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When I was little, my legs were short. We spent many of our weekends camping as a family, and one of our favorite ways to pass the time was to go for hikes. Inevitably, as the youngest, smallest member of our tribe, I would be the first to slow down and ask if we could go back to the travel trailer. You know, where the fruit roll-ups and cheez balls were. But my mom, always the cheerleader and optimist, wouldn’t let me go out like that. “You know what you need?” she would coax. And then in a lower tone, as if sharing a secret so tender and special only the ears of true believers could hear it, “A magic walking stick.”

We would scour the woods’ floor for the perfect fallen branch. It had to meet our specifications – not too tall, not too wide and smooth to the touch. “We’ll know when we see it,” she’d say. And we always did. And somehow, once I had that magic walking stick, my little legs, going one tiny step at a time, carried me that extra mile.

Of course now, as a mother who herself has whispered in the ears of her chicks about the mystical power of fallen branches, I understand that it was the woman walking next to me as much as it was anything else. Her belief in me. Her willingness to hang back as if our walk could go on forever if it had to, as long as we were together. Her voice. Her words. Her presence.

This past week, some chronic health issues my mom has been battling came to a head, and we found ourselves in a hospital room, just the two of us. She has persistent pain in her lower back and her right leg, with some weakness, which makes walking and standing uncomfortable, challenging and, quite frankly, dangerous. As we moved her from bed to walker, bed to bed, bed to wheelchair, I felt the weight of her burden pressing against me. I nestled my hand under her arm and coaxed, “It’s OK, Mom. We’ve got you. Nice and slow,” and I heard her voice in my own.

Sitting in a predictable, uncomfortable, mass-produced chair an arm’s length from her, disturbing daytime television in the background, I scrolled through my Instagram feed. Facebook was telling the world it was National Daughter’s Day. How appropriate. I am, in so many ways, my mother’s daughter. I have her hands, her humor and her desire to help others. Her stubbornness and grace (which is really a lack thereof) are stitched across my patchwork. I see pieces of her that became slivers of me that are now beautiful fragments of my daughters.

She kept telling me to go home, but I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else. Time could go as slow as it needed to. We were taking tiny, tiny steps toward the answers. Toward getting home.

As it happens in hospitals, hours turned into the necessary tests and the results turned into recommendations and eventually discharge. Mom was home in just over 24 hours and we all got together for our traditional every-other weekend brunch, known to us as Big Breakfast. The grandkids showered her in hugs, my sister and I brought the tough questions about care and short-term plans. When I left, I ached for the days of sticky fruit roll-ups wrapped around pointer fingers and whispers in the woods.

The rest of our Sunday was intentionally slow. I think Hank could sense my need for play rather than purpose. We didn’t clean the house, like we normally do. We putzed around a nearby nature preserve and called in dinner. Before bed, after months of prodding, Sloppy Joan finally agreed to try riding her bike without training wheels. We all stood at the top of the driveway and watched as a new confidence took over our littlest bird. Her posture was different. She commanded the two wheels and, though a little shaky, flew up and down the pavement and around the tree in the center of our cul-de-sac. Fearless. Elated.

“Slow down, honey,” Hank said, a hesitant smile crossing his face. “The best riders are the ones who have control over the bike. You don’t need to go so fast.” She nodded, not really committing to the instruction, and descended the driveway once more, involuntary expressions of joy popping out of her mouth like firecrackers.

The pace of life, the rate at which everything changes, is such a thief of serenity. I can see myself in that rusty autumn landscape like it was yesterday, leaning against my mom on one side and a tree’s enchanted limb on the other. I can smell the distant campfires, hear the dried foliage and feel the sun soaking into the fabric of my sweatshirt. It’s so close to me, and also a story I recall with the nostalgia that can only come after many years and many seasons have passed. Now, as a witness to the toll time and tension takes on a body, a body that has worked tirelessly to serve and celebrate others, it’s hard to deny just how much can transpire between walks in the woods.    

People always talk about the phases of life. How your parents care for you, support you as you care for your own children, and eventually, become the ones in need of care themselves. But as much as you try to prepare yourself for that transition from one phase to the next, you eventually realize it’s a fool’s errand. The reality doesn’t come in the subtle decline or quiet adjustments. The understanding and, ultimately acceptance, comes abruptly in a hospital room, in the nuances of a heartbreaking conversation about independence or a look in her eyes that says, I’m scared.

Before anyone asks, as many of you know my mom, she is doing fine. There’s no need to worry or send texts with question marks and exclamation points comingling. We’re figuring things out and finding a new path out of the woods. She is still one of the biggest badasses I know. Life is just changing. We find ourselves in one of those blurry clouds between how things were and how they’ll be. It’s not the first time and certainly won’t be the last, but this one has me reflecting so deeply on the times I’ve leaned on her – so many times – and also the pride she has about needing to lean on us now. It’s an interesting dance, where the partners are the same but the one who usually leads is forced to follow. At least for a little while.

Life is moving so quickly. The shape of our family is shifting. My children are growing so fast. Sometimes I feel like time is flying down the driveway and the brakes don’t work. The limbs just budding when I was a girl are my daughters’ magic walking sticks, and I’m quietly trying to find the calm hiding in the mad dash and frenzy of it all. Perhaps the only opportunity for pacification rests in the pace. One step at a time, little hiker. Just one step at a time.   

A few weeks back, at a friend’s recommendation, I started watching The World’s Toughest Race on Amazon Prime. (If you read no further, you still got something out of this post, I promise. Do yourself a favor; grab an armful of snacks and plow through it.) Riding that reality show wrap-up high, I started entertaining the notion, going so far as talking to a few people, about what it would really take to enter an eco challenge or extreme adventure race.

Really my friend Kim, who lives on the other side of the country, started it by sending a barrage of texts in all caps, exclamation points and emojis. Let’s find a race! Let’s form a team! Let’s identify our strengths in athleticism and navigation! I was right there with her, I’m not going to lie. In my mind I was casting my line for sponsors and talking myself off the ledge all women stand at when they wear spandex above the knees.

I brought it up to my husband in a casual way, sure to downplay how truly interested I was, like any smitten stalker. “I mean, it would be really expensive,” I said. “Right,” he agreed. “We’d need good bikes and gear and travel,” I went on. “Right,” he agreed. “And not to mention the training! I mean, when would I do the training?” “Uh huh,” he agreed.

He then, in his typical Hank way, found an article with the world’s top adventure races, many of which fell a realistic arm’s reach out from my most recent athletic endeavors. He was, as he does, ushering me back to safety. Being careful not to clip my wings, but gently placing light weights in the soles of my shoes to bring me back down to earth. This is where you really want to go. These are the things that won’t kill you and leave your three children motherless and in need of intensive therapy.

And I realized I was cloaked in a cape I’d worn many times before. Historically, I’d thought of it as imposter syndrome – pretending to be or envisioning myself as someone I’m really, truly not. But, my Google research tells me this, much like my illusions of being capable of participating in a 10-day race across Fiji, is not quite accurate.

Turns out, the ingredients of true imposter syndrome include heavy feelings of self-doubt and, to put it in my own terms, the paranoia that you’re being a poser. I don’t really have a lot of that going on upstairs. My disease is an innocent one. What I’m really dealing with here is more of what social psychologists call “illusory superiority.” I tend to overestimate my abilities or qualifications. Not in a braggy way necessarily, but more of a starry-eyed, floating on a cloud made out of unicorn farts kind of way. I put a little too much weight in the where-there’s-a-will-there’s-a-way bucket.

Let me give you another example. One that might be a bit more relatable for you. In my mind, I am eternally 26 years old. I know what things are cool and I’m generally in touch with the trends. But this is also, sadly, illusory superiority, a fact that becomes abundantly clear whenever I’m around, well, 26 year olds. In reality, I get pissed off when I miss CBS Sunday Morning, I’m a solid 6 o’clock dinner eater and my lower stomach area looks like an elephant’s face, the leftovers from incubating three healthy-sized chicks.

Now, let me be very clear here. This is not me doubting myself or my body. In an ulterior reality, one in which I don’t have a full time job, a house full of dependents and a running pace that sloths snicker at, could I complete a 10-day multi-discipline race? I mean, absolutely most likely. Could I do it even with all of those things? Let’s say sure. But the truth is, there are so many steps between where I’ve been and a feat that requires an energy drink sponsorship, that the sandbox is plenty big to play in without catapulting myself onto the side of a cascading waterfall in a country that I can’t even pinpoint in relation to my own. (Geography has always been a struggle.)

Similarly, I don’t mind being 37. It’s great! Let’s hear it for all my thirty-something sisters out there! I’m finding my stride [sometimes] as a mom and I give far less Fs about what others think about my decisions. I’m comfortable in my skin and my skills and my marriage. It’s cool to wrap up in that midlife duvet comforter and just chill for a while. I mean, I don’t want to be bored, by any means, or phone it in, but there’s something sweet about this chapter. Being settled and satisfied to the point where you can dabble at the weekend warrior stuff. But love it as I may, I still can’t seem to wrap my mind around the fact that I’ve had so many birthdays! I mean I watched all of the Friends characters turn 30 on the show and they seemed older then than I feel now. Right? And then add nearly a decade on top of that. There’s just no way I’m really that old. You guys, I take a fiber supplement.

Really, the rub of it all is reconciling your illusory superior (imaginary teen Olympic athlete) self with your 37-year-old, realistically aspirational, sloth-running self. I think you have to become friends with the pieces of your soul that see the stars and extend your fingertips to snatch them up, because in the end, those fantastical, far-fetched endeavors often lead to a scaled-down destination that is within your grasp. One that still pushes your limits and waters the wanderlust and appetite for an adventure, but fits within the parameters of what’s possible for you.

I’m a sucker for a story about a real life person who just gives it all up, sells their possessions (because it’s really just stuff anyway) and walks across the country so they can finally hear the sweet whispers inside their soul. We all are, aren’t we? It’s romantic and rebellious and so against the beliefs we’re all spoon-fed as we graduate from one stage of life to the next. And when I close those books, I always have a moment where I’m pricing out my JCrew Factory slack collection on Facebook Marketplace. But my kids can’t walk that far without wanting to stop and have, like, three snacks. And I have some stuff that I really like. And, if I’m being honest, whenever I’m walking alone I just hear lyrics from Frozen or Hamilton over and over and over again. I guess my inner whisper is really just the voices of my daughters.

But I’ll never stop loving those stories. And maybe one day I’ll live out a narrative that resembles one I’ve lost myself in somewhere before. I’ll take a bigger risk than I normally would. I’ll discover things about myself in an unexpected corner of the world. My illusory superiority self is always open to what may come, and my 37-year-old (or whatever age I am at that time) self can bend the edges to fit it into the circle of things that matter to me most.

I love that there’s still a fire goddess in me who believes I can do insanely hard things. I’m not letting her go anywhere. But even more than that, I love that I have supportive people in my corner so that I can do moderately hard things – typically close to home and usually just enough to bend but not break my aging body, which is oddly thrilling to me. It’s not a compromise unless you give up the dream completely.

Whatever your aspirations are, I hope that you can find a way to fit them in. I hope you get a little stardust on your fingertips and some great stories to tell. The important thing is to keep reaching. Keep dreaming. Keep seeking out the joy. (All things, admittedly, I didn’t quite grasp at 26.)

Hello, friends. I wanted to check in and see how you’re feeling these days.

Earlier this week, Glennon Doyle posted this on her social media channels:

Hello. Just Wondering if Anyone else feels like they have lost the point.

I no longer know “how i am.” I do not know what to do what to say who to call what to eat how to plan how I feel. I don’t know if I’m doing enough too much not enough. I forgot how to parent, how to friend how to lead how to achieve or serve or rest or heal or work hard play hard yadda yadda.

I am kind of Mean, suddenly. The meanness that comes from numbness.

I have forgotten the structure, the way of things. I want Something To Change. The closest feeling I have Access to is: claustrophobia?

I do love you. I know that much.

G

The candid remarks resonated with me, as much as all of her brilliant writing does, but a few of the lines in particular scared up some sentiments (and admittedly some fear) that have been stirring in my own tired mind. “I am kind of Mean, suddenly. The meanness that comes from numbness. I want Something To Change.”

To talk about change, we first have to address the status of things, which can be … uncomfortable. There’s a simultaneous spread of both divisiveness and apathy in our world right now – two dangerous states of being swelling side-by-side and poisoning the population. It’s an emotional pandemic, perhaps fueled by the virus, but rooted in pain and positions that were sprouting long before anyone heard the term “COVID.” Every conversation I have these days is really just a trail of breadcrumbs leading to some tender, emotional bruise. People are frustrated, angry, skeptical, wary, stir crazy, distressed. They are exhausted; succumb to the antagonistic environment infiltrating our spirit from all directions.

I’m heartsick over the animosity in our country, in our neighborhoods, in our families and friendship circles. My soul doesn’t feel safe anywhere. So many people are screaming at the same time, that no one’s really being heard. The truth – whatever that means anymore – is muffled by a rising roar of hatred. Somewhere along the line, there was this unanimous adoption of the belief that people are either right or wrong, good or bad, based on how their opinions align or misalign with our own. Platforms and social gatherings once used to connect and celebrate our shared human experiences are now battlegrounds for hurling inaccurate headlines and dangerous assumptions. We are fractured into millions of sharp, perilous pieces – quick to cut, without remorse or responsibility. We’re broken. Without a doubt.

So many, like Glennon, want something – anything – to change just so that we can sip from that sweet cup of “normalcy” again. But that desire feels hopeless. The world feels wild and explosive.

My kids are on a real Hamilton kick right now. It’s all they want to listen to, all hours of the day, every car ride, garage concerts, the whole deal. The other night we got to talking about our favorite songs from the musical. I’m partial to “Wait for it,” mostly because of the line, “I am the one thing in life I can control.” It’s something I’ve said to the chicks over and over, time and time again. People will be mean. People will do things that are unkind or unjust. You can only control your own actions and responses in the face of others’ ugliness. Lately, the line has been resonating with me in new ways. It’s become somewhat of a personal mantra.

I can’t change the global state of things. Even the thought of trying to have an impact on that scale right now is aspirational, sure, but enough to swallow anyone whole. But I can put a finger under my chin and tilt my own head toward the sun and the stars.

Every morning when I wake up, every time I pick up my phone, with every breath, in every second of my day, I have two hands on the steering wheel and a foot to hit the gas or the brake. I don’t have to watch the news, which often, I don’t. When I feel a conversation taking a turn, I can use my words to ask questions and seek to understand, or I can walk away if that’s what feels like the best path to self-preservation, which often, it does. It’s not about “being a snowflake” or avoiding confrontation or any of the other aggressive labels people believe we need to apply to foreheads these days. Boundaries are a beautiful thing.

There are so many strong wills and cemented opinions out there right now. The resolve is both a source of angst and admiration for me. These immovable demarcations make it difficult to reach a common ground, and, being wired the way I am, often feel more personal than political, but there is always a choice. So often, we subject ourselves to the same painful exchanges, over and over again, until the wounds are so deep there isn’t a salve strong enough to heal them. These days, I find myself weighing the risk of an incurable outcome in all of my conversations and endeavors, with the reminder that “no” is always an option. I have been blessed with two feet on which I can always choose to walk away.

If you want to know how I am right now, the truth is I am fighting like hell. Every day I am raging against the numbness. I am clinging to the variables I can control. I relate to the words Glennon wrote because these days that resignation is always just one insult, one newsfeed story, one broken relationship away. I am operating out of a dire wish to maintain some shred of optimism, self-respect and a heart full of love for the lives around me. I don’t want to “lose the point,” because then what? What do we have left? A pandemic is hard. Social unrest is hard. Polarizing political views are hard. But I don’t have to let these tensions break me, as much as I might bend. I can stand for something without contributing to the poisonous public commentary that, let’s face it, isn’t helping anyone.

What felt like a side-stitching sprint, is now unarguably a marathon, with no end in sight. Amongst the chatter, I hear shaky statements like, “Once the election is over …” or “As soon as they approve a vaccine …” as if the ache is coming from just one tender tooth.

I am trying to be really honest with myself about what I want to hold onto and who I want to be on the other side of this dark time. I’ve seen relationships dissolve over tense dinner conversations and inner lights dim over long stints at home without visitors. Things are so different. So many people are in pain. I am the one thing in life I can control.

So, what am I’m holding onto? There are many things, and I certainly believe that one person’s lifeline is another person’s luxury, and that’s OK. For me, first and foremost, there are a handful of relationships that I will do almost anything to preserve. While my beliefs align with the majority of the loved ones in this group, it’s not true with all. It’s important to me to try to understand, rather than discard and disown. It’s not easy, but some people are worth fighting for. We all experience life differently, and those experiences shape our perspectives. We can’t assume everyone thinks like us, or that they’re “wrong” or “bad” for seeing through a different lens. We don’t know what we don’t know. Ask questions. Have a discussion. And if it starts to tear at the fabric of your friendship, you can always change the subject. Some folks just wait too darn long to call it for the sake of salvaging the mutual respect every relationship requires.

I’m also letting my heart marinate in the beautiful, effortless connections I have, like a marshmallow in hot cocoa, soaking in that sweetness and appreciating the simplicity. In a time when so many don’t have anyone, I’m exceptionally grateful for the nearness of my tribe.

Prioritizing my mental and physical health has been a roller coaster during these past several months, but I know with great certainty that when I’m challenging my body, carving out time for trail runs with some special women in my life (church, as we call it) and getting enough good sleep, I am more of who I want to be. My mind is clearer. My patience is longer. And my optimism muscle is stronger.

Finally, and I know this one sounds a little judgmental, but I’m constantly taking stock of who I don’t want to be. If the past few months have given me anything, it’s a thousand tiny snapshots of just how ugly humans can be. Dirty glances. Flippant, blanket statements about segments of people. Poking and pot stirring. Firing for effect. Disregard for lives lost. Personal preference trumping the greater good. Over and over and over again I’ve seen displays of gross, gut-turning behavior and commentary. So often, I think we see the disturbing tendencies of others, roll our eyes and move on, without holding that mirror up to ourselves and asking if we’re guilty of similar crimes. In my moments of self-reflection, when I wrestle with who I want to be, sometimes I find clarity in the less desirable attributes I’ve seen in others.

I hope, sweet friends, that you are well. My wish for you is that you’re riding these waves, following the sun and finding your way through. But if you aren’t, I think that’s OK, too. If you’re “losing the point,” you aren’t the only one. Hold onto the things that matter to you and check in with your heart often. I truly believe that we’re all going to meet up on the other side, stronger, more empathetic and grounded in gratitude.  

As of this morning, I have officially been a mother for 4,128 days. That’s roughly 2,000 bath nights, 3,124 meals served, 2,948 loads of laundry and 9 substantial road trips. It’s overwhelming to think about how quickly it’s all piled up on top of each other, and yet I know it pales in comparison to the maternal rankings of some of the women reading this, including my own mom.

Some days it feels like I’ve come so far as a mother, and others, like I’m still at the beginning, finding my trail legs. But I can say with great certainty that 4,128 days has carried me far enough down the path, that I’ve reached the sober phase. Where once I was drunk on the adorable sound of a startled, sleepy breath, the intoxication of tiny fingers and toes, or the sweet high of a toothless giggle, I now hear, see, smell, taste and feel all of the bitter remnants of their displeasure and opinions. My children have driven me to the land of self-awareness, in a vehicle outfitted with many mirrors in which to see hindsight. And in this hindsight, I can see all of the ways I tormented my mother. I can hear and smell every sour piece of commentary I had for her in my younger years. My chicks are three of the most important gifts I ever received. They are also living proof that paybacks are hell.

Thus, the long-overdue apology. Let’s get into it.

I want to begin by saying that I am sorry for every time I groaned, rolled my eyes or grimaced (or any combination of the three) at the sight of the meal you prepared. I know now that feeding us was one of the five thousand things you were doing in a day, and catering to five different individual palates and preferences is a fool’s errand, but a job that must be fulfilled all the same. I have a newfound appreciation for both your staple offerings (God, I miss those salmon patties and hot chicken sandwiches) and moments of experimentation, when you dared to submit something new into the rotation. Likely for the betterment of our health. Likely to a reception of pouts and protests.

Related, I feel terrible for every occasion in which I laughed because you burned, under or overcooked said meal. Taking into consideration the sheer volume of dinners you had to produce, night after night after night, odds were, a few weren’t going to get all 5 stars. And what qualified me to be such a bitchy food critic, anyway? My palate was so sophisticated … I thought chicken tenders and ranch were the mark of a fine establishment. So what that you didn’t know you had to warm taco shells up in the oven before you served them so they always tasted cold and stale? You got that fiesta to the table, and that matters! Who cares if we cut the charred bottoms off the biscuits? You probably got distracted by a buzzing dryer or ringing house phone (remember those?). Nine times out of ten, you killed it, despite my constant criticism to the contrary.

Moving on, I’m sorry for every time I stepped over my crap, which you kindly placed on the steps to remind me to carry it to my room, where it belonged. While we’re swimming in this pool, I’m sorry for all of the things I couldn’t be bothered to put away. I honestly can’t tell you why it felt like more of a “you job” to put the cereal back on the shelf or the milk in the fridge after I used it. There’s no recollection of the internal dialogue I had to justify dropping all of my school stuff – book bag, shoes, papers, coat – at my feet by the door where I came in. I just can’t seem to recall.

You did all of the heavy lifting with that laundry, many of the items in which I, let’s be honest, just threw back in the hamper because I didn’t want to put them away. We both knew. And yet, you washed it, folded it, put it on hangers. You were a gosh dang saint. And I still couldn’t be troubled to take the ten minutes it took to close the loop. And if a mysterious spot showed up on my favorite 90210 t-shirt … well, lookout. I loved to let you have it over the unexplainable phenomenons that happen in the washer. Where shall I stick this blame? My mom’s front pocket sounds good. It’s super close to her heart. Ugh, I’m so sorry about all of that!

For all the times I lost things – and yes, as a 37-year-old woman I can say, I lost the things – and made you drop everything to look for them. Earrings and schoolwork and shoes … so many shoes … and insignificant little trinkets that meant so much at the time for entirely inexplicable reasons, I apologize. Mostly, I apologize for not even trying to find them myself first, and then for giving up so quickly once I knew you were on the case. You were like a bloodhound. I took advantage of your instincts to look under and behind furniture. I know now that you were sacrificing your time and pieces of your sanity.

Speaking of losing things, my temper, particularly with my siblings was … shall we say accessible? The way we went at each other was so petty, and physically and emotionally brutal. No one can push your buttons like a brother or sister. They know about those buttons on the backside – the ones you didn’t even know you had. And my gosh did we ever push them. And we loved to drag you into it. I don’t know why we ever thought you’d actually pick a side, but it didn’t stop us from trying time and time again. What a waste of energy all that bickering was. Exhausting. We could have had so much more fun. Sorry about that.

I want to acknowledge my unapologetic volume in enclosed spaces, namely our van. I know you wanted to hum your heart out to that Dolly Parton song. I know you had a thousand thoughts darting around in your head. But I had to be heard. I had to be louder than your daydreams and running to-do list. I wish now I would have let you have those songs. I understand the weight of taking in so much noise.

I’m going to dip in and quickly dip out of this one, but oh my gosh, the hundreds of times I came to talk to you while you were taking a bath, trying to go to the restroom, changing your clothes … I robbed you of years of privacy and discretion. Sorry.

I used to get so scared at night. I was convinced that the house was going to burn down or an axe murderer was going to sneak in the back door. It wasn’t my fault. Kids get scared. But why did I have to stand over you, my face inches from your face and jolt you from your rest like a character from The Shining? Why couldn’t I just gently reach down, touch your arm and whisper near your face? I mean, I guess there’s no good way to go about asking someone else to join you inside your personal nightmare, but I was really bad at it, always sending Dad from snore to jackknife in seconds flat. I’m so sorry about that.

We both know there’s so much more, but I’ve gone on for too long here. Once you start unpacking your past personal misdemeanors it’s like a loose thread on a tired hemline. I know you, of all people, never kept score. It just isn’t a mom’s style. But I also know you get a tickle out of the fact that I’m tasting the medicine that I spooned up to you and you spooned up to your mother and she likely spooned up to hers. It goes down like sand and pebbles some days. Finding the humor in it all helps. Knowing they have good little hearts and the sweetest souls underneath it all helps.

I know you, Mom. I know what you would say. That I don’t need to apologize and you wouldn’t change a thing and you actually miss it all. (Right, you miss having me at home? Right?) It’s the pledge we all swear to when we sign on to suit up and take the job. And there’s beauty in the bitter, too. I feel that.

From my new perspective, I think maybe you were fueled by the same elixir I have sloshing around in my emotional tank these days: The truth that one day, my girls, God-willing, should they wish to, will also be on the receiving end of all of these self-indulgent, neglectful, sloth-like tendencies. And they, too, through their own children’s actions will realize how blissfully unaware they were for all those years. How they took the most important woman in their life for granted. And maybe they will be inclined to write a similar note, one which I, too, will insist is completely unnecessary.

It’s the cycle of service. The wheel of womanhood that goes around and around in a brutal, beautiful rotation. While in the moment every popsicle wrapper, half-consumed, abandoned can of soda, wet towel on the floor and spilled bottle of nail polish feels like a special kind of torture, in the end it all blurs together to the stuff of your family. The messy pieces your heart has your mind soften with time. All the same, I wanted to own my history. I wanted you to know that I saw you, I see you, and I appreciate all of your grace, forgiveness and unconditional acceptance. You showed me the way.

After saying so much, I have just two words left for the woman who picked up my crap, negotiated my meal standoffs and eased every night terror. Thank you, Mom.  

Earlier this week, my baby girl ran, not walked, down the sidewalk toward the school bus, gave me a quick glance over her shoulder and climbed up the monstrous steps, onto the yellow bird with all the big kids, and flew away. Just like that, all of my babies are in school. Because we live in the COVID days, it all felt very unceremoniously cold, like the final episode of a series that didn’t know it was being canceled.

When she came home later, she told me that her teacher said I could kiss her hand in the morning and she could place that hand over her heart, where my kiss would stay in case she needed it. In case she missed me. She then added, “I think you need me to kiss your hand more, mom.” And all of the things inside of me that changed when I had children quietly wilted and wept.

As I opened the Notes on my phone to write a reminder to keep kisses in my heart, I stumbled upon my list of their latest and greatest quotes. I’ve been absent in passing these gems along, so here, without further ado, is the latest edition of “Sisters Say What?” Sometimes I don’t know where these children came from.

“He wrote a bad word about sex.” – JoJo
“What’s sex?” – Spike
[laughing] “You DON’T wanna know! I don’t even know!” – JoJo

“If we owned an ice cream truck, I’d eat it every day, for breakfast, lunch and dinner!” – Me
“Yeah. And then you’d get diabetes.” – Spike

“You know what you should get to hold your phone?” – Spike?
“What?” – Me
“A panty pack.” – Spike

“He tooted and I was like … that just cracks my knuckles!” – Sloppy Joan

“This cold makes me have so many issues.” – Sloppy Joan

“He was talking about whore clowns.” – Spike
“About what?!” – Me
“Horror, Mom … Hor-ror.” – Spike

“Bye lady turds!” – Sloppy Joan

“Would you rather wear these pants?” – Me
“Nah, I need some of that sweet air on my legs.” – Sloppy Joan

“I want a snack and I want you to surprise me.” – Sloppy Joan
“K.” – Me
“And it better be goldfish!” – Sloppy Joan

“I have to sing lullabies to my legs so they’ll go to sleep!” – Sloppy Joan

“My hoobs aren’t very big.” – Sloppy Joan

“Some people don’t look like how they sound. Like remember that girl who sounded so beautiful in her voice and then in the picture she had bangs?” – Spike

“I think she has conjunctivitis.” – Doctor
[doctor leaves]
“Mom, what’s junk food-itis?” – Spike

“I want the jammies I wore yesternight.” – Sloppy Joan

“He’s not as cool as, like, Jane Pauley.” – Spike

“These eye limbs are made out of hair.” – Sloppy Joan, petting her eyelashes

“If my heart is beeping, God is talking to me.” – Sloppy Joan

“Today, Crosby and I got all mixed up with germs. I put on he’s hat and he put on my coat and now we’re doomed!” – Sloppy Joan

“Hey! I have tiny hairs in my nose. (Gasp!) So do you, Mom! (Gasp!) Oh man … We’re going to get beards!” – Sloppy Joan

“Every part of me wants to get this over with. Well, except my appendix.” – Spike, before her appendectomy

“I love you to the microwave and back.” – Sloppy Joan

“Did you get that spray for the jelly bug bites?” – Sloppy Joan

“He had red hair and he was a boy. A boy with a booger. I told him about his booger and suddenly we were argue-fighting.” – Sloppy Joan

“It’s about balance on these bitches.” – Sloppy Joan, driving over a bridge

“What are you going to name your larva?” – Me
“I already named it.” – Sloppy Joan
“Oh?” – Me
“Yes, Elizabeth Cattrea. But when she gets colorful, I’m changing it to Spike.” – Sloppy Joan

“When is my doctor’s disappointment?” – Sloppy Joan

“The point of the song is that if you don’t have any power, just sing to annoy the bad guys away.” – Sloppy Joan, listening to “Praying” by Kesha.

“Slashtag, ‘awesome’!” – Sloppy Joan

“I guess my mom just didn’t hatch any boys.” – Sloppy Joan

“She is way over momerated.” – Sloppy Joan
“Momerated?” – Me
“Yes, that means she has a big belly and she’s about to have a baby. That girl is way over momerated.” – Sloppy Joan

“I’m doing a favor for you so you’ll give me money.” – Sloppy Joan

 “I’m going to go ahead and do my night potty now, mom. I’m feelin’ super pissy.” – Sloppy Joan

I’m sitting at my desk with the windows open, for the first time in so long it’s painful to try and retrace the days. I can hear birds chirping. I can hear bicycle tires ramping up over the curb that takes folks down the path behind our house. And I can hear children. My children, but also, other children. Playing. Laughing. Indicating that the world – weird as she is at this moment – is still turning. 

It all has me feeling pretty nostalgic. Remember when we were kids? There may be some years between those of you reading this and myself, but generally, it was similar. We were always outside. I can remember playing Jail Break with the neighborhood kids until what felt like midnight (but was probably 10 o’clock). For the most part, we all knew each other, but if someone new showed up, the conversation was basically like this: 

“You gonna play?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. Don’t take my hiding spot.” 

“Cool.”

And that was it. Thirty seconds and it was on. We were running and getting dirty and freezing well into the dark hours of the evening, noses dripping and ready to drag across a heavy sweatshirt sleeve, and it was freaking fantastic. Those are great memories. 

If there was a patch with more than five trees, it became an epic forest where we played pioneer people or kidnapped princesses. I remember crouching down in a vacant lot in our old neighborhood for hours, making salads and potions out of clover, dandelions and Queen Anne’s Lace. I’d talk to myself and whoever else came along and we’d rub the sunny petals on our fingertips and make endless jokes about how it was pee. 

And always, after hours, or atleast what felt like hours, I’d burst through the garage door and my mom would be sitting at the kitchen table or up in her room watching her programs and munching on stovetop popped popcorn with melted butter, never concerned or frantic about where I’d been. 

These days, we’re all “Where are you going?” “Who are you going with?” “Who are their parents?” “Where do they live?” “What’s their social security number?” I don’t know if it’s the simple fact that we get powerwashed daily with disturbing, horrific stories about padlocked creeper vans and color-coded alerts on social media 24/7 or just that time has changed the culture that much, but somewhere along the line, just letting your kids go out and play got so much more complicated! 

But of the few blessings to come from this COVID-19, social-distancing bizarro world we’re inhabiting, one has to be the return to simple joy. To neighborhood kids meeting by a giant puddle to catch tadpoles and exchange exaggerated stories. To muddy legs and wild hair. To filthy fingernails and new discoveries. Though caution is still part of the impromptu playdate. This afternoon, I stood in the backyard and Sloppy Joan yelled across the common area, “Mom! We have new friends! But we’re not touching them!”

Granted, this newfound freedom has come simply because I don’t have the capacity to entertain a 10, 8 and 5-year-old while still working a full-time position in healthcare during a global pandemic, but it’s a blessing all the same. Twice this week I actually lost them. All three of them. But I found them  … eventually. 

I will not sit here and type lies to you people. I love you too much. This has not been easy. If you’d like an honest recap of days 8-17, please take these bulleted items and rearrange them in different configurations: 

• Feed people
• Clean up food
• Yell
• Work
• Yell
• Cry
• Conference call
• Yell
• Feed people
• Clean up food
• Yell
• Conference Call
• Work
• Drink
• Sweet moment
• Feed people
• Work
• Yell
• Cry
• Marco Polo
• Sleep
• Repeat 

But it isn’t all bad and I’m trying so damn hard not to let the insanity of it all just swallow me whole. Last night, after dinner, it was beautiful out and we decided to go for a walk. There were so many people outside. As our motley crew strolled along, everyone was waving and chatting. It felt like a neighborhood of yesteryear, when people stood over fences and chatted until the mosquitos emerged. 

We walked to my brother’s house (he lives on the other side of our neighborhood), and he informed me that what we were witnessing was actually intentional. Something called “The 7 o’clock Wave”. Well … how wonderful is that? A set time to stroll out and smile at the other people going crazy in their houses which are a stone’s throw from your house, where you’re going crazy. I’m in.  

I’m finding that, as accessible as certain people are right now, it’s almost becoming easier to neglect those relationships. I’m being so intentional about connecting with the people I can’t see, but I have to be intentional about the ones I’m locked in my house with, too. Yesterday afternoon, after they announced the chicks would not be going back to school for the rest of the year, we sat on our driveway in a circle. I asked them what was something good that’s come from this situation? Something bad? How they’re feeling overall. The warmth of the sun felt so soothing. We baked in the light and released all of it. I was honest, too. Just because I’m the mom doesn’t mean I don’t feel things. Sometimes I think I feel them bigger and deeper than anyone. (Somewhere nearby my husband just uttered, “No shit!”) 

Anyway, we’re still here. The sun has stayed for a couple of days and, while I know she can’t stick around, that’s been the greatest gift this week. I hope that you are well. I hope that you are finding release and relief. I hope this time of slowing down is bringing some sweetness to your life. Consider this your 7 o’clock wave. I see you. You aren’t alone. We’ve made it through another week.    

9:30 am

It’s been a week. Officially. A week of this bizarre counterfeit reality. I didn’t fall asleep until 3 o’clock this morning. I tried all my tricks … The Gilmore Girls didn’t even work, and that adorable duo always turns my lights out. My body doesn’t know what day it is, what time it is, what I want from it. What is the circadian clock of which you speak? 

There is no talk of such things as work/life balance right now. Why try, when it’s really work/life/anxiety/activity planning/binge eating/homeschooling/distraction creating/workouting/stress reducing/refereeing/sanity salvaging balance, instead? I have decided not to set expectations that I simply cannot meet during this unscripted, unexplored, unprecedented period.    

JoJo brought Hank and I breakfast in bed. She’d hand-squeezed (literally, with her tiny hands) a small cup of orange juice for each of us. She had Golden Grahams for him and high fiber something-or-other for me, and a bowl of fresh fruit (half apples, half sweaty raisins). I turned on CBS Sunday Morning and leaned into it. She was so proud of her efforts, and I was so proud that she thought highly enough of us this far into this thing to do it. 

11 am

The chicks decided to put a tent up in the backyard. I used to worry about only having our little chicks. I wondered if Hank would ever regret not having a son. But the truth is, he’s just so good at being a Girl Dad. I sat in the next room, listening to him coach JoJo through assembling the poles, and my heart nearly exploded. These times are different, tense even, but they’re sweet, too. It’s opening up space for more imagination, more play and more willingness for us to say, “sure, why not?”

1 pm

Canceled race be damned, my training buddies and I decided to meet for a little run at our favorite state park. I’d been so desperate to stretch my legs and see my trail sisters. Call it forest bathing or tree hugging or nature therapy … whatever you name it, the stuff works. Passing like a pin through a sea of sturdy oaks gives me perspective. It humbles me and warms my heart. I take so much in with me – stress and expectations and doubt – and I lose them somewhere along the path. The woods absorb my problems and wash me clean. 

Today, maybe more than ever before, I tried to sink into my senses. I listened to the boisterous bullfrogs around the pond. I felt my feet lower into the mud. I acknowledged the subtle burn in my legs as the hills picked up. My friend, Dr. Dave, recently wrote a great piece about mindfulness during this COVID crisis, and I highly recommend checking it out and then applying it wherever and whenever possible. 

The funny part is, I was absolutely dying to see these girls. Dying. The only thing I wanted was to catch up with them and have real conversation with real humans. But once I got there, I realized I didn’t have much to say. The world was in much the same disarray as it was the last time we ran. My house, the same. My mind, the same. It was still nice though. Lovely actually. 

One thing I love to see, I have to share, is the increased number of folks getting outside. The park was hoppin’ like a Florida strip on high school spring break. People were strolling with pups and kids and one couple, I swear, was on a first date. As I ran by and for several minutes after, I imagined they met in some virtual space and decided to take it face-to-face but had legit fears about swapping air. I’ve been watching a lot of Love is Blind ,OK? Anyway, so glad to see people gettin’ out there. 

4 pm

“What the hell is going on?” Sloppy Joan asked from the kitchen. We all gasped and Hank sent her into the corner to the soundtrack of our muffled snickering. It was directed at some carpet Hank had torn up in the basement, but really, isn’t it what we’re all thinking? I couldn’t even fault the five-year-old for voicing the question I’ve been asking the general universe every 10 minutes for the past few weeks. 

One thing giving me life right now is the app Marco Polo. I have three main groups: My high school posse, my family and Hank’s family. My girlfriends are always entertaining (my friend in LA shared an entire sequence of her catching a mouse on a sticky trap, transferring said-mouse to a jar and then letting it go, all on Marco Polo) and it’s just good to see their beautiful faces, but the family groups … oh, you guys. I love people of an advanced age navigating new technology. For her first five submissions, it was just my mom’s squinting, shifting eyes and crumpled nose. The next slide would be my teenage niece just hysterically laughing at her Grammy. It is the comic relief we need in this time of quarantine. 

People hate on technology so hard all the time, but with all that’s going on, I say zoom, facetime, instant chat, polo … whatever virtual meetup you need to do to stay connected and share the experience of hiding from your children in a pantry. We don’t have to be totally alone right now. 

And now, it’s snowing. 

7 pm

The doorbell rang while we were havingdinner. It was my sweet friend Taylor, stopping by to drop off a framed illustration for my new home office. It was a tiny, giant gesture; a flashlight flickering to send signals of life in the darkness. She stood on my porch – absolutely embarrassing from hours of little girls setting up forts and herding earthworms – snow falling furiously behind her, and smiled brightly. She’d driven across town just to hand deliver the paper-wrapped gift. We couldn’t hug. She didn’t come inside. But I still felt the contact, and it felt so, so special. At a time when nobody knows what to think, she thought of me.  

I said it before and I’ll say it again, these times are tense, but they’re sweet, too. When this thing passes, and we thaw out from the social freeze, we will be so grateful for the touch and closeness of the people we love and who love us. We just have to keep our eyes forward. Toward the warmth.

6 am

I did it. I worked out. It was brief, but better than nothing. I opted for a Beachbody Fight Club number, and let me tell you, when the instructor prompted me to picture what I was punching, I visualized the actual word “COVID-19” and then I went all Kill Bill on its ass. Who needs to pay for therapy? 

7:30 am 

The four of us, sans Hank, went for our walk around the back path. We each cupped our coffee and hot cocoa and delighted at the orange sherbert skyline peeking out from behind the trees. It was chilly – somewhere in the low 30s – but with the sing-song birds and leisurely pace, it felt warmer. Or at least like it should be warmer. The older chicks ran ahead so they could log onto their first day of e-learning, but I stayed with Sloppy Joan. We shuffled along as she sucked the droplets of cocoa off her lid and giggled wisps of sweet breath into the early morning air. I love five. It’s such a magical age, isn’t it? 

2 pm 

My Misfits Produce box arrived! Guys, it’s the simple things in life right now. This is my third round of misshapen, salvaged produce and I’m a believer. I do the big box, $35, every-other week and it’s crazy how much you get. 

The concept is really simple. Basically, some genius decided to take all of the fruits and veggies that weren’t as pretty as their peers or slightly bruised on the verge of being trashed or “extra” and box it all up and ship it out to folks for a discounted rate. It’s a great way to help reduce food waste and it’s also a fun little surprise. Is this a squash or an ungly fruit? I don’t know! Let’s find out! (Get 50% off with code COOKWME-ZN8QWY … I feel like a legit podcaster right now. Only I don’t get paid to say that. I just like it.) 

Also, my friend Jen sent me this screenshot. So … I guess I’m pretty much famous. I’ll always remember you guys.

3 pm

Today I had a huge epiphany. Huge, Jerry! Spike was talking about how desperately she missed her BFF from aftercare. Just so happens, I know said-BFF’s darling mother. So I sent her a text and set up a Facetime playdate. At 3 pm sharp, their two adorable little grins showed up on a shared screen. Spikey walked around showing her our basement, our geratric dog, her bedroom, what we had for snack. The things 8-year-old girls talk about are absurd and adorable and altogether precious. 

“I’m just so excited to see you!” she said. “Even if you’re just on the phone.” She covered the entire house and 25 minutes of conversation. It was the biggest smile I’d seen between her fantastically full cheeks in days. 

7 pm

My JoJo was showing all the signs of stage 4 meltdown. She wouldn’t talk to any of us at dinner, she didn’t react when we all raved about the chocolate cupcakes she made from scratch (#COVID15) and she didn’t want to talk about her first day in the virtual classroom. “Would you like to Facetime your bestie after dinner?” I asked. 

She hopped out of her seat and watched over my shoulder as I text her homegirl’s mom. A few technical glitches and bam! They were nose-to-nose. “I miss you so much!” she gushed into the smudged screen. Her bestie – we’ll call her Sid – is quite the character. I sat a few feet away and listened in as she put on a show with her cat, explained what sparkling water was and walked JoJo through her entire dinner and jigsaw puzzle activity from earlier in the day (an orangutan meme saying something like, “I farted”). 

Today I realized that my girls have friends, too, and they need those lifelines just as much as I need my circle of soul sisters. It’s so easy to forget, with all the disruption to our work schedules and social schedules and meal planning, that these little humans lives and social connections have been disrupted, too. Of course they’re feeling cranky. They’re sick of each other! They’re sick of me. They miss playing tag and setting up silly clubs for people who like magic and losing their minds over accidental classroom toots. 

I need to be better about supporting them in watering those seeds of friendship so they can keep blooming even in this cold, unseasonable climate. 

Also, this just in: Sloppy Joan has a fever. First 99 then a hop, skip and scare up to 100 within an hour. We’ll see what tomorrow brings. Stay well, friends. 

8 a.m.

We had a quick video shoot, so I got up at my usual time, dressed, poured my coffee and headed into work. The parking lot was fuller than I’d anticipated. It almost felt like a normal day. Just for a minute. 

Our department was pretty sparse, everyone off making decisions and scrambling to protect people and form policies. I checked in with the folks who were there, always at least four feet between us, and we engaged in what has now become the typical “this is crazy” conversation before heading back home. 

9:30 am

My high school girlfriends – The OGs – have an ongoing group text thread. The screen on my phone lit up. It was them. Howls from my wolves out in the woods somewhere. We were taking each other’s temperature. How is everyone? How are your kids? How is your heart?

One of my girlfriends shared that she’s not great, feeling anxious and isolated. She said she plans to go deep into prayer and meditation in the coming days. I didn’t say it, but I’ve been going deep into food for all the same reasons. Some people turn to a higher power. I turn to high fructose corn syrup. I have work to do. 

The messages kept coming … canceled vacations, sick parents, lost wages … These aren’t just people out there on the Internet. These are my people. My people are facing uncertainty. And my people are losing hope. And my people are coming undone. Somehow tossing out a text just doesn’t feel like a long enough rope to pull any of us back to shore. Back to safety. 

A siren wailed in the distance. 

10:30 am

Some thoughtful soul posted on our neighborhood facebook page that people should decorate shamrocks and put them up in their windows so kids could walk around and spot them. I pulled out the craft goodies and had the chicks get to work. Distraction is good. Tasks are good. Cut things out, paint them, throw glitter in the air. Anything to convince us there’s nothing to see here. 

I could hear them from the other room, the oldest and the youngest, fighting again. Then me, yelling again. I had JoJo pull up a Cosmic Kids Yoga and ordered them each to get on a mat. “You all need to zen out for a little bit and quit driving me nuts!” Is this the definition of irony? Perhaps.  

11 am

Just after 11, my body turned up the volume on what had been, up until that moment, a brewing anxiety attack. My chest was tight. I felt hot tears behind my lids. I could hear my racing pulse in my ears. Well, hello there, Panic. It’s been awhile. I stood up and started frantically swaying my arms back and forth, desperately trying to disengage the fight or flight hormones coursing through me. 

Is it all the sugar I’ve been eating? Yes. 

Is it the nature of my work? To some degree. 

Is it being too plugged into the negative chatter? 100%. 

Is it the girls fighting? Undoubtedly. 

Is it fear? I’m sure. 

It’s a million things and nothing at all, and for about 40 minutes my adrenaline surged and my nerves shook under my normal-looking flesh. For those of you who have experienced anxiety, you know the misery of its flexed muscle. The uneasy feeling in your stomach. The weight pressing down. The irrational conversation between your mind and your essential organs. If this was my body’s warning shot, the message is received: Move coping mechanisms to the top of the list. 

(If you can relate entirely too well to this section of my post, please know that you are not alone. There are so many of us and there is so much strength, I believe, in speaking about it, naming it and fighting it in healthy ways.)

1 pm 

At Hank’s recommendation (this is why God pairs people off), I text my niece to ask if she would  ride her bike over and take the chicks out for a walk and some shamrock spotting. I had a work call. 

Sidenote: Just to add a little more irony to this post, the call was with a group of mental health professionals to discuss the anxiety folks are experiencing as a result of the pandemic. Mind you, my primary focus was making sure that none of these co-workers could sense how completely dismantled I’d been just a short time before. How funny is that? I’m tossing out suggestions for “some people” when I was really just referencing myself and my close friends. 

2 pm 

My neighbor (and friend) sent a text in search of our country’s new currency, hand sanitizer. I happened to have a little bottle on hand, so I ran it over. I hope everyone has neighbors like we have. I’d spent the last hour pretending to be totally together and then walked into their house and did whatever the exact opposite of that is. I confessed that my beautiful children were driving me stark raving mad. That I was overwhelmed. Eating everything. Basically a stay at home working mom failure. They laughed, kindly, as people with hearts like theirs do. 

The crew came marching up the street. They’d found 107 shamrocks to be exact and now had big plans to head over to Uncle Matt’s for a little hot tub party. I loaded them up in the car, clad in bathing suits with frilly netting and smiles that can only come with a lack of responsibility in a climate like this, and we drove through the neighborhood. Past windows plastered with homemade paper shamrocks and teenagers awkwardly strolling in pairs. Past parents cleaning out garages and waving from a safe distance. It’s our neighborhood. But it isn’t. But it is.

5:30 pm  

Tonight I still have videos to post and tweets to answer. Tonight I have to set the girls up for online learning, which starts at 8 a.m. sharp tomorrow (Praise be!) I have to do something with chicken in the instant pot and put away 300 pairs of folded socks I made the girls match this morning. But tomorrow, you guys … Tomorrow it begins. 

Tomorrow, I’m going to get up early and sweat. I’m going to do my affirmations with extra conviction. I’m going to take my walk with JoJo around the back path. I’m going to help people but respect my own healthy boundaries. I’m going to eat things that nourish me (big one!) and I’m going to take thoughtful breaks. Tomorrow I’m going to hit refresh, reboot and do everything I can to keep my anxiety at bay. Because I’m still here and I’m sure, with time and grace, it will all be OK. But not tonight. Tonight I need wine.