twelve

Dear Bailey,

You are twelve!  I am late on writing your birthday post because our January got a little crazy!  You have had a great year with so much new and so much change and you have taught me so much about how you will be when you are grown up.  I imagine this year will be even more telling.  

You moved from elementary school to middle school this year.  It was a big change for me as we walked into that big new school together.  I know we both wanted to run but after the first day, it was pretty cool with all of the freedom and the lockers and being able to see different friends all day.  You even went to your first dance and I think my heart melted just a little at how cute you looked.  I watch you walk out from school when I pick you up and round that corner talking and laughing with your friends all the way to the car.  It’s funny to me how different boys look in middle school - some tall and some small but it’s obvious that even the ones you are looking up at like you and they will soon be looking up to you, no matter how tall they are.  

I have watched you become more responsible and I know that I can depend on you to remember everything I forget.  You know the rules and make sure that your sister follows them, even if she’s not happy about it.  You are good to her, even if you pinch her and yell, “KAAAATE!” at the top of your lungs when she annoys you.  You have a phone now and I like you having it just as much as you do because I can text you and call you anytime.  You make sure that I’m right where I said I would be at all times so that keeps me in check!  

We ventured to New York City this year - a place you really wanted to see.  Your eyes were wide when we walked though Times Square and you even got the pleasure of 6 hours of Mets baseball with good seats thanks to a rainout.  The city was fascinating for all of us and it was so cool to show you the city that daddy and I went to when we got married.  So much has changed but it was clear to us as we explained the story of how the towers fell a few days after we stood in them, that our lives are full of so much purpose and that your daddy and I were meant to be your parents.  We have no pictures from our first trip, so we had you take our honeymoon picture in front of the new memorial.  It’s only fitting that you and Kate would be standing with us on that same ground fifteen years later all together.  

You tried a new sport this year - cross country.  You ran with your middle school team and did really well.  It was not something you wanted to do, and maybe you did it for me, but I’m very proud of how great you did.  It was fifteen minutes of the most exciting thing I’ve ever seen.  Never once did you not look for me when you rounded the first turn and crossed the finish line, so I made sure to stand exactly where you told me so I wouldn’t have to hear it after!  I could always spot your little legs in the distance in those shorty shorts.  The best was when your shoe came off because an eighth grader ran over you and you fell.  You rounded the corner holding your shoe with your hand in the air, looking pretty put out.  Daddy and I laughed but then watched you put your shoe on, keep running, and beat your time.  Persevere is what you do.  

You have gotten pretty good with a yo-yo this year.  I’ve spent many afternoons working as you spin and whir that yo-yo in circles around the dining room table.  You can make that thing fly and spin and then come back to you like it’s some kind of puppet.  You searched you-tube for tricks and taught them all to yourself, practicing until you got it.  You’ve always done this.  Whatever you are interested in, you will practice until you perfect.  Sometimes I wish you would put that effort into those school projects like that book report on Prince, but I don’t really blame you. Even though Prince is a legend, a yo-yo is way cooler.  

You figured out the Rubik’s cube this year.  You picked up the 2x2 and worked it until you solved it then moved to the 3x3.  I can’t even figure out how your brain works but it’s something else.  You memorized those patterns and now you can do it in under minute.  You got 4 different puzzles for Christmas and solved them in two days.  I was hoping they would keep you busy a little longer.  Oh, well.  And there’s the marker flipping and the bottle flipping - I’m not sure the obsession on this but I’m not as jarred as I used to be with the bottle hits the ground with a thud. 

In this age of video games and Netflix, you still prefer to be outside.  Sometimes you just go out there for air even when it’s freezing cold.  Oh, and that dog.  He loves you the best.  I may be the one who feeds him, but we all know where his loyalty lies.  He stands at the window until you get home and when I allow his crazy self to ride in the car, he acts a complete fool until you hold him.   

The thing about you, Bailey is that you never give up.  Your stubbornness came from me but your strength comes from the Lord.  You love your family and you are a good friend.  You are sensitive and kind and caring, never forgetting to say thank you or take your dishes to the sink.  And, oh my goodness, are you funny.  As you get older and more mature, your sense of humor does too and I find myself learning more from you everyday.  If adults had half the sense that you do, the world would be a much more tolerable place.  I love seeing the world through your eyes because it looks more clear and much more real.  Bailey, you have drawn people in with your quiet, serious, and loving self.  Our friends love you like you are their own and only you could have made that happen. We love you more than you could ever know.  

Twelve is destined to prove that you can do anything.  And, if you learn that so early, your life will be better and richer.  It will also prove that my love for you has no boundaries.  You are my Joshua 1:9.  I’m proud of you big boy!  

Love, 

Mom

“Have I not commanded you?  Be strong and courageous.  Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you whereever you go.”  Joshua 1:9

What thirty-nine looks like...

Oh thirty-nine.  You are so fine.  

The more birthdays I have, the more I love them.  I think people have caught on to that because the fanfare seems to grow annually.  It’s a great time for reflection, a great time for a self-check as to who and where you are, and more importantly who you want to be.  I think back to 29, and the tiny house with the one-year old who we were trying desperately to get to sleep at night.  I lived in 1100 square feet of sippy cups and Elmo, oblivious to real problems. And then, a few days after my 29th birthday my mom was diagnosed with cancer.  The jarring and jolting reality would begin a decade of my life that in some ways would become terribly worse before it got much better, and better would sometimes only mean different.  I would question God, be angry at God, try to make deals with Him, and then eventually learn to trust Him in all circumstances, well most, because I’m human.  And He made me anyway so he already knew that part.  

Thirty-nine is certainly not old.  I’m surrounded by those who are both older and younger and in reality I think I’m the same age until they tell me how old they are and I realize that was so 15 years ago.  And when I take a closer look, they had time and cared enough to curl their hair and the wrinkles around my eyes from years of laughter aren’t really there on them.  But, I’m good, because I’ve laughed more.  And, they are sending me pictures of their sonograms and videos of their babies crawling so that’s a bonus.  We are all the same.  We all have struggles and some of those 26 and 29 year olds have it much more together than I do.  And they struggle more than I do, or at least differently.  

Somewhere along this last decade, the little boy that watched Elmo and wouldn’t go to bed is now in middle school.  I’m praying that he walks out everyday and is respectful, loves others, and loves God.  I’m praying that he has good friends and that he makes good choices.  Sometimes I’m praying that God will hold back my hand from his smart mouth or that God will grant me the patience to show him how to “find x” for the tenth time.  This was my exact prayer at about 10 pm on my birthday.  I am so fully invested in his future that I have spent the last decade pushing and encouraging and shoving his introverted little self into the uncomfortable when I just wanted to scoop him up and go home.  But, I know that one day he will find his voice and people will know how funny he is and appreciate how deeply he thinks and how fully he loves.  I know this because I used to be him.  And I do this because in another decade he will be twenty-one and the world will have him.  But, for now, if I need to reassure him at the start line before high-tailing it to the bottom of the hill to see him run, I’ll do it, because he asked me to.  And I can.   

Somewhere else along this decade, I gave birth to what I could best compare to Olaf, the happy snowman from the Frozen movie.  I named her Martha after the other most doggedly determined person I know besides myself and there is no doubt it was perfect.  God’s timing was also perfect as she had no idea how her joy helped to overshadow sorrow as I rocked her to sleep when she was a baby.  She has no idea how her busy little toddler body that would not allow me to stop gave me no choice but to put aside my problems and keep going.  She shares my love for pronto pups, jewelry, magazines, and shoes, but also for people.  She sees only the good and gives her all, but can size up reality faster than you can blink.  For my birthday she wrapped up a bracelet that she had bought with her own money, one that she insisted was for her when we were shopping one day.  She was so proud of herself and I am even more proud of that sparkly little bracelet.  Now, I didn’t make her heart that big, God did, but she teaches me to open mine up just a little more.    

At thirty-nine, what I really am is okay.  Not the kind of complacent okay because you can always improve, but the kind of comfortable-in-my-skin okay.   I am okay with the fact that it’s really hard to change my mind once it’s made up or hurry me up if I’m not ready, the brutal honesty that flies out of my mouth, and the wrinkly skin on the top of my hands that I noticed now puddles like play doh under one of those public restroom hand dryers.  The only thing that really matters is that these hands can hold a little hand when it reaches out and untie a knot it a yo-yo string at a moment’s notice.  I am okay that sometimes I can’t “people” anymore and retreat to Friday nights at home with cheap pizza.  I’m okay that I can’t pretend to like things that I don’t, like camping and Brussels sprouts, unsolicited advice, Metallica, and being cold.  And, I’m totally okay with my decision to abort dorm accommodations for the Hilton if the opportunity should arise.  

I’m okay with getting older because older means living.  Age is just a number but when you work hard for those numbers they mean a lot more.  I looked down once at a stack of medical papers with my name, birthdate, and age printed on them at thirty-three and I was told that was all I would get.  Last week, I ran a race and when I looked up my time, reality hit as I saw a “39” beside my name.  There’s just something about seeing it in print.  When I saw that the other two people that beat me were thirty, I wanted to complain about the 9-year age bracket but I bet their next decade will look nothing like mine.  Let them have that one.  

At thirty-nine, I sure don’t have it all figured out.  In fact, many times my every day life looks a lot like a reality TV show.  But, I’ve learned to hold on to what’s important.  I’ve learned that if something keeps you up at night, then it’s a good idea to do something about it because it very well might be the Holy Spirit.  I’ve learned the true meanings of hope and love and I have very tangible examples of them.  And when the conversation turns to grace, I can usually one-up that too.  I’ve learned to persevere and I see glimpses that my children are learning this too - when your shoe falls off in a race, you keep running; when third grade is hard, you press on.  I’ve learned to look at the perspective of others before I make judgements because most of the time the intent is good, it’s the execution that is poor.  I’ve learned that my kitchen table is the safest ground for discussion, laughs, and solving the world’s problems because the end result is always to turn the lights off and go to bed.  I’ve also learned that a cup of coffee and a decorating magazine can be equal to an attitude adjustment, especially if enjoyed on a patio.  

At thirty-nine I do hard things.  I still don’t want to, but I do them.  I do them and move on to the next thing, sometimes learning from it and sometimes just checking it off the list.  And sometimes buying myself some earrings because hard things deserve earrings.  

Every month, my good friends at CVS send me a little card with my chemo drugs that has funny little sayings like, “may you be happier than a bird with a french fry.”  Maybe they knew it was my birthday, because this month’s quote was from the great Mark Twain and very fittingly said, “Wrinkles merely indicate where smiles have been.”  Bring on the wrinkles.  Bring on the smiles.  Where most people are looking at forty with a side eye, I’m headed for it with a wide-eyed grin. 

One thing’s for sure, I’m going to be one heck of an old lady.  

Thirty-nine and counting....

KJ

that time I was a number...

A few months back, I got a phone call, an email, and a Facebook message all at the same time from somebody at Vanderbilt.  The sight of a 615 number on my phone can send me into a hyper-alert state, so I usually just let them leave a message.  I’m not a quick processor and even though it’s highly doubtful that they are digging through my DNA or have the capability of seeing some new tumor from 200 miles away, somehow my brain thinks that.  Turns out they just wanted my story.  Better yet, they wanted me to write it.  

My story.  

I have a story.  

January 2011, was the first time I wrote something in black and white letters for the world to see.  It was more out of necessity than anything else.  The phone calls and messages got to be too much and my introversion could not take the face to face explanation anymore so I started documenting in the sick people’s digest called Caring Bridge.  I only wrote what I was okay with my children reading one day - they needed to know that I tried.  Most of the time it was a chore for me to put some sort of positive spin on difficulty and defeat.  People read it.  They shared it and then they prayed and they encouraged.  And, I went on about my business and let everybody else formulate their thoughts of how this story was going to go down.  

Five years and almost nine months later, I am still telling this story.  It is still being written.  

The last few months have been filled with seemingly endless busy-ness as I guess life overall just is.  Summer is basically a hamster wheel that never really stops spinning and then rolls right into the start of a new school year.  The beginning of school is always a little rocky, this one in particular because middle school.  It apparently brings on a whole set of emotions that range from excitability to fear to melt down in the span of an hour - here we go!  Smack-dab in the middle of this chaos was scan week.  Impeccable timing some might say, but cancer doesn’t really fit into anyone’s schedule.  There is nothing like a group of medical professionals viewing your insides looking for traces of tumor growth to give you some clarity on life.  

In short, my scans are fine.  Crystal clear.  It actually reads, “no evidence of metastatic disease” because I just read it myself to be sure.  My blood is fine too.  The leukemia cells can’t really be found even at the smallest molecular level so that box of cancer-fighting gold that’s delivered on my doorstep every month is doing it’s job.  This, my friends, is amazing.  And, now I have even more evidence to prove that it is. Physical and numerical in the form of charts, graphs, and percentages.  

I met with my new doctor, Dr. Johnson, who I endearingly refer to in my head as Bill Nye the Science Guy.  We are not the same but kind of.  He is numbers and science trying to stop tumor growth.  I am a mother, trying to make all of the practices and meetings, work, and foster healthy social and emotional growth in kids.  Now, “Bill” and I go way back - on paper and in a lab at least, because he got the pleasure of studying my case from the beginning and analyzing my tumors probably before he met the actual me, bless his heart.   I know this because he told me once about all of my “mutations.”  So we sat in the clinic the other day and discussed scans, new studies that were out, and the effectiveness of these new drugs.  He asked me if I had read the recent five year results of the study I was on.  I replied with a simple “no,” but in my head I was thinking of how when those results came out, I was probably sitting at the baseball park, or running carpool to dance lessons and maybe slightly embarrassed that I didn’t even know the results came out.  In summary, the drug that I was on had about a 30% response rate for what’s called progression free survival.  So, it works in about 1/3 of people who don’t grow new cancer while they are on it.  Not me.  I’m not even in the 1/3 because I grew a big fat spinal tumor while I was on it. Pretty sure they didn’t measure that.  

It took me a few days but I decided to look up those study results and read them for myself.  I did so on Saturday morning while I was making scrambled eggs for my kids.  So, I’m standing there in the kitchen trying to make sense of it all and the truth is that it doesn’t make sense. Now, I’m not a numbers person.  I can’t even do a spreadsheet.  They give me anxiety with the cells and rows and whatnot.  I was standing there stirring eggs and reading numbers that basically accounted for my life.  It is just hard to wrap my mind around it.  I came down to the side-effects graph and there’s stuff listed like nausea, and rash, and then there’s this one tiny fraction of 1/17 that contracted another “neoplasm” (Fancy Nancy for cancer) called chronic myeloid leukemia.  So there I am.  I am a number.  A single number in a graph on a chart in a study.

What actually came to my mind when I was reading this is the verse, Luke 12:7 - “Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered.  Don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.”  When I was a child I used to think a lot about that verse as I brushed my hair because clearly I had a very literal sense of it’s meaning.  But, now it seemed crystal clear.  God knows me.  I matter.  He not only knows how much hair I have, don’t have, and how many are gray, but he values me enough to allow me to open and close so many doors to lead to a clinical research study, to lead to another major cancer, to lead to a chart-full of data that I would read years later while standing in my kitchen and it would shout my worth to Him in black and white and leave my crying in my kid’s eggs. 

What that number also doesn’t say is that I am very much alive.  I am very much walking around and shuffling my kids here and there to give them the best life possible, all the while planning in my head if that this scan is not what I hope, how I will schedule cancer treatment with church activities, play practice, cross country, dance, baseball, and homework.  What it also doesn’t say is what kind of life cancer has taught me to live fully and completely and in four month increments of time.  What kind of responsibility defying odds has brought for me.  What kind of perspective on life I have been given, what kind of empathy I have for those who struggle.  I spend time in prayer for friends and strangers who have cancer and are fighting because I know the fight.  I attend a funeral of a little boy who I grew to love and who possibly left this earth because “his body could no longer contain his spirit”  all the while thinking how hard I’ve tried to hold onto every aspect of my children’s lives and cannot fathom how these parents will go on.  I comfort my middle schooler, holding back laughter, because change is hard and he actually exclaims with dramatic flair as I shove him out of the car on the first day, “I’m going to die!”  I encourage my daughter and she tries out for the school play but remind her that it’s just a play.  I hold them tight, I put my fingers through their reddish hair and love how their lanky legs peek further under their shorts as they grow.  

I fully know that I am not exempt from the stuff of life but have to keep my eye on the bigger picture.  On the very same day that I spent 6 hours driving and 3 hours in a cold sterile machine with an IV in my arm, I also spent half of what my car was worth on repairs, drove from a cancer clinic directly to a third grade curriculum meeting, picked my son up from cross country, and went to two different office supply stores to find a much needed locker shelf for my 6th grader before going through the Chick-fil-A drive through for dinner at 9:00.  I had to do none of this really.  I could have declared myself finished for the day and gone to bed, but in a day where I control nothing, this craziness gave me a little control.  And, quite simply, I can.  There was a time when people sent me pictures of my children reading at school because I couldn’t be there to see them so now that I can, I will.  It doesn’t stop me from being annoyed at the lady in curriculum night with the big PTA letters on her shirt on asking if she has to pay a workbook fee for our free and fabulous public school, or the other lady asking how her child will be honored if he makes straight A’s.  Instead it causes me to think about what I want for my two children who to the world are pretty average and my answer is really just happy and kind.  

And that story?  Well, I wrote the part that has been written for Vanderbilt because they asked me to, realizing later that I wrote it just as much for myself.  I deliberated over it for weeks because it’s a lot for 1700 words. I even left out the third cancer because sometimes too much is just too much, and then sent it to a friend to edit for me.  Vanderbilt sent a fancy photographer with real equipment to my house last spring.  We tried to look our best and clean up our act around here for at least that hour.  The article came out and was published on social media and in their magazine.  We watched as it was liked and shared and people commented.  Strangers commented on how it gave them hope, and gave God the credit.  Exactly what I had hoped would happen. 

I was back in that cancer clinic the other day that I’ve walked into and out of so many times. Some of them broken, full of cancer, full of defeat, searching for joy, searching for hope, some of them not walking at all, some of them in disbelief that the diseases I’m fighting are no longer there.  And this day, I walked out holding that magazine, with my smiling face on a full page, playing in a sandbox.  No sign of cancer in my body.  I just can’t help but laugh.  Who would have ever guessed this is where it would go?  So, what do you do with that?  Well, you continue life with perspective, you eat lunch with your best friend, and you drive through Dairy Queen for a blizzard on the way home so you can pull in the driveway in time to pick up your kid from practice.  You sing a few verses of “Great is Thy Faithfulness” because it is.  His mercies are new every day.  Even if the day hadn’t been this way, He is still faithful.   

As I toasted Stephen to a good day with that Oreo Blizzard, his watch slid down and  I saw the tattoo - my name and then names of our kids in a circle around his wrist.  He didn’t have to tattoo it on his arm for me to know that I married a man who’s story was written to collide with mine and complete me as a person, to write our story together.  As sure as that tattoo on his wrist, he intends to keep his little circle of people in tact and together.  It’s a physical reminder of his love that came out of what was the absolute pit of our lives.  No doubt that my story is still being written, as all of ours are.  God writes our stories in phases of our lives and He counts the numbers of hairs on our heads.  He doesn’t reveal what is to come because all of it is in His timing.  Cancer is not what I wanted.  It wasn’t in my plan.  It was in His.  It has taught me patience, empathy, kindness, and perseverance, how to love more deeply and fully.  

I have no idea what is yet to be written, none of us do, but if our lives end because our bodies can no longer contain our spirits, the world will be a much better place. 

“Great is Thy faithfulness! 

Great is Thy faithfulness! 

Morning by morning new mercies I see;

All I have needed Thy hand hath provided - 

Great is Thy faithfulness,

Lord, unto me!”

Jesus. Science. Grace. 

Love, 

Kimberly 

eight is great!

Dear my Martha Kate, 

Today you are eight!  And, let me tell you, you make eight look really great!  It has been such a fun year of watching you grow.  You lost a lot of teeth this year (six!), mostly all at the same time, so for a while you couldn’t eat corn or apples, and whistling was a little tricky.  Now that your two big front teeth are in, sometimes you look so grown up!  Your personality has not stopped growing either.  You are a busy bouncing ball of sunshine.  You love to play outside and love to swing - the higher the better.  You like to climb to the top of the fort and swing from the rope to jump on the swing.  

You pick every flower, even if it’s a weed and never leave a dandelion unblown.  They are all beautiful in your eyes and you have made me see how beautiful they are too.  Most of them you give to me and I put in a vase but sometimes when I clean out my car, I find some little wilty ones in the cupholder and I think about you.  

Music makes you so happy.  We love watching you belt it out in the rearview mirror and listening to you sing when daddy plays the guitar.  You like all kinds - pop songs, country songs, daddy’s 80’s hair band songs, church songs, and you know all the words after you hear it one time.  You asked for a microphone for Christmas and sang for a solid hour while dancing on the kitchen chairs on Christmas morning.  You sang your first little solo in church this year, “This Little Light of Mine.”  It was perfect for you because we watch your little light shine all the time.  Your G-Daddy even built you a stage for your room and made it extra big so you wouldn’t fall off if the music made you move a lot. 

Your creative little mind never stops turning.  You make things and paint things and draw things constantly.  You came home from school with a Kleenex box and turned it into a guitar.  I am always looking for my stapler or my tape but it is usually gone because you have used it all with your creations.  That’s ok, I can just buy more tape!  You also like to write stories and song lyrics, and they are really good because you also draw pictures to go with them.  You love to make cards because you are so thoughtful.  I have them on little pieces of paper all over the house and they remind me of how deeply you love and how giving you are.  I love how you always make my hair look extra good in your drawings.  You are even giving to your brother and bought him a gift with your own money for his birthday.  He’s lucky to have you.  

You wrote this about yourself! "
"I also love to color and love life."

We never thought you were the athletic type, but you tried soccer this year and you were really fast!  It was really exciting to watch you fly across that field and score goals.  I think you were excited too - almost as excited as you were about the pink cleats you got to wear.  You definitely have your own sense of fashion and the soccer field proved to be no exception.  

You have loved school this year, mostly because you have learned to read really well.   You love books and most nights after you go to sleep, I come in and move all of the books off of your bed.  I enjoy reviewing your graded papers with you because you always have a good explanation for your answers, like when you wrote, “slippery” for how an object would move more easily and went on to demonstrate how if you poured sunscreen on the floor, the object would slide.  I made perfect sense to me, but school sometimes likes for you to get the answers from the paragraph instead of making up your own.  You also got a little worried about testing this year because you might not be able to out of your seat to change pencils or walk around, but the extra recess and snacks made it better.  You teach me not to take things in life so seriously and to look for the positive when you have to do hard things.  

You are also my good helper.  You are never far from my side, so you just help me with my work.  You also help me find my keys and help me to remember the snacks when we go on a trip.  I love to hear your little voice chattering away when I’m holding your hand and we are walking together.  You are overflowing with ideas and questions.  I try to answer them all because I know that’s how you learn.  Last night, we looked at the pictures from when you were born and you loved hearing stories of what you were like as a baby.  You were so tiny and feisty and so loved.  That has not changed.  

Martha Kate, you bring us such joy!  Your free spirit is so contagious and you make people around you so happy - that is such a gift!  There is so much love and life in your little forty pound body that it’s hard to contain sometimes.  It is a pleasure to watch you grow.  You are a girl with purpose and an opinion who is not afraid to make it known.  I admire your contentment and your confidence.  

You are eight.  You are great. 

I love you so very much!

Mommy

there's always donuts...

After school yesterday, I took the kids to Kroger to choose Mother’s Day cards.  After six years, it’s still tough for me to read through cards and not pick out one for my own mother, so I’m glad they can read and choose for themselves.  The compromise is a little tough when one is asking where the inappropriate cards are and the other is mesmerized by the pink glitter pop-up ones, but they moved on after being distracted by the toys and the discovery of POP TOOBS - those plastic accordion things you pull apart and they make a loud noise.  I shared my memory of how they once came in McDonald’s Happy Meals and they preceded to discover that the faster you pull the louder it gets.  So there they were whooping it up and acting like fools in the card isle while all the women were choosing sentiments for their moms.  I suddenly felt really good about where I am in life.  I soaked up their joy for a moment before I moved them onto the donut display because that’s what my mom would have done.  Let them be kids.  

Everyday I kiss them goodbye and watch them walk out the door with their backpacks.  Everyday they are a little bigger, a little older, and have a tiny bit more life experience.  Sometimes I pull them back in, hug them once more and put their faces in my hands just to take in their freckles and eyelashes.  They are growing.  This is exactly what I wanted to see.  They are lovely humans with spunk and humor and personality.   Sometime last week, I realized that I have moved from kissing boo-boos and hand holding to nurturing souls and comforting spirits.  There is always the one mean kid who  looks for someone else’s insecurities and goes after them, causing tears and crushing confidence.  There are the girls who aren’t inclusive, hurting feelings and breaking hearts.  There are the teams they won’t make, the goals they won’t score.  There are the choices they will make and the consequences that may have to come.  I know that the punk kid will grow up to be the obnoxious adult but it’s hard for an eleven year old to see that trajectory.  Kroger donuts won’t always fix it but it won’t stop me from trying.  

I hear my mother’s voice over and over as I mother my own children. She’s laughing when my girl comes downstairs in heels and a fairy dress to go swing because she thinks it will make her fly.  She’s agreeing with me that it’s not fair because he tried really hard and wants it more than the other kids.  She’s reminding me how many scraps of paper she used to pick up in my room when I’m picking confetti out of the carpet.  She’s reminding me to let them figure it out, even though it’s hard to watch.  She’s telling me that she knew they could do it when I doubted. I think how she didn’t put up with anybody’s mess, how she only needed to give us a look to make us straighten up, and how she beamed with pride at anything we accomplished.  The things she taught me are engrained in my being and not only do I hear her, I am so much her. 

Teaching was her career, but also her life.  A friend of my mom’s gave me some of her school papers a while back.  I sat and read through them - articles of her students that were recognized, her teacher evaluations, things she had written in her perfect cursive writing, and some of my report cards and grades interspersed.  I stopped on the plastic covered report for “Teacher of the Year.”  It was from 1993 and there was a picture of her on the front with big triangle hair wearing a lace collared puffy sleeve dress.  The whole thing was typed by hand on a typewriter, no less.  (The typewriter came out in my house when it was something important or “official.”  There was a bottle of white-out really handy and she reminded me over and over how she nearly failed typing in high school as she pecked away at the keys, uttering a “shoot!” here and there.)  There was no doubt hours of work in this, worthy of the report cover.  It listed her accomplishments, her family life, and then there was a page and a half of her teaching philosophy which was founded on three basic principles - consistency, honesty, and love.  

Some of my favorite things she said were, “We need to show children it’s not where you start, but where you finish that counts,” and “We need to follow through with what we promise.”  By reading this I confirmed that a) her brilliance would never be overshadowed by her 90‘s hairdo and b) my brother and I had basically spent our entire childhood inside the walls of an elementary school classroom without knowing it.  She figured if it worked at school, it would work at home or vice versa and she was probably too tired for another strategy.   

Motherhood is not what anyone expects. I was so disappointed in the “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” book that I read to about the seventh month and donated it to Goodwill.  I certainly did not expect that five years into this gig, I would figure out how to simultaneously survive and mother some toddlers.  

What you can expect as a mother is to fall completely and hopelessly in love with small humans.  You can expect to feel what they are feeling.  You can expect to envision yourself walking out to collect him from the pitcher’s mound but you grip your fingers to the seat.  You can expect find yourself mad over the money you spent on dance lessons until she puts on the costume and her whole being is transformed.  You can expect to find joy in the first frogs of the season and eating tiny sandwiches on the floor at her tea party.  You can expect to trial and error and second guess your way through eighteen years and hope that end the end you end up with an adult who loves God and loves people. You can expect to rise up and will yourself to live for the sake of their futures.  You can expect that at the end of the day you will fall back on honesty, consistency, and love.  And, when all else fails, you can expect that Kroger will have donuts.    

Happy Mother’s Day!  

kj