Everyday People

"I don't have any friends."
She said it drunk. She said it after she laughed so hard she just might pee. She said it after we bonded over pickle juice and whiskey. She said it perched on a stool with laughter coming out of her mouth and sadness making her eyes bright.
They say a drunk never lies.

I knew she meant every single word.

I don't have any friends.

What do you mean, I asked her? Your friends are here.

No. No, these are people I used to know. I don't have any friends now.
I have no one. I'm all alone.

She looked at me, eyes glazed with Christmas red and eyeliner that had given up hours earlier, and asked the same question I have begun to ask myself, "How did this happen?"

And long after we had moved on in conversation, long after I had puked up the trendiest line of shots I've ever done while sitting cross-legged on a bathroom floor, long after we were dropped off at our hotel and I realized I forgot my new beanie in their car, long after more ounces of iced coffee a person should consume in one sitting was drunk in tired desperation, and long after I arrived back home to wash party clothes still clinging to last nights smokes, her words haunted me.

I had no idea a drunken conversation at a Christmas party would stick with me like a shadow. Always at the peripheral, showing itself just enough to let me know, I'm right behind you.

I am almost 40 and I have close to zero friends.

I'm not talking about the life friends that you call if you lose your job, or your husband has an affair, if your mom is dying of cancer, or your kid came home to tell you they are pregnant. We all have these friends, right? When something major starts throwing down on your life, they will suddenly show up,
and shoulder you up.
They will let you cry, and be afraid, and wait for you to settle enough to get in your face with harsh realities and "pull-up-your-big-girl panties-you're-stronger-than-this-shit" lectures, just in time for you to get brave again. Yes.
I have these friends, the Rally-ers. The Charge-ers. The Cheer-ers.
I am grateful for them because guess what folks? These times are coming. They come to all of us.

No. I'm talking about the everyday friend. The one who is there for the ins and the outs of the mundane and the frustrating. The one who meets you for a coffee and a beer.
Preferably at the same time.
The one who calls on a Wednesday to see if you want to get together Friday. The one who doesn't bother to clean their house when you come over because that's just how real it is now. Piles of laundry and dog hair in tufts on the floor be damned. The one you can text while you're at Target to say, "Which doormat? The one with flowers or the bike and flowers?"
The one who sends you a quick text to say, "hey!!! thinking about you. Let's kick some ass today!" The one you can complain to about not getting laid in over a week. The one you can say, "I just don't feel enough today - do you think Jesus is giving up on me?" The one who reminds you Jesus never gives up on you, and hey, neither will I.

Everyday friends are important. Necessary. Breath.

I know. Life has different stretches for all of us. And there's a time and a place for different people as we walk down our roads.
I know. This is true. We grow. We change. I know.

But I also know this is bullshit.
We invite the people we want to walk with us,
and we leave the rest behind.

Have you ever been in the "leave the rest behind" group? (insert hand raised emoji here.)
It sucks ass doesn't it? ( and insert poop emoji here.)

I am so guilty. So guilty of saying, hey! Let's get together soon! And having absolutely no intention of hanging out. In six months. Or maybe even ever.
I'm just being polite. Everyone knows how to play the polite game.

I'm not talking about polite. I'm not talking about acquaintance pleasantries.
I'm talking about people who were your people and now they are not. Or you aren't sure.
Which is almost worse.

And our culture right now makes it so hard to say that, doesn't it?
So hard to say,
I miss you.
Why don't we talk anymore?
What happened?
You're my friend and I need you.

We can't say that. It makes us needy. It makes us high-maintenance. It makes us jealous.

When really, we aren't any of those things. Maybe all we are is sad.

These things can get messy and I'm not trying to get messy. Six months ago, a year ago, it would have been real messy. I'm talking fat-tears and snot-river messy. I'm talking emotions stretched and frazzled and waving white flags with middle fingers while screaming and crying "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Why is this happening? I"M SORRY!!!" And you have no idea what you are apologizing for but you just want to make it better and also go away.

Messy.

I'm not messy right now. I am observant. A little bewildered. A lot reflective.

And I am sure I am not the only one.

Here's what I am learning.

I'm doing ok by myself.
Now, we aren't built to be on our own f o r e v e r by any means. Humans are designed for relationship.
But it's good to be alone and work your thoughts and see what you are capable of,
and what you are not.
We all need to know this.

Also, I'm walking in a new way with Jesus. Rather than talking to my everyday friend and then going to Jesus, I am now going to Jesus (or Jeff. I'm not perfect here) and then,
that's it.
There's no everyday friends to bounce it back off of. To clarify. To affirm.
It's Jesus and me. And that can be brutal and beautiful all at once. You know what I mean if you've had to do this. There's a realness in my talk with God. It's so real in fact that sometimes I wonder if I am slipping backwards.
When pretense and "supposed to's" are waved out of the way, when walls are walked around and you're just standing there, all raw and exposed and blinking, it's unsettling. Wobbly.

And in nervousness or conviction or repentance or need,
You get down with the Lord. You let it all hang out because well, there aren't any closets, or any hat racks for that matter. There are only your hands and your heart and you figure what else can you do but open it real wide and just let him see it all?
He's going to keep on loving you or he's a liar.

And also , it's ok to be me.
It's ok to say, "I need this." And it's ok when someone else says, "I can't give that to you."
It's ok to know what makes me feel special and how I like to connect. It's ok when other people are not capable of making that connection.
We all have our own stretch of road.
My fear,
my fear,
my fear though,
is that we will give up too quickly and realize too late,
it was something worth digging for, worth suffering for, worth doing more,
for.

But we'll have told ourselves,
I'm too busy
I'm too hurt
We're too different.

And we'll all become people we used to know.

Interruptions

I am learning sometimes the dream has to wait.
Be put on hold.
Go on a bathroom break.
Clock out for ten minutes. Or maybe even ten days.
Life interrupts.
Or rather, people do. People we love.
Our tribe. Our family. Our friends.
Life is never neat. And no matter how many to-do lists I have or how many items I cross off, it's never as organized as I try to make it either.
I write.
And when I am not writing I am thinking about writing. Feelings become describable and words become life. It's all I can do to scribble them down in my notebook or record it in my iphone as a barely deciphered "note' before I forget. And let's be honest, Siri doesn't get it ya'll. All the updates in the world hasn't fixed the words lost in translation just yet.

Even as I try to write this, my computer has shut down, restarted, and begun to download Windows 10.
Mid-type. Three consonants in.
Interruptions.

(sigh)

I am inspired as much as the next person by all the affirming slogans and handmade signs reminding us to, Be You!, Follow your Happy, and Just Write.
I hang these on my walls,(a lot you guys. Instagram is taking ALL MY MONEY) and would gladly purchase all the buttons and totes and stickers in my feed, if that would make them all come true.
But can I be real here?
For just a sec?

I can't do that all the time. Even if it's penciled in. Even if it's important.

And I'll tell you why.

My husband is going gangbusters in his business. And watching him swells my heart and make me wish for a set of pom-poms. That's how stinkin' proud I am.
But guess what it means?
Long nights in the office for him.
Dinner clean up and dishes for me. (or better known as - No writing.)
I have a daughter who is moving out in ONE DAY (sob sob just kidding. I'm happy. But then I'm sobbing too so basically I'm a mess), and if she has a story to tell or if she just wants to sit on the couch and Friends it out - I'm down. Like James Brown. I'm going to sit on that couch with her and not move. Because guess what folks?
The season of Sammi is coming to an end. I know it. She knows it.
The adulting that has started knows it, and once we adult we can't kid again. Not in the same way.
So I'm soaking it up. Every sigh. Every MOM. Every scare as I walk out of the bathroom and she throws the embarrassment up on Snapchat. Every frustration with the utility company and every excitement of a room that almost sits empty.
Next week it will be Jeff's new office. A restart of something we can't even grasp.
But this week,
this week,
it is being hallowed out.
Just like me.

I sat in the middle of her floor after we sold her bed and I tried hard not to cry.

There's always something. I know. I'm pounding this out on my lunch hour instead of walking. So there's that. My writing is done but my exercise and fresh air is taking the hit.
It's ok. One thing is always going to cancel out another.

So here's what I am saying ...
Be You.
Follow your Happy.
Just Write.

But know that some days your happy is going to look different than you expected. It's not going to be written on your list or located in your calendar.
I think these can be some of the best kinds of happy though. Interruptions are God things. It's when He redirects us.
It's when he whispers, "oh no .. you think that's THE most important thing but THIS is...."
I think we can miss it though. I know I can.
I miss it in the midst of my guilt.
The constant chatter.
"You didn't work out. You didn't write. You didn't get the laundry done. You forgot stamps. You need more eggs. You didn't write the card. You didn't call your friend. You didn't spend enough time with Jacob."


and on and on and on and on.

There's a name for this radio station friends. I'll share it with you another day. Just know,
you are not alone,
AND,
turn the station off.

We are all doing the best we can.
Some days I am going to bang out twenty pages of my book.
Other days I'm going to stare at my outline for hours without writing one word. (hellooooo all last week!)

Some days,
you are going to get to each thing on your list. You'll feel accomplished and stretch hard to pat yourself on the back.
Other days,
you are going to wonder who hijacked your life.

But then you'll realize,

it's everyone you really love.

And all the things that make your Happy.

XO

Food-Pushers Unite

My kids call me The Food Pusher. It's true. It's like a drug pusher except without the drugs.
But we say the same things, in hopes of the same goal; they are going to take me up on it and they are going to like it.

"Come on, just try it."
"It's so good. You don't know what you are missing."
"This. This right here? It's a little piece of heaven."
And in desperation only the mom at her wits end of a picky eater knows, the classic, "You'll be cool. I'll think you are the coolest if you just try
one. little. bite."

It makes no difference how old they are either. My kids at home are twenty and sixteen, plenty old enough to fend for themselves if the onset of starvation happens while I am at work.

But I offer anyway. I practically get on my knees and beg them to eat.
Just like I did when they were three.

Oh you only like Circle K rotisserie hot dogs? Let's go!
Frozen burritos that basically look like bandaged diarrhea? SURE!
Frozen pizzas that taste like lost frisbees drizzled in expired tomato sauce? No problem.
Quesadillas at morning, noon. or night? It's on like donkey kong. Or Taco Bell.

Just let me see you eat.

And let's be honest. If you judge me based on the three things my son eats most,and the go-to for my daughter; I sound either sloppy and terrible or the coolest mom ever; depending on who you are asking.

And we really DO want to ask someone, sometimes, don't we?
Grab another Mom's arm like a life preserver and sputter out our need for validation and an "atta girl." Buoy me up for another day please.


I think I am a pretty good mom. On the "will-they-go-to-therapy-scale?" I'd give myself a two. Maybe a four?
I mean, I've got three of them, my oldest and second oldest (NOT middle! AVOID SAYING MIDDLE FOR THE LOVE OF PEACE AND QUIET) are in their early twenties and so far, not any visible damage. Of course, my son is still home for another year and there's still time to screw with his head pretty good but I would say most mistakes were made in the early years.

Hopefully early enough that they have forgotten. Or those memories have been replaced.
Upgraded.
Mommy version VI.

Of course there are a few that get brought up constantly. Like, "Mom remember when you used to set the timer and you told us if we didn't eat our dinner before it went off you would beat us?"
Yes. Yes I do. I'm SO glad you remember too since it is one of my BEST mommy moments.

On the upside, my grocery bill was low.

Or brought up even more recently,
"Hey MOM. Remember that time Bre did somethingsomethinsomething and you took down her Justin Timberlake poster and hung it up in YOUR room."
Um, Yes. I wish I could remember what it was she did exactly, but maybe I just had a hankering to see JT on my wall?
Possible. Plausible. Whatever.

These, of course, are small examples.
The bigger ones are so much harder to write.
Because secretly we are all hoping we do so much better than our own parents, right?
I mean, I would NEVER .... and then I do.
And everything I value and hold close and wave the white hat of I AM A BETTER MOMMY THAN YOU falls around me in prickly pieces of judgmental glass.

Like the time I called my son an asshole and watched the wound spread slowly across his face like a darkening cloud before a cold rain.
Then I burst into tears.

I started my period two days later. Obviously I was under duress from the emotional hijackers that live inside my body before they give up on anything tangible happening and bleed out.
But that's besides the point.
(ps-I recently purchased a "girl business" zippy pouch that says "oh my bloody hell". I think everyone in the house identifies with the sentiment)

What is the point?
Parenting is hard. And inconvenient.
And scary.
We are all going to make a lot of mistakes.

About fifteen years ago I fell down the stairs outside my apartment. As I skidded down the concrete steps on my knees and landed on all bloody fours, all I could think was,"Oh My GOD. Did anyone SEE that?!"
Not, maybe someone will help me.
Not, someone is going to ask if I'm ok.
But only, did anyone see me practically face plant and make a complete jackass of myself?
That's parenting.
All the time.


We're going to fall asleep on the couch with our baby in the crook of our arm and only wake up because we hear them thunk to the floor.
We're going to be so tired from the complete lack of sleep that we barricade our toddler in the living room with us and "A Whole New World" lulls us to genie land, on the cheerio sprinkled floor.
We're going to wake up late and get our kids to school with nothing more substantial than a pop-tart for breakfast. On test day.
We're going to get lost in the happy zone at Target and then hear our name reverberating over the store intercom. Hi there, mum-of-the-year. You lost your child.
Nice one.

We're going to have our kids give us a fun pop-quiz with super hard questions like, "when's my birthday?" And then watch them look at us in disappointment and horror when it takes longer than five seconds for us to remember which one is theirs.

We're going to buy store-bought cookies and brownies for the bake sale.
Enough said.

We might call our kids a bad name.
We might even enjoy it for just a teeny tiny split of a second when we do because let's face it -
we hold that shit in all the time.

We're still regular people.
We just have other people looking to us for love and acceptance all the time.

No pressure.

We're going to have other parents shake their heads and cluck their tongues and we're going to try really hard to remember we are a contributing member of society and not throat-punch them.
We're going to have strangers yank out their binky in the middle of the mall and coo "oh you sweet little puh puh puh. You don't need that thing stuck in your mouth do you?"
And you're going to remind yourself it isn't ok to push down grandmas.
We're going to overhear someone we trust, someone who's supposed to be in our tribe, talk about us and our lack of parental skills and it's going to sting. We might cry. Just for a second.
And then we might get really pissed and think of all the awful ways THEY parent instead. It's not "nice" but it will make you feel better. Better enough to not claw their eyes out.

We're going to wish for a pedicure by ourselves, for a glass of water that doesn't have floaties in it, for sex that isn't muffled in a pillow, for toilet time with our favorite magazine, for a bra that doesn't smell like breast milk. Or vomit.
We're going to try and learn common core math and feel like the biggest idiot on the planet when we don't get it and realize we can't help our second grader do their homework.
We're going to try not to hate their teacher for sending this crap home.
We're going to breathe deep and not freak out over their room that has exploded with clothes (Are they dirty? Are they clean?)and empty mountain dew cans and a floor littered with pink squiggly wrappers from their maxi-pads.
We are going to give them "space."
And then a week later we're going to say, "Screw this effing space crap!" and yell at them to clean their room before we throw away everything in it except their bed and underwear.
We are going to do our best to not seem psychotic.
We are going to tell ourselves this is normal.
We are going to hope that's true.

Moms. Mothers. Mums. Ma's. Mommy's.
It is true.
You are doing the best you can.

And if it makes you feel like you're excelling at the mom-job to offer them a mom-made sandwich, an apple and peanut butter, a slice of chocolate cake you just frosted; then go ahead and do it.
Food pushers unite.

XO



-

THINGS that are HARD to SwaLLoW

THINGS that are HARD to SwaLLoW:
Warm milk in the desert, mid-day.
Prenatal Vitamins in your first trimester.
Peanut butter.
The thick outcome of oral sex.
Preachers who sermonize about lust while driving their Cadillacs, staring at hookers.
The smell of period farts.
A mouthful of skittles when you're stoned.
Smiling in spite of hurt feelings with a repeat offender.
Rejection.
Pride.
My words when confronted with your ego.

Let's break up with the idea of us.
I want to unclog my throat.

Difficult people is a mandatory in life. They rub us like sandpaper against a raw sunburn. Like a side cramp in mile five, with two more to go, they cause us to clutch and limp, and for goodness sake, breathe in your nose and out your mouth, and keep that shit even.

But they also challenge us to be our better self.
Rise above.
Whether it's the idea of not wanting to be anything like them, or if we go deeper into some kind of Jesus calling to love thy neighbor;
even if it is with clenched fists and grinding teeth.
We reach out, we "like", we ask for visits, we LOL; knowing each time the response is a haughty, pointed, silence from an impenetrable wall.
Ah.
But is that love I'm really showing?
I'm not sure. Probably not the pure kind.
I can tell you what it is though, it is an effort. And if that kind of effort is being given, there is love somewhere, for someone, motivating it's continuance.

I've reached some sort of self-inflicted rejection limit.
I've never really mastered the social angst of high-school; cowering beneath any type of Queen Bee. I was more of a "here's-my-middle-finger-why-don't-you-suck-it" kind of girl.
I'd like to think I've grown a little. Learned to give a measure of grace.
I mean, there is Jesus.
Although I picture him constantly shaking his head in exasperation, I'd like to think every now and again he gives me a heavenly high-five.
So,
I try to keep my middle fingers to myself.
And I also try to remember, we are walking a path unique to each one of us, and sometimes that path is rocky, steep, and hot damn if I don't keep stumbling over that same freakin' boulder. Someone please give me a leg up or let me learn to go around it already.
And also, maybe I am someone else's boulder too. There is that.

It is asked I turn my cheek. And then the other one,
It is not required I lay down on the floor and allow another human, no matter their position, pass over me as if I don't exist.
We both know I am here.
We both know how hard it's pretended I am not.

I'm going to let us off the hook.
I'm going to make it easier for us to swallow.
I'm not going to entice you to like me anymore. No more auctioning off myself in bewildered bits and placating pieces, to someone who continues to look at me like a garage sale slip of underwear.

Here's a truth that's real for everybody; most certainly a truth I grabbed a hold of at age nine and held it close to my chest as a vigilant shield, or swung it like a bat if someone came pitching at me with their small, teeth-barring, lies.
I decide what I am worth for myself.
If I don't, some asshat struggling with their own value and usefulness is going to decide it for me, and it will always be at a clearance price.
If I don't set a boundary, someone unworthy of my core self, will cross it
every. single. time.

Why?

It can be because they think they are better than you.
It can be because they are intimidated by you.
It can be because they are jealous of you.
It can be because they don't know how to handle you.
Or it can be because they don't know any better. (But come on. Unless they are four years old .... bullshit)
No matter which reason it is, every single one is unacceptable.
Each one is small.

We are ALL worth something. To God. To ourselves. To the ones that love us.
We are NOT always liked. Or appreciated. Or valued.
By our own tribe or the masses.

Choose your people. Choose who speaks into you and over you.
You can't help who speaks about you.
But you, and me, we can choose what we listen to, what takes root, what grows, and what we let go of.

XO

the sick people

Later, Levi invited Jesus and his disciples to his home as dinner guests, along with many tax collectors and other disreputable sinners. (There were many people of this kind among Jesus’ followers.) But when the teachers of religious law who were Pharisees saw him eating with tax collectors and other sinners, they asked his disciples, “Why does he eat with such scum?”

When Jesus heard this, he told them, “Healthy people don’t need a doctor—sick people do. I have come to call not those who think they are righteous, but those who know they are sinners.”
- Mark 2:15-17

And in two verses, everything I love about Jesus is summed up.
If this were an instagram post I'd have to hashtag it; #dropthemic.

Let's get something clear.
Jesus was a radical badass. He was The MAN. Speaking to the ones everyone else shunned. Healing those that everyone else had forgotten.
He crossed every societal boundary and snubbed every stance of pretension.
He was the ultimate rebel of love.
Jesus took zero craps from anyone pretending to be greater than what they were; extending instead, endless love and bottomless mercy to those the "holy" deemed undeserving.
Jesus was not impressed by the exterior show of purity.
His bullshit detector was on point.
And when he said to love your neighbor, he showed us how. Jesus would have treated everyone with the same hand if they had let him. It's baffling to think the ones that took his hand were the adulterers, the cheaters, the liars, the oppressed, the poor, the cast-out, and the lepers.

I can only assume it is because they knew, just as I know, the last sentence in the verses above, is their truth.

"...but those who know they are sinners."

They knew exactly who they were,
what they lacked,
and their indescribable need for HIM.
Nothing else would satisfy.
All else had been tasted and the soul was left,
wanting.

But we all know. Don't we? When we really get to the push and the shove and the let go of it?
We all know.

I am far, far, far, from anything close to resembling Jesus. The more I get to know HIM, the more I want to hide.
And yet, I also want to run.
To Him
As fast as I can, arms out, hair flying, mouth panting,
JesusJesusJesus.
I want him to swoop me up.
I want him to rain all over me.
I want his light to break apart all the pieces of my dark.
I want his love to pour in and flow out.
I want people to see Him; see Him in me.
I want it to give them hope.
Just like it gave me hope, when I saw Him, for the very first time.

I cannot say it enough.
Oh how he loves. Oh how he loves. Oh how he loves.
Us.

XO

It was a wedding morning

I couldn't believe it when he walked away from me. I inhaled deeply on my smoke and tried to calm down. My emotions jumped around like fleas on a rabid animal. It was hot, right here in the Econo Lodge parking lot. I thought of one thing (flowers), then another (where's my flat iron?), mentally making a list (tissues, cell phone, lip gloss)- don't forget (the flowers!). Remember that(sand).

I took another drag and focused on the blue sky, avoiding leaning on my car, covered in country dust.
I should have smoked hours earlier.
A break was a good idea.
But there wasn't time. There still wasn't. Not really. But if I didn't have this right now, I was going to lose it. I just wanted quiet. For three minutes.
Quiet.
And I desperately needed a hug. The sureness and strength of his arms. That would settle my nerves.

God knows my frantic panic prayers of "help me, sweet Jesus" weren't working.

I glanced behind me and he was still gone.

Dropping the butt to the ground, I stubbed it haphazardly with my toe and grabbed my phone, forcefully pecking out an adolescent text to my struggling husband, with my newly nailed finger.

thanks a lot. you're awesome.

Which, on that day, loosely translated to, "Where. The. Hell. Are. You. Going?"

He came back to me, his eyes frazzled and distracted, looking at my arms full of bouquets, a dress, and a box of converse; and he asked, in a calm I wished I felt, "What can I do?"

The unruffled mother/wife I had envisioned I would be this day, delegating tasks with a generous,sunny smile and a dollop of rainbows, while I walked in serenity through the ceremony chairs, praying , had evaporated about two hours before.
It became painfully obvious to me I had watched way too many Jennifer Lopez movies in the past week.
And I was almost as unholy as Satan himself.

A really great wife would have just answered the question. What could he do?

I wish I could tell you I was a really great wife. I really do.

I did the exact opposite.

Worse than the opposite.

I completely lost my shit.
I stood at the bottom of the concrete stairs, in the hotel parking lot, exposed in the sun and the rawness of my frustration, and I unraveled like a ball of worn-out yarn in the hands of an experienced cat.

Obscenities punctuated obscenities which then turned into questions with obscenities, and ended in declarations and more obscenities.
Clearly, "fuck" had become my favorite word.

When I finally stopped and looked up, a grandmother stood on the stairs, eyes full of understanding and a little bit of pity.
Awkward.
I was caught in a moment rarely seen outside the safety of my own home and my husband's forgiveness.

I wish I could tell you I felt really bad about it.
But I didn't. I felt relief.
I kind of wished I had done it sooner.

He still didn't get it.Not quite. I am guessing all my cursing gave him the hint something was a little off, but he still wasn't sure about the particulars.

And so he asked again.

"Babe. What can I do?"

And then I couldn't speak. The words tumbled through my throat and got stuck with tears. My mouth was quiet but my head screamed.

Do? Do!
I don't want you to do anything. I just want you to be.
Be with me.
Stand next to me.
Let's watch her together.
Our daughter is getting married today.
Can we stop doing for ten minutes and savor it?

Do you get it?
Do you understand?
I'm never going to see her like this again.
I'll never get this day, this moment, that smile, her laugh, the teasing, a glass of champagne from a pink bottle, the flitter of all her friends as they come in and out of her room, in various stages of bridesmaid dress.
This is it .
This is it and I have already missed so much.
I've been gone all morning, making decisions; where to put this and what about that? Can we add something here, take away from there?
Arranging and answering and conversing with people I don't know and may not ever see again.
All I want to do is sit and watch. For just a moment.
Sit.
and watch.
Her.

All the while, her hair is being brushed, curled, sprayed.
Her makeup has been swept across her face, eyeliner penciled on, mascara brushed to her lashes.
I've missed it.
Did she laugh the whole time? Did her eyes light up? Did she get a nervous giggle? Did she and her bridesmaid make a toast? Did she have help putting on her garter belt?
Don't you understand?
She doesn't look like my little girl anymore.
She already looks like someone else,
a bride,
an almost wife,
and I missed it.

Do?
I don't want you to do anything. I want you to be.
Be with me.

I thought of my own wedding day and how terrified I was.

My own mom was not there. She never saw me get giddy in nervousness and laugh with my bridesmaids. She doesn't know we ate donuts that morning. She doesn't know one of my maid-of-honors had to hike up her skirt and readjust her undergarments on the front porch during pictures so the photographer went ahead and snapped that too. She doesn't know my favorite Latina applied my make up while joking about boobs and sex and men, while punctuating every joke with a high-pitched laugh and a "right, Shannon? Right?!" She wasn't there when I got out of the car and made my way to hide in the bedroom. She wasn't there when I walked out with my dad, who was trying so hard not to cry himself, and instead said low, "Let's do this" as we stepped out to Etta James. She wasn't there to see my bridesmaids get too drunk to make a coherent speech and swat at bees.
And she wasn't there to soothe my feelings when my new family made hushed, pointed comments about people "already leaving."
My mom missed it all.

The empty spot of my mother remains.

I will always hold it. It doesn't matter that she's with me now. It doesn't count that I am able to call her today and catch up or meet her for coffee and a walk. Precious times, every single one, but it doesn't make her magically appear in all the other parts.
She will be forever missing from those memories.

And I knew I would be missing from not just some of Bre's, but also some of my own, in order to help create others. In being absent, I was giving her my own gift.

A wedding of her dreams. A wedding to remember.
And it was!
It was perfect and beautiful and lovely.

But standing in the hotel parking lot, with the sun beating down on my head, and an armful of bouquets, and a husband torn between staying at my side and going back to his parents, I did not know yet that was going to happen.
I only knew I needed him and I needed to be with her.
Just be.
For a small moment.

Do? I don't want you to do anything. I don't have a list. There's nothing to be fixed.

Take my hand.
Let's walk up the stairs. Let's sit in the room that's exploded in clothes and makeup and champagne.
Let's watch her with her friends. Let's capture the finishing touches.
Let's be.
Jeff grabbed the flowers. He kissed my forehead.
And that's exactly what we did.

XO

Orchids and Calle Lillies

I have mercifully discovered Pinterest can turn the average mama into a florist, a caterer, an entertainer, and a wedding coordinator.
Well, Pinterest, You Tube, Hobby Lobby, and about five million dollars.

I finished my daughter's bridal bouquet yesterday morning at 7am. My bed had become the most comfy of craft centers; tape, ribbon, scissors, pliers, pins, wire, with a side table of coffee and an ipad of Friends. When I put the final pin in place, I held up the bouquet in some kind of fanatical awe. I basically felt like I had managed world peace all on my own.
Or at least avoided the mother-lode of melt-downs.
Until I saw the ONE flower.
Again.
This flower ya'll.
I have battled it for three days.
Three.
No matter where I placed it or how I bent it, it would fit into place, a perfect match with all the other flowers, and two minutes later, it would twist again, just enough to be obviously different.
Just enough to drive me crazy.

In my last post I talked about the pressure of wanting to make everything perfect in this wedding, which is so laughable because how does anyone who is imperfect (and oh the list of imperfections!) create something perfect? Exactly.

Have you ever made a bouquet?
Until now, me either. I am not crafty. I do not have an "eye" for these things. My gift is to rely on my talented friends, which unfortunately, was not an option this time around.
For better or for worse, I was on my own.
So I did what anyone this decade would do and I You Tube'd it.

Each video I watched, showed to gather three flowers at a time, then tape. Three more, then tape. Add another three, and then tape some more. This is what keeps the flowers in place and enables you to add to the bouquet without all the flowers slipping through your fingers and onto the floor. It helps it hold its shape.

My problem flower was somewhere at the beginning. I couldn't take it out unless I wanted to start over.
For the fourth time.

I stared at this flower; eyes narrowed, contemplating how I could rip the bloom out and be done with it. Make like the Queen of Hearts and, "Off with her head!"

Instead, I kept going. I was so close. My adhesive covered fingers ached for the finish.
Maybe if I taped enough, if I added more flowers, if I squeezed it tighter, it would be forced to stay in its place.


My chest is tight and I am fighting back tears,
right this second,
as I type.

I am on the couch, slippered feet crossed on the ottoman, headphones on listening to Coldplay, pillow on my lap, computer on top of pillow, and about 45 minutes ago, I told my family, "I've got to write."
Typically when I write, I hide out in my room, hunkered down for at least an hour with the door closed.
But my in-laws are sleeping in my room; hence the headphones on the couch so I can block out my son, who is watching Dragon BallZ, and my husband who is working from the yoga mat laid out on the floor in front of me, (my daughter called him an oxymoron for doing this and I just about died laughing), and my daughter who is doing her make-up while watching something ridiculous from her ipad.

I knew I had to write. I could feel it in my fingers, the push of words, but honestly ya'll, I had something completely different in mind.

Something about the rehearsal and how I tried not to cry from this joy I have never felt before.
Something about motherhood and how for the first time in a long time, I am standing at a precipice of complete unknowns and my emotions are tumbling around inside me like a dryer full of exploding rainbows.
Something about the dinner I hosted at my home last night for the wedding party and all the family,and it was nerve-wracking and incredibly perfect at the same time.
Something like that.
Nothing about bouquets.

But you know, the heart lets out what wants to be free, what wants to be known.

In a beautiful bouquet of orchids and calle lillies, all perfectly aligned and in place, there is just one.
One that will not conform.
One that will not be adapt.
One that will not be twisted and turned and molded and plied, into something it is not.
It will not look right when it wants to look left.
It will not bend when it wants to stand straight.

It will not look like the others. It will be what it is.
And nothing I do will change it.

And now I am still trying not to cry because my mother-in-law is up and talking to Jeff and I'm still in my headphones,
writingwritingwriting,
and I don't want her to look at me weird and think I am weird, but honestly, I am caring less with each letter that gets punched out.

I should be more like that flower.
We all should.
And it is so fitting that it is my daughter's bouquet, her wedding bouquet. It is so fitting that it is her.

She is in the service. She knows all about conformity and adapting and doing what she is told.

And she does what is required of her. This is her job, her actions.

But her spirit, all the stuff inside of her that beats and moves and loves,
it does not bend when she'd rather stand straight,
it does not look right if she wants to look left,
it is not twisted and turned and molded and plied, into something she is not.

She is as brave as this flower.
Simply by being what she is and refusing all she is not.

I want to be this brave too.

XO