"Love is love is love is love is love."

We have had so much going on lately.  We have celebrated Amelia’s second birthday, gone to Atlanta for the weekend, watched my favorite awards’ show of every year - The Tony’s, and I finished up another school year.  I had plans to write about those things.  To share with you, readers, what it feels like to celebrate and mark another year of Amelia’s life and the absolute joy that has come with that, to ramble endlessly about my Hamilton obsession as well as my obsession with all things musical, describe Amelia’s first baseball game in the sweltering Atlanta heat and to reminisce about the school year with emotion that can only be brought about by the first day of summer break.  My plans changed.  You will still read about all of those things (I hope), but for now, I cannot allow myself to write with anything other than heartbreak.

On Saturday night, well, technically, Sunday morning, fifty people were violently murdered as they danced.  More were injured.  Let me say that again – as they danced.  Not as they fought, as they argued or even as they protested and not that their actions, whatever they were, would justify this massacre – as they danced. These were people having fun, being who they were, and living their lives.  I could say that they were someone’s daughter, son, friend, father, mother, cousin, co-worker, etc, etc, etc, and that is true, but what should matter to us, above all else, is that they themselves were someone. 

I could complain about gun regulation, mental health problems, terrorism, and any number of other “explanations” we want to give, but what I see in this is hatred.  Yes, all of those things are problems, but hatred is what spurred this.  This should be undeniably and unequivocally unacceptable.  And yet…

I know that no sane person would claim that they wanted this to happen.  Perhaps, no one would admit, even to themselves, that by not being a part of an active solution, they are perpetuating the problem.  I am not pointing fingers at people or at specific solutions.  I don’t know how we fix this.  But I do know that we are called to fix it.  We cannot continue this way.  We cannot raise our children in a world where hatred is this commonplace.  I will not do it. 

I am tired and I know you are too.  I’m tired of being inundated with stories of violence in so many public places, in so many homes, of rape behind dumpsters on college campuses with the perpetrators not being held responsible, of politicians who will say whatever it takes to get a reaction, of misguided and vocal groups of people and of hatred, in its many forms. 

I do not know how to solve all of our society’s problems and I am definitely not the most eloquent writer, but I do know that love is the answer and above all else, love is active.  Love is not a passive statement, but a way of life. 

Loving others does not mean we can pick and choose which people to accept, to comfort, to protect.  Love means accepting and respecting all in their lives and not just their deaths. Love means choosing the battles that truly matter. Love means actively teaching our children love, in all of it’s forms.  Love means that we work for change, rather than just changing our status on social media.  Love means standing together, to make each other stronger, to help each other keep going.  Love is remembering those we have lost, those who suffer, the families who face a new “normal,” the outcasts, the confused, the angry, the hurting, our neighbors, our families, our children and ourselves.   Lin-Manuel Miranda, so eloquently said in a timely sonnet/acceptance speech, “love is love is love is love is love.”

I'm Feeling 32

On Tuesday, it was my birthday.  As I have repeatedly told you, I adore special occasions and I am lucky enough to be married to a man who helps to feed that adoration.  Adam undeniably spoils me on my birthday, my birthday eve and my birthday week.  I hope that I take advantage of the opportunities to spoil him too, but right now, I am still basking in the reverberations of birthday week 2k16 and I know, that I don’t ever do it as well as he does.  Today and every day, I am thankful for Adam. 

Anyway, this year I turned 32.  To sort of quote the immortal words of Taylor Swift (and by quote I mean change to fit my situation), I’m feeling 32.  At this moment, I mean I’m feeling it in all the ways possible.  I am feeling 32 in that my body has suddenly started to feel 32.  On the other hand, I’m feeling it in that so far, it’s a good age.  Since I’ve been 32, I’ve played babies, I’ve dried tears, I’ve laughed, I’ve celebrated a graduation, I’ve been on a road trip (albeit a short and familiar one), I’ve had cake, I’ve said thank you, I’ve taken pictures, I’ve sung songs, I’ve continued building some cloud castles and as always, I’ve taken stock of things as they stand on my birthday.

While both nostalgia, embarrassment and possibly even regret have their place and time, I don’t think birthdays are that time.  To me, birthdays are a celebration; a time to mark the successes of the year.  Remember the good times, the laughter, the love, the wins and to simultaneously acknowledge the triumph over the failures, the sadness.  Triumph includes just facing another day, even if it’s an ongoing struggle.

I’m currently planning Amelia’s second birthday party.  This one is going to be as low-key as I can handle and I’m intentionally making it less work than last year’s one-year-old bash.  Even so, it makes me think about birthdays in general.  I hope that I’m teaching Amelia that birthdays are an occasion to celebrate, with the people that are important to you, no matter how old you are.   We get caught up in begrudging ourselves for getting older, when really; we should be excited for another year.  I would never give up any of my previous years in exchange for being younger.  I am proud of my age and all that I’ve done in the 32 years I’ve been given.  Of course, there are things that I want to do better in the coming year, dreams I want to realize, hopes I want to encourage, interests I want to foster.  It isn’t that I’ve been anywhere near perfect.  It’s that I am thankful for my 32 years and I am thrilled to have been 32 for almost a week and for 51 more weeks. 

Birthdays are not about the cake, the presents, the attention; it’s about being given another year, the possibilities of the future, the relationships formed in that year and what you can share with the world – tangibly or otherwise.  And, right now, I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling 32.

Hockey In The South - Just Give It A Go

As I settle in for Game 6 of the Western Conference Semifinals in the 2016 NHL Stanley Cup Playoff between the Nashville Predators and the San Jose Sharks, I'm reminded of where the Nashville Predators franchise was in the fall of 1998.

I had a minuscule amount of knowledge of the game of hockey. I knew that NHL 1993 on the Super Nintendo was a great video game, and that I loved playing with Pittsburgh Penguins, Mario Lemieux and Jaromir Jagr, who just resigned with the Florida Panthers for a 1 year contract at the age of 44!  I heard several speakers from the Predators organization around Nashville trying to drum up interest in a hotbed of collegiate and NFL football fanbases.

Only after attending a game at then Nashville Arena, did I realize how awesome this game was. The physical ability of players of their size and skill skating up and down the ice at full speed trying to put a frozen piece of rubber into a net is mind-boggling, especially to a southerner. The fighting was novel, but quickly subsided and gave way to a more appreciative respect for the game.

However, what the experience of becoming a hockey fan has taught me is to give 'things' a chance, whether those 'things' are books, perspectives, relationships, opportunities, music, etc. I could have given up on hockey after the first game, and I didn't have much fun or any idea what was really happening. I would've missed out on some great experiences and a deeper knowledge of 'things' this world has to offer.

I realize that I'm making a ridiculous comparison about how hockey has influenced my perspective on life, but here it is.

Let's Go Preds!!!

Be Brave, Mommy

This week Amelia got the equivalent of one of her very first participation trophies in the form of a small, purple certificate and a sticker.  She was much more interested in the sticker, of course, and I felt like, this time, the certificate was more for me.  This hastily filled in certificate proclaimed that Amelia completed her first round of swim lessons in the infant/toddler class offered on the ASU campus. 

Each Tuesday and Thursday for the last five weeks (minus the week when she battled the flu – in April), Amelia and I have hurried to swim class.  We lucked into a small class with a very patient and soft-spoken college student/instructor.  There was not much to the actual class; mostly, we sang songs, practiced kicking, attempted to blow bubbles (which resulted in the drinking of more pool water than is ever recommended), tossed a ball, tried to convince babies and toddlers to try to float, and to Amelia’s absolute delight, jumped in repeatedly.  Because this was an infant/toddler class, I had to swim too.  Well, I had to walk back and forth in the water for thirty minutes, twice a week, holding Amelia.  My job was to help her to be comfortable in the water and facilitate whatever activity we were directed to complete.

Amelia started laughing as soon as we began walking down the steps each time.  She loved the thrill of the not-so-warm water and the anticipation it brought.  She adored splashing and begged for the songs.  Her favorite songs in the water were “Ring Around the Rosy” and “The Hokey Pokey.”  At the end of “Ring Around the Rosy” instead of falling down, she would go under the water.  This was terrifying to me the first few times, but each time, Amelia would shout “again!” as she came up out of the water.  I knew she loved the pool, but I didn’t realize how far her confidence went. 

My Amelia has no fear.  This is not a new revelation.  Sure, there are moments when she is hesitant, but give her a second, and she will dive right in – and as I learned in swim class, literally dive in.  Amelia’s jumps into the pool progressed as the class did.   During the first class (and every class, really) she would beg to jump in again and again.  By the last week of class, she would hold a diving ring and I would pull her into the water with it, rather than holding her hands, so she would have the feel of jumping in without my touch.  Rather than balk at this new arrangement, Amelia insisted that she could do it herself.  I had to convince her to let me catch her and even then, she barely looked as she jumped, hoping to feel a jolt of surprise with the water. 

During our second to last class, we were crossing the pool, trying to practice kicking.  Amelia was attempting to push me away and “do it herself!”  This is not a rare occurrence right now, since she’s twenty-two months old, but of course, I couldn’t let her go in the middle of a pool.  So, I kept my hold on her and continued trying to get across the pool.  I called her “my brave girl” and laughed as she resigned herself to my help. 

Once we made it to the side, the plan was to do a series of jumps into the water.  This particular class was the one in which our instructor introduced the diving rings to foster more independent jumping.  I know my eyes widened as the idea was presented and I took a deep breath.  After convincing Amelia that we could use the pink ring (she wanted the yellow one and colors are very important right now, although at this point the excitement of jumping into the pool triumphed), she readied herself to jump.  Somehow, she must have felt my hesitancy.  Precociously, she stopped and smiled at me.  “Be brave, Mommy!” she shouted just before she jumped.

In the moment, I laughed and caught her, just before her head went under.  Looking back, it felt like one of the first times that our roles were reversed.  Here she was, the one who was learning something new, trying something that could be scary, and I needed her reassurance.  My job was to help her to be comfortable and she was comforting me.  She was forcing me to see that she was ready.  She couldn’t wait to take the next step; whether she knew it or not, she just needed me to be there to catch her once she jumped.   That won’t always be the case, I know.  These moments, this independence will pop up more and more often, sometimes unexpectedly and sometimes in situations that I have both dreaded and hoped for since before she was born. 

Sometimes, I will help her to be brave, to find her courage, her confidence.  No matter what, I’ll do my best to be there to catch her.  Even so, I know that sometimes, my brave girl will have to once again say, “be brave, Mommy.”

And the jolts just keep on coming...

I know that I’ve been heavy on the parenting thoughts lately, but bear with me once more.  I was so many things before I was a mother and I am still most of those things, but motherhood is still my newest title even almost two years in. 

Amelia is growing in so many ways; growing up, growing bigger, growing away from us even now, at almost two.  I struggle to foster independence in my toddler when I’m dreading the day when that independence will come to its true fruition.  It’s one of the biggest clichés of parenting; we raise them to leave us.  Of course, I’ve never understood that until truly facing it, how could any of us understand that before it’s our reality?

As all of my realizations seem to, this particular one came to me while I was putting Amelia down for the night.  It’s the time of day when she is the most willing to cuddle, the time when she is the stillest, the time when she wants me to hold her.  This time it was nothing profound, nothing life altering, just a realization that parenting is a series of jolts.  There is nothing smooth or easy about it.  Parenting is more than beautiful in it’s own unique way, but it undeniably shakes things up, daily if not hourly.

Sometimes, it’s the jolt when you think the baby is asleep.  You may have made too much noise as you stood to try to put them down in the crib or you may have sneezed right when they stopped crying or you may have thought they were asleep for thirty minutes when suddenly they start singing the ABCs or reciting all of their new favorite words.

Sometimes, it's the jolting sound of a cry, the cry that only you can differentiate.  When you know it's a serious cry, it cuts straight to the soul.  It's amazing to me that every parent seems to be able to recognize their child's cry and what it means.  I never knew the nuances of a child's cry, or even that there were nuances, until I heard hers.

Sometimes, it’s the jolt of a new skill.  Whether it’s the first time you changed a diaper without thinking too much or your kid mimicked something you said or you realized you’ve stopped counting how many words they know, it’s a jolt.  Time, and with it skills, growth and so much more, slips by more quickly than it’s possible to gauge when you’re watching a person develop every day.

Sometimes, it’s the jolt that today will never repeat itself.  This moment is this moment; it will never happen again.  Your baby will not be a baby for long.  My toddler is battling her way toward full-on childhood, no matter what I do.  It’s my job to ease the transition, to help her along the way, to foster those skills, that independence, the wonder of the world around her, the love in and around her.

Sometimes, it’s the jolt about yourself.  When you think about who you are, suddenly, parent is the first qualifier that comes to mind.  I don’t know when the transition happened, but it did. 

I could go on and on and on.  The jolts, the realizations, the changes, seem to come every day.  Parenting is never what you expect and honestly, that is part of what I love about it.  I don’t know what’s coming and that can make it hard to let go of the present.  This adventure is just that, an adventure.  An adventure that is un-slow-able and unstoppable, just as it is bumpy, unexpected and full of jolts. 

Not My Daughter...

A few weeks ago, I found myself in Amelia’s room in the middle of the night.  The actual middle of the night, the time when it feels like you’re the only one awake in the world.  This doesn’t happen much anymore, but on this particular night, I was rocking Amelia back to sleep.  It was a rarity in several ways, not least of which that I was completely at peace about being there, about rocking my toddler for a few more minutes.  It won’t last for much longer, even at those times.

            Anyway, the hum from her sound machine was not helping me to keep my eyes open.  I have this fear that if I close my eyes while I’m holding her and let myself drift off, I’ll either end up spending much more time than I intended in that glider or I might drop her.  That would completely counteract all of the effort being put into getting her back to sleep.  So, I did what any of us would do in that situation. I turned to Facebook.  It’s funny how at moments like this, the most innocuous of Facebook articles that have been posted, shared or liked jump out so much more than they do in the light of day.  I had no discrimination in that moment for what I was reading.  In between articles about whatever pop culture phenomenon had seventeen things I didn’t know about it, I clicked on a post from a friend of a friend of a friend.

            This particular mom shared her story about what she believed was a run-in with a sex trafficking operation in a grocery store.  She felt that they were targeting her toddler age daughter and warned other parents who might take their children shopping alone.  This mom went into detail about how this might happen and her fear in those moments, feeling like her daughter was even on their radar.  I will never know if her fears were true, if her assumptions about the people in that store were accurate or if the worst could have happened had any of the minute details been different.  In spite of all that uncertainty, that post got under my skin.  As any parent knows, losing your child, in whatever way it might happen, is a constant, under the surface fear. 

            My first reaction was to insist to myself that I would not let anything happen to Amelia.  I immediately began to think through how I would have reacted, what I would have done, how I would protect her, keep her safe.  Just like Nemo’s dad, Marlin, I blindly, but with good intentions, assured myself that I would never let anything happen to her.  I feel that that was the reaction I should have had.  Amelia has been put in my care; she is my daughter, and she will always be my priority.  That’s a good thing.

          The more I have thought and thought and though about this, though, I have come to a conclusion that I always knew and yet never felt quite so tangible.  It can’t just be “not my daughter” (to quote Molly Weasley).  I pray that it will never be my daughter and I will continue to do everything in my power to continue that reality.  However, we can’t let it be anyone’s daughter.  Or sister.  Or mother.  Or cousin.  Or friend.  Or niece.  Or acquaintance.  Dietrich Bonhoeffer said it best when he said, “Silence in the face of evil is itself evil: God will not hold us guiltless. Not to speak is to speak. Not to act is to act.”

            We will not improve our society or end the very real horrors of sex trafficking and other atrocities of our country and our world if we only look out for ourselves.  We are a global community and it’s time that we started acting like it.  We have been given an opportunity to change the world for the better, for good.  Wasting that chance is simply not an option.  I have an amazing daughter who will change the world; it’s my responsibility to show her how to change it in a good way.  What kind of role model or teacher would I be if I showed her, by word or action or vote, that building walls , figuratively or literally, between people is an answer?