I spent the better part of my first forty years desperate for others to understand how far I’ve come from where I started.
Surely, they’d respect and understand me more?
But now I know, we all have stories, untold.
And it’s best to approach all with the grace we’ve always wished upon ourselves.
Hold my hand.
Lean in.
We’ve come so far.
I just experienced the Barbie movie.
And I’m shook.
It moved me to tears.
This movie was masterfully made.
Funny, thought-provoking and meaningful.
The set design was epic.
The cast, impeccable.
The humanity- relatable.
A mother and her “tween” daughter at odds who ultimately work together to help Barbie and her land find their purpose.
America Ferrera’s speech to “wake up” the barbies: “I’m just so tired of watching myself, and every single other woman, tie herself into knots so that people will like us.”
Me too, Barbie.
Me too.
So long,
Farewell.
It’s time to say goodbye.
Goodbye.
I had been in labor for 37 hours when my mom entered the room and walked straight to my husband, with a breakfast sandwich, exclaiming, “You must be so tired.”
My husband was so confused.
She had not acknowledged me or the baby.
And I guess that’s what I want people to know.
Privilege comes in many forms.
Imagine sand.
Some of us build from a deeper hole.
And yet, we’re on the same team.
My daughter almost drowned today.
She’s a strong swimmer and had spent the past 7.5 hours in and out of the ocean.
It was the last ten minutes of our day on the beach, when she swam out to retrieve her sister.
Her daddy was walking towards the trash cans.
I was 100 yards away, in my chair, recognizing that she was no longer on the sand bar but being pulled by the current.
Only her head was visible when I started to run.
She climbed onto me as I swam parallel to the shore, out of the current and into safety.
Adrenaline coursed through my body as a lifeguard pulled up on his four wheeler.
“Nice rescue.” He offered.
Apparently, as he tossed our trash into the can, my husband heard the guards talking on the stand about a mom running to her child
He turned and saw Emma in my arms.
“My God.” He shook his head in disbelief.
“Thank God you were watching. I turned my back for just a second.”
And that’s how long it takes for someone to drown.
It’s only been a few hours, but I can tell my relationship with my third-born has changed.
She looks at me differently.
She has struggled with feeling overshadowed by her big sisters and replaced by her health-demanding youngest.
Today, she felt seen.
She’d been rescued.
And it was by me.
She didn’t want to walk with me.
She wanted to walk with her friends.
It was the last day we would ever walk to school together but she couldn’t possibly understand the magnitude of that.
I’ve read, listened and discussed it all. I’ve even lived these tween years but yet, here I am, still in shock that it’s actually happening.
My first born, off to middle school.
Such a small transition compared to when she crawled, walked and first went to preschool.
And yet, it hits different.
Can we have just one more day?
The teacher asked us to take notes.
I had no idea what she meant by that.
Pauli saw the panic.
She met me where I was.
She calmed me down and step-by-step, taught me how.
I will never, ever forget her kindness.
“Look for the helpers.” Mr. Rogers said.
I did.
And I still am.
In fact, I’ve become one.
My car broke down.
My dusty, musty, rusty ole’ van that has seen 10 years of abuse by children.
Her rugs are crusted with smashed applesauce.
Dead bugs lie unreachable on the dashboard but close enough to the windshield that I’ve had the privilege of watching them decay for years.
And let’s not forget that my youngest proudly carved the first four letters of her name into the side of it at the ripe age of four.
When faced with the choice of dumping five grand into a vehicle on her final wheels or starting anew, we felt torn.
Ultimately, finances forced our hand, so to the repair shop our trusty van went, and in our driveway, a brand new loaner car, while we waited.
So. Many. Buttons.
The girls had to push them all. Their eyes twinkled with excitement.
And, I admit. It was fun while it lasted.
The new car smell (similar to the allure of a new puppy!). The magnetic phone charger (game changer).
But I was annoyed when my car told on my speed so that my children called me out. I needed my speedometer back.
And I didn’t need my car to lower my side mirror to see the road when I reversed, thank you very much.
I lived in a city and can parallel park in my sleep.
Days went by and as the newness wore off, I realized I missed the familiarity of my old van.
In the age of “House Hunters” in which we are encouraged to update to keep up with the Joneses, I found myself, instead, revering all that I already have.
I walked into rooms in my house that I’d previously seen through a critical eye and I smiled. Grateful for the memories made in each.
I relaxed.
No need to trade in.
No need to keep up.
Time to maintain.
Seek, don’t settle.
That’s pretty much it.
“Just pick up fast food!”
My husband was out of town.
Gosh, if only it were that easy.
I feel like I’ve spent adulthood explaining this notion of “privilege” without realizing I’ve even done so.
Fast food?
That’s privilege, at least for my family.
We have a child with severe food allergies so “fast food” is not an option.
Instead, we have to plan painstakingly ahead.
“You were meant to be her mother.”
Was I, really?
What did I do in my past life to deserve this honor?
That’s what I would like to know.
It’s not her fault and it’s not mine either, or maybe it is- I don’t even know anymore.
What I DO know is that giving grace to any and everyone is the very best thing we can ever do.
Because, how otherwise, could we ever truly know their story?
We cannot.
So, we give grace.
Always, we give grace.
New Leaf Parenting 