"You could rattle the stars. You could do anything, if you only dared."

Dear Harper,

In exactly one week and 2 days, you will officially be a kindergartener.  You probably don’t even realize your little world is going to be turned upside down.  You poor thing.  Let’s face it: you’re the second born.  We don’t have a “Countdown to Kindergarten” posted.  Mommy hasn’t been obsessively quizzing you on letter sounds and sight words like I did to your older sister (may God bless her little, anxiety-ridden soul).  We don’t count every single step we take, but somehow you still count to 60 and I haven’t the faintest idea how that happened.  My mind knows that I should have done these things, but…let’s call a spade a spade.  Mommy slacked with you and I’m sort-of, kind-of, maybe a little bit sorry.  But, not really.  Because, I know that you my man, my little dude that terrified us when we thought you would never hear, when we thought you would never speak…you will be just fine.

I know that starting kindergarten is not nearly as exciting as your new Lego Batman t-shirt; and doesn’t even compare to your recent discovery that pterodactyls are in fact reptiles and not dinosaurs.  But, to your mommy…this moment is the beginning. The beginning of the ache.  That feeling right under the left side of my chest, right where my heart resides, that feeling that lets me know you’re growing up.  So before the lump in my throat bursts, I’m here to present you with a list of advice as you start this next adventure. Listen carefully. Remove my favorite smirk of yours off your face. And try to be serious, if only for a second.

1.    When you think you’ve wiped “good enough”, wipe again.

 I’m coming out of the gates swinging with this one, little dude.  Seriously.  Take that extra minute to grab another couple squares and wipe, again.  There is no full-length mirror for you to bend over and check your bottom.  Lord knows, your kindergarten teacher will not wipe your hiney, so don’t even ask.  You do not want your first nickname in school to be “Skid Marks”.  Wipe again.

2.    When it’s Rest Time, for the love of God, REST.

Your little brain has worked hard.  Your growing body is exhausted.  You may not know this and this may be a lot to take in, but you are in school all day this year. Yes, all day.  So, when the lights go out and you put your little head on your towel, please close your eyes.  You don’t have to fall asleep, but you do have to shut your mouth.  If not for you, then be a champ and do it for your kindergarten teacher.  She is dog-tired and daydreaming of wine and bubble baths and door knobs that lock.

3.    Use all the crayons in the box.

I know blue is your favorite color, but leaves aren’t blue. The sun isn’t blue. If your teacher comments on how beautiful your blue sun is… tell her thank you, but know that she is blatantly lying to you.  So, don’t be afraid to use all the colors in the crayon box.  And remember, even the broken ones can make beautiful things.

4.    Share. Share. Share.

Even if you like it, it is not yours. If you saw it first, it is not yours.  If it is in your hand, it is still not yours.  All the blocks do not belong to you.  The playground balls do not have the name Harper written on them.  You want to make a friend?  Share. You want to keep a friend?  Share.  No one wants to play with a kid that doesn’t share.  But, please remember that the sharing stops at lice.

5.    It’s ok to wear pink in Housekeeping.

Boys can wear pink and boys can wear dresses.  Girls can wear blue and girls can wear ties.  Kindergarten is the time to be who you are and try out who you may be; and to not even think about that because you are five and you’re just hoping to get through the day without skid marks.  Wear the dress if you want.  Wear pink.  If you don’t want to, no problem.  But, don’t you dare giggle at the one who does.  However, if your teacher has anything resembling a Steelers or Patriots uniform, know that it is not ok and there will be consequences when you get home.

6.    Being headstrong is acceptable, being a little asshole is not.

You are indeed my son.  We have a quasi-Napolean complex and occasionally feel the need to exert our passionate opinions to compensate for our vertical shortcomings.  Pretty much, we've got the makings of a little asshole; but we can choose not to be.  Harps, it's appropriate to stand up for yourself.  Assert your feelings.  Be resilient.  Persevere.  Be determined.  But, remember that showing respect for and truly listening to the ideas and feelings of others is what will set your spirited self apart from the ones that your teacher prays are absent the next day.  So, don’t be a little asshole.

7.    It’s ok to not know. It’s not ok to not try.

You love all things awesome.  But, awesome is not always easy, my little dude.  So, try.  Try, try, try.  What if you fail?  So, what.  But, just maybe, what if you soar? 

8.    Be kind.

This one is simple.  Give people that big, silly heart of yours.  Be the reason someone smiles.  Don’t wait for someone to be nice to you, show them how.  Every day.  How you make others feel about themselves, says a lot about you.  So, be kind and you’ll feel the sparkles for the rest of your life.

            My last piece of advice my dear Harper, is the one that gives me the feels.  That makes my heart spin and makes the ache swell at the same time.  Number 9: Be you.  Your story is just beginning.  Some people wait their whole lives to be themselves.  Don’t. Don’t stop being you.  The spirited kid.  The ornery one.  The lover of the ladies.  The one who seeks adventure.  The believer in magic and the believer in Bigfoot.  The one who makes our hearts laugh and our hearts burst.  My wild thing.  You will meet people along the way that will try to change you because they don’t know you.  Show them.  Show them why the world was waiting on a Harper.

You are so loved.

- Mommy

P.S - Number 10: Giving mom a hug is and will always be totally, totally cool. 

"You were never created to live depressed, defeated, guilty, condemned, ashamed or unworthy. You were created to be victorious."

I knew this day would come. I didn't know how. I didn't know when.  But, I knew it would find its way.  It’s been almost 8 years in the making.

8 years ago, this post would have been plastered with threads of confusion and denial. Then later, utter hopelessness. 5 years ago, it would have been mangled in despair. Two years ago, most likely anger.  Because, that’s the stages of grief, right?  But, now it’s something surprisingly different. 

I’m not quite sure when it happened.  When my whole being shifted. I still have random moments when I remember. And I cry.  I try to think when the crying changed from tears of fury and anguish; to tears of strength and “Holy shit. I made it. I survived.” Because that’s when it struck me… that I was finally, finally healing. My wounds are still there, but they don’t need a bandage anymore. They left me with scars.  Scars that I’d rather not have, but I’m proud of at the same time.  And, that’s ok. Because I fucking made it. I’m here.  Hell, I’m one bad-ass motherfucker. And I’m finally ready to tell my story…because it needs to be told.  The stigma of mental illness needs to be erased.  The surprise and shock that a kindergarten teacher, a self-proclaimed “baby whisperer”, an absolute lover of all things innocent and little CAN go through this - it needs to be recognized.  And most important - maybe, just maybe, someone out there needs to hear these words. Right now.

So, settle in. It’s a long one.

I knew I would never get pregnant.  It wasn't a question, it was an ABSOLUTE statement.  I was 25, in good shape (not college lacrosse days shape, but good shape nonetheless), no underlining physical health conditions, no family history of infertility. But to me, pregnancy was an inconceivable.  My mind “knew” it.  Truth. And my mind fixated on this one thought that to me, was simply "reality". 

But, I did get pregnant.  And right away, I might add, even to the disbelief of my husband.

So, my mind moved on to the next thought - I knew there would be something wrong with my baby.  I just "knew". And there went the next nine excruciating months of my life.  I should have clued in.  I should have noticed the signs.  The signs that my diagnosed OCD and ensuing depression were now in full-on manic mode.  The signs should have prepared me for the next battle.  But, when it’s a daily struggle to get your mind under control for the next minute, the next second… you’re not preparing for the future.  You’re only concern is the moment you’re living in- right then and there.

I gave birth to my first born, a healthy baby girl named Maggie, via cesarean after a mentally exhausting 30 hours of labor.  My blood pressure was out of control.  Hell, my mind was out of control.  When the doctor mentioned a c-section, my mother and husband pretty much screamed “Sign us up!”  The following moments in the operating room were a blur.   I only have glimpses of memories; and it’s still hard to distinguish from reality and fiction.  When the nurse showed me “that baby”, my first memory was looking at her and thinking, “I guess I’m supposed to give her a kiss.”  I will never, ever forget that first thought; it still haunts me to this day.   I didn't know who that child was because she certainly wasn’t mine. Surely, if she was my child than I would have taken one look at her, confetti would have rained down, a choir would be singing that song from “The Lion King”, and my heart would have surged through my chest.  But, no, this child. This child was a stranger.  The next couple of days in the hospital were cloudy to say the least.  I was living on a different planet.  I was out of my body looking down at someone that looked a whole damn lot like me, but she was holding “that baby” again, that stranger.  I remember my dear mother-in-law saying something like, “Don’t you just look at her and wonder how there could ever be something better than this?”  I may have smiled at her, who knows? But, inside I thought, “No, I don’t.”  However, I kept that thought tucked away. It was too dark. Too scary.

When we brought Maggie home, my Mom lived with us for the next week. I was barely existing.  If I held the baby it was because my mom and husband insisted.  Family stopped in and I made them hold the baby.  I faked smiles, I did my best to make it seem like I was just exhausted; not scared of this new life, not scared of MYSELF.  No one outside of our family was invited to meet our baby girl; including our large group of friends who were chomping at the bit to meet Maggie - the first baby in our close circle of friends.  But, I wasn't ready to face the world.  I was masking these terrifying feelings of panic, confusion, and total despair.  Eventually, these feelings morphed into unspeakable thoughts.  Atrocious thoughts.  What I now know are termed 'intrusive thoughts'. “What if I put a pillow over her face while she was sleeping?  What if I accidentally stabbed her with the knife I was using to cut my sandwich?  What if I dropped her down the stairs?”  I could actually picture me doing these things despite the fact that I didn't want to do these things.  So, dear God, why wouldn't they just fucking leave?  Inside I was wasting away.  I was lost inside of myself.  I remember sitting in the basement with my husband one evening - he was holding Mags, holding onto to her little fingers, smiling like he finally had a glimpse into Heaven; and I looked at him with lifeless eyes and said, “I want things to go back to how they were before she was born.” He peered up at me and I knew that I had killed him.  My words, my thoughts were a razor blade to his heart.  It was the first time I thought that whatever was happening... well, there was no words.

Thankfully, after Mags was delivered my team of doctors immediately started me back on Paxil, the medication I had been taking for depression and, mainly, for OCD since I was 18.  During that time I tried to confide in my doctor and she said, “Oh, you’re a new mom. Things will get better.” But, my heart and my being knew she was wrong. I walked out of her office and never returned.  After weeks of existing in the deepest pits of hell, the medication started kicking in.  After one month, I was starting to get use to this “new normal”.  Mags was a month, maybe even two months old, when I looked at her for the first time and thought “Oh my God.  I love this child.  I actually love her.”  When you wait for so long for that feeling, you never forget it. I still remember when and where I was when that feeling hit me.

Fast forward one year later.  One year of hearing the choir sing, the confetti rain down.  One year of feeling like I was blessed with this insurmountable gift.  One year of wondering what I did to deserve this little girl? One year. One year and I went off my much-needed medicine and I relapsed.  The thoughts came back. Tenfold.  And with those thoughts came the only truth I knew - I couldn't be Maggie’s mom.  And if I couldn't be her mom, then I couldn't be.  I couldn't BE.  After looking at my own Mom one morning and barely breathing to her, “If you don’t take me to the hospital right now, I will not be here tomorrow”; I voluntarily checked myself into a psychiatric hospital for 5 days.  When I got there, I knew I had to leave. I couldn't breathe. I begged my family.  I curled on the floor, laid my shaking head on their knees, and begged them to take me home - a scene straight from Hollywood.  But, they refused.  And in that moment, in that one word “NO”, they saved my life.  They. Saved. My. Life. I could write a novel (a very long novel) on what I learned about myself; about being a mom; about the miraculous doctors who made me understand that OCD, Postpartum Depression and Postpartum OCD would never, EVER define me as a person; and that my PPOCD was actually a heightened manifestation to protect my children at all costs (say, what?); but that’s for another time. And quite honestly, there aren't enough words in the world to express my gratitude.  One professional expressed to my husband and I that he had “Never met a mother more dedicated to her child than you.”  During horrible moments, moments when I remember, that single affirmation reminds me of why I made it: because everything I did, everything I endured, everything carried me to Maggie. To Maggie.

Some years later, my husband, and I decided we would try for another baby. With a massive team of doctors, we had a plan. Game on. I was switched to the teeniest dose of Zoloft that I took every other day throughout my pregnancy. I continued to go to therapy.  I was open and brutally honest about my feelings.  While my first pregnancy was a battle, this one seemed like a breeze.  It wasn't easy, but it was manageable. 

38 ½ weeks later, our son Harper was born.  They showed him to me and I immediately smiled.  I smiled, then I laughed because I. Freaking. Smiled!  And I didn't worry about not hearing the choir, because I didn't think to worry.  People watched me like a hawk, but I was ok.  And then one night, something changed.  My nurse walked in to do a blood pressure check and damn it, something changed.  She didn't have to say a word.  Her face held everything.  And I knew.  In that instant, I knew.  My son, my teeny boy, was going through withdrawal from the Zoloft.  They said it was possible, but the doctors were almost certain with such a “baby dose” it wouldn't happen.  But, it did.  According to the doctors it wasn't bad, he didn't need meds to help him, he would be fine, and it only lasted for 48 hours.  But that 48 hours could have been 48 years, I wouldn't have known the difference. 48 hours was all it took for my world to implode.  “I hurt my baby,” was the only thought that seemed real.  And with that one alarming phrase, the horrific feelings returned.  That’s the simple version when it was anything other.  If those unspeakable thoughts left my world in a chaotic mess with Maggie, this time... this time they held a revolver to my head.  But, with medication and intensive therapy, I made it out.  Alive…again.  Pretty exhausting, right?

It sounds like I went through battle.  Dear Lord. I did.  You see, mental illness is like constant combat.  Everyone has demons inside.  Everyone.  Some are louder than others.  Some push us to our limits.  Some stay dormant.  Some nip at your heels everyday.  And some. Some try to convince you it's not worth it. And if your demons are out to play right now…keep pushing, keep going. Have courage.  Carry on. Think of me. Think of the madness I endured. And then, picture me now: with my head held high, my crown back on, and my middle finger in the air…walking away like a boss. A BOSS.

Because when you make it out alive. Full of breath. Full of hope. Full of purpose.  When you look at your story and your two beautiful, astounding, healthy children and think everyday, “How did I become so blessed to be your mom?” Then it was worth the fight.  It was worth the war. Every fucking bit of it.

"Throw me to the wolves and I will return, leading the pack."

                                              

"Friendship isn't about whom you have known the longest...it's about who came and never left your side."

Dear Oliver,

I miss you. I feel like a weight is sitting right on my top of my heart.  Sometimes, I feel like I can’t breathe and that pain takes me by surprise. I knew it would hurt, but I didn’t expect it to hurt this much. Your absence is everywhere. And the silence is so loud.  Can silence scream?  Because I feel like it is. That silence, that absence is the loudest thing about you; and you were anything but a loud dog.  I feel like this whole house is mourning. The walls, the floors, even the woods outside.  Everything is in agony, waiting for you to come back.  But, you won’t.  And I know somewhere deep, deep, buried in my heart that you are where you need to be. 

I was 22 years-old and returning home from college when gg and Poppy finally said I could get a dog.   I had begged and groveled since I was five years-old.  On every birthday, on every Christmas I asked for a dog.  I remember driving down Route 152 with gg the day we rescued you.  We were on our way to Baltimore to pick out a chocolate lab pup, when our car just sort of veered left onto Connolly Road. We could not stop thinking about that beagle/hound puppy (seriously, we will never know what you were, but it didn’t matter) that we had visited the day before.  You stole our hearts.  Your mom was heartworm positive, you had mange, and a wrinkly body that had just started growing back fur; and you needed someone to love you.  And it was impossible to do anything but. You needed us.  And we didn’t know how much we would need you.

It kills me that I can’t remember every second spent with you.  Only snippets.  Flashing memories that make me laugh.  You jumping, bounding, LEAPING off the front porch or back deck when we would let you outside.  I swear you were the fastest dog in the world.  We could only describe you as a bat-out-of-hell.  Taking off in the woods to chase the squirrels and the birds.  You never caught them, but it didn’t matter.  The fun was all in the chase.  You loved dirty, smelly diapers.  I don’t get it and I never will and boy, did it make us mad.  But, now I just laugh.  When we moved into our first townhouse years ago, you peed in almost every single room.  Multiple times.  It was like you were staging your own sort of protest, exchanging picket signs for urine.  You wanted to move back to the country with woods, and acres, and grass that you could ruin, and squirrels!   How about when we lost you in Rocks?  You were only a puppy, barely 6 months old.  Five days you were gone.  I probably made 50 colored posters emblazoned with your poor puppy face, posted everywhere in northern Harford County. We got daily calls about Oliver sightings, but they never panned out.  And we lived in state of agony, losing hope each day. Then, on the 5^th day it was a like a miracle.  We were driving through Rocks looking for you and we got a phone call from your Uncle Ben.  He was screaming and saying that your Pop Pop had just spotted you on a road right next to us.  And then we looked up from our car and there you were.  Standing right in the middle of the road.  I got out to get you and of course you ran, again, like a bat-out-of-hell.  You were so scared.  gg took off after you in her car, throwing dog food out the window, yelling “Puppy treat!” (This reenactment always makes your sister laugh and laugh).  Somehow you stopped, and you got in the car, with your bloody paws, shaking like a leaf.  Of course, you always shook.  All. The. Time.  You were scared of something that haunted you.  I will never know what happened to you before we rescued you.  But, whatever it was shook you to the core and part of you never recovered.  But, I know you’re not shaking now.

It’s been an excruciating 4 weeks, maybe more, of watching your body fail.  We tried, buddy.  God, did we try.  Daddy thought it was “time” a week ago and I couldn’t do it.  I couldn’t let you go.  I close my eyes and picture you going batshit-crazy in the woods, having the time of your life.  But, that’s the thing.  You haven’t been “that” Oliver in a long time.  When we took you last night, the vets were so busy and we waited for what seemed like forever in that little room with you.  We could have got frustrated but, we didn’t. Because in those 40 minutes of waiting, you were at peace.  It was the first time in 11 years that you didn’t shake.  Not once.  We held you and you were somehow telling us that it was ok.  I thank GOD that those vets were so busy last night.  That time spent with us loving you, giving only you attention, brought you a peace that I am so grateful for.  My hands are shaking as I type, buddy, because I have never felt such truth in a statement before.  And then you went. Just like that.  So quiet into the night.  And at that moment, I knew: we did the right thing for you.  Because now you’re in a better place, in a better state than what you were four days ago, four weeks ago.  Are you chasing that mythical cat that you could never find?  Are you running like a bat-out-of-hell chasing those squirrels that you could never, ever catch?  Or are you laying out, stretching all your limbs, and basking in rays of golden sunshine? That’s what I like to think and what I will believe.

Oliver, I pray that you know how much you meant to our little family.  When “life” and your sister and brother came along and stole your spotlight; I hope you know that we never, ever stopped loving you.  Not for one single second. We never will.  Thank you, Oliver. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. You were a good dog.  You were a best friend. You lived a great life.  And I will love you for the rest of mine.

Love,

Mom

"My heart is so small it’s almost invisible. How can you place such big sorrows in it?" “Look,” He answered, "“your eyes are even smaller, yet they behold the world.”

I am in a waiting stage.  Will I have another child?  Should I give away the baby clothes?  How much is too much of a gap between children?  My husband, on the other hand, is way past the waiting stage.  He’s over the fence, hopped on the train, turned a corner, and is headed straight to the nearest bar.  He’s moved on.  Ready for the next stage in life where we reclaim the “us”; and let go of the diapers and pull-ups and Sippy cups and a child laying between us in our bed (and that child on most nights is the almost 7 year-old, not the 4 year-old).  For some reason, I’m not there yet.  And I’m not quite sure why or what it is that I am still waiting for.

I always envisioned us with three children.  But, life is perplexing and unexpected.  I never, ever in my harshest nightmares could have anticipated the journey we have taken to become a family.  One day, when the moment feels right, I will “let go” of my story and my journey; this journey is what led me to writing.  But, now is not that time.  It is no secret that I have suffered from Postpartum Depression and Postpartum OCD; and have walked that barb-wire line where the term Postpartum Psychosis was a possibility (these things have become malicious beings and evil demons that are worth uppercase letters).  But the true story is something that even my dearest friends would read in disbelief and horror.  And I’m just not ready yet. Maybe, I’ll be ready to let go tomorrow.  Maybe a year from now.  But, not tonight.

So, why in the world would I want to go through it again?  Seriously, Kristyn, why?  WHY.  It’s a constant war between the right side of my brain, the left side of my brain, and my heart.  The left-side is screaming WTF.  That is all.  WTF. There is no need to say more.  While the right side of my brain is tugging at my heartstrings with future baby announcements and chubby cheeks and first steps and belly laughs and rice cereal.  The left-side of my brain is dropping the f-bomb likes it’s the only word in the dictionary and the right-side is off in baby-land with stars and moonbeams glowing in her eyes.

If I am being completely honest, and I am nothing if not honest…to a very big fault; sometimes, I think that maybe I want three children because time went so fast.  I had Maggie, then I had Harper, and then I blinked.  And that time that people said would go by so fast...really did go by so fast.  They weren’t shitting.  Sometimes I think that a third child would give me that time back.  But, it can’t.  It won’t.  I will never get that time back with Maggie and Harper.  And reality is that time with another baby will go just as fast.  It’s inevitable.  That’s the funny thing about time…it just keeps going.  And why do I want that time back?  There has NEVER been an age that I haven’t enjoyed every possible second.  Each stage brings new adventures and new experiences and new traits that I had never discovered in my child until that point.  It is true and it is cliché.  Every day I am in more awe of these two miraculous creatures than I was the day before; and every single day, I fall more in love. 

So, why am I still in that lingering, pausing stage?  That indecisive, make no decisions right now stage?  Well, maybe that last statement was just it.  I fall more in love every day.  Every second. In every moment.  During every laugh.  During every temper-tantrum.  During every sassy response, I fall more in love.  To think that there could be another chance to fall in that kind of love is intriguing and intoxicating.  My heart is doing cartwheels; while the right-side of my brain is eating cotton candy, sitting on top of the Ferris wheel, looking at the Earth below while Louis Armstong croons “It’s a Wonderful World”.

But, that left-side of my brain.  It knows.  It remembers.  The hurt, the suffering, and the hell.   It wakes up every single morning and it always remembers.  And right now, it’s just not ready to let go.  Sometimes, I wonder if it ever will.

I love you a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.

I’m not sure where this post is heading nor where it will end.  This week has been surreal and head-shaking and numbing; and has left my extended family in a state of painful anticipation of the unknown.  And all the while the world has continued to spin, while our hearts are slowly at this standstill of constant ache.  Since our family is not ready to release this ache into the world, I won’t comment anymore.  But, my need to write about it is under my skin, gnawing away.  So, I will start with something that I know is real.  Something that is constant.  Something that will always be.

In most families mothers are everything, IT, the queen of the castle.  There is nothing like a mother’s touch.  Mother knows best.  All that I am or hope to be, I owe to my mother.  Home is where my mom is.  And so on.  Yet, mothers complain that they are underappreciated.  Sure, we hear the majority of the whining; we are the bearers of our children’s constant want and need of attention; if something goes wrong it’s always “MOM!!” and rarely “DAD!!”  My husband can take a shower for 20 minutes and no one would ever think to bother him.  And yet, I don’t get one foot in the water and someone is whipping the curtain open asking me for some apple juice or if I know where the missing stegosaurus we lost three months ago is and if I can find it at that very moment.  Today, both my husband and I went shopping separately.  And somehow I ended up with both kids in a chaotic Target before an impending snowstorm.  I am quite positive most people heard me tell Maggie more than once, “You’re either in the cart or you’re out.  And if you try to change your mind while I am moving the cart, I will run you over.  And not look back.”  True story.  So, do mothers have it harder than dads?  Maybe.  But if we stop to think, would we want it any other way?  Because on the flip side, mothers get most of the love.  And the cuddles.  And the ‘I love yous’.  And the credit.  And so we wholeheartedly accept our role without looking back.

But, the dads, where are they?  What is their role?  The structure and dynamic of American families is drastically changing in more ways than one.  So, I will speak for the men in my life; because I feel truly blessed to come from a family and have married into a family with generations of great fathers and grandfathers and husbands.  So, where are these men I speak about?  These men, these amazing people are quietly in the background.  Tirelessly working and providing.  Always there waiting for when mommy has had enough.  And when mommy needs a very tall glass of wine.  They don’t need the acknowledgement, just the love.  Husbands with unwavering devotion to their wives; and fathers with steadfast love and support for their children.  Ordinary men that can turn into superheroes or princes or dragons when asked without blinking an eye.  A constant rock of support for their wives.

Last night, I came home from another long day of waiting with another long list of questions that have yet to be answered.  When I stepped in the door, I heard the whirring of the vacuum and I started tearing up.  My husband had worked for part of the day, then picked up our kids from my father (can we pause for a moment and be thankful for the granddads that are willing to babysit), and never stopped working when he got home.  Because somehow he knew that a clean house won’t fix my problems, but would give me a chance to just be.  To sit and breathe and enjoy my children after a day of anxiety.  Sure, we mothers live this life all the time.  But, we get the recognition. We get more “I Love Yous” and more cuddles.  And my husband, my children’s father, is ok with being second fiddle when he is anything but.  He works just as hard.  And to say I am merely thankful for him is an understatement of epic proportions.  The same goes for all the wonderful dads and husbands and men that are in my life.  And today, I hope wherever they are, whatever they are doing, they somehow know how much they are loved. 

Take the time to tell your husband, your father, your boyfriend, or simply your significant other how much you love them.  How much you appreciate them.  One day you may not get this chance...and today, you do. 

"It seems to me, that we have a lot of story yet to tell." - Walt Disney

On the last night of our Disney vacation, I found myself a weeping mess.  I was in front of the mirror, trying to pull it together to finish my makeup, and I could not stop the tears. 

I wasn’t crying because we were leaving.  Nor was I crying because we were traveling back home to freezing temperatures (though that reason was a close second).  And I wasn’t crying because I was overwhelmed by the whole Disney experience; like many, many little ones.  I was crying because this was another fleeting moment in time.  Another flickering moment that I desperately wanted time to stop, just enough to let me breathe it in.

My childhood was spent vacationing in Walt Disney World.  I can remember moments from every trip, though the early memories are no doubt from photographs tucked away in my mom’s Disney albums.  Being terrified of King Louie the Monkey at age 2.  Meeting up with my childhood best friends in Epcot at age 5.  My sister’s moody, teenage, “I refuse to smile on this trip” vacation at age 9.  Getting sick on the Disney bus at age 12 and my mom resorting to using my new hat to “catch” the vomit.  Bringing a best friend with me at age 17; and wearing our Tigger and Eeyore ears throughout the entire vacation.  And then, at age 22, a new memory: On this trip, it was just my mom and I.  Two kindred Disney spirits, two best friends.  On this particular trip, I remember leaving the Magic Kingdom on our final night, looking over my shoulder for one last view of the castle, and completely breaking down.  I remember my Mom hugged me, crying as well, and she asked “Why are YOU crying?”  The crying was simple, the explanation was not.  I was finally old enough to see that my childhood was marked with these trips, these amazing moments.  I grew up there and that “growing up” was coming to an end.  I was crying because I knew time was passing.  And that the next time I visited Disney, it would most likely be with my own children.  And the tradition would continue.  Heavy stuff for a 22 year-old.

So, last Saturday night, my husband found me sobbing (poor guy deals with this a lot).  Because, this was another moment on my timeline.  Another moment that came and went, much too fast.  A moment that you want to hold onto; and make a movie in your head so you can revisit these feelings, this genuine happiness.  I knew that the next time we visited Disney would likely be drastically different.  It’s probable that my daughter will have no desire to wait in lines to capture Minnie’s autograph.  Will the awe and wonder be gone in my son’s eyes because he is now an ‘old pro’ at this?  Who knows?  And dare I say, that it could even be possible that another little one is there with us?  I can’t answer that right now, but it’s always a possibility.  Whatever the circumstances and whenever the time, all I know is that it will be different.  And this time, this moment has passed. 

So, when we got on the Magical Express on Sunday morning to take us to the airport, I watched my 6 year-old as she sat at the back of the bus.  My overly exuberant daughter was oddly subdued and quiet, staring out the window for a long period of time.  When I finally broke the silence and called her name, she turned to me with silent tears.  I kissed the top of her head, wiped away the wetness and simply said, “I know, Maggie. I feel it, too.”  A precious moment in time that twinkled and is now gone.  All that’s left is the memories.  Magnificent memories that I am immensely grateful for, but memories all the same. 

 “I know this much: that there is objective time, but also subjective time, the kind you wear on the inside of your wrist, next to where the pulse lies. And this personal time, which is the true time, is measured in your relationship to memory.” - Julian Barnes
 

"Good moms let you lick the beaters. Great moms turn them off first."

My husband got home from work today, sat down to eat lunch, looked at me with my greasy hair and holy sweats; and said with a smirk, “I know this sounds funny, but what can I do to help?  What still needs to be packed?” It didn’t even take us a second to start laughing.

We leave for vacation Monday morning.  We’ve been planning this vacation since summer.  And now, I have been packing and preparing for three weeks.  As an elementary school teacher, preparing sub plans for vacation is more work than actually teaching.  And of course, packing for myself and our two young children is RI.DIC.U.LOUS.  Four syllables.  So, when Larry asks “What can I do to help?”; we both know this is just a way of him trying to throw out support for his wife that has yet to shower at 3:00 in the afternoon.  Because we both know I’m going to say, “Nothing”.  However, it doesn’t help that he throws a suitcase on the bed, spends 10 minutes shoving in clothes, zips it up, and laughs, “Well, I’m packed.”  I was ready to tell him where he could shove that suitcase.

So, on Monday morning, we will lug 6 bags to the airport. We only have four family members.  May sound a bit off, but sounds completely normal to me.  I thrive on organization. My OCD doesn’t let me prepare otherwise.  Packing, making sure everything is “just right”, ensuring we have everything we could POSSIBLY need makes me feel calm.  Our medicine bag is filled to the brim.  Our carry-ons are jammed pack with anything and everything to keep the kids occupied on the plane.  We even have one duffel full of snacks so we don’t have to spend a fortune eating while we are there.  Rainstorm?  We’ve got rain jackets.  Cold weather?  We’ve got sweatshirts and pants.  100 degrees?  Tank tops and shorts.  Hell, I even packed magazines for my father.

And then it hit me.  When did I turn into THIS kind of parent? 

Facebook has been bombarded with those quizzes: If you were a dog, what breed what you be? Golden Retriever.  What career should you really have? Humanitarian.  Which Disney Princess are you? Belle.  And then…What kind of parent are you?  I was seriously expecting something like “Realist” or “Hipster Mom”(well, I hoped for that).  No.  I got “Helicopter Parent”. Wait. Shut the mother lovin’ front door.  Helicopter Parent?  HELICOPTER PARENT? My husband and I pride ourselves on being real with our kids.  Letting them take chances.  Letting them get hurt.  Letting them eat potato chips, just as long as it’s in moderation.  Learning from experiences. “You scratched your knee? It’s cool, walk it off.”  “Someone was mean to you?  Stick up for yourself!”  But, HELICOPTER PARENT? WTF.

I sat on that for a little bit.  And then I packed. And I packed some more.  And I organized and compartmentalized and I made lists.  I made sure every shirt matched with every pair of shorts and every outfit of Maggie’s had a matching set of earrings.  And then it hit me.  Well, shit.  Maybe there is a small part of me that is a helicopter parent (I’m sticking with small).  So, I did what any so-called Helicopter Parent with OCD would do.  I asked Google.  Apparently, helicopter parents are known for over-parenting, over-protecting, and are overly-involved in their children’s lives.  Overly-involved? I think I get an A+ in that category.  Over-protecting? Nope. Not me.  But, my duffel bag full of the entire medicine aisle from Target begs to differ.  On the contrary; “Free-Range Parents” allow their children to learn by making mistakes and foster their child’s need for independence.  Yes! This! This is the answer I was holding out hope for. This was me!  Right? Maybe? Maybe not.  It’s a fine line between these two types of parents.  And that gray area is most likely the best place to be.  Either way, I’m just doing my best here. So, when we step on that plane Monday morning, I will have my anti-bacterial wipes ready for Harps after he uses the airport bathroom.  But, if he’s screaming because of his ears and drops his much-needed lollipop on the dirty plane floor; you better believe I’m licking it clean and shoving that thing right back in his mouth.  Because, that’s me.  Always walkin’ that fine line.