Girls

Known

Posted on by Lauren

Aside from the 37 hour labor, 11 days past her due date, she really was almost too easy, as a baby. She was 16 months before she walked; instead, she happily sat on any surface and entertained herself with her surroundings- be that toys, people or pine straw. 

I should’ve known.

It was 30 hours into labor when my midwife looked at me and announced: 

“This is not your story to tell.”

Time stopped. My heart stopped. My tears flowed. 

Aurora had two cords wrapped around her neck at birth, delaying her arrival for good reason. 

My midwife looked me dead in my eyes to tell me when to push, when to pause and suddenly, urgently, when, with a roar, to give it my all. 

From the beginning, my daughter and I have challenged one another. 

Now, the tween years- the ones everyone before me has warned of. 

I fruitlessly planned for Aurora’s birth. 

I refuse to plan for these next days. 

Instead, I meet her where she is, each day. 

Just like her birth, it’s not easy. 

It never was. 

We cry, we argue, we admit our mistakes and we hug. 

It’s exhausting and rewarding. 

My girl has been stubborn from the beginning. 

But with good reason. 

It’s her story to tell. 

Not mine. 

I should’ve known. 

Camille Vaughn Photography

Break

Posted on by Lauren

She was uncharacteristically angry. Snapping at her sisters with venom dripping from her teeth. 

Emmett and I looked at one another, eyes wide, silently wondering, “What in the actual hell?”

We chalked it up to stress before a big gymnastics meet. Perhaps she was feeling anxious. 

But her seething anger seeped from every crevice until finally, I took her aside and asked, “What is going on?”

And that’s when the dam of tears broke. She broke. 

“I’M SAD ABOUT OREO!”

Ohhhhhhhhh. Yes. This makes a lot more sense, now. 

6 family members. 1 loss. 

So many different coping mechanisms. 

Those that grieve obviously and openly (me). 

Those that grieve and move forward.

And those that bury and try to cope without ever fully addressing it. 

“Harper, trying to contain your grief without openly releasing it is like trying to contain your exploding slime. It will find its way out of its container.”

I encouraged her to write but she didn’t want to. “It will make me sad.” 

But you already are sad. 

Days later, she finally relented. 

She put on the sad music and allowed herself to get washed away in the flood of anguish that is losing a beloved pet. 

It’s too soon to know how much it helped but a writer myself, I know it couldn’t have hurt. 

6 family members. 1 loss. 

So many different coping mechanisms. 

We break. 

Unstoppable

Posted on by Lauren

Don’t doubt me. 

Don’t you for a second Count. Me. Out. 

You only fuel my drive to prove you wrong. 

So lives the soul of my second daughter. 

Walking at 11 months, this child has been intent on besting her big sister from the start.

She has had something to prove since she was born.

She puts in the work and shames those who don’t. 

Harper has a drive I, her mother, envy. 

She wants it bad and she will do whatever it takes. 

Cautiously, I calm her intensity. 

Reminding her that she has an entire life, she cannot imagine, ahead of her. 

Yes, you can. 

No, you don’t HAVE to. 

You can, but you don’t HAVE to in order to survive. 

If you want it bad enough, there’s no doubt: its yours to claim. 

But never to prove anyone else. 

Only for yourself. 

You are unstoppable. 

Prevent

Posted on by Lauren

I remember. 

I wish I could but I never will forget the supreme loneliness I felt as a child. 

And I suppose that is why, as an adult, I feel so committed to seeing children.

Physical presence is not enough. 

Neither is saying “I care.” 

It’s action. 

Before I took the pills that landed me in the hospital, before I stood on the edge of the balcony threatening to jump, I cut myself as a way to ease the pain. 

I was 12 years old. 

So, when my daughter exhibits signs of distress, 

I take her seriously. 

When minimal interventions (intentional time together, changes to routine, etc.) fail to work, I take action: therapy, medication. 

Prevention is not easy

But it sure is preferred to regret. 

The Gift of Time

Posted on by Lauren

It’s a well-known fact that we have a tendency to over-correct.

I just wonder how many of us recognize when we are doing it. 

I did when it came time to create the annual “Gift of Time” envelopes for my girls. 

A few years ago, in an effort to guarantee one-on-one time with mom or dad, I gifted each girl a stack of 12 envelopes- one for each month. Inside, a card with an activity they could choose to do with just mom or dad- no sisters. 

We were drowning with the responsibility of caring for our health-challenged youngest, not to mention juggling four young kids. The Gift of Time ensured we got that one-on-one time with each daughter. 

But, year-after-year, it turned into expectation. 

When they opened the envelope and it was a trip to the library or a bike ride, instead of the bowling alley or putt-putt, they were crestfallen. 

I realized I was creating presumptuous monsters, instead of appreciated moments. 

So, I’ve paused. Reevaluating. 

Sure, I want that precious time but at what cost?

I spent my adulthood wishing I’d had a closer relationship with my mother, when I was a child. 

But what if my children rely too much on their parents to feel satiated?

Is it possible that I’m setting them up for failure? A childhood so idyllic, it’s difficult to replicate? Is that a crime?

I’ve parented long enough to become comfortable in the gray- the not knowing the next step. 

Instead of forcing my choice, I watch and wait. 

The Gift of Time. 

Aurora Mae Turns 12

Posted on by Lauren

12.

Here you are, baby girl. 

On the precipice of teenage-hood and totally not looking forward to it. 

I get it. 

You were 11 days overdue and never wanting to leave has been your MO. 

I have a recording of you crying about going to college when you were just 6 so it’s nothing new. 

You are a creature of comfort. 

Your bed, your hair, your charisma, the softest. 

In addition to a slew of Taylor Swift themed gifts, I also presented you with a copy of articles I’ve written in your honor over the last eight years. 

You wept in my arms over the article I wrote about my own mom, What I Want You to Know

Because you felt the same about me. 

And it dawned on me. 

Mothers and Daughters are forever. 

You may be 12, 

But we are forever. 

Camille Vaughan Photography – 2020 -all four girls tried on my wedding dress.

Badass

Posted on by Lauren

Everyone warned me of teenage daughters. 

Maybe they forgot that I used to be one. 

I’m not afraid of the road I’ve already traveled, 

Even if it looks different, these days. 

It’s hard, 

But our needs are the same. 

Recognition, empathy and encouragement. 

I love that my tweenage daughter appreciates music and novels. 

I love that my tweenage daughter cares about matters outside of herself.

I love my tweenage daughter’s courage and fearlessness. 

And yes, I love knowing I fostered that. 

She’s a badass. 

Story

Posted on by Lauren

It’s been five months since I started meeting my students for 15-30 min daily. 

Piece-by-piece I unravel their stories. 

Sleeping in cars, hotels or disappearing one day. 

Sometimes for a month, sometimes for . . . .

That is their life. 

Unknown. 

And I meet them where they are. 

Together, we read. 

Piece-by-piece. 

At first a sound, then a syllable and next, a word. 

Piece-by-piece we make sentences. 

“We spend just xx minutes together. The rest is up to you. Do you want to read? People like me will come and go, but you’ll always have you.”

I look them in the face and remind them that ultimately, 

It’s their story. 

I’m just a chapter.