Lily: An Essay

People tell me all the time that my daughter is a tiny Me. They say she looks like me and acts like me and is shockingly my twin in almost all the ways.

This, I believe, is deeply incorrect.

Today, my daughter decided to try to learn to dive. I noticed a friend on the side of the pool, coaching her to dive off the steps and not having much success.

Willing to go on an obvious fool's errand, I saw this opportunity and thought "Hey, while she's interested I'll pitch in and help." Because heaven forbid we parents let a kid sort through a thing on their own and learn by doing or worse - from someone besides US.

So I popped over all casual-like and said "Hey, if you want me to help I'm happy to."

I know Lily. She's allergic to the word help. Raising her takes extra time because SHE ALREADY KNOWS how to tie her shoes make her bed do her hair cook a roasted chicken split the atom.

So while she figures out either how to *actually* do these things, I have to sit patiently by. Except I am not patient nor do I have extra time and this, it turns out, is a major flaw in our relationship. Also, when she figures out that indeed she does NOT know how to put a ponytail in her doll's hair she obviously cannot come to me for help having already scorned said help so mightily, so now she has to DESTROY EVERYTHING because what else is there to do in such a quandary? Burn it down.

Anyway, I foolishly offered help. Strangely, she seemed cautiously amenable to it and we had some success with some baby steps while she dove from a sitting position off the side of the pool to get the hang of the idea that the head has to go in before the feet for it to actually be a dive.

Lily, armed with some cheers from friends and neighbors, rapidly ascended to an attempt to dive fully off of the diving board, and that is where the successes ended. She wasn't ready for that step, but you try telling her that. I had to sit back and let her do the thing.

She tried no fewer than 37 times. 36 times she went in looking like she was crawling or she full on belly flopped. Once - ONCE - she got it pretty well and that one success was enough to keep her climbing back on the board, shivering, red-chested, and with increasing ire, determined to perfect the dive. She marched from the ladder to the board, fists tightly clenched and jaw bulging. She would emerge from another failed attempt in the deep end with her mouth open, shouting her frustration to the heavens. She was soaked to the bone. She could not hear us. Any support or advice was met with fury.

I slipped into the pool, knowing the end was near. She swam a lap around the outer edge, artfully dodging what I was hoping would be an earnest conversation about being tired, cold, and hungry and how that doesn't help us when we are trying to learn new things.

Eventually we came to the place I knew we would. She melted down. She came, full stop, to the end of her rope and announced to the gaping friends at the patio table that IF SHE CANNOT DIVE SHE MAY AS WELL KILL HERSELF. Friends, in that moment, she meant it.

And this is the difference between Lily and me.

We may look a bit alike and be similarly forceful; some might call it bossy -  I like to say we are strong-willed.

But Lily is determined. I am not. Make no mistake, I want things to be my way. But Lily WILL NOT QUIT. I will ask for help (sometimes). Or I will stop doing something I am not naturally gifted at. If it doesn't come to me? Meh, I'm moving on. I hated that job task sport craft idea anyway. Not Lily. Failure fuels her. It also ruins her.

I am a believer in capitalizing on one's strengths. But I am also sure that quitting everything that isn't on the tip of our tongues is not the answer, though it is undoubtedly my M.O. Lily will find her strengths and use them to the benefit of herself and all of society I have no doubt. But she will work harder, take more pride, and suffer more for all of it. And because of that, she will be truly exceptional.

Meanwhile, it is my job to find some magical way to harness that determination because next time she might just *actually* hold her breath until she passes out. And diving lessons are over until next year.

To My Children #2

Dear Johnny and Lily,

Today, you're at your Grammy and Grandpa's house. You've been there for a few days so that I can work. There have been three weeks at the end of this summer break where one or both of you were without childcare, and graciously your grandparents have handled a large chunk of it. 

Lily, you spent several days at work with me and while you were a champ, playing games on the iPad, messing with Shopkins (what *are* they anyway?) and charming people into giving you candy, I really didn't accomplish much in the name of my actual job that week between the moments when you needed a hug, wanted to sing a song, required an escort to the bathroom, or wanted some more gatorade to spill on my carpet.

So it's good you have this time at your grandparents and I have some time to do the things they pay me for.

Johnny, you are ramping up for school which I am aware of due to your incessant counting of days and the daily asks regarding if your new backpack has arrived from Amazon yet. I call you at your Grammy's house to say hi and tell you how much you miss me and all you want to know is if that damn backpack is here yet. YOU AREN'T EVEN HERE TO SEE IT. But you can't rest until you know it's safely in the house. Well, kid, IT'S HERE. Your life can resume its normal focus on Legos and cookies now.

It's been a fun summer and we have done All The Things. We tripped all over Kansas and saw such amazing sights as a fake castle at Coronado Heights, a large public bathroom fashioned to look like a toilet from the outside, a fake gunfight, and The World's Largest Hand Dug Pool.

We've had friends over, been to sleepovers, enjoyed Grammy and Granpa's 20 year anniversary, and both of you tried salsa.

We've stayed up late and slept in a little and stayed in jammies for whole days and sometimes gone without baths for a number of days I choose not to put on The Internet.

Anyway, this is just to say it's been downright fun and I'm pretty sad to see it come to an end, though I'll be delighted to slap a cover on that GD pool that has cost me 10 thousand smackers this summer. THINK OF ALL THE LEGOS I COULD HAVE BOUGHT.

You're both the very best and I love you so much it's embarrassing.

-Mama

Elementary Math

Tonight is Johnny's 1st grade music program.

I take tremendous pleasure in these events, which is surprising because I am hands-off in almost every other way regarding his schooling. I'm not a member of the PTA, I dread parent-teacher conferences, and I don't even know how to log into his Student Portal. Do 1st graders have Student Portals? I hear people talk about these things. Hell, I can barely be bothered to keep money loaded into his lunch account.

This is, I understand, my great privilege because he is a good good boy, and loves school days  more than weekends. He told me so himself, after I'd entertained him with a sleepover, a trip to a dog show, some park time, an orange soda, and then a Kentucky Derby party (literally, the kid's day was full of a dog and pony show), and some junk food for dinner.  So the  next day, I put him in his room with the TV and the YouTube and shut the door, shoving bits of ham and raisins under it every now and then. The effect was the same. School is better.

So I don't really concern myself with it. He can read and likes to, and he prefers math to other subjects. My job? Done. Hear those pats? It's me, and my own back.

But the annual spring concert is another thing. This, I can get into. I like to dress him up and put him on stage but he won't try out for anything so this is the one chance I get. Which is really sad because once he gets up there he rocks it. Every hand motion, every clap. He's on it. He sings enthusiastically and clearly. And I love all of that, and seeing his precious classmates, especially that one kid who is up there examining the booger he put in his pocket for later instead of singing about nutritious foods and weather patterns.

But mostly, it's because I remember my school programs. My tiny country school had several every year. Like most things, it's watered down in today's system. Ours were long - or at least they seemed that way - with multiple grades, the band, and some kid's harmonica solo all in the same night. We got new dresses, knee socks, and our mothers curled our bangs. It was SO EXCITING.

So I hope that Johnny's little concerts are memorable and special. I presume they're not such a Big Deal to him, but really, we have kids because of reliving our own personal journeys, right?

Anyway, this year I will take him for his concert and the customary ice cream after. And I'll have to drop him at his dad's after that which will make me sad, and then I'll have to go get a fancy cocktail to make it all better.

So really, Johnny's 1st grade concert = fancy cocktail for Mama. And that is how we do math, kids.

Recipe for a Good Day

Yesterday, I announced on Facebook that I had a day that was "exhausting, remarkable, and ordinary." And those are now the things I hope every day can be - save exhausting - though I do think that the exhausting days, if accompanied by the other two, are usually the most fulfilling.

I love ordinary things.  I love eating popcorn in front of a movie in the basement with my family. I love chatting with my partner while he tries to read a book and I fold laundry. I enjoy tucking my kids in at night probably more than anything else on earth and doing our litany of things: book, arm wrestle, talk about the plans for tomorrow, discuss the importance of Magneto's gadgets, hug, kiss, tuck in again, lights out. I like grocery shopping, most days, and I enjoy seeing familiar faces as I do the very ordinary things around town that I do on the daily.

But every day should be a little bit remarkable, too, or they simply run together. Maybe it's just that you had a particularly big belly laugh that day, or you cooked a new and successful meal. Or you heard an inspiring speech or you read a fantastic book. Or, you traveled or ate at an inspired new restaurant or you pushed yourself farther than you thought you could in your brain, your body, your comfort zone.

And while I love a good lazy day and enjoy them more often than most, probably, I know that the days that end in a pile of tired are probably the ones that accomplish the two above goals the best. So when I complain of tired, ask me: was it ordinary? was it remarkable? And maybe I'll shut up.

To My Children #1

Johnny and Lily,

Today I'll drive you to your grandma and grandpa's house to stay for a few days during Spring Break.

This is always bittersweet, as I do relish a few days to get only myself dressed and out the door in the morning and the ability to watch adult tv with abandon. But by the last day, I'm always so ready to have you back. Andy noticed recently that I am always unusually weepy toward the end of your stays away from me. Which is weird because I'm not a weepy person.

Lately, we've been bonding as a family while lying on my bed watching Disney movies. I do feel so guilty about this and I know we should be reading or practicing math or something, but there is something so divine about everyone piling on the bed together tucked into my bedroom away from the whole world and snuggling together with all of Lily's baby dolls. I just cannot resist it and I hope that those warm memories make up for any lack of education you may suffer because of my lackadaisical parenting.

Lily is into babies and shopkins and bless your heart, dear girl, but I just do not know how to play. I do not want to and I can't and I'm just never going to be that kind of mother. Johnny has accepted this and plays Legos at his table in the living room without my assistance and for that I am so grateful.

Anyway, it's a really fun time to be your mom and you get cuter and funnier all the time. Like Lily, when you told me to get you out of your carseat because you're "not getting any younger" and Johnny sings his ear worm "Lick it up" ad nauseam.

Please stop growing. I'm having the time of my life.

All my love,
Mama

Wherein I complain vocally and pathetically.

I can go ahead and do here what I know will be called by some as sexist, because this is my space and for a hot second I will, unchecked, say what I want.

I will also succumb to my somewhat balanced self and give a disclaimer: maybe there are men out there who do and think the things I am going to outline below, but I don't know any. I know good men, no doubt. But I know zero men who feel compelled to listen to, feel guilty about, or participate in the things that I am talking about here. The good men I know might do ONE of these things. TWO max. But they do not let their heads spin with all this garbage because they GIVE ZERO FUCKS about most of it BECAUSE THEY DO NOT HAVE TO. And they are not called to.

Here is what it feels like to be me. To look at myself, take in media, talk to friends, think about my mother, my past, my future, my kids, and the world-at-large:

My inner monologue is this:

I am tired. TIRED TIRED TIRED TIRED TIRED TIRED TIRED.

But there's so much to do.

I should be doing yoga and taking up running. Lose weight. Better health. Get centered. Know your body. Live longer and set a good example for the children.

Cook healthier dinners. Reduce the carbs, salt, processed, gluteny foods.

Shop at the farmer's market even though it's an extra much less convenient more time consuming stop twice a week on top of the regular store.

Keep your wardrobe updated and flattering. Shop diligently for appropriate but comfortable footwear that will not ruin your already rubbish feet.

Have a skin care process you practice every day.

Curl your hair.

Mop, vacuum, clean up dust.

Buy tasteful and current things to decorate your home so that you look like you live in a magazine but cooler because it's you. Have a point of view about decor, whatever that is.

Teach your kids to read when they're 3 and also be sure they know about YOUR favorite music. Make sure they look like they go to J Crew Preschool and that they don't want too much tv and be sure to tell your friends about all the activities they do and how creative they are.

Pack bento boxes for their fucking lunches.

Be sexy.

Don't let your car be dirty.

Be a good friend, neighbor, daughter, sister, and co worker. Be sure to care for EVERYONE'S general welfare and emotional needs and don't be a bitch even when you're sick or under water.

Learn what the fuck Cross Fit is. Reject it. Go for regular walks.

Be a good listener. Know how to bake bread. Keep a budget spreadsheet. Buy your kids all the things they need and some they want but don't spend any money on yourself.

Read important books.

Be updated on politics but don't be too loud about it. It's annoying to others.

Volunteer your time.

Give away your talents for free.

Don't be negative or complain.

Have a pleasant countenance, watch your resting bitch face.

And you guys, this is all POST feminist revolution. THIS IS THE IMPROVED SITUATION.

We gotta do better.

Johnny Letter #24

Dearest Johnny,

Today you turn 6 years old.

You love Spiderman, Batman, Power Rangers, you sister, your kitty, and me and your dad. Not necessarily in that order.

Last week,  you started kindergarten. You did it, mostly, with a shrug. After 5 years at Ballard, 3 of which I was in the building with you, you marched off to kindergarten and haven't looked back. I would have cried the morning we dropped you off but you sister was pitching a fit so there wasn't time or space for me to experience my own emotions about you standing in a new, bigger school, with a teacher I don't know and a long day ahead with no nap whatsoever.

You are the sweetest, kindest child. I'm not just saying that, either. You help with you sister, are sweet to you new kitty, who you named Lollipop without batting an eye, and freely give hugs and snuggles in between body slams and tickle fights.

This year has been tough for our family, and you've handled all the changes with your usual good attitude. To be honest, it's all probably been hardest on you, but in the midst of working out details, worrying about finances, and adjusting to "new normal" your dad and I probably haven't fully given you the opportunity to grieve, much as we've tried. Thank you, Johnny, for your loving and diplomatic spirit. We promise we will spend the rest of our lives making it up to you.

This year is the year of change. You learned to swim in the pool without a floatie. You got a big boy bike and are starting to run the neighborhood with your friends - my presence is not required. You're still a pretty picky eater, but you have learned to eat broccoli and have tried some new things, and we're not having crying episodes at the table anymore, so I'm calling it all a win.

I'm the luckiest mama in the world. You're all the things.

Happy birthday, Son. I love you.

Mama