How Not to Buy Your Millenial a Car

Originally published in the Cheboygan Daily Tribune...

This winter, we experienced shopping for a car for our teenager--The Millennial--and it's a bit like trying to find a date online. Everything sounds like a dream come true! But it ends up being a guy who photoshopped in teeth and when he wrote 'fully employed' he meant employed in locating online contenders for Dungeons and Dragons.

Now believe me, I don’t think every teenager needs his/her own car. Certainly not in my house. Certainly not today’s “what are you gonna give me?” millennials. In fact, we were firmly NOT getting the teenager a car. But, then, she threw us for a loop. Next year, she’s going to take--get this--college courses off campus for the majority of her senior year. So, she has to drive to Cheboygan, Petoskey, or Gaylord. Every day. For school. For college credit while she’s still in high school. That’s a pretty good argument for getting your own car. So we made an agreement that she would pay the insurance, we would buy the car.

Yes, I have seen the vehicles her classmates drive. I have also seen the jeans they wear and the iPhones they have and the way they toss money around like it’s from a Monopoly game. My husband and I are proud members of the “Well Soandso doesn’t live in our house” club, and none of this affects me. So, I was looking for an inexpensive car. That doesn’t sound bad, does it?

Here were the problems. One-I’m cheap. Like, majorly, seriously, still-have-the-same-socks- I-bought-in-college cheap. So, I wasn’t willing to shuck out thousands and thousands of dollars for my little Barbie Doll to drive around town and wave at her friends.

Problem two-our road. We live in a wonderful, wooded, dead-end road neighborhood in an obscure area of Indian River. We have a 45-60 degree angle driveway. And, well, there’s a LOT of snow here. I got stuck in our driveway with our old Dodge Caravan multiple times, as well as on the road from our house to the main road in Indian River. PLUS, the Millennial wants to go to college at Michigan Tech (I know, that IS awesome). So, she needed four wheel or all wheel drive. That, my friends, is not cheap.

Problem three-the Millennial is a putz. She didn’t want to get a license any more than we wanted to get her a car, so she dragged her feet long enough that she couldn’t even take the test until February. So, as I started looking at vehicles in August, my hubby complained that it would “just sit in our driveway and rust”. Even if I found something decent, the hubby wanted to wait.

Once I get something into my brain I, unfortunately, get a little obsessed. So, as soon as Emma got her temporary permit, I bookmarked every online used car website in existence and  searched with crazed fervor each day. I talked to my mechanic--a guy I would trust with my children--and I kept emailing back and forth with my dad about different vehicles we saw online. My cousin did autochecks for me, I found out how to read a carfax, and I knew all the important questions to ask. I was geared up and ready to go.

One day near Christmas, I went past a vehicle MY MECHANIC was selling! Within my price range, four wheel drive--fabulous! My dad, “Eeh, I’m not real impressed. It has some bumps and scratches.” The hubby, “Eeh, it’s too early. Let’s wait a bit.” It sold in two days. Door slam number one.

On the way to Onaway, I drove by a Toyota RAV4. Awesome; my mechanic loves Toyotas. I found it on Craigslist as well, and sent an email. No word. Should’ve called. By the time the hubby approved calling, it sold. Door slam number two.

While I was in a nearby town, I stopped by a used car dealer there with a list of autos I wanted to see. No, no, you don’t want to buy any of the cars in your price range; you want to buy this car. When I asked for the carfax, the dealer ‘discovered’ that the odometer has been tampered with. Well, that was shady. Door slam number three.

There was a Jeep Liberty in Cheboygan I liked… sold. Door slam number four.

I convinced my hubby to go “car shopping,” and we went to a place in Gaylord that listed a Saturn Vue. The place turned out to be a pole barn, where they also sold a Ninja Turtle Costume, a printer, a K'nex Batmobile, and a set of dishes. It was like a garage sale, which also sold cars. We asked if we could take the car for a drive and the guy just handed us the keys. Have I said shady before? This was past shady and into darkness. Door slam number five.

TO BE CONTINUED

Joining in our quest for the Millennial’s car, my father-in-law asked a dealership in Gaylord where he knew a guy. “Well, we just got in a Subaru. I’ll call you with more details,” the guy said. We drove through their lot (with the Littles in the back of the van screaming at each other) and determined that any Subaru they had would be out of our price range. When we get home, I did my daily look-up and--low and behold!--they had a Subaru wagon with 38,000 miles! Sounded like a weird story, but we were psyched. I emailed the dealer, who said they’d get back with me. The next morning, we dropped off the Littles at the in-laws’ and took the information from their website with us. Eric had a check in his back pocket; we were serious about this car. Word for word, here was our conversation:

“Hello, can I help you?”

“We’re here about the Subaru wagon?”

“Oh, we sold that! Last night, right?” (Looked behind her at co-workers for confirmation.) “Yup, last night. Can we interest you in something else?”

“Nope.” We walked out. Why wouldn’t SOMEONE have contacted us, so we didn’t drive all the way over there and waste a day? Door slam number six.

We decided, we’re in Gaylord, let’s drive around. We stopped at all the dealers and NOTHING. Then, we drove by one interesting place with lots of used cars. The OPEN sign was lit and the front light was on, but no one answered the door. There was nothing on any of the cars which told details. The website they had didn’t even list most of the vehicles sitting in the lot. So, already annoyed by the first dealership of the day, I called the number on their sign and left a pretty snotty message about how, if they’d like to sell cars, they should actually have some information available.

I got a call back from the owner within about five minutes. He sounded very nice, apologetic, and insisted the holidays and the snow got the better of him, and that he’d only been there to leave the light on because he was loaning the wrestling coach a car to drive to a meet. Okay, I feel like a jerk. Can you give me information on the RAV4?

Three days later, the Millennial herself and I drove to Gaylord in rain-snow-fog to pick up the vehicle and drive it to my blessed mechanic. As soon as I started the thing up, I felt like giving up. Every warning light on the dash lit up. I drove it to Indian River anyway, in hopes that it was one little problem making each light turn on. My mechanic told me this could be case (or, as I had said aloud when I walked in, I may have found the ONLY lemon-Toyota in all of Northern Michigan), and I left him the keys. We went out to breakfast and spent our last day of break watching a movie together, waiting for the mechanic to call.

At four, I finally gave him a call, not wanting to seem pushy. Apparently, he had called at 11:15, but left a message on my cellphone (no cell service in the house). Eric and I went to meet him, and, not only should we not buy this car, my mechanic said the guy shouldn’t even be selling it! It was a tense and slow drive back to Gaylord where the conversation between Eric and the owner went like this:

“So, are you interested in that Toyota?”

“No.”

“Did you want to look at something else?”

“No.”

“Want me to keep an eye out for anything in particular?”

“No.”

From shady to darkness to just plain unethical--door slam number seven.

We went back to school with no time to shop. The clock was ticking on her license test. We were no closer to a purchase than we were in August.

Our first snowday after we returned to school, I convinced Eric to go all the way over to Charlevoix, where there were two places we could look at cars. We took Ben and left Becca with Emma, to limit the fighting. Ben fell asleep in the car on the drive, so Eric went into the first dealership to inquire about one particular car. Yep, you guessed it: sold the day before. I really needed to learn to CALL before driving. Door slam number eight.

We went up and down the road looking for the other place I’d seen online and finally figured out it was directly across the street. As Eric went in, a guy pulled up in the VERY CAR I’d wanted to look at. I was expecting to hear that this man was purchasing the vehicle, but it was actually the owner. Could it be? A decent car? We took it for a ride and it drove great. We were hesitantly hopeful.

When we got into the dealership, our hopes slowly died. Eric asked the owner about the price being different on the window than it was on the internet. The owner replied with a creepy wink and a smile. I asked about taking the car to our mechanic and the owner said he didn’t allow other people to check out his cars, because they (the mechanics) might be dishonest in order to drive the price down for the customer. And there was an airbag light that would not turn off, which the owner did not seem to think was a big deal. As we left, we knew we wouldn’t be back, and we had wasted yet another day. Door slam number nine.

We’re thinking maybe we’ll just get her a horse.

How Baseball Saves Me

Originally Published in the Cheboygan Daily Tribune...

The crack of the bat. The smell of the grass. The squint of the pitcher’s eyes as he looks at the catcher’s sign. Ernie Harwell’s voice saying, “That ball is LOOONG GONE!” The murmurs of the crowd, “That’a way, buddy! Nice hit!” Since I was young, baseball has always been my sport.

Last spring, I signed up our youngest to play T-ball, which she dutifully attended. Her friend’s dad picked Becca for his team. “I’ll be your bench coach,” I said. I think he HEARD assistant coach--like, the person who helps you teach kids how to play. After a while, he figured out what I meant: I lined their tiny bodies up on the bench in the dugout, led cheers of, “Let’s go, Becca, let’s go!” as we batted, made sure kids were ready to run out with helmets and bats when it was their turn, took little people for their umpteenth bathroom break in between batters. After a long day at school--with its testing and curriculum and behavior plans and teaching criteria and parent expectations--I sometimes thought, “Ugh, this is the last thing I want to do tonight.” But the second I’d get there, I was in love. Their adorable faces beaming up at me from under those enormous batting helmets. Their smiles lighting up when they made contact with the ball; the light in their eyes as they’d run the bases, like they could feel the way a homerun would feel; the way they’d all swarm to a hit ball like ants to honey and then ‘throw’ it to the first baseman, who was usually either playing in gravel or chatting with the opposing player on the bag… It was beautiful. It was better than any glass of wine I could have had each evening. I would come home joyed, relaxed, refreshed. Ready for another stressful day of the real world the next day.

At the end of the season, our coach, Josh Gaus, had the kids huddle around him. He had purchased each of them a medal himself, and one-by-one he hung the medal around their necks, looked into their eyes, and said in a serious and sincere voice, “I really enjoyed having you on my team this year. You did a great job. I hope you liked playing ball.” Most gave him a hug afterward. As for me and the other parents, there wasn’t a dry eye on the field. I knew, if this man coached again in future years, I would bench coach for him forever.

As luck would have it, Becca didn’t want to play this year. I was crushed. Josh was crushed. Then fate intervened. Tri-Rivers didn’t have enough coaches for coach pitch, and my son, Ben, was on coach pitch. So, Josh agreed to coach T-ball AND a coach pitch team, and I got to be a fan involved, a side-line coach, a leader of the cheers.

It has, again, been a stressful spring. My gut is a mess, work is crazy, and raising three kids is nothing like The Brady Bunch promised it would be. But, when I go to baseball practice, I feel it. “I could be Miguel Cabrera,” they’re all thinking. We’re teaching them how to stand, where to throw, which direction to look when the batter’s up. But, really we’re teaching them the dream of baseball. They still have it, the passion for the crack of the bat, the smell of the grass, the murmurs of the crowd. And, yeah, some drawing in the gravel and chatting on the bases, too. But their sheer ‘aliveness’ in the game--it rejuvenates me. Calms my inner critic, relaxes my brain, makes me take a moment to breathe it all in, gives me the boost I need to work another day in the frenzied adult world. Play ball!

Anyone Can Be a Father; I Have a DAD

Originally published in the Cheboygan Daily Tribune.

The first time I met my dad, I was still bitter from Mom’s break-up. I demanded--in my snottiest, 5-year-old snarl--he put up his arm, so I could swirl up and over it like a gymnast. Dad's arm caved under my weight.  "Mom," I said later, unimpressed, "He doesn't even do circus tricks!"

Mom's ex-boyfriend had done circus tricks. He bought me ice cream for breakfast, drove a fancy car, listened to all my amazing stories, played Candyland and Memory for hours. He really wanted to be a DAD more than a husband, which was part of their problem.

So Mom went ahead and fell in love with Charlie, Chaz, "Him," Charles D. McCord:  the love of her life and the man who would be a wonderful father to me for the rest of mine.

My dad was tough. He didn’t buy me ice cream for breakfast. Instead, he monitored my phone calls: I had a 20 minute limit per friend per day and he would get on the other phone at 21 minutes to say,

"How long’ve you been on?"

"I was just getting off!"

"Okay. I'll wait." He'd stay on the line as I muttered my embarrassed goodbye to the poor friend on the other line.

But he also threw me endless pop flies so I’d never be afraid of a softball and had me listen to the Tigers’ games on the radio on our family trips to our cabin. Dad never gave me a curfew, but would say, "We expect you home half an hour from the end of this scheduled activity," and mean it. He didn't allow MTV or R-rated movies, but laughed and cried with me through episodes of "The Wonder Years." He had a list of chores I was expected to do without complaint, but also sung Willie Nelson duets with me to his cassette “Half Nelson”. I got all A's on every report card, but Dad would only look at the citizenship grades and ask why I got 2s instead of 1s (talking; always talking). Once, he parked his truck behind my boyfriend's car when we were talking after I got out of work early. "Dad," I screamed, "It's not his fault! Let him go!" He made me go home, while he lectured my boyfriend about the importance of HIS daughter coming "directly home from work."

And that's what I was: HIS daughter. I was never his step-daughter, never his wife’s kid. He was never my step-dad, never my mom’s husband. From the beginning, he was my dad, the positive male influence my young life needed.

As his daughter, I inherited his sense of humor, logic in an argument, and his need to make things right in the world. My dad taught me to canoe, to train dogs, to keep score during a baseball game, to cross country ski and snowshoe, to paint walls. When I was in junior high, he wrote me a letter about riding the bus (I wanted him to drive me so I wouldn't have to sit by "this yucky boy.") He said it would build my character. I still have the letter and he was right, it did make me stronger--and nicer.

There is so much of my dad in me. I am a strict, consistent, pain-in-the-butt mom to my kids. I stick to what I say, make them pick up their stuff, and look for citizenship grades. I “never let them do anything” (direct quote from my teenager), but I watch baseball with them, dance with them in the kitchen, take them to the cabin, and insist on conversations at the dinner table. I lecture my kids about not being bullies, considering the feelings of others, having a good work ethic in the world. I don’t buy ice cream for breakfast. I don’t drive a fancy car. And, no, I don’t do circus tricks. Seems to have worked out pretty well for my dad.

Our Son Is Quite a Character

First published in Cheboygan Daily Tribune...

Way back when we were going through our infertility journey, my mother-in-law sent me to her Reikki practitioner for a session. When we were through, the woman said to me, “This one who is coming next, it’s a real character. Will make you laugh and laugh. Great sense of humor.” Now, I knew this lady knew about our infertility, and I had pretty much given up on the hope of EVER getting pregnant, so I thought to myself, “Yeah, whatever.” A few years later, a miracle occurred while we were trying to adopt: Benjamin Cleveland was born. What’s interesting is, if Becca had come first, her ‘premonition’ would’ve been wrong. With Ben, it is spot on. The very best way to describe Ben is “quite a character”. He makes us laugh, makes us scream, makes us cry, and fills our hearts so full with love we swear they’re going to burst.

You see, Ben is passionate. About everything. If he’s mad, he’s passionately mad. He yells and throws stuff and has been known to hit or kick. If he’s excited, watch out. He yells and throws stuff and rolls on the floor. From Thanksgiving Day (the day the Christmas Elves arrive at our house) until Becca’s birthday (it goes Thanksgiving-Christmas-New Year’s-Ben’s birthday-Becca’s birthday), he is completely illogical. He’s so excited about getting presents, about using his own money to give presents (each year he goes with Eric to the dollar store and carefully selects his own gifts; my dad got an army helmet, my mother-in-law got a book, my father-in-law got a pancake flipper) that we cannot even TRY to reason with him. He hits the sheets every night exhausted from being so keyed up with joy. Ben gets so crazily “into” Christmas that we have to take breaks from opening presents. One of my favorite memories is of him at age four opening a present from my in-laws and yelling, “Pants-is! Grammie got me pants-is!” Who gets excited over pants at four? Benjamin Cleveland.

When he was three, it was Buzz and Woody. Everything in his world had a Toy Story theme. He had the sheet set and shirts and books and, of course, every single toy they made. We had the indescribable pleasure of taking Ben to Disney World that year, where he enthusiastically met every character, with a highlight of Buzz and Woody. His face was purple and his veins were bulging, he was so deliriously happy. It was honestly one of the highlights of my life.

On that trip, we also saw Playhouse Disney on stage, a bunch of puppets from the Disney Channel. Ben was also VERY into Mickey Mouse Clubhouse at the time, with Goofy as his very favorite (let’s be real; who DOESN’T love Goofy best?). One of the usherettes stood behind us during the entire show and watched Ben and laughed as he danced, sang, and yelled out to the characters. He got super rambunctious at one point, yelling, “Goof, it’s me, Ben-Ben! Goofy! I gotta tell ya somethin’!” I finally had to pull him into my lap and explain that Goofy was working, he was doing his stage show, and we couldn’t talk to him then. I told him we’d find Goofy later in the day and he could talk to him then. So, as promised, we looked all over and found a Goofy. We waited in line and Ben kept pulling on my arm, trying to rush up to the front, saying, “Mom, I gotta tell him somethin’!” When it was finally our turn, Ben rushed up ahead of me, poked Goofy in the leg, and said, “Goof! It’s me, Ben-Ben! I gotta tell ya somethin’!” like it was a line he’d been rehearsing all day. Goofy dutifully leaned over and lifted his ear. Ben stood on his tip-toes and whispered into the fuzzy ear. Then, he gave Goofy a hug, got his photo, and returned to me, a giant smile squeezing his chubby cheeks. “Well, what’d you say?” I asked as I took his hand. “Mom!” Ben retorted, “That’s between me and Goof!” To this day, we don’t know what he said.

Currently, he’s into the Golden State Warriors and, of course, the Detroit Tigers. Ask him anything, he can answer it. I love watching him shock men in their 60s and 70s with his player stats and trade agreement discussions after they make a comment about a jersey he’s wearing. The boy’s a nut, and he’s always right.

He’s a character, my boy, and, though he can push every single one of my buttons in six seconds flat, I couldn’t love him more.

Anxiety Sucks

In case you’re unaware… Anxiety sucks. I mean it. Like, really, really sucks.

I’ve had anxiety all my life. When I was a kid, I freaked out when my dad took me out in a boat (which I begged him to rent), when I was supposed to go down a sledding hill (it was pretty steep), and when my parents left my cousin to babysit me. Not little, quiet freak outs, but gigantic, screeching, “Help me, help me, they’re trying to kill me!” kind of fits. I chewed my nails, had to get an A on every assignment I was ever given, listened to my brain go through millions of horrid scenarios each night as I tried to sleep, and started having migraines when I was eleven. At about age 26, I started taking anti-anxiety medication, which has helped, but it’s a battle that’s always there, ready for a fight, ready to take over.

What is actually worse than having anxiety? Watching your children experience it. You feel powerless and sad and even more anxious than you were earlier that day. Did my anxiety somehow cause their anxiety? Do I bring this out in my kids? Those old “what-ifs” running through my brain again.

My youngest daughter is the screamer. When she gets frustrated, or angry, or feels powerless, or her feelings are hurt, or maybe even if the wind just blows the wrong way, she screams. Blood-curdling, limb-has-been-severed screams. When we go to investigate, the problem is generally that she can’t zip her zipper, or she’s too short to reach the shirts in her closet, or she can’t fit something into her backpack. I know what you’re thinking, “Well, don’t give in to her. You’re just spoiling her.” The thing is, we don’t. We haven’t. Ever. We talk to her about calming breaths and using her smart brain to solve problems and asking for help with “a big girl voice.” But I’ve experienced the tornado that breaks out in her brain. We go from fine to exploding in seconds. There isn’t time for your brain to think, “Calming breaths. Ask for help. What could I do differently?” My mom has a master’s degree in counseling and she gave me talk after talk after talk when I was growing up. She’d talk to me when I was calm, she’d talk to me when I was in a fit. Still, the tornados would come, and I couldn’t stop them until I was a puddle of tears on the floor, waiting for her to sop me up with her hugging arms.

My son--the middle child--lacks confidence. If you meet him, you won’t believe this. If you know him well, you probably still don’t believe it. He seems cool and confident and friendly and helpful. But, if you look closely, you’ll see him showing off, just a bit. He really wants you to like him, and he doesn’t think he’s quite good enough. He wants to make you laugh and keep your attention any way he can. At swim lessons, he tries really hard--he CAN swim really well--but he grabs the side after two strokes in the deep end. He’s afraid he’s going to sink in the deep end and never come up. If they asked him to do the same strokes in the shallow end, he could swim all day. But, my dream of him beating Michael Phelps’ records are being held back by the same fears that kept me off the diving board, kept me out of the deep water at camp where all my friends were swimming, and have never let me learn to scuba dive.

So if you see us Halls and we look confident and courageous, just know: we put on a good show. We’re battling more than you can see.

Wake Up Call

Snow days. Huh. I know, you think that, as a teacher, I am SO LUCKY to get snow days. And I am. But, imagine you’re trying to build a skyscraper with bricks that melt quickly (think-- teach seven-year-old forgetful people) and you get about one-third of the way up, then a day or two off. You rebuild, it melts. Rebuild. Melt. Repeat. Annoying. We get started writing a unit and then they completely forget about what a transitional word is or remembering to check their ‘dictionaries’ for the book spelling of words or what they were even writing about. So, as much as I do love the occasional 5:00am call saying, “Go back to bed,” I’m not a HUGE fan of snow days.

I’m especially not a fan of snow days when it’s close to report card time. Okay, so it really has nothing to do with the snow day part and more to do with the report card part. I teach reading and writing, which means I have to grade 52 kids’ writing with a 10-grade rubric and put it into my computer. And I can’t do it until the end of the marking period, because it’s their “project” they work on through the marking period. It’s exhausting.

So, recently, we had a snow day and, luckily, I had ALL THESE PAPERS to grade. As I was trudging through the stories about going to Avalanche Bay and going to a friend’s house, I started thinking I should have picked a different job. I seriously should have picked a different job. Like driving a truck. Or taking photos at the DMV. I’m not saying either of those jobs are EASIER, they just don’t involve reading 52 kids’ stories.

As I was mumbling under my breath about how this is stupid and kids should just be allowed to learn to WRITE and not have to show growth or be graded and when are they going to use these ridiculous skills in their real life later anyway and they’re only 7 and 8 years old and should be taught to write about what they care about and who stops their writing to make sure they’re using strong verbs… I saw it. There, on the side of the paper, in a little cloud bubble, was a love note. “Mrs. Hall you are an awesome teacher. I love you so much.”

The girl’s cherubic face, adorable dimples and bright blue eyes popped into my head and I thought about all the times she’d laughed when I’d said stupid jokes, or hung on the edge of her seat as I read The Littles, or threaded her mittened hand through mine as we stomped through the snow at recess. She loved ME? I should be writing on HER paper that she was an awesome kid!

So, I did. I wrote that she was an awesome kid and I loved her, too. And then I whistled my way through the rest of my papers. Sometimes I need a snow day to remind me this is the perfect job for me.

People Always Say It Flies By; They're Not Kidding

When I was growing up, I had many different career plans: doctor, veterinarian, author, hamburger stand owner… But I always knew one thing for sure: I wanted to be a mom. So, when I was 26, I adopted a baby. By myself. It was wild and crazy and the most wonderful moment of my young life. Emma filled every hole in my heart and more, and I never once thought she hadn’t been destined to be my daughter from the beginning of time.

The other night, my dad and I went to watch Emma cheer at a Lady Bulldogs Inland Lakes Basketball game. She’s a fantastic cheerleader: put anything to a beat and she remembers the moves and words instantly. This night, though, I saw something I hadn’t seen before when I’d watched her cheer. I saw joy. I saw her do silly dances to the pep band music, I saw her call out to the players, and I saw an expression in her eyes I hadn’t seen since she was three years old.

She’s had a rough go of it, my baby girl. Her genetics have held her down, given her some really big obstacles. Through the years, I’ve thought, “Oh my god, she is never going to leave this house! None of us are going to survive this!” She’s been through a lot of sadness, depression, complexity that I really believe most 16-year-old girls haven’t had to--and maybe won’t ever have to-experience.

But she is strong! She’s fought through it all, and come out on the golden side of the rainbow. Now, yes, she still drives me crazy with every inch of her stubborn, teenage, I-know-it-all-already-and-you-don’t-have-to-explain-it-to-me attitude. Her room’s a pit, we have to beg her to do the dishes, and she’ll get in that “dig” on her little brother whenever she can. But, really, didn’t I just describe all sixteen-year-old girls? And so, it amazes me:  her determination, her will, and this joy. This joy she’s finally found.

When Emma was young--a small toddler through probably age 4--she was a whirlwind of joy. She would enter a room of strangers, like at my grandma’s church nursery, and say, “Hi, Friends!” Her face would say, “I’m here! The party may begin!” She giggled and sang “The Aristocats,” and weaved her little fingers between mine everywhere we’d go. Before bed, we would “cuddle two songs” and I would wrap myself around her as she fell asleep. Her hair was thin, so I kept it short in a pixie, and she had these round, rosy cheeks and huge, deep blue eyes. She was like a living Precious Moments doll.

I had forgotten it all. I have spent these years since age five trying so hard to pull her out of this cloud, to prepare her for what’s coming up, that I have forgotten to prepare myself. I saw her on the court and thought, “Wait, now, just wait a second. Just hang on one minute. When did this happen?” She’s grown so much. She’s almost an adult. Like, a doesn’t-live-in-our-house-anymore adult! How did it go so fast? I didn’t savor it. I was trying so hard to get her to THIS PLACE, this prepared for happy adulthood place, that I didn’t give myself time to sit and listen to her sleepy breathing, to watch her learn new things and develop parts of her own personality, to freeze moments in my mind as she came out of her cocoon and transformed.

When she was a baby, one of my favorite things she’d do was reach her arm around my back as we rocked for her night feeding. At about 6 months, she began patting my back, just like I’d pat hers after her bottle as she was falling asleep. It was so sweet, this mimicking of my loving gesture. I saw her face at cheer and I ached so much for one last chance at that moment, feeling that tiny arm reach around me, holding all of her tight against me.

As I was growing up, I always knew I wanted to be a mom. I just didn’t know how much it would hurt.