Stuck Between

It's December.

• 26 months ago my mom moved from my (and her) childhood home in Hawaii to a retirement and assisted living complex down the street from me in Virginia. 
• 3 years ago my husband and I had our youngest child.  
• 3.5 years ago my mom was diagnosed with dementia.  
• 6 years ago our first baby was born.
• 7 years ago it became clear something was going on with my mom's cognition.  
• 8 years ago we moved to Virginia
• 33 years ago I was born to a bad ass mom who raised me as a single parent and gave me an amazing life. 

I'm often referred to as sandwiched.  I'm in between caring for my sick parent and raising my little kids.  My sandwich is a little more of a panini... I am smashed in.  I have a 6 year old, an *almost* 4 year old, I am a full time lay minister at a large church, and I have a mom with dementia.  Most people in the sandwich generation have teenagers and elderly parents.  I have neither.  You could call me advanced.

This is not what I imagined 33 looking like.  

Some of you are reading this because you love my mama.  She was the best friend you could ask for.  Loyal as the day is long, funny as shit, and an amazing baker.  

Some of you are reading this because you love me and take really good care of me.  I have inherited my mom's gift of surrounding myself with amazing people.  I did not inherit her wit but I can bake a mean chocolate chip cookie.

Some of you are reading this because no one tells you how the hell you are supposed to do this!  Spoiler alert:  I have no damn clue but come on down for some solidarity and swears.

Some of you are reading this because my mom was the best story teller there is and you think I'm the crazy daughter who has locked her mom up behind bars and told her she's sick when there is nothing wrong with her.  I appreciate how much you love my mom and that you think I'm so clever... sadly, I'm not, she really is sick, and her assisted living community is nicer than any hotel I've ever stayed in.  Thanks for fiercely believing my mom.  You are welcome to come on down anytime to have coffee with her in her normal spot each morning in the coffee shop, go on an afternoon stroll with her around the swanky subdivision, and pet her dog.  Having a friend as young as my mom (currently 67) with dementia is earth-shattering and hard.  I would want me to be the bad guy, too, and for my friend to be healthy.  I wish that was the truth.

The past few months have been extra rough.  Mom has had a big drop in cognition that we were hoping was due to an infection or some other medically fixable reason.  She has the great care and patient and attentive doctors who went down every road with me but it seems that this is just one more step in this shitty disease.

The great news is: mom is happy.  She laughs and jokes and the fact that her short term memory is completely gone means that even after one of those heart wrenching moments of confusion, she is able to move on and enjoy her day.

Writing has always been my safe space, my therapy, my release.  I am at the point in this disease where I need a lot of that.  I have lost my mom while she is still right in-front of me.  I want to keep everyone up to date but there are so many of you and the act of sharing the details of her decline make me ill.  Just typing this now makes stomach acid creep into my throat but I know I need to do it.  I know many of you need to hear it.

Caretaking is not only a lonely place but a vulnerable one.  I have a wildly supportive husband and friends.  My goal is to give my mom the most dignity possible and the fullest life attainable with this disease which means I live in an alternate world.  HER world, a constantly shifting and fluid place.  There are stories of times that never existed but in her mind are more real than any past we shared.  The past is mine to hold now, mine to remember.  Those stories are not for my mom anymore... her world is her truth and we do everything we can not to shatter it.  Shattering her reality destroys her.  Some days I have a gaggle of brothers, other days I have children much older than my own, and some days I am just a nice woman that takes my mom to Target.

This sandwiched life, it's damn painful and hard but it's also teaching me more about grace and living than I thought imaginable.

I am gaining some major ninja skills.  Last week I stealth removed my mom's entire wardrobe that didn't fit (can you imagine gaining weight -- not remembering -- and putting on clothes that used to fit and are now too small EVERY DAY ... it's basically my hell) and replaced it with a completely new wardrobe mimicking her old that I scoured the Internet looking for.

I am gaining the amazing skill of letting shit go.  Don't think I'm a good daughter but don't know me... let that shit go.  Expectations of my adult life with my mom (wine on the porch, phone calls about parenting, week long vacations with my husband while my mom took care of my kids)... I'm letting that shit go.

All I have is now.  A mom that loves me deeply even if she can't always show it.  Kids that love my mom better than the rest of us can hope to.  And the promise that even though today is the best day we have left I get the privilege of being my mom's person.

So here I am, sandwiched in.  Welcome to my life.  

McKellar's Eulogy: One of Our Own.

This is the last thing I ever thought I would be doing… but here we are.  

I have been McKellar’s youth minister for the past 4 years.  I am a better minister, mom, and human because of what we have shared.  McKellar is the kind of person you meet and are changed by… that is evident by you all… here… missing him.  But before I even touch on the man he was and the ways he made this world better I have to address the thing we all don’t want to think about and some of you may be hoping I ignore.  McKellar and I stood firmly on the side of Mumford & Sons and not leaving things unsaid.  

I met McKellar when he was deep in the pit of depression.  His family knew he needed connection and he was desperate for it. He wanted nothing more than to be well.  He was brave and entered our youth community to quickly become a pillar of joy, unity, and transparency.  He openly shared about his battles with depression and anxiety making this a safe place for others to share their own struggles.  McKellar died because of an illness.  He fought it, his family actively fighting alongside him, giving him every possible treatment and support.  Just as many lose their life to cancer and heart disease, McKellar lost his life to mental illness.  This tragic loss of a wonderful soul falls on no one.  There is no blame, there is no condemnation, there is only grief over the loss of a son, brother, grandson, and friend and the peace in knowing that in Christ there is no more darkness and that McKellar has found the wholeness he has always longed for.

To know McKellar was to love him.  The outpouring of love and support that has been given to McKellar’s parents, Scott & Amy, step-parents, Beth & Kerry, siblings, Will, Claire, & Luke, grandmothers, Anne, Carolyn & Joel and the rest of his loving family... has been staggering.  

McKellar loved his family above all else.  

I had never met a student who not only loved but liked and respected his parents as much as McKellar.  

Last year when Amy was having health issues McKellar wanted to care for his mom.  Always her protector and baby, McKellar would not leave her side.  To spend time with them together was to know the bond they shared.  It was magical.  McKellar gave Amy the gift of her true calling… motherhood and she gave him her ability to love people without limitations.  At some point in high school McKellar and I were talking about parties.  They were NOT his thing but because of his stupid good looks and perfect hair many thought it would be (he broke stereotypes left and right).  He would get so frustrated at the ways people tried to box him in… he told me, “I have zero interest in partying… why would I stay up late and be hungover when I could go to bed early and wake up to fish or hunt with my dad”.  Scott was his hero.  Scott’s dedication to his children shines through them.  McKellar was so proud of who his dad was and longed to grow up to be like him.  Their most precious moments were shared in the quiet of a deer stand and fishing on the water.   Being a big brother to Will & Claire gave him immense pride.  He constantly talked about how much ‘cooler’ they were than him and how gifted they were in everything they did.  He was beyond excited to get to drive them to school his senior year and felt responsible for protecting them from basically everything.  Luke was his joy.  It brought him closer to Beth and sealed the bond that they shared.  Always the big brother, he would play guitar for Luke as he was getting ready for bed and invariably Luke would want to stay up and play with him.  If you were near McKellar and he had his phone you saw the most recent picture or video of Luke.

When I met McKellar his grandfather, Chuck, was already in the throws of Alzheimer’s.  Alongside his Mimi, McKellar cared for him, sleeping next to him on an air mattress on hard nights and in his last hours on earth playing guitar for him as he left his earthly body.  Mimi and McKellar were a team, snarky and silly and overflowing with love for each other.  When it was time to pick a college CNU was the only one on his list.  He was excited to live near the ocean, his grandmother Cee Cee, and possibly commandeer her boat as often as possible.  Cee Cee was one of the insiders who knew the big secret McKellar kept covered by that ridiculous hair… he was a super nerd.  At 10 he took a trip with her to Colorado and Utah to dig for dinosaur bones and study cave paintings.  

Late elementary school was difficult for McKellar and he felt like he didn’t have a place or friends.  When he started at the Field School everything changed.  He found a place that nourished his kind heart and encouraged his unique soul.  He also found guitar.  The years that McKellar struggled socially colored how he viewed the world and how he wanted to interact with it.

When we got McKellar here at COOS he was a sophomore at Albemarle.  He had hair that hid his face and was hungry for what he was being fed here… belonging.  Acceptance.  Christ.  

This week Amy found a note McKellar wrote after Chuck died.  In it he wrote:

I went through life kinda lost for a while not really knowing what to believe when my mom talked to me about joining the youth group at this church. I was a little scared at first because I didn't really know too many people besides Ailish and this weird kid named Matt that  I went to elementary school with. But I went anyway.

It's the best thing I've ever done. In the youth group I found friends and discovered this guy my mom had brought me up to know. Having God in my life has been the most tremendous thing in the world. I think the biggest effect having God as part of my life is realizing that he has a plan for me. How awesome is that? This guy, who loves me with all his heart, has set up my life, and has laid out this beautiful, terrifying, confusing plan.

He and I often came back to the verse from 1 Samuel 16:7 that says, “The Lord does not look at the things people look at.  People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.”  The struggles McKellar experienced in school early on changed his life. He saw every person-- no matter their age, gender, sexuality, social status, or creed as a worthy soul to know and celebrate.  As a senior McKellar choose to always sit with the 6th graders at our Wednesday night gatherings.  While older kids were vying for his attention (many because they were not so secretly in love with him) he could care less.  He took a vested interest in the lives of the kids that no one else saw.  He made them feel worthy and wonderful and was Christ to them.  He saw their hearts.  We met more than once to discuss a major issue he was having socially… he could not understand why people who wouldn’t give him the time of day as an outcast tween now wanted to buddy up to him. We would joke that he needed a life size cutout of himself as a 6th grader and if people wanted to be around that kid they could be his friend.  A WW2 history buff and passionate musician McKellar didn’t let the world tell him who to be.  He was a creation of God, unique and wonderful.

I have shared some of the most pivotal moments of my own life with McKellar.  Two and a half years ago my friend Jenn died of ALS.  Her son Chris and daughter Kate were sledding with the Cox Kids when I got the call to get them home.   Through a series of mishaps with cell phones and battery life the only person I could get on the phone was McKellar.  He heard my voice and I didn’t even have to say the words.  He got those kids home. Later that night McKellar joined us in the Durant home as we mourned the loss of a mother, wife, and friend.  Not many 16 year olds can show up for other people in the way McKellar did.  When my own mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, the disease that took his grandfather, McKellar reached out to remind me that I was not alone.  

McKellar met people where they were.

As he struggled with his own depression and anxiety he fought hard and showed up.  He loved people well and was well loved.  He didn’t feel isolated and alone.  He didn’t feel unlovable or unworthy.  His love of Christ showed through all he did.  I am friends with Mr. Bunin, one of McKellar’s teachers from AHS.  Whenever we would speak about him we would come back to the same spot:  we hoped that someday we could raise sons like McKellar.  There is still not a truer statement.  

A week ago, none of us would have predicted we would be here.  We are here because McKellar had the sometimes fatal disease of depression.  Depression turns everything upside down.  It changes how we think and turns rational thoughts backwards.  We want desperately for McKellar’s death to make sense but because of the very nature of depression it won’t.  We want a rational answer to a question there is no rational answer for.  You have the choice to live with that or to make things up.  You may be thinking of what you left unsaid or the things you wish you’d done.  Whatever you are making up… it’s not the answer.  There is no rational answer.  McKellar had a disease that is sometimes fatal.  

What we do know is that McKellar lived a life battling this sometimes fatal disease and in the process of living that life changed each of us.  McKellar was Christ in this brutal and beautiful world (brutiful as Glennon Doyle says).  He loved well.  He encouraged and supported.  He made music and laughed in a way many can only dream to.  

He taught many of us what it means to see as God sees… to look at other’s hearts.

As one of God’s beloved children McKellar was given some irrevocable promises:

• He would never be alone; neither depth nor height nor anything else in all creation would separate him from the love of God.  He was not alone at his death and is not alone now.
• He will be loved forever… no matter what… no exceptions
• He is promised everlasting life.  Jesus has prepared a place for McKellar

This day is a whole mess of brutiful.  The life McKellar lived was rich and full and meaningful.  His death leaves a giant hole and unanswerable questions.  Ultimately, we know that God is the source of all healing.  God can take the worst, the most painful, and this takes the cake on that, and find ways for love and light to shine through.  The God of redemption is at work, even now, in this darkness, to bring hope to Her people.  

I pray the God of love continues in us the radical work McKellar did in his life: meeting, affirming, and loving people as the are --where they are-- and through this darkness that transformative love breaks through.  

Amen.  

Aubrey Grace, you are F I V E

My darling girl,

Today you turned five.  I laid in bed with you this morning as we watched the time tick by to your exact moment of birth, 6:40 am.  Your sweet self made me WAIT to wake up your brother so you could walk into his room, wake him up, hand him his toothbrush in his crib, and create a song about it being your birthday.

We met you at school later on to eat lunch with you and deliver cupcakes and you smiled and ate and were all kinds of Kindergarten and FIVE.  I looked around the room to see so many children that you have known and loved for years that make up your elementary school class.  Neighbors and ballet friends and preschool buddies and church people.  It reminded me of what it was like for me growing up in a small town (that is no longer such a small town) and how being surrounded by that much love seems normal until you leave it.

Last night you prayed for Dad, Mom, Deacon, Dixie, and your friends and your friends and your friends.  Because saying it once wouldn't cover all of them.

Hold tight to that, girl.  Cling to it.  YOU ARE SO LOVED.

This past year has brought on change and transition and tears and joy. At each turn you responded with an open heart and the assumption that everything was okay.  I am in awe of the ways you feel safe in this world ... I'm also jealous of it.

A few months ago we were praying before bed and I prayed all that I normally do with you, that you grown in mind body and spirit... I thanked God for the girl you are, always cautious of my words and that I am focusing on your insides.  You interjected, "thank you God for making me so pretty."

Well there it is.

My own fears about believing in yourself and being more than a body can be so extreme that I forgot that there is good in knowing your beauty.  You are my mini-me, and when I see your outward beauty it forces me to recognize my own.

I grew up different from you, my fierce girl.  I was loud and scared. I was loud because I was scared. I was overweight and different and alone.  That me still exists so close to my skin that I am aware of it at all the best and worst moments.  I can taste what it felt like to be who I was and it is sometimes nearer to me than my true self.




Each day our goal is to let you be as true to you as possible.
Feel all.  the.  things.
Do all.  the.  things.
Say all.  the.  things.
We just don't want you to need to BE all the things, only the ones that speak to your heart.

You are silly and kind and compassionate.  You've already become every hope we had for you.  If you are those things we really don't care about the rest.  Ms. Jayme told me that the other day you helped a student who struggles in PE.  She was asked to do something that was beyond her capabilities and instead of watch her struggle you jumped in and walked alongside her helping her succeed.

All the pride.

That is all you need in life, my girl.  To be kind. Honestly, nothing else matters. (I am sure I will act like other stuff does but it's my mom job to do that: i.e. homework, a job, brushing your teeth).

This year was amazing for you.  You discovered the awesome reality of living in our neighborhood and all the adventure and fun that holds.  We went on our first ever family vacation, you did ballet, and went to music festivals, and grew and grew and grew.


You are a WHOLE HAND now.  You are definitely a whole person.  You made us a family when you were born and you glue us together on our worst and best days.

I love you... more, my sweet girl.

Mama

Today Hurts

Today hurts.  In a deep, unfathomable way that I was not prepared for.

Today hurts because I went to an all-girls school in the 7th grade that enforced my innate knowledge that I could achieve anything. I have classmates changing this world; morticians, lawyers, musicians, moms, cancer survivors, and teachers.  Although an Episcopal school I graduated the only Episcopalian in my class. An understanding of different religions and traditions was celebrated whenever possible.  I began a beautiful and complex walk with the Trinity and was given a chance to experience and be present for the joy that other faith traditions embody.  Many girls I graduated with were first generation immigrants to this country who held the weight of the world on their shoulders as their families had left everything and everyone to give them the gift of being an American.   As a woman and Believer... today hurts.

Today hurts because 14 years ago I left my bubble of life on an island to go to a university that prided itself on 'educating the people the world needs most'.   While I was prepared for culture shock and ready to fight battles with the 'good old boys' what I encountered was humbling.  Boys raised on deer hunting, Sunday mass, and big trucks showed up for me my freshman year when I performed The Moaner in the Vagina Monologues and had an orgasm on stage.  They pulled those hats down real low and stared at their shoes but damn if they didn't stay, hug me afterwards, and inform me they were traumatized but proud of me.  As a person who has stood witness to kind, powerful, and supportive men... today hurts.

Today hurts because I have sat in dorm rooms, across Panera tables, and in sanctuaries as people of God have shared with me their sexual orientation and I have stood witness to the power that resides in being your true self.  I have held space, cried, and prayed with a family as their child walked the treacherous road of transitioning in high school while watching as she blossomed into the child of God she is with the support of a whole parish.  I have watched friends find partners, marry, and have children.  As an ally and friend... today hurts.

Today hurts because I am a survivor of sexual assault.  Those words spewed so freely from my president-elect's mouth cause the fear, pain, and anxiety that is controlled by therapy and support to rise up.  I have sat in countless hospital rooms with women and men who have been assaulted and held hands, wiped tears, and listened as they work to claim their story and take one step forward.  I have served as an advocate as survivors process their trauma in the ER and as they contemplate suicide on a hotline.  I have seen the power in reclaiming our bodies and owning our story.  As someone with a pussy and a story... today hurts.

Today hurts because I have taught in public classrooms, churches, and in my home that kindness counts.  That 'not being an asshole' is actually the best rule of life.  That in the end, the way we treat each other matters more than anything else in the world.  As an minister, educator, and mom... today hurts.

As we sit in the reality that is today I just needed to name the ways this is not what I wanted for the place I call home.  The people I call family.  The humans who call me mom.

And this hurt... this is coming from a white woman of privilege.  I am angry and afraid but can only be witness to the fear and anger of the people I love who are LGBT, Muslim, immigrants, people of color, disabled, and in the armed forces.  I see you.  I am not you but I am with you.

This is not what I wanted for you.  Or me.

We are better than this.

We belong to each other.

What it's like to have a mom with dementia.

I can not count the number of times I have heard, "your mom is so proud of you."

I didn't let it sink in enough.

I'm angry at myself for that.  I wish I had listened and known and felt the weight of that.  I wish I had let it root deeper in my soul.  

My mom gave herself completely to me.  I had the best education, the most amazing travels, the tastiest birthday cakes.  I knew when I messed up but I always also knew I was loved.

Then... dementia.

Dementia is a thief and a liar and a pretty serious asshole.  

Right as I became a mother my own began to slip away.

I was 27 when I knew something was really wrong... most clearly when she flew back to her home hours before I gave birth to my first baby, missing it.

I was 30 when she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, after years of long distance concern, hours upon hours of testing and countless appointments with the top neurologists of the state.

I was 32 (last Wednesday) when my mom forgot my birthday completely for the first time.  The past few years have been shaky and she has called late or sent gifts very early but this year was the first time in my life I didn't hear the words slip from her lips, I fear I never will again.  

One of her dearest friends told her it was my birthday (bless those friends) and still she wasn't able to hold that memory in her brain long enough for it to mean anything.  She has a huge clock in her house that states the month and day but seeing August 10th didn't bring anything up for her, it didn't remind her of that summer day she almost died having me or the 31 other August 10ths we've had eating cake for breakfast.  

It's just one more way I've lost my mom.  

As painful as the death of my birthday is it's the death of who I am to her that hurts most.  Being a 66 year old woman with dementia is frustrating and unfair.  Since her brain can't process that logically anymore and there is shame and pain and so many other things wrapped up in it, her deteriorating brain has made me the bad guy.  Nurses and professionals tell me it's normal.  They tell me that telling friends that it is my fault and that she doesn't have dementia and lives in a prison is normal. That it's a way to protect herself from reality.  A reality her brain can't process anymore.

She doesn't lie to hurt, she doesn't lie, she tells a story that makes sense to her.  Why would she move if it wasn't for me?  Her mind can't identify that it can't function... it's the painful reality of this disease.  She talks about wanting to go home but I know what she really wants is to go back to BEFORE.  She has her credit card and a phone and internet but has lost the ability to put it all together.  If she was able to be on her own she would have bought a ticket and moved.

Oh, how I wish she had that capacity still.  If she did, she wouldn't forget my birthday, or that I dropped her off at home two hours ago, or that we saw each other three times last week.

Instead, her brain tells her other things; that she hasn't seen me in months, that I am away on a 6 week vacation (like most youth ministers with two kids under 5 take), that I have told her horrible things about staying here till she dies, things that my mom would never believe but things that this mom has made her reality.

The moments of pain and sadness are quick and fleeting for her, often brought about by interactions with people from her past who don't understand completely, that don't yet know how to redirect her. Moments later she is off on a walk or out shopping with her friends or participating in some crazy game downstairs... but me... I don't forget it.  

I don't forget how angry she was with me for that minute.

I don't forget that there are people all over the place who think I've done a horrible thing to my mother when what I've done is keep her safe, love her, protect her, and give everything I have. They don't see where she lives.  They don't see that down the hall are practicing lawyers and researchers getting up each day and going to work. That daily there is an outing and activity, all of which she joyfully participates in.  That I've done everything in my power to give her as much independence as possible.  That we talked about all this before she progressed and it is what she wanted.

I don't forget that she almost died giving birth to me.
That she told me every night that she loved me to the moon and back.
That my life is what it is because of her.

I don't forget that no matter how much she forgets... I can remember for the both of us.  

So a few days after my birthday I took mom and AG on a girls shopping trip... because if she could remember, I am sure this is what we would have done.  She didn't know it was my way of celebrating my birthday with her, and it's okay that she didn't, because I did.  

It's Complicated: Mother's Day for mamas without their mama

It's Mother's Day.

And I'm feeling... torn.

When I was young this holiday seemed easy.  Raised by a single mom and my grandmother in a family and culture where the women were always the ones to stay, raise, work, show-up; mother's day was an easy YES.  It was brunch and heartfelt cards and gratitude.

Two years ago, after a long stretch of our strong relationship deteriorating, my mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer's.  I was relieved that my mom hadn't intentionally turned her back on me.  I was devastated that there was no going back.  We had begun the process of a long goodbye.  Although diagnosed a few months after the birth of my second baby, I began to really lose my mom during my first pregnancy.  Her erratic behavior and changed self was revealed most painfully as she told me 'she couldn't wait any longer' and got on a plane to head home just hours before I went into labor.  Unclear at the time what had happened to my over-involved and dedicated mother it was the most painful and heartbreaking moment of my life.  Alone across the ocean and country from any family, feeling abandoned and confused, I gave birth in the midst of feeling the unfathomable pain of the crumbing of my relationship with my only parent while becoming one myself.  I felt both the greatest love and the greatest emptiness I could fathom simultaneously.

There is now a limit on the time I have with my mother on this earth.  Yet, so much of her is already gone.  She still knows who I am and my children's names but her ability to mother has left her.  I walk a fine line of working to give my mom the very best care possible while ignoring the pain and bitterness in still needing a mother I will never again have but whose body stands in-front of me.

At a young age my mother taught me the power of a community of women.  Surrounded constantly by strong women as a young girl and seeing the female friendships that filled her life, I have been blessed to be surrounded by female friendships that not only sustain me but transform me.  A woman once told me that she 'couldn't stand women, they were horrible' and I was blindsided.  She is the only woman I have ever met that I struggle deeply to find compassion for and after hearing her philosophy on women it seemed clear why.

See, you, my sisters, are my kindness.  You are my heart.  You are my continual reminder of grace and redemption. You have taught me to love my body, my annoying children, and exercise.  You are the other side of the conversation that most new mamas would have with their own mother.  You fix my hair and tell me when it's time to get new clothes.  You hold my babies and discipline them.  You have fed me, celebrated me, and more times than I can ever count; cried with me.

I was afraid after leaving college that I would never make easy female friends again.  While it hasn't been easy it has happened.  And somehow, in that way God does things that don't make sense till later, almost all of them have mothers who have died.   The others have impossibly complicated relationships with their moms.  It seemed odd to me at first, this collection of women I had who had become mamas after theirs had died or whose moms didn't know how to love them in the way they needed.  Then I realized that sometimes your mom looks like your best friend.

As we walk through this day social media has been a glaring reminder of the emptiness that echoes in this Sunday.  There is a plethora of profile picture changes with beautiful people I adore and their mamas.  Yet, when I look closer, there is a clear absence of that from my dearest friends.  They may post a picture of their mama that I've seen before in a frame on a table on their wedding day.  Or there may be nothing, because it's all too painful. We are not the people that take girls trips with our moms; some because it's impossible, others because there is high possibility our therapy bills would be astronomical if we did.


We are the mamas who woke up this morning and refused to do nothing today because not being there for our kids is our most painful reality and biggest fear.  We are the mamas that texted each other with a simple 'I understand' and 'You are doing this'.  We are the mamas who desperately tried to get our children to take a picture with us because we hope someday our children will want to update their space-age social media with a picture of us all together and it won't cause them pain or heartbreak.  We pray we are raising children for which this holiday is anything but complicated.  We take extreme precaution when it comes to our health, screenings, and our words.  We are the mamas who want to do it different and the same and possibly pass over this day all together except when we get to have some quiet moments with our children who redeem it all.

In a few hours I will pick my mom up for the second time today to celebrate.  She quite possibly will not remember that we were together just a few hours ago.  I will take pictures with her that I fear will appear at her funeral and choke back tears as she opens her gifts not knowing how many more I will buy or she will open.  Then, after she is back home safe in her assisted living community I will call a girlfriend, cry, and lament the complicated ways that this day fills us up and destroys us.  The ways that motherhood is our greatest joy and mirrors our most painful losses.

Today is merely a marker of that pain.  For me it is about the loss of my mother.  For others the loss of their child or the children they were never able to bear.  For some that I love it is the reminder that the bodies they were born with that did not match their hearts or minds can be changed in many ways but never so that they can be pregnant.  For some mamas it is the pain of doing it single-handed and planning their own mother's day.  For still others it is the heartbreaking reality that a child they gave up for adoption is celebrating with another mama.  For others that there is another mama who carried their baby grieving while you receive the cards and flowers.

Sisters, you are not alone.  Today you are heavy on my heart and I am grateful for the community you are that has knit me in so closely that no matter how hard and complicated this all is, I do not fall.

Deac... you are T W O (and a 1.5 months)

Deac-man,

We have gotten to be your parents for TWO years.  I write to you and your sister on each of your birthdays, if you notice today's date it is about a month and a half since you turned two.

This is life with you... I play a lot of catch-up but it's worth it.

See, you are a handful.  In all the best ways.  You are smarter than I may want you to be, you are ridiculously active, and you want to experience all of life.  You may look just like your daddy but your heart is a mirror image of mine.  You love everything completely and often tell us who it is you adore that day.  This past week it has been our neighbor Joseph.  We have heard 'I love Joseph' at least 300 times this week.  You go full force until bedtime, which I must admit, I am grateful for at the end of each day.

This year has been a ride for mommy.  Someday you will hear about all the reasons why but right now your sweet heart just needs to know one thing... without you and your sister this last year I don't think I would have survived.  There were days you two were the only thing that got me out of bed and the only reason I felt like pushing on.  I've learned a lot about being a grown-up this year.  I've learned that life does not turn out like we hope it will.  I've learned that no one is perfect.  I've also learned that when your life hits rock bottom-- there you will find Jesus, true friends, and more strength than you knew existed inside of you.  I want to guard you from every bad thing that could ever happen but I know I can't.  What I do know is that you can survive anything, no matter how hard, because of what already lies inside of you.

This year we got to know YOU.  You became a person.  A person with thoughts, curiosities, and lots and lots of opinions. You love to be outside.  You love dirt, exploring, and hanging with the big kids.  Where you sister was always sure to stay close to us when we were in public or outdoors YOU have no concern for such things.  You are happy to run to the mailbox at the end of the street without concern for where we are.  Sometimes we get funny looks from neighbors we don't know as we allow you a pretty long leash (not a real one, although we have considered it)... they just don't understand your wild heart.  You eat dirt... lots of it.  At one point this past year I found you in the backyard with your sister eating what I thought was dirt... it was dog poop.  That didn't upset you, what made you really mad was that I forced you to come inside and wash your hands.

In October we went to Festy in Nelson County.  We felt like you were finally old enough for a weekend of camping at a music festival.  Saturday night as Brett Dennen played I thought you were with dad, dad thought you were with me, and you were actually making your way into the mob at the front of the concert stage.  We found you (thank God!) but you, my boy, are exactly that experience.  You walk straight into life.  You are unafraid of what could be and only see the joy that is possible.  

Oh... and you are funny.  I know when you are old enough to read this it will be okay to tell you: your dad and I struggle daily to discipline you because most of the naughty stuff you do makes us laugh.  So.  Hard.  

This year we have discovered you are VERY afraid of flying bugs.  Except... Peter.  The ladybug we named at dinner one night as it crawled on our dining room wall.  We named it so we wouldn't have to get up and deal with it since you usually loose you mind around such small flying monsters.  This year could just be called the year of Peter.  You talk to any ladybug (all Peter) as if they are your best friend.  You offer Peter parts of your dinner and sometimes just start crying because you can't find him.  It's mostly adorable and sometimes obnoxious. It's your compassionate heart manifested in a relationship with a ladybug.  

Watching you become a person melts me.  So much of who you are is because of your sister.  Aubrey loves you more than I knew possible.  She teaches you, plays with you, and parents you.  She leads your daily yoga practices (you two are weird). The love you two share makes me wonder how we were whole without you.  You two are like two sides to a coin.  You need each other.  You make each other better.  Part of the hard this year was moving your Tutu here from Hawaii and dealing with the crappy disease that is stealing her from us.  You and AG... you are the light in Tutu's life.  You don't know what she has forgotten, you don't know what it used to be like, you just know you love her so so much and she loves you back.  You and Tutu have created a beautiful bond.  My heart breaks knowing that someday, and I don't know how soon that will be, she will not know you.  You cry each time we drop her off at home (multiple times a week) and every-time we turn to go to school and not to get her you throw a fit.  Thank you for reminding me how to love so fully.  Thank you for making this part of her life so joyful.

Your daddy loves your Tutu lots, too.  He has done a million things this last year to make her life here good.  She hasn't always had the best experiences with men, you and your dad are a deep healing for her.  Your dad is working really hard to teach you about being a man.  He is learning a lot as he goes.  This year has been big for your dad.  He has transformed in ways I can't even explain.  Much of that is because of you, my boy.  See... when daddy looks at you he sees himself (we all do!) and he wants to give you the life he hasn't always had.  He wants to honor your unique self in ways that don't force you to conform to this world.  He wants you to dress like the princess when you want to, to play trucks in a tiara, and he wants you to FEEL.  To use your words and express your emotions and we are working hard to hear them when you do that.  You are daddy's redemption.  The best parts of him shine though you and parts of your dad I didn't even know existed light up when he is with you and your sister.  You will never know what he was like before, but this life has been hard.  Dad had to overcome and be reborn.  The world will push it's expectations on you like it has on your dad.  You will also be a tall, white, burly man someday.  At first sight people will most likely see you as macho, intimidating, and fear you.  It will be your job to use the body that God has placed you in to speak up for those other people will assume you are against.  The only things we hope you are against are injustice, cruelty, and a closed mind.

No pressure.  

You are already living large in your third year on this planet.  Today you got in some trouble for repeatedly kicking your sister and sent to time-out; you told me 'go to work, Mama' because you were just sick of my parenting you.  Too bad, my man, you can't get rid of me.  It is a lot of working parenting you.  All of it is worth it.  I pray daily that we can cultivate what is innate in you.  When you feel something, it is expressed.  If you want it, you go for it.  If no pants, a princess helmet, and dinosaur shoes are what you want to wear...  you rock it.  You color on chairs and eat dirt and dance whenever you hear music.

You make us a better family.

You are teaching me to live without fear and to love without limits.

We love you, silly boy, more than you will ever know.  Thank you for saving me this year.

I'm so proud to be your mommy.