The Secret

I'll tell  you a secret...
I never wanted to be a parent.
I carried dolls around and played my share of "house" when I was little.  But by junior high I had decided the whole June Cleaver thing was not for me.  I was going to have a LIFE.  I was going to go to college and do something important.  I was going to live in the city.  And make money.
But parenthood found me while my head was turned.  And by the time I lay in my bed in the dark and felt that little bump..bump..bump that was my firstborn morse-coding love messages to me, I had changed my mind.  I was a Mommy.
So I threw myself headlong into it.
Turns out, I was pretty good at it.
And it has shaped much of who I am and what I do.
But far from keeping me one-dimensional, it has stretched me in ways I never would have found on my own.  Parenting my children has made me strong when I thought I was weak...made me try things I thought I would hate, but I ended up loving...shown me parts of my soul I never would have seen without the mirror of a son and a daughter.
My children have introduced me to music, movies, books, and ideas I would have missed as a single city girl. And less fun but equally as important...smells, fears, and embarrassments as well.
But it's not just about the Parent part of me.  They have fostered growth in my Person parts too.  I have dealt with scars from my own past because I wanted to be a whole and healthy model.  I have stretched the wings of my own creativity.  I have taken time for myself.  Because I don't just want them to know what a Good Mom looks like...I want them to know what a Healthy Woman looks like.
And far from holding me back, their pride and support has spurred me forward.  I float on the currents of their belief in themselves and in me.
It's fine to say "Go do it!"
But it's better to say, "Look...watch me...it can be done!"
And so we fly together.
And I have a LIFE.
And I went to college.
And I have done something important.
And I will continue to do important things, inspired by those I love.
And that is the secret.

Who's Holding Whom?

Parker always loved to be held.
When he was a round-faced and chunky (we called him "solid") baby, I would pack him around on my hip.  He would hang on like a little monkey and people would tease that HE should be carrying ME. At one point, I went to the doctor for chest pains, only to be told that I had pulled a muscle lifting Baby Huey.
Even rocking him to sleep was a workout...I would have to hold him tight against me for the first two minutes while he fought sleep like a battle tested warrior.  Then, suddenly, he would relax and slump against my chest, eyes closed but still making little moans when he breathed out, as if even in sleep he was protesting.  And I would rest my chin on his head and rock a while longer just to feel the heavy warmness of my baby boy against my mommy-soul.
Happily, even though he has grown up into your typical teenage boy, he never lost his affection for being affectionate.  He freely hands out hugs and occasionally still lays his head over on my shoulder at church.  When he comes home from school and basketball practice, he strolls toward me with open arms and says, "Hey, mama.  How was your day?" in his now-manly voice.  And if he thinks I seem down, he just gives me a long hug and doesn't say anything.
And he rests HIS chin on MY head and I feel the warmth of comfort against my weary-soul.
I give him a squeeze and a pat on the back and pretend that I'm holding him.
But deep down I wonder...Who is really holding Whom?

Sole Mates

My kids have a thing for shoes.
Of course, one might expect that from an artsy girl like Hillary.
But don't be fooled...boys care about what's on their feet too.  Parker has found a website where he can design his own shoe.  He's spent hours tweaking his dream tennis shoe...changing background colors...adding a star here and a stripe there...putting his name and basketball number on the side... then  mimimizing it and threatening the rest of us with bodily harm if we close it out before he is able to save up enough to order them.  Even if that takes weeks...months...YEARS...

And I just let him dream.
But his sister had other plans.  A few weeks before his birthday, she secretly went on the website and ordered his "perfect" shoes...with her own hard-earned money.  She waited giddily for the mail each day, afraid he would guess what was up if he saw a box delivered with that company's name on the label.
She shouldn't have worried.
When they came, he was clueless.
"Mom," he yelled from the other room.  "Hillary got a package."
And that was that.
She squirreled them off to her room where she wrapped them in black and gold paper (our school colors), and hid the bag because his birthday was still a week away.
Later when Dad and I got home from running errands, we were met with a beaming new-shoe-wearing Parker!  "Look what Hillary got me!" he exclaimed.  And she was beaming too.  "I couldn't wait." she said sheepishly, "So I just went ahead and gave them to him."
He was happy.
She was happy.
I was happy.  Because as much as they fight...get on one another's nerves...roll eyes and call names...it's good to know that deep down they really are sole mates!

Working Girl

My girl is off to work today.
Oh, she's done odd jobs throughout her teen years...babysitting, cleaning for people, taking pictures.  And we let her put off getting a real job for as long as we could.  An unconscious effort to extend her free-wheeling, traveling, no-responsibility adolescence.
But with the start of college textbooks and gas guzzling commutes, she had to start looking in earnest.
She applied at the grocery stores and the banks...some hotels and the newspaper office...Wal-mart, Target, and Dollar Tree...even fast food...
Nothing.
I was starting to think I was going to have to sell one of my kidneys on the black market, when she finally got TWO calls in the same day!  She chose waitressing in a real restaurant over the fast food option, hoping the tips would more than make up for the less-than-min-wage hourly pay.
And she started working.
The first couple of nights were predictably hard and hectic, but she was optimistic.  Things would get better as she learned the ropes.
But it's been weeks now, and working for a demanding, verbally caustic, female boss who often gives conflicting instructions in the same breath is taking it's toll.  Hillary comes home stressed and sometimes tearful and pours it all out, as I sit and listen and try not to talk.  This is so hard.
But in a way, it's so good for her.
It's good in the way that making your child get their shots is good.  It hurts and it's hard to watch.  But you know that their body will take that bit of pain and use it to prepare for much worse things.  And in the end, they will be healthier people.
And I know that learning how to deal with people who don't like you...and learning how to let someone else's anger wash over you without soaking in...and learning that you CAN take a stressful situation and deal with it...and learning how to prioritize when there are so many things to do...and learning that you are WHO you are and not WHAT you do at work....is going to make her Stronger.  Better.  Tempered.
And I know that this job is temporary.  And she doesn't have a family or a house to take care of when she gets off work.  And we are here to bind the wounds and repair the damage after every shift.  So it will be ok.
Someday she will be out of school and making the world a better place by doing the things she loves and getting paid for it too.
So I take a deep breath.  And I don't call her boss to give her a virulent piece of my mind.  And I don't say, "Just quit!"  And I don't follow her to work and do part of her job for her.
Even though I want to.
But I DO pray a lot.
And sometimes...it works.  Like last night when she had a calm night and was let off early enough to do something fun with her friends.
I'm glad to see that she can take whatever comes her way...and WORK it!

Big Daddy

My husband is a big man.
Oh, he's not super tall or built like a psycho weight-lifter, but he does tower over me when I stand next to him.  And his arms go all the way around my waist with room to spare.
And he opens jars and lifts vacuum cleaners and cast iron skillets effortlessly with one hand.
And can reach things in the top kitchen cabinets without even climbing on the counter first.
But that's not all...his personality fills up a room.
And his voice fills up a gym.
But when it comes to our kids, he's just a gentle giant.
As babies, they would sleep on his broad chest as he lay on the couch watching football on tv.
When they were toddlers, and I was teaching them to sleep in their own bed, HE was the one tearing up in the next room because he couldn't stand to hear them crying.
And when they were preschoolers, he was often the one who would tuck them in at night...fixing the blanket just so and getting the much needed, but never actually used "glass of water."
So when they got older and busier and didn't seem to need "tucking in" anymore, he came up with a plan to keep connected.  Every night, he would lay with one of them for a few minutes...giving them a chance to tell him about their day or ask him questions or just feel his heavy arm thrown over them and know they were safe.  This became especially important during basketball season, when those few minutes might be the only few minutes they got of him that whole day.  Sometimes they would even fight over whose turn it was.  I had to mark it on the calendar...alternating days filled with P's and H's.
More often than not, I would peek in to find one small bundle tucked snugly under the covers with one large man sprawled on top of the covers...snoring away like the Papa Bear he was.  Then I would shake him awake and tuck HIM into his own bed!
Of course, nothing lasts forever, and now we usually go to bed BEFORE the kids!
But he still tells them goodnight.
And checks all the doors in the house.
And leaves the porch light on so Hillary won't have to fumble in the dark for her key.
And has trouble falling asleep until she's safely home in bed.
And he still shows them in a hundred ways a day that he loves them.
Because of all the big things about him, his heart is the biggest.

You've Been Hillary-ized!

Lately, Hillary has been working several hours per weekend for a lady who lives nearby.  Hill takes a room per day and completely cleans and organizes it.
And then she comes home and tells me stories of how she turned drawers, cabinets, and closets full of random chaos into cubbies of neat and clean calm-ness.
While I am secretly thrilled to hear that I'm not the only woman who grows clutter in her corners, I am also secretly jealous that I don't have a personal organizer.
So when I came home late the other night, and found my bed made and all the dirty clothes picked up from the floor, I was pleasantly surprised.
But too tired to really wonder about it.
And the next morning, when I went into my closet, I found this.....

All my shoes were neatly lined up...all my clothes hung neatly on their hangers, grouped into categories like pants, tshirts, jackets, and long-sleeves.  I gave a little squeal and finished getting dressed.
And then I went into the kitchen to make my coffee and I found this....

and this....

And while I would love to let you think this is how it always looks...well...I'd be lying.
When Hillary sauntered into the kitchen, I hugged her and said, "Did you do all this?  It looks great!"
And she smiled her big smile and hugged me back and said, "Yep.  You've been Hillary-ized!"

Soothing the Soreness

A couple of days ago, my voice started acting up.
I felt fine.  I didn't have a fever.  I just sounded like an adolescent boy whose voice was changing.
I ignored it.
And of course it only got worse.
So today I gave in and went to the doctor, who commanded me to go home, take my medicine, and rest for the next two days.
I stopped by the store and stocked up on chicken-soupy stuff.  And I texted Hillary to see if she was home and wanted to have lunch with me.  Happily, she was...and she did!
And that's how I happened to be curled up in my favorite oversized chair with sunlight streaming in the windows sipping soup and listening to my beautiful grown up girl talk about enrolling for next semesters classes and the crazy funny things she and her friends were talking about lately.
Which somehow led to the subject of her beginnings with us.  An unplanned and very early surprise to me and her dad's teenaged selves.  And she asked the questions she hadn't asked so far.
Like "How did you tell Dad?"
And "What did he say?"
Things I guess I thought she had already heard.  After all, I have shared the details many times through the years with people who needed to know there is Hope on the other side of a Story.  But I've never really told it directly to the person to whom the story belongs.
Because, when the unexpected happens, we humans sometimes behave badly.  And I never wanted to color her view of the people she loves with gray and black.  But gray and black come in the same box with all those vibrant happy colors, and it's not fair to throw out the whole box of crayons.
So I told her how her Dad had been shocked but supportive, even from the beginning.  How only hours after he found out, we walked down to the park where I sat down in a swing and he asked me in a tender and worried voice, "Should you be swinging?  Can you still swing?".
And how he spent hours coloring in boxes on a sheet of graph paper until he had fashioned a sign to go over the crib that said "Yancey loves Fonda and Baby."
And how we had decided to stay together...not because of this...but including it.
And like the soup soothed my sore throat, sharing these happy little things with her soothed that spot in my heart that I keep thinking is healed, but sometimes surprises me with a familiar soreness.  Not unlike the physical scar across my belly through which Hillary entered the world.  It's totally healed, but occasionally gives me a tiny unexpected painful pull when I move a certain way.  A reminder that I wouldn't have all this yellow and purple and orange without my gray and black.
So I sit here with my soup and my story and I am soothed...body and soul.