Happy Happy Soul Soul

Over and over again this year, a line has been running in my head and it goes like this:

I want to live a life observed.

I know where this thought originated. I'm ashamed to admit it.

It came because I was throwing food down my throat without thinking or tasting or knowing. Or I'd skim through books and think I had reached the essence. It came because I told myself "If only I can be a little more efficient in this area of life, then I can truly rest in another area." Only the rest never came.

This thought of living a life observed originated when I put life on auto-pilot and treadmill mode, never going anywhere, just doing life. Keeping up. Filling out forms. Pushing paper. Rearranging schedules. Always planning for life but never really allowing myself to enjoy it.

But when I push the efficiency aside, when I shush my expectations and just let my soul speak up a little, I realize that it won't take too much to live a little differently.

Instead of showing up to work early, I can use 15, maybe 30 minutes to read or pray or draw or walk.

Instead of beleaguering a math problem with my 7-year old, I can stop and play a game. Reset our brains.

Instead of taking a walk by looking at caloric numbers accruing, I can take deep lungs-full of air and look at the sky.

An odd thing happens when I push the pause button on life... Somehow I am more energetic and focused and present. I've connected with a deeper part of myself.

I'm doing the slow work of saying "no" a whole lot to a bunch of beautiful invitations because my family needs breathing space. Adding margin to our schedule.

I'm marveling at people who tell slow, beautiful stories. Our society is so bullet-point oriented. In the past few years, I've altered the way I've spoken to people and not for the better. I tell them how many points I have to make and then I rattle them off. I didn't realize how much I spoke this way until I was in a parent-teacher conference with Eve's teacher and the teacher laughed saying that Eve numbered her points before speaking. I managed a smile, but my heart sank a little.

I have a few red flags which tell me when we're running low on time or time to think:
When I buy a lot of office supplies or organizational knick-knacks, that tells me I'm feeling stressed.
When I nosh on carbs.
When I bark at my children or say negative, brash things.
When I forget if I took my vitamins.
Or when someone lovely, like my daughter Morgan, looks me directly in my eyes and talks to me and I have to catch myself to listen to her.

I don't want to live a big, busy, soul-less life.

So when I make my way to the kitchen in the morning and see the pile of greasy dishes we neglected to clean the night before, I roll up my sleeves. I pour warm water and too-much dish soap in the sink and watch the suds climb up, up, up. I immerse a few dishes to soak. I look out the window and marvel at four fat chickadees and sparrows bouncing around my patio, eating seed that fell from the feeder. I start some coffee. I drink it slowly while sitting. I don't let myself stand until I have had a few minutes to enjoy the morning. The clatter of the morning will start soon enough.

Morgan is at a great age for sharing hilarious, loud and dramatic stories. So at 6:30 in the morning, I try to listen. Dan is laughing and Eve is just getting out of bed, her hair knotted in the back.

I take a dozen papers off my kitchen desk. Note to self: Make desk a happy place. This thing is a pile of responsibilities. Noted.

I push aside thoughts of the desk and push flash cards in the direction of Eve while finishing the last of my coffee. She is bouncing on a chair, waving her hands in the air while she answers correctly. After ten or fifteen minutes, she is beyond done answering what 3 + 8 is. So we play a game, her choice.

She bossily tells me how I must play and how I must act and I obey everything that she says. We laugh and enjoy these few moments before she goes to school.

She has lost her shoes again. And a library book. It seems like this happens every morning. I am tempted to run to my computer for answers to these stressors, but it won't matter, not in these minutes. I help her get out the door.

I write a few thoughts on my blog and start the day.

Not efficient. Not perfect. Just observed.
My soul is happy.

Len, the Dishwasher Repair Man

There was a large pool of water originating from my dishwasher, speedily traveling to my dining room. I didn't see it, but my feet did and I nearly lost my footing.

A week before a repairman came and found nothing wrong with my dishwasher which had been releasing rivers of water whenever it wanted. The repairman told me I was using the wrong soap. I looked at him skeptically. Because I have reached the age where I'm trying to save time by being honest, I told him that that didn't seem like a good assessment for such a large problem. He told me a long story supporting his argument and we parted ways. To alleviate my concerns about his diagnosis, he ordered some parts to come to my house, just in case I needed to call again. A few days later, assorted sizes of boxes appeared in the mail to repair the problem I didn't have.

Finding a puddle of water again in my kitchen wasn't unexpected.

This time the repair company sent Len. I had never met Len, but he came to my front door with a smile and I let him in, my dog barking frantically. He came in the house and set a large canvas tool box on the floor. Then he placed an industrial laptop on my kitchen counter and asked, "Okay, what's the problem?"

I told him of the water. I told him about the soap diagnosis. And I gave him three oddly shaped boxes which contained mystery dishwasher parts. Len looked at me and said, "That guy must have been new. It wasn't a soap problem, I can tell you that much." Len spoke strongly and confidently. He did a series of tests via trial-and-error to see if it was the motor or the gaskets. He ran the dishwasher empty. He couldn't recreate the problem, but he believed me about the puddles of water and he persevered.

Len punctuated his findings with stories. About an old lady who put undiluted dish soap into her washer and found herself in a sea of mess. He told me about how he saved up money for his son's college education. He told me that he had the same dishwasher as me and he hoped to high heaven that it never died because, in his words, "they don't make this kind of motor anymore." These words both comforted and frustrated me because I work my appliances hard so I buy strong brands.

In one story, he described how his wife emptied the dishwasher. First she slid open the top shelf where the glassware sat and lay a towel over it to absorb the water pooled in the top of the cups. As he spoke his hands moved musically in the air as if he were invisibly removing all the contents of a dishwasher. His story was so simple and lovely and ordinary that I was mesmerized by it. He smiled with his eyes. He must have a special relationship with his wife. Her, and his dishwasher.

He told me that my machine would benefit from a special cleansing solution once every 6 months. "Listen," he said, "at my company, they'll tell you you need this stuff every 3 months, but you don't. Every 6 months will do the trick. Now I have some of this stuff on the truck, but it's twelve dollars to you. You can easily go to Target and get it for half that price. I need to tell you this because some lady on social security got mad at my buddy for not divulging this information. Either way." His honesty was so beautiful that I paid the twelve dollars right there. In my mind, I paid six dollars for the solution and six dollars for the stories he told.

He noticed that I had a Kenmore Elite fridge that he was thinking of getting. He seemed like the kind of person who would appreciate frugality. I proudly told him that I bought it on Craigslist, a little pre-dinged. "My kids will ding it up anyway," I said.  I told him the one thing I didn't like was the flow of water from the fridge door. Within minutes, I found myself showing him the plumbing in our basement while he spoke of a saddle valve a quarter inch in diameter which would alleviate my water valve problem. Then he told me of a specialty store which carries these parts that no one else sells. "You know where the mall is?" he asked. And then he described in great detail how to find this little hole-in-the-wall place. "Even my company doesn't sell these parts."

After a half hour of chatting while he worked, I realized that this man represented so many other hard-working older men in my life who are largely invisible. They're old school. They change their own oil. They repair their own appliances and get their lawnmower blades sharpened every mowing season. They trim their own bushes and make sure their driveway is sealed every year. If you go to their garage, they have all their tools outlined on a pegboard. A lot of these men grew up in hard times and learned to do everything they could to make a living. They have difficulty paying other people to do work which they can do, despite the fact that their age is creeping and their knees are creaking.

There was something about Len's build and candor that reminded me so much of my paternal grandfather that I almost wanted to hug him. Who knows. He may have hugged me back.

When he left, I secretly hoped my dishwasher would break again so I could hear his stories.

The Stories We Tell

When I was a little girl, I sat across the table from two women. Both women had artistic backgrounds. I can't remember exactly how the conversation started. Maybe I showed them one of my pastel drawings. Not sure. But somewhere in the conversation the two women began to bemoan the loss of their friend, art. They spoke of art as if it was a memory, wistfully. I remember that moment because I remember thinking, "That would be so sad to have to give up something you love."



My early days as an artist were very preachy. I drew pictures of the Vietnam War and such. I forced symbolism and layers of meaning upon simple drawings.

One of my most liberating art classes happened at Montgomery College in Maryland. Watercolor 101. In this class I learned about pre-planning the color applications (generally dark colors last) and about letting my brush strokes be swift, simple and strong. Watercolor is perfect for people who are overly controlling. Once you take a saturated brush to a lightly dampened page and see the tendrils of pigment shoot, you just have to stand back and marvel. Don't touch it too much. Let it do its thing.



One day in class our teacher had us paint the portrait of the person to the left of us. The lady to my left was a very talented and refined painter. I held great respect for her work. She was a petite asian woman with glossy black hair. Since art class generally is messy, we didn't dress up. We often wore old clothes or smocks. And for some reason this dear lady who I admired didn't tend to brush her hair either. It was the 1990s so grunge was in trend anyway. So that day in class, I painted a portrait of her which very closely resembled her. It was a profile painting, which is generally easier to do for me, because the outline of the face is strong and clear. I was so caught up in the flow of the painting process, that I painted her hair exactly as disheveled as it was.



After class two things happened. First, my model looked very unhappy. She left quietly. And secondly, my teacher approached me with what can only be described as a split expression. She could tell that I had hurt this person's feelings. At the same time, the art produced was aesthetically pretty good. I remember the ache in her face as she struggled to convey this.

The next class the lady brushed her hair. And ever after. I felt sad that I made her feel so badly.

In this same class there was a lady studying art therapy. After each class project, the students hung their art at the front of the class and we took turns critiquing each other. This process was very helpful to see where we could improve and where we were strong. At nearly every critique session, this particular student looked absolutely paralyzed. Sometimes her paper was nearly blank and she would introduce her painting by saying, "I WAS going to put a tree here..." and then she would look at us expectantly and trail off. The process was always so disappointing.

I think that if we look at art the same way we look at making dinner, then we would see that people simply want to eat something. They don't need something fancy all the time. Just food. And sometimes the most simple of meals proves to be the most memorable of all. Sometimes dinner flops and you order pizza. But the point is: You don't give up on eating. You still need to eat. You still need to make dinner and try. At least put something on the plate. With any luck, you'll start to make food with more consistency and flair to the point where you won't even need a cookbook anymore. But make something. Anything. We need to eat.



It seems to me that art is less about color and brush and medium and firing and casting and more about showing up again and again and choosing the right story to tell. More about the time we allocate to composing an image. More about what we don't say rather than what we do say. And sometimes art offends. Generally I find that art simply wants to draw out a truth and offer it for contemplation. The truth could be as simple as, "Have you seen this color? Isn't it amazing how it interacts with its neighbor?"

I'm never offended when people say, "Well, I could do that" upon seeing a piece of art. The reasons for this are threefold:
1. I'm glad. That means the art was edited well. A lot of strong art looks accessible and easy to reproduce.
2. It means others might join the chorus. Great. Engage your creative side! Let's all respond to this magnificence called life.
3. Just because you can do something, doesn't mean you have the time or heart or patience for it longterm. By the argument that "I could do that," we would all be expected to do all the professions and that just won't work for me. I don't see myself being a teacher anytime soon. I respect people who do it, however.

I have spent a lot of my life trying to quiet my artistic side. Tone it down. I went into marketing and branding. It's a fun line of work for artists. It pays bills for making pretty pictures and telling stories. Hopefully true stories. :)

But there's still a part of me that longs for my own voice where no one else is saying, "Be this. Say this." And for that, I'm thankful that I can take a few simple tools and put together shapes and colors and textures. So thankful.

I'm hoping to expand my designs, but I'm not in any hurry. The wise Elizabeth Gilbert was quoted in an interview as saying that she told her art something to the effect of, "Listen, I don't need you to support me. I will support you. I will wait tables or whatever it is so that you can exist." And some might say that her art is purer and fresher for it because Elizabeth wasn't burdening her artistic endeavors to bring food to the table.

Maybe so.

As I approach the five year mark of making calendars, I marvel at how many people said, "Hey, that's fun! I want that in my life." They let me have a little voice, a side of their kitchen cabinet or a section of their cubicle to say, "Hey, this is worth noting."

I sketched and reflected and edited and tossed and then people bought images of the result of this process. That amazes me. Art is like buying a piece of meditation. What a gift to have people speak into each other's lives.

What a gift, art.
What a gift, people.
What a gift, life.

Phases of Grace

When I was little I would hear people talk about grace and think it must be something special because their eyes got wet when they spoke of it. They'd sing a song about grace and their voice would crack a little and diminish until they cleared their throat. Grace had meaning.

I can't say that grace has had meaning for me my whole life. It's been mostly a mystery to me. The closest thing I could picture to grace was ballerinas and tutus. Grace was pink and fluffy to me.

I have tried to make grace originate from me. It's a massive failure. With me as the source, grace looks more like Pollyanna jacked up on caffeine.

I have come to a place in life where grace has more dimension to my life.

Grace is the mortar in my broken life. I have a bunch of broken pieces. I have irritating pieces, like billing departments who make my life complicated with wrong balances. I have guilt pieces, like the terrible thing I said to my young daughter who keeps repeating it back to me. I have sadness and devastation and I have elation; it's all there. I have lots of pieces and they're all glass. When I lay them out delicately they make no sense, but when Mortar Grace is poured between the spaces, they're connected. They have meaning. And all the sharp edges are gone. All that is left is one whole piece. It's a mosaic, but it's all stuck together. Broken, stuck-togetherness.

I used to think that grace was rigid and strong, but now I think that it is more stretchy than anything else. Every time I bring something before God that I think, "This can't possibly be in the scope of grace," I find that I am wrong. I bring weird things, like the fact that I hate planning dinner menus. I bring desires, I tell him of how much I want to design more. I bring fears and failures as well. I bring it all. When something disappointing happens, I've learned to say this: "Look forward to the grace that will be shown to you." It calms me somehow.

It's not a feeling. It's not a ballerina. It's not a trend.
Grace has a heartbeat. Grace is God turned human, created with fingerprints and nerve endings and experiencing limitations. Grace is someone who went before me so that I can live life in the beautiful shadow of that love.

My husband describes grace more elegantly, like the Milky Way. Our tiny planet sits snugly on the west arm of its vast expanse. We've sent out probes to know its magnificence but all the wonders we have already learned are just the beginning. We have years ahead of us. And not just decades. Astronomers are using words like "millions." Milky Way Grace. Mysterious. Evolving to us but never changing, really. Expansive. Thrilling. Humbling. Tangible. Murky at times. And then glorious.

Amazing, really.

Kite Flying

It was morning and I had coffee with a friend at a restaurant. The wind had really picked up. We sat outside the restaurant and tried to speak while whips of hair impeded our speech, making us laugh. It was windy all day. All morning and all afternoon. So much wind.

The afternoon felt heavy before it had really begun. It felt like too much. Dan wasn't going to be home for three hours and I knew the witching hour was approaching. I had already spent my energy for the day, but my 6-year old had not. She was pacing the floor after school asking for her battery of requests. Snacks. Playdates. No chores. It's a very whiny time of night.

"Let's fly a kite," I told her. I already had it in my hand and was heading for the back door. The kite is the shape of a cat flying in the air. My older daughter named the kite "Hobbes" after her favorite comic strip. It's really a ridiculous sight. Cats don't fly.

My youngest grabs the kite in her excitement. She is running backwards, holding the mess of fabric and excitedly talking about our adventure. I have told her too many times to not run or walk or skip or do any motion backwards. She falls, splaying over a scooter, sending the kite and string in many directions. She scoops up the kite irreverently with the unraveling string and heads for the back fence. I shake my head, not sure this kite will ever gain altitude.

In my mind, I am reviewing the rules of kite flying and realize that we might be in trouble. We have the wind and the large, unhindered space. We have the mechanism but the string has no way to give. It is caught on itself. A kite without a string is just airborne litter.

I can already feel the situation turning stressful. My daughter Eve is not known for patience. This comes as no surprise to me. My DNA runs deeply in her veins. She is clumsy and active and creative and full of life. All evidence of my genes.

She runs to the field behind our house and expects the kite to take flight. I grimace at the knot of string which will suspend our flying cat. I set my expectations to level zero and instead choose to make the best of the moment.

I try my best to unwind the bulk of the string. I ignore the knots and clumps. I stretch a length of string which is roughly twenty feet, maybe thirty. Whatever it is, it doesn't feel like enough. I tell her to hold the string while I take the triangular tip of the kite and point it toward the sky. "Run!" I tell her. "RUN, RUN, RUN!" She takes off wildly. The kite darts up and smacks the ground almost immediately. I'm not giving up. I pick it up again and we try this exercise again and again until the kite begin to looks less like a plow bouncing on the ground, digging up clumps of grass.

The wind was playful that day and finally swept the kite straight into the air, allowing it to suspend strong and steady for a few moments before batting it like a kitten.

Eventually Eve decided to run wildly around the field and I was left holding the string, feeling the wind tug and shift the kite. Without the pressure of trying to keep the kite afloat for my daughter, the moment felt strangely meditative. It surprised me. Here I was, standing in a field, using what I had, not mourning what I did not (more string, that is) and gauging the direction of the wind by a mere pull on the handle. The wind would pull and release and swat and guide and push. It was all very invisible and intuitive, making exchanges with the wind. I was connected with the sky.

Later a few neighbors joined us and each one seemed to stand in their own swaths of grass, letting their kites guide them while not entwining with the others.

When our faces were flushed with outside air, Eve picked up the kite and took it inside the house. She threw it on the floor in a heap and skipped away joyfully. Usually I insist that she picks up her shoes and her mess and, in this situation, the kite. Something in the moment told me to just be still.

I let her run wildly up to her room, caught up by the exhilaration of being outdoors. She is my carefree kite, dancing with the breeze. I am her anchor holding snags of string, realizing my inadequacy, holding the mess of what ties us together gently and releasing what I have into the wind.

Of Humanity

When I was a young teenager, I noticed that every other house on my block had a divorced family. It was a pattern. Not a happy pattern. Not a striped or polka-dotted pattern. Just a pattern.
Divorced.
Not divorced.
Divorced.
Not divorced.
We lived in the not-divorced house. We had ideals and our family seemed to be shinier than most. It felt good. It felt better than the not-divorced families. We didn't have police officers lining the street as the husband screamed at the wife while she took stuff out of the house. We didn't have the kids crying in the yard like our neighbors did. We caught minnows and crayfish in the creek behind our house while the other neighbors sorted out their family problems.

We heard divorce statistics and each time the statistics told two stories: They are unlucky and pitiful. And you are fortunate and happy. It was all very black and white. And then divorce came and life was murky. The statistics didn't feel satisfying anymore. They stung a lot. I was humbled. I used to like statistics until their numbers pointed at me, lumping me in a percentage.

When I was young I thought that humility was reserved for saints carved in stone in European cathedrals, heads hung down. I no longer think that way. Humility is just humans recognizing other humans as humans. Seeing that we're all weak in some ways. That none of us are God.

I was speaking to an older woman about divorce. She didn't come from a divorced family but her son-in-law did and she felt the need to tell me that I needed to get over my parents' divorce and just get on with life. She told me that my parents would remarry and that I would have to accept that as well. That's just the way the world is. Divorce happens to people. Now get over it. My son-in-law got over it and you should, too. And I found that piece of information funny coming from her because her family was all snugly together, living within a few miles of each other. I remember wanting to hurt her in some way with my words. Maybe tell her she her hair was ugly or that she smelled bad. Very juvenile stuff. Hurt people like other people to hurt as well. But I let her stand there smiling to herself.

On more than one occasion I have also glossed over the hemorrhaging of another person and wanted to slap a bandaid solution on a much bigger problem. I have done that. More than I want to admit. There are parts of my life where I want to push a rewind button and say something different. Maybe nothing at all. Or maybe something as simple as, "I can see that you are (in a hurt or awkward situation which I have never experienced) and I love you so much. How can I be your friend right now?"

I don't know much about suicide or child abuse. But I do know a little about miscarriage and depression and unemployment. The circumstances are horrible, no argument there. Horrible. Here's the thing: there is redemption. And one redemptive angle about all of these difficulties is that with love and forgiveness and healing and pressing on we can become people who are more enlightened about weakness. We are not defined by our losses. We are made new. We might become quieter and softer and slower at the end of it all, but somehow we're stronger. More focused. We choose our words better. We throw awesome parties. We give tighter hugs and shed purer tears. We're truer.

But what about the losses? What about the dreams of an unbroken life? What about the Eden we all carry in our souls? What of the parents we lost to cancer and the babies we never held? What of the child we bore who has learning disabilities and all communication is a hardship?

I don't have an answer in myself. I've tried to be God, but I'm not God. I have no power and no amount of positive thinking will make me think differently. I need bigger power than me.

I believe in a redemptive God who takes all the loss, names it, weaps over it and brings new life. He doesn't gloss over the pain. He directs his gaze at it and holds it with all of its prickles. I'm not sure how God redeems. It's kind of a mystery to me. Sometimes it's a process. One day something is killing me and then with prayer and truth and a bit of wrestling, I find healing. True healing. Another puzzle piece clicks in place. I am made more humble, more human.

I have a friend who is amazing at entering the stories of people. She is my dot on the horizon, the person I want to be in ten years. Her life hasn't had the same struggles as another, but she stands by you and lets you weap on her shoulder and cry ugly and she just stays there. She has figured out humanity, I swear. She doesn't have answers, she just has a shoulder. And ears. And warm eyes. And I think that something must have happened in life to make her that way because she is so truly kind that no child comes out of the womb that way. She is also fantastic at making chili and laughing and reading books. She's the whole package.

The older I get, the easier it is becoming for me to approach a hurting person and just say, "I know nothing of your hurt." It's so liberating. And then I try to gauge if they are the hugging type. Some people are not.

When my parents first separated I noticed that people became really uncomfortable and didn't quite know what to do with it. Some well-meaning people gave me books about how to not divorce. They wanted me to give the books to my parents. There were two books. And honestly, I never gave them to my parents. I kept the sentiment of the people but not the books. Some other people called me with their advice or their opinions. Some people spoke vehemently and some spoke quietly. Some people talked as fast as they could about the weather and nothing else so they wouldn't have to talk about divorce. But at the end of the day, each person was trying to communicate this: "I hate that this is happening. I love you. I want to stop this hurt." I recognize that. It took many years, but I see that now.

Our human condition is appreciated in the flattening times of life. We are not know-it-alls. We are just people who inhale oxygen and exhale carbon-dioxide.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
And then when we have strength to sit up from our flattened condition, our movements are slow and simple. We take delight in the smallest of achievements, like wiggling our toes or blinking our eyelids. Eventually we stand, frail, like a newborn doe. We take a few wobbily steps and thank God for the simple gift of walking. One step and then another. And when we begin to run, our old rhythm is gone. We run differently. And when we speak, our cadence and vocabulary is changed as well.

We're not the same. We are reborn into humanity. Into humility.

Becoming

You were wet and new and helpless. The hospital staff laid you on my chest and I held you gingerly. You screamed, still blue from birth. I was unprepared for your perfection or the gooeyness of birth. I stared in awe at the fuzzy face of new life and how I had very little to do with your existence. I greeted you. I said hello. I introduced myself. "I'm your Mommy."

You are newly born. I have you sleep in the nursery of the hospital. In the early hours of the morning, I slip on my robe and walk to the nursery. I smile at you in the clear plastic bed. I show the nurse my identity bracelet so she can verify that you are mine. I wait for her to pick you up. I see you right in front of me. And then she goes to another bed and gives me that baby. I realize that I have been adoring the wrong child. I am sad because I thought I knew you. I feel ashamed. I take you back to the room, rolling the baby cart-bed and never stop staring at you. I'm still your mom.

I stood afar as people came to see you. They marveled at you, newborn you. They kissed the top of your head and slipped their pointer finger under your entire hands, coiled like a seashell. I was imbalanced from the mayhem of postpartum hormones, entertaining guilt that I didn't adore you more. But I introduced you as my daughter.

You were a mere 2 weeks old. I wondered if I loved you. Just because two people are thrust into each other's lives and labeled "family" doesn't mean they love each other.

We were on a walk. A dog began to bark and tore across the yard. It was gnashing its teeth. It was angry. But I was strong. I decided that I would throw my body over the stroller and shield you from the dog. I even decided that I would give the dog my left leg to chew on so that I could protect you as long as possible. The dog met the end of the chain and jerked backwards, forgetting its boundaries. The dog faced me, a mere few feet away, thrashing. My heart beat wildly. I realized that I did love you. I AM your mom.

You were two years old and screaming. Screaming everywhere. Everywhere was screaming. There was only sleeping and screaming. I kissed your wet curls at night and fell to sleep.

I went back to work when you were two. The reasons were many. Your father was in graduate school. We were tired. But I wanted to go to work. I didn't understand you. I dropped you off at daycare. You liked it there. The teachers told me you tucked in all the other children at naptime. This made my heart swell. There was one time where a child irritated you and you bit him. I had to come pick you up and sign papers. You have always been expressive. I accepted you, the whole package. The biting you and the tuck-in-bed you. You are mine and I love you.

You picked out your outfit for the first day of kindergarten weeks in advance. A pink skirt with a tiger print on it and a pink shirt with an image of ice cream. And a pink backpack. Everything was pink. You walked to school as if you had been going there for years. I held your baby sister in my arms as I watched you confidently join the other students.

I was sitting in the church pew, waiting for the Christmas program to begin. It's your turn to deliver your lines and I am stunned. I just didn't know you had a theatrical bent. You were marvelous. People are laughing at your jokes and mannerisms. I looked at your father and he is proud because he taught you how to say your lines with meaning. After the program people say such nice things about you and I shrug my shoulders in awe, proud to be your mother.

We walk hand in hand. You and your best friend needed to work out some differences. You're only five years old. We talk about apologies. We talk about telling the truth. You're nervous and I'm nervous as well. But we did it. We said the things we needed to say. And we were forgiven. And I'm still your mother.

Years of reports cards are piling in the office. They all say the say thing. That you are smart and kind and inclusive and witty and artistic. Every year. The same words.

You are eleven years old and you want to run for office in your class. You prepare a speech. You memorize your lines. Your father helps you. And then you come home. You were not selected for the seat you wanted. But you are brave and you tried. And I am so proud. I hug you, glad to be your mom.

Someone is sick. It's your teacher. She has been sick with a sore throat for a long time. I didn't know that she was sick until the email came telling me that you had sewn a tiny purse out of scraps of fabric and filled it with cough drops. The teacher was thankful. I gave you the sewing machine and a few scant lessons but that was all. You were the one who flew with it. I love being your mom.

You are hot with a fever. You have the flu. We are in the car coming home from the doctor. I have bought medicine to reduce your fever and lots of juice. I picked up a movie for you and try to crack jokes with you. And then you are sleeping in the car.

An overwhelming feeling rises in me. In my head I say this: "I am the mom." It's a simple statement which took me years to embrace, but I am doing it. I am in my yoga pants and a hoodie which I have worn too-many days in a row. I cancelled my hair appointment because I could see how sick you were. The car smells like french fries. I want a shower so badly. But even in the midst of all the situations of the day, I feel deeply happy. I own it all. The bad hair, the greasy fries, the sound of you sleeping and the doctor office co-pay. I own it all.

Because it means I have you.
You didn't make me.
But you made me "Mom."

I am the Mom.