lost my mom, my dependence on him seems to be multiplying. He’s the only one to tell my stories to, the only one with my whole heart and history imprinted on his own. He knows how I feel about pretty much everything before I have to say it. 
     He would never tell anyone that he’s as good a writer, or better, than I am. No one would guess that he’s a walking Encyclopedia of everything from Andy Griffith to foreign policy. He knows something about almost everything, and says nothing unless you ask him. 
     Once, when I went over to see my Mom in the nursing home, after she had lost the ability to speak, I paused outside her door. It was open just a little. Dad was sitting in the chair next to her bed. He was holding her hand, she was just looking at him, silently. He was just looking right back, gazing quietly into her eyes. I stood there for a long minute, unwilling to interrupt this moment. One of the CNAs walking down the hall paused next to me and whispered,  “He sits like that, with her, a lot. Just looking at each other, no words. I hope somebody loves me like that someday.” I had to leave; I walked outside, sat in my car and cried for twenty minutes. My dad loves me a powerful lot. He loved my Mom even more and I can’t even describe in words what it felt like to be raised in a family like that. I am so lucky, and I know it. I don’t take it for granted for a single second.
     The pictures from my childhood were largely taken by my mother; she hated being in them, so she always took them. I have dozens of favorites of me and my Dad. My favorite recent photo is this one, taken at a Pizza Hut about a week before my Mom’s diagnosis. I see so much of me sometimes in Carys; she was remarkably close to my Mom, and she’s got an affinity for my Dad and his cuddles that I recognize. In this picture, Carys is tucked neatly into his arm, but all I can see is me, feeling every bit as secure and happy as my Dad’s embrace always makes me feel. Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Love you.
     

To say that music is an important part of life at the Gudahl house would be an understatement. I was raised in a home that was perpetually full of music from parents who valued music both for entertainment and for education. Every last memory I have is tied to a song, an artist, a genre, a feeling.

I will never complain about a house full of music. When the kids were very young I introduced “Dance Party Cleanup” into our evening routine. I would blast loud music in the house and everyone had to pick up an item one at a time and dance it over to where it belonged. The kids were so silly, moving and grooving their toys to the toybox, and as long as I was participating, cleaning up our small messes was never much of a chore. Eventually we bought Just Dance for the Wii and learned some actual moves so we could hone our dance party skills. Some of my favorite memories are doing the four-person choreographed moves to Taio Cruz’s ‘Dynamite’ and One Direction’s ‘You Don’t Know You’re Beautiful.’ Emma, Carys, and Cooper threw their whole selves into learning those songs and we often danced it out when one or more of us was having a particularly bad day. (In case you’re wondering, Aaron was not a participant in any of the dance parties, though he often clapped at the end of a particularly graceful performance.)

When they got older and were given the opportunity to take choir, they jumped at the chance. And when they were invited to learn instruments, they went all in, as my kids seem to do. Emma picked up the french horn, the trumpet, the mellophone and the cello. Carys chose the flute and the cello. I was feeling a little like our plates were pretty full already when she announced that she wanted both piano and percussion lessons as well. We got the piano lessons going…still contemplating percussion. (I don’t have room for a drum set!)

Cooper has rather grudgingly attended a multitude of concerts and recitals declaring he would “NEVER” play an instrument because concerts were “BORING.” He usually brought a book and read quietly in the auditorium during his sisters’ performances. But a little nudge from the one and only Judy Berkeland sent him home bright and shiny this week declaring he too would be a cello player. I tried not to say ‘I told you so’ but I may have smiled a little smugly as he skipped away. (By the way, if I have 3 cellos in my house, do I get a discount, or what?!) He hasn’t gone to the Intro to Band night yet, but I would bet dollars that he comes home with an instrument preference there as well. It is hard not to get on the bandwagon. The music programs here in Fairmont are thriving, and it is certainly due to the powerful and talented women who run them.

In the midst of it all, we play vintage vinyls on the record player, jam in the kitchen to whatever pop music has caught Emma’s attention this week, and sing along loudly in the car every morning to whatever we can find on the radio.

This morning an April snowstorm began brewing in the early morning hours. I was up early, listening to the Indigo Girls in the kitchen maybe a little too loudly while I unloaded the dishwasher. I heard one of the kids padding downstairs, picking up the chorus line almost instinctively. And later when they were knocking out the weekend chore list, it warmed my heart to see Carys choosing a playlist from my phone. Then I was thoroughly entertained by Cooper who was belting out every word of Imagine Dragon’s ‘Believer’ while he folded laundry. Complete with awesome dance moves .

It’s no secret that my husband has a sweet tooth. He drinks Coca-Cola by the gallon and I will find Snickers bars stashed just about everywhere in our house and our cars. Those two staples have been part of my grocery list for so long that it just seems natural to throw them in whenever I’m at the store. But he has one other sweet eccentricity that has been cause for a great deal of entertainment in our house.

Every night, he has a bedtime snack while watching the news or the late show. And that may not seem to be an unusual habit to have…except that Aaron will choose one particular dessert favorite, and then eat it every single night until he literally gets sick of eating it. Literally.

Example: early in our marriage he would put three scoops of ice cream in a bowl and then sprinkle powdered chocolate Nestle’s Quik over the top. He ate that every single night for more than a year. I am not kidding. One day he got tired of it, and switched to chocolate pudding with cool whip on top. And then he ate that for nearly a year. Every single night.

This is all the honest truth, I swear it. He will settle on one and stay with it until he doesn’t like it anymore or until something more interesting comes along. Sometimes it’s ice cream, sometimes it’s a baked good like brownies or white cupcakes with frosting. One summer I made the mistake of learning to make Raspberry/Cream Cheese-filled turnovers with icing, and he decided THAT was going to be his bedtime snack. That’s the only one I balked at – those take nearly an hour to make and I do NOT have that kind of time on a daily basis.

Regardless of the treat, this has been his habit for as long as I’ve known him, and usually it doesn’t ruffle any feathers or make any sort of disturbance in the force, if you know what I mean.

Until last month. We were shopping at HyVee and Aaron must have been inspired to make a change in the routine. He was poring over ice cream bars, and stumbled on something called “JC’s Pie Pops.” They came in three flavors: banana, strawberry, and key-lime pie. He grabbed one of each flavor and brought them home to taste test.

Strawberry was the favorite, so he went back the next day for an additional box. Life could have gone along smoothly, except for the fact that JC’s Pie Pops are a limited quantity item. Once he bought out all the strawberry ones, tragedy struck: they restocked the strawberry shelf with only banana. He came home in actual distress. He had stopped at Fareway and Wal-Mart and neither of them carried the product.

“Oh well,” I said. “Guess you’ll have to find something else.” He looked at me like I had just suggested he go to the moon. He said, “Well, you know some of the people who work at HyVee. Why don’t you call them tomorrow and see what you can do.”

Um, what?

I said, “You cannot be serious.”

He said, “It’s not that hard, you talk to Matt and Chris all the time. Just stop by there and tell them I need some strawberry ones. They’ll do it. They probably like it when customers request things.”

I think I just stood there blinking at him. Finally I said, “Aaron, I am not going to go to HyVee and request strawberry pie pops for you.”

He kind of glared at me a little, but let it go. A couple of days later he sat down next to me on the couch and said, “Hey, do me a favor. Grab your phone, I need you to look something up for me. If you Google search JC’s Pie Pops they give you this form that you can fill out and turn in to your grocery store so they will stock more of them. Just quick download that form and fill it out and you can just leave it at customer service.” I laughed out loud and said, “Aaron! I am not doing that. Seriously. Just find something else for a snack, for heaven’s sake!”

A few days later he came home from work with the saddest expression. I asked what was wrong, did he have a bad day at work? He said, “No. I stopped at HyVee and asked about the Pie Pops. Turns out there’s a distribution issue and HyVee isn’t going to carry them anymore.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” I murmured. I tried my best too look properly sympathetic, but secretly I was glad not to have to hear any more about them.

And I never heard another word…until last weekend. Carys had a gymnastics meet in Owatonna, while Emma and Cooper both had basketball games. We split up – I stayed closer to home with the basketball crew and Aaron took sis to gymnastics. They took forever getting home, it was really late, and I was wondering how long the meet actually lasted, whether or not they stopped to eat, etc.

As it turns out, their late drive home had nothing whatsoever to do with gymnastics. During the meet Aaron got to thinking…if HyVee was discontinuing JC’s Pie Pops, then there was a possibility that they would still be in stock at other existing HyVees. And maybe even discounted! So Aaron did a little Google searching, and when the gymnastics meet was over he stopped at every single HyVee between Owatonna and Fairmont. He actually bought out the entire stock of strawberry JC’s Pie Pops along the way.

So now my freezer looks like this on every shelf:

The worst part about this whole affair, is that last night he sat down next to me, Pie Pop in hand, to watch the end of the Super Bowl game. I said, “you know, those do look good. I should try one.”

He looked at me, deadly serious, and said, “Absolutely not. You cannot have even one. Who knows how long that will last me until I can get more?”

I laughed, uncertainly, and said, “for real?”

“For. Real.” And he went back to watching the game.

Cooper is a sensitive soul; he is thoughtful, intelligent, and has a wonderful vocabulary. He’s a fantastic reader, and tries hard to be a good friend. Among all these wonderful qualities, we’ve discovered that Cooper is also a little bit competitive. (I have no idea where he gets that, by the way.) This weekend his 4th grade team went to their very first traveling basketball tournament in New Prague. We are clearly a C level team, but due to full brackets we got placed in a higher division. It was a rough first tourney; our team lost all three games, and lost them big.

I was coaching my own team, so I wasn’t able to go along. Aaron was sending me updates on the day regularly; they were very descriptive and highly entertaining. I asked him to send me a couple of pictures from the day if he had a chance; I hate missing my kids’ events. Somewhere after the second loss (34-14) I asked, “How’s Cooper handling it?” He sent back this picture:

Oh goodness.
We have been working on losing without high emotion; I believe that during the last talk we had about it, I suggested that when he felt frustrated he should take some time alone and calm down. I think maybe this is his strategy?

When my kids were little, we went all in during the Christmas season. We did Santa, the Elf on the Shelf, and cookies on Christmas Eve. We even sprinkled reindeer food (glitter, oatmeal and carrots) all over the lawn to usher the big guy in. Out on the farm we lived a charmed existence and I was on a mission for my kids to be kids for as long as possible and to celebrate the magic of everything.

But we do live in the world, after all, and at the tender age of 7, someone told Emma that there was no Santa Claus. To solidify their assertion, they explained that the present givers were really just her parents, and then that child smugly walked away. She came home and cornered me in the kitchen with large eyes that still sparked a tiny glimmer of hopefulness, though her hunched shoulders and quivering lower lip belied those eyes.

First I was a bit taken aback; then I was angry. The real world will be real so soon to us, and magic is so fleeting, that I found it completely unnecessary to steal this one little shard of mystery from her. It was just mean, and I could not believe how ferociously I felt about it. She asked, “Mom, is Santa really just parents?”  I didn’t even think, I just answered, “Well probably. I mean, as soon as you stop believing, he stops coming, so I would guess that in his case, it probably is his parents.” She blinked, thought about that for a minute, and then followed up with, “what do you mean?”

I can’t believe how easily it flowed from me. I said, “Well, if a child believes in Santa, then Santa comes. When a child stops believing, then there is no magic to get him here. Then parents have to step in. I, for one, hope you believe for a long time, because Santa can get his hands on the good stuff and I probably can’t match his gift wrapping powers.” I will never, never, forget the look of relief that washed over her. She scampered off to play and I felt edgy and tense all evening. Did I just lie to her? Did I look her right in the eyes and lie? What kind of a parent am I, anyway? But I couldn’t bear to disappoint her, I just couldn’t bear to see that little light burn out, so selfishly, I lied.

That one lie carried me through 5 more years. For five years, kids would scoff on the playground about Santa, and Emma came home bright and shiny and unblemished. She would occasionally express sadness over some other kid ceasing to believe, but I will tell you, she believed with her whole heart that he was really, truly, real.

Then 7th grade came around. As December approached, I overheard Emma talking to her brother and sister about writing their letters to Santa. I hadn’t really thought about it, but it became very clear to me as I listened, that she still believed. Like, for REAL, still believed. And for all you fellow Glee fans out there, all I could think of was the Christmas episode where Brittany still believed, and wanted Santa to make Artie walk again. I thought, “Oh my goodness. I am raising Brittany.”

Thus, a new problem was born. Now there was no way that the subtle friendship circle was going to gently break the news to her…she wouldn’t have believed them anyway. And I can’t have my almost-13-year-old walking around professing her belief in Santa for the masses. On one hand, I love love love that she is still so untarnished. I love that her innocence is intact, I love her willingness to suspend disbelief and go all-in with her feelings. It’s part of what makes her such a good reader, I think. On the other hand…well…it’s just time. I began thinking and thinking of ways to tell her, without hurting her too much in the process. (And YES, OKAY, I was also trying to protect myself and not come right out and tell her I am a big fat liar.)

I turned to the internet for help and read lots and lots of stories. My plan sort of evolved from there. Somewhere in mid-December, there was an afternoon when the littles were off to activities and neither Emma nor I had basketball practice. I asked her if she wanted to go to Graffiti Corner with me for an after school pastry and some hot chocolate. The sheer surprise and delight on her face reminded me that time alone with my big girl, for any reason, was long overdue.

Seated at the long table in the back, I listened to her chatter on about her day. During a break in the conversation, I began with, “Emma, there’s something really important I want to talk to you about.” She instantly looked wary and nervous. (Well, she should be nervous – I’m totally a lone ranger here going out into the parenting wilderness with nothing at all to guide my way.)

I asked her if she’d ever wondered how Santa makes it possible to be all over the world on Christmas night. “Sure,” she said, “it’s Magic.”

Oh. Yeah. (Here’s the part where I cursed that day five years ago in the kitchen. Mental note: tell the truth, always and forever, Amen.)

Instead, I said, “Yes, well, magic, and maybe a little something extra.” She got very quiet, and locked her eyes on me. I thought she maybe already knew where this was going. So I plowed on, and recited what I’d been working on anxiously for a few days. “See, logistically, Santa really can’t be one man doing all that work. In order for everyone to get everything, he needs lots and lots of help. That’s where the gift-givers come in.”

No response.

“Anyway. See, only some people have the gifter’s heart. Have you noticed how some people in life seem to be always going out of their way for other people?”

She nodded, solemnly.

“Well, you can always tell a gift-giver by the way they’re always doing that. Thinking of others, going out of their way to do things just because it improves someone else’s day, or life. I come from a long line of gift-givers, actually. I was raised to always look for ways to make someone smile.”

She smiled, then, and said, “Like how Grandpa sometimes mows and shovels for neighbors?”

“Yes, exactly! Anyway, when you’ve been given that kind of heart, it comes with a very big responsibility. I’ve been watching you, your whole life, Emma.” I leaned in close, and whispered, “I think you might have one.”

Here, she sat up a little straighter. “What does that mean? Have what?”

“Well. Here’s the hard part, sweetheart. There isn’t really one Santa. Not one guy who is sitting at the North Pole directing elves all day. Santa is actually the collective name of the gift givers. Those people out there, looking for ways to make someone’s day…they’re responsible at Christmas for the giving of the gifts. They take all kinds of forms…some of them actually dress up as Santa and let kids sit on their lap. Some of them work at food banks, at shelters, doing all the good they can. And the gift givers make sure that on Christmas, everyone has something special to open.”

I let that sink in for a while.

“When you were little, I told you that Santa would always come if you believed. And he always has, right?” Careful nod. “He comes, because I’m the family gift-giver. Does that make sense?” More nods, but a little bit teary, now. “And here’s the big thing: because I think you might be one, today I am giving you the official opportunity to become one yourself.”

Her eyes widened, with surprise. “What?”

“Well, if you really, truly have the gift-giver’s heart, then I’m ready for you to join us. It’s a huge responsibility. For one thing, we have to keep the magic going for Carys and Cooper. I can’t tell where their hearts are going to come out yet, on this. But you, Emma, I think you could do great things, if you want to be part of it. The big question is, do you want to?”

She was swirling, a little, from all this information, but I’d definitely sparked her interest. “What would I have to do?”

“Well, Santa is mysterious, and the number one rule is that you have to keep his spirit alive. If you accept the job, then you’ll become that mysterious gift giver yourself. You’ll have to choose someone each year, and make something special happen for them at Christmas. And they can never know it’s you…you have to just write ‘Santa’ on the tag.”

And now, delight. Because my girl really does have the heart for this…she really does. The next fifteen minutes were spent brainstorming…she already had an idea of someone in the community that we knew a little, but not too much. She’d noticed a loneliness around an adult that we bump into from time to time, and it had been worrying her. I took her shopping and she carefully selected some items that would be useful and some items just for fun, and we put together the loveliest package. On Christmas Eve she went to bed at the appointed time, but lay awake, waiting. When Carys and Cooper were fully asleep, I tapped on her door. We made our way out into the cold snow; it was a perfectly clear December night, somewhere around 11pm. I’d been warming up the car, and she tucked that pretty package under her coat and piled in.

As we drove to the neighborhood of her chosen person, she turned to me and said, “Mom, this is the most exciting thing ever! I’m so nervous!” I said, “I just knew you were right for this, Em. I just knew it.” She tiptoed little footprints up to the door, and set the package very carefully on the doorstep. Then she scooted back to the car and we drove home. We talked about how awesome it is to have that magic feeling; this grown up in our town was going to find a treat on Christmas morning and have no idea how it got there or who sent it. It really was the best feeling ever.

And it lasted. I talked about how people with the true heart for giving find ways to do things year round. This year to date we’ve made three missions to deliver something unexpected to someone. In October she was out with the church doing a food drive. During a walk through a neighborhood she noticed a family who were likely doing without some of the comforts of life. When she came home, she whispered, “Mom! I think I found our Santa family!”

Watching her excitement, I felt relieved. I’m still not sure I handled the Santa Question exactly right, but I made it the best situation I could. And in the process I’m helping develop a heart that really will serve her well in the world, if she can keep it.

There was only one really hard thing. At the end of our conversation that day, I asked, “Emma, are you upset with me that I’ve maybe ruined the magic for you by telling about the gift-givers?”

“No. I understand. I mean, I’m kind of sad, I guess, that my believing is over, but I’m excited about becoming a Santa for someone.”

“Oh phew!” I exclaimed with excitement. “And that means I’ll be able to get your help remembering to move that dang Elf every night!”

There was stunned silence. “You mean, Sam’s not real EITHER?!”

Ah, well, you can’t win ’em all.

Disclaimer: The chronology of the page would suggest that I haven’t written since August. I have, actually, written a lot since then. I just struggle to press “post.” 

I know it’s been over a year since Mom left us. I know that I can’t write sad things forever. I know that nobody needs or wants to hear all about how much I miss my mom, and it seems like lately that’s about the only thing that I can pull from my fingertips. So I write for myself, and I leave everything in unpublished drafts
in the folder. Some are angry, some are nostalgic…and all of them are sad.

I battle this out in my head…is this blog a real record or not? Does it accurately tell our stories, or do I selectively write to preserve the parts of life we all like to think about? I have no answer. So I write anyway and promise myself I will decide later. I have six unpublished pieces…I do not know what I will do with them. Today I just want to say this: grief is hard. It is SO freaking hard, people.

I knew this, on an intellectual level. Of course we all know it, but until you live it, you just REALLY don’t KNOW.

It is different for everyone, this is also true. I am fiercely private about my grief…I reserve my breakdowns for late nights alone in the kitchen or for car rides alone when I can afford to sob without reserve. I don’t want to share this feeling with anyone because even the most empathetic person looks at you with this pitying face. They murmur words of comfort that are intended to heal and help, yet they are meaningless to you because you KNOW they don’t really know. And I am jealous of people who don’t get it because they don’t know yet and then I feel guilty for being jealous which just compounds the misery and it’s a vicious cycle. So I do this alone. And it’s okay, I like it this way, I do.

Today is Thanksgiving. I thought the first one without Mom would be hard. It was nothing compared to this one. In this one, I cried over the gravy on the stove and could barely swallow when Dad said I made the dressing just exactly right.  And my brother is a million miles away instead of here. And I left my Dad alone again in that big house that is filled to the brim with my mother and she is everywhere and nowhere and I just WANT her right this minute. Right now.

Last week I was trying to download Ed Sheeran’s song “Don’t” into my player on my phone. For whatever reason, every time I pushed the download button, a different song loaded…it was called Supermarket Flowers. I was irritated and tried about three times. Every single time it was that flowers title and I finally decided it was a glitch and quit trying. Tonight I left my Dad’s with a huge ache in my chest and as I turned on some music to lift my mood, guess what song came up? Supermarket freaking Flowers. So I figured, what the heck, I guess I need to listen to the song.

And you maybe already know where this is headed, if you’re familiar with the song. I didn’t know. I wasn’t prepared for a lyrical account of the day he said goodbye to his mom. Not prepared.

So I got another good cry in tonight. And I called my Dad from the road somewhere around Guckeen and told him the whole story and then I texted my brother because for once I didn’t want to cry alone.

I am not sure if that’s growth, or if it was just mean of me to take him down with me.

And there is no point at all to this one, no tidy little nugget to wrap up the story. I am just sad. And thankful, yes, for a mom who loved me as hard as she did. It’s such a struggle…it hurts so much, and you just want it to soften, the edges of it at least. You want so badly to feel it less. But you know feeling it less would have meant she had loved me less, and of course you would never trade that. So you just endure. And hope that somewhere, someday, it won’t hurt quite this much.

Curse you, Ed Sheeran, and your beautiful, beautiful music.

Supermarket Flowers
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=3Mk0F6mLKik

Ah, summer. The longer I teach, the shorter it gets. The milestones in our family seem to fly by so quickly that I barely have time to capture them in words. So many fleeting, beautiful Moments…I wish I could carry a dictation machine around with me so that I could write down every single one of them exactly when they happen.

I kicked off summer with a trip to Nashville over Memorial Day weekend. Dad and I flew out and spent a few days with my brother. It was a trip that had been previously planned by Mom, so we went to both honor her wishes and to have some time together doing the things she wanted to do. Time alone, just the three of us, is rare, so this trip was pure bliss. We learned how to Lyft, we discovered what the fuss is all about at Waffle House, and realized that the people who write hotel reviews on Trip Advisor are legitimately trying to help you.

PSA: If a hotel averages a one-point-five star review, you should probably not book that room.

Even if it is part of a super-amazing-package deal.

Even if it is a Days Inn and you have previously stayed at a Days Inn and found it to be just fine, you should still listen to the reviews for that PARTICULAR Days Inn.

Even if there is a five-star review sprinkled in every three or four bad reviews, you should still not book that room.

Even if it is super close to the airport.

Don’t do it. Trust the masses.

Anyway. After moving to a more reputable four-star-reviewed Sheraton late late at night, we felt much more relaxed, and Dad wasn’t worried anymore about possible drug deals in the hallways and I could actually breathe in through my nose and not feel like gagging. On a brighter note, that was the only bump in the road. We wandered up and down Broadway, made good meals at the apartment, and filled up every second with conversation. Stevie came along, which was a bright spot for all of us. Mom always thought she was wonderful, and it felt just right that she was there. We toured the Opry, spent quality time with Johnny Cash, and wrapped it up with a big hometown concert from Church himself. Mom went everywhere with us, and I couldn’t have asked for a more meaningful memorial.

School let out shortly thereafter and our level of chasing children to sporting events kicked up another notch. We played softball this summer like our very lives depended on it. Emma played on three different teams at various times over the course of the summer. An invitation to play with the 18U on a few occasions was a particular highlight for her. Granted, she leaked nervous tears all the way to the field each time out of fear of letting down the Varsity girls, but her worries were short-lived once she arrived. Those girls are the kindest, most wonderful mentors a Mama could ever hope for. She had a ball, and carries real awe and reverence for those girls when she sees them at school.

Carys played a full 10U softball season learning three new positions and continuing to swing the bat with all her might. The love she has for fishing seems to have grown exponentially this summer. One late night I was walking through the house turning out lights and checking on the kids and discovered that Carys wasn’t in her bed. It was 11:45pm, everyone was asleep, and my child was missing! A few brief moments of panic surged through me until Aaron mumbled, “she’s still on the dock.” Sure enough, she was sitting cross-legged at the end of our dock with a headlamp on her forehead, a fish trap full of sunfish, and her iPod plugged into her ears. (Which is why she missed the call to come in and go to bed.) At only ten years old, this summer she learned how to get to the bait shop on her own, and get whatever she needs whenever she needs it. She can tie her own lures, and take off any fish as long as she’s got a glove and a pliers.

Cooper surprised all of us this summer; he hung up his baseball cleats and picked up a tennis racket. I couldn’t have been more surprised. We’re kind of a baseball family; I can’t think of anyone on either side of our families who play tennis, so I’m not sure where he got the idea. Walking him to the courts on the first day felt surreal; I was certainly out of my element, and second-guessed this decision all the way there. As usual, I shouldn’t have worried. He came home thoroughly pleased with himself, stating boldly “I was born for this sport!” I don’t know about that, but at least he isn’t short on confidence.

Sandwiched in between matches and games, we dabbled in basketball, gymnastics, piano, soccer and cello. As July wound down and August rolled in we all tried Children’s Theater for the first time. All three kids were given roles they loved and threw themselves into; it was my first time directing Elementary age students in musical. Somehow we pulled off a full-length show in only 8 days. I owe it all to  three incredible assistants and a whole lot of caffeine. The program is remarkable, I  feel so so lucky to have been part of it.

As usual, it went way too fast. These kids are growing so beautifully into the talents they’ve been given. I feel like I learn a little more about myself every year, going through all their ups and downs. I do know how lucky I am. 💙