One of my sons woke up this morning and said, “Mommy, you were pretty good. You were number 14, right?” Yep. It was pretty cute. Maybe I had sweat so much that he had to recognize me by my jersey number. Instead of by my bright red face.

I have bruised and floor burned knees. For some strange reason, I’ve been pulling my pant legs up and showing everybody at work. I think to get some sympathy or some validation or to tell the story or something. It’s not that my many floor burns equate to victories, unfortunately, we lost. Every time I sit down it gets harder and harder to stand back up. My back hurts. I have a new callouse on my right foot. One knee completely gave out on me while I was walking. I am a little uncomfortable. Or a lot. Sore. Everywhere. I really wish that trainer from college could come, even though it was awkward, and stretch my hamstrings for fifteen minutes. Or maybe more.

Sometimes you do crazy things to have fun, meet new people and just help yourself feel youthful again. Also in my case, because I love to compete. In sports. It’s amazing how quickly the adrenaline can wear off making you just feel old. Damn. Old. My poor hibernating basketball muscles quickly awoke to the sounds of whistles and buzzers. Rebounding, defending, finding and passing the ball to the most promising player with the weakest defender. Oops. Letting one too many cuss words escape. Bargaining with the ref to un-call that foul. It was all ball, really. Holy (not) smokes, how many shots can I miss? Insert cuss word again. “Whoa. Slow down. Easy tiger, you’re going to foul out of a fifteen minute game.” I had to remind my active aggressive basketball court self, especially since my Dad wasn’t there. And we only had one sub. I used to always foul once or twice at the beginning of games. Maybe I wanted to grab the ref’s attention, make sure his whistle worked. Or perhaps I just needed to work out some of the jitters and excitement when the clock started. I loved playing basketball. Really loved it. I remembered just how much yesterday.

Something extraordinary happened to my mid-life brain on the basketball court. It got all kinds of excited, like Jock Jams kind of pumped up. It gathered my joints, muscles, and definitely my elbows into a tight huddle, like the coach from Hoosiers. It spoke with passion, “You’re gonna go out there and play like you did in college.” 3…2…1…and boom! The adrenaline flooded my body. Play ball!

I credit or blame that adrenaline for the numerous shots that I threw off of the backboard. Not alley oops, after all. The ball completely neglected to touch the rim. My teammates forgot to dunk them back into the hoop. Several times. If that third little pig was hoping to build his house, I could have supplied all of his bricks. What happened?! I used to be so good, didn’t I? Ummm. Hmmmm. Comparatively speaking, probably yes. I hesitated to tell anyone that I had played ball at a small college. On a basketball scholarship. A full ride actually. Thirteen years ago. Not that anyone asked. They would have just done the “uh, huh. Sure you did.” face.

We were a scrappy team, fighting for boards, holding on to jump balls, and occasionally fouling the crap out of the girl who just got past us. Again. Then, we apologized and helped each other up. All the while laughing in between our desperate attempts at breathing. I am positive that if someone walked around the gym with oxygen masks for breaks on the bench, I would have death-gripped that thing to my face so fast. Breathed in slowly and deeply of that precious air. There is just no good way to get in shape for playing basketball. Truly. Except by playing a lot of basketball.

It’s a pretty awesome euphoric feeling to pick up and do something you loved doing as a kid. The memories flood your brain. You remember the sights, sounds, smells, and touches. It overwhelms your senses, in a really powerful way. I highly recommend competing or participating in sports, extracurricular activities or whatever, as an adult. It’s definitely humbling and equally as much fun as it is painful. Be prepared to leave a little of your skin, pride and a lot of cuss words on the court. The thing is when you’re not feeling so damn old, you remember what it felt like to be young and carefree, like that sport was the biggest deal in the world. Playing ball. Hurling up a last second shot, getting floor burns, put backs, steals, cheering on teammates, sucking wind, feeling like you’re gonna puke and then unlacing your shoes when it’s all done.

We had two tie breakers. Both teams cheered when the opposing team sank the winning shot. We had a blast, even if we lost. I had a girl pat me on the back and tell me, “Way to represent for the skinny girls.” Thanks. I think. Over the next few weeks, I will be feeling the after-effects of that adrenaline surge. My knees will be old lady griping, protesting, maybe giving out on me. I will be feeling sore. Feeling old. Feeling like I shouldn’t do this again next year. But, of course, I will do it again in a heartbeat. That competitive side of me knows that we can do better next year. Work our way out of that losers bracket. I already did a little recruiting for next year. I looked at a security guard and thought, “She looks tough.” Also, I noticed a resident, with a strong base. And even asked an attending if she played ball. Look out, Sprint, Garmin and KU Med Center. CMH 2016. We’re gonna earn us some points.

Yesterday, I sat back and let my brain and muscles kick into auto-pilot mode. I played and felt that passion. I think it helps keep me young at heart. Even with these old tired knees barely holding me up. It’s a pretty awesome feeling when your six-year-old son compliments you and is proud of your best efforts. After he confirms your jersey number. And when all three boys “oooohhhh” and “ahhhhh”at your floor burned knees, that feels pretty good too. I currently hold the title of having the worst looking knees in a house of three active boys. Sweet. They will look stellar in shorts. And if anyone asks, I will probably just say I was diving for loose balls in corporate challenge. Or maybe I will just say I fell off of my bike several times. Or that I forgot to wear my knee pads during my roller derby practice. Yep. That’s the winner.

Sometimes, well, a lot of times, dangit, all of the time, I arrive late. I can’t blame my kids, though their lack of never knowing where they took their shoes off doesn’t help much. I have been running late my whole life. I think. And I really don’t like being late. I typically get distracted and I think I can pack so many more things into a few minutes. But I guess I can’t, in the end. I know it’s a frustrating tendency. It is not because I don’t value other people’s time. I don’t like attention for being “fashionably late.” I am not fashionable. Please don’t look at me. I’m forgetful, and I strangely remember things at the most inopportune times, like when I should be in the car. On the road. Or already arriving somewhere.

I have been locked out of classrooms, basketball practices, beer tours, and tons of other stuff for being late. These disciplinary measures have not changed me, unfortunately. I get annoyed with myself, so I can imagine that I annoy other people too. Especially the kind who have never been late. Ever. They never run out of gas. Or lock their keys in their car. Or write the wrong date in their planner. Just don’t call me old reliable. It’s okay. I get it. But sometimes, really awesome stuff happens when I arrive late. Like tonight.

I was rather exhausted from a day of garage cleaning, outdoor pool playing, the Minute Clinic(takes more than minutes) with all the boys taking out every Hallmark card and a swim lesson for the boys. I thought “what a sucker” because I had agreed to run the 100 meter dash in the corporate challenge. The guy in charge said,”Not a lot of women in your age group want to run the 100 meter dash.” Really? Pulled hamstrings aren’t cool when you’re 35? I laughed but said I would do it. I even made my husband run sprints with me on the hills of Branson. Tonight was the big night. I used to love watching Flo-Jo run. So, I would just visualize her cheering me on. I needed to drive to the track for my check-in time, you know at 9:00 pm. Yep. When the day is typically over. Awesome time slot. I couldn’t even wear my sunglasses to hide my one zombie eye.

One of my sons wanted to go early with me to warm up on the track and sit by the Children’s Mercy flag on the football field. He remembered watching me run last year. He thought it would be really cool to be down on the field, instead of up in the bleachers. I always love having a companion so I was happy he wanted to ride with me. I knew something was off when we arrived in the parking lot and it was rockstar parking. Last year, I could barely find a spot. We got out of the car and started to walk to the entrance. I guy with a man bun, short running shorts, that also had the slits up the side, told me that we would have to go in the back entrance. He seemed intense, definitely Corporate Challenge material. Maybe a Garmin employee. Okay, I thought. Kind of weird. We walked in and literally there were no people in the stands. Odd again. We walked over to the check-in area which was a concession stand. Nope. It was closed. Lights should have been going off. But they weren’t. Yet.

Ash and I walked down to the infield of the track. We counted five people. No Children’s Mercy flag flying anywhere. Hmmm. I checked my phone. I went to the Corporate Challenge website to make sure that I was at the right location.  Luckily, and ironically, we arrived about 30 minutes early. I had pseudo warmed up and stretched at home. I could probably make it to another track. I read that I was in the right location. Huh. Then, I noticed something odd. The dates for the track events. What was today’s date? It’s so hard to keep track of what day it is, especially in the summer. Ahhhh, last week. The Corporate Challenge track events all took place last week. I was slightly early, but somehow a week late. That may be a new record. Impressive. Looks like no pulled hamstrings for me.

I am pretty certain that I will be blackballed from the CMH corporate challenge track team in the future. Whoops. There’s always basketball. Unfortunately, I would not have been able to run last week anyways due to my sleeping guts. It was better that I forgot because then my guts didn’t even know they stole the Corporate Challenge 100 meter dash away from me. My son and I ended up having the most fun and unexpected outdoor mom/son date. We had races all over the track and on the football field. He’s a competitor. He wanted to beat his mama. We kept “tying” each other. I looked over at the sweet six-year-old boy pumping his arms as hard and fast as he could with his bare feet on the turf and I was proud. I taught him how to get down on your mark, hands on the line. Get set, butt in the air. Then GO!!

We laughed about how nobody was there. Because Corporate Challenge was last week. Then, we went and got ice cream and talked on a park bench outside. There was a guy on a motorcycle, kind of, blasting his music and driving around the parking lot. My son asked me why his music was so loud. I told him that sometimes when a really good song is on, you just want everybody to hear it. And all you want to think about is that song. Then, I told him we could listen to music really loud with the windows down on the way home too, if he wanted to. He loved that idea.

It was the best kind of date. Outdoor, cheap, impromptu. He got to see the old apartments his dad and I lived in. I thanked him for coming with me to the track. He thanked me for the ice cream. I reached back and held his hand outside of my window, as his was hanging outside of his window. At that stop light on Johnson Drive. We listened to music loud with the windows rolled down, when he wasn’t talking my ear off. Telling me about babies feet and how small they are. And about how we need to get another dog for Gizmo so he won’t be lonely. Asking or telling me proudly that he’s the only one out of his brothers who got to see our old apartments. And so on and so on. Special one on one moments. Carved out unexpectedly by my scatter-brained tendencies. And forgetfulness.

When I say that I won’t ever forget tonight. Really, I mean it. And I am quite certain my son won’t either. I think my brain may be holding so many of these most precious fleeting moments and memories that sometimes it just gets maxed out. It forgets things. Times, dates, sometimes doctor’s appointments. It all works out for the best, though, most of the time. If I can just relax and stop beating myself up for a minute and notice the really special opportunities dropped down, right in front of my face. And quickly grab them up before they are gone.

Something is going on in Wal-Mart. And it’s not good. I think there must be a lack of oxygen in there. Like the complete opposite of whats happening in Vegas casinos. Everyone in there is in a bad mood, despite the 80 cent mangoes. That’s right, eighty cents. The employees, minus the occasional friendly greeter, purposely don’t look you in the eye when you desperately need their help. They actually look the other way or hide from you. Where did that blue vested guy just go? Maybe he has passed out, from the lack of oxygen. Today I circled that random crap cup, water bottle and thermos section numerous times. I almost grabbed some to buy. Almost. I tried to find the four things on my list with my three kids in tow. Stopping and touching every end crap, cap, along the way. “Nope. Put it back. We’re not getting that.” Whatever. I said it a lot of times but somehow we still managed to buy too many 97 cent plastic toys that will undoubtedly break in the first five minutes of play. Or they will junk up the family room floor, and I will step on them while carrying a load of laundry causing me to say the most suitable cuss word, “WAL-MART!”

I really needed to get one of those plastic baby pools. They’re not stacked up against the outside walls of the store anymore. They’re father away, in the parking lot. In the “lawn and garden” section, I learned. Makes sense, the parking lot section of the store. I’m certain that most dying hot summer stricken people just take them, especially after learning the process in buying one.

I asked an employee, “Can’t I just tell the lady at the register the price of the pool?”

“No. You have to go out and get one and bring it back into the store.” She {so helpfully} said.

I was on a mission. I abandoned my cart inside of the store. It would have been fine by me, though highly unlikely that somebody would move it. I prodded my kids to hold my hands or grab a leg while we crossed the parking lot to grab that plastic pool. Out there in the lawn and garden parking lot aisle. I rearranged a stack of pools, grabbed the big orange one, carrying it while balancing it on top of two of my children’s heads as we walked back across the road, into the Wal-Mart store. I proceeded to push our cart and try to walk through Wal-Mart with that hard plastic pool balancing on my three-year old’s head and wobbling side to side on top of the cart. Trying not to knock everything off of the shelves. I got to the cash register with our mangoes, and other straight-up crap. When we got lost, I had let my kids get Lunchables AKA kid crack. And I got a tube of Golden Oreos, a Wal-Mart souvenir of sorts. Really. I’m never going back to that store. Never. Ever. Even for the cheap mangoes. And pineapple.

We eventually made it to one of the two check out lines that were open. Cue the Wal-Mart plastic pool kicker of sorts…The employee at the register could not find a price on the pool. Anywhere. Imagine that. If only she could have overhead paged the nobody that was working in the hot parking lot section. I started lifting and holding the pool up. Trying not to take out one of my children in the process. Turning it over. Nope. No price. So, she just made up a price, which I’m pretty sure is a prerequisite for every employee operating a cash register. I thought it was $14.97. She did too. If it were possible for a non-stalker-ish person to have taken photographs, I would have wanted one of all of us carrying that pool to the car with the three boys in tow, several underneath helping/hiding. Then, maybe one of me opening the back of the van shoving it in, unintentionally making a plastic pool fortress for my boys the whole car ride home. I could only see orange, my boys giggled, hidden under the pool. Amazingly and surprisingly enough, I learned it was made in the USA. Score. I found the whole scene pretty hilarious, eventually, after all of the oxygen returned to my head.

“Do we need to go to the hospital?”

My husband asked me this yesterday. We had an awesome date night, but things took a turn down the wrong road. I had mistreated my fragile guts and they quickly got out their signs. A protest of sorts. They were on strike. Not working. As a result, my stomach became the intimidating bouncer, circling the crowd, the big scary one that everyone listens to. “EVERYBODY OUT!” Forcing food, drinks, and bile to dramatically exit. Out the front door. My husband knows the signs. He knows the drill. What he may not know is how much his words, “do we need to go the hospital?” affect me. Not do “you” but do “we.” We are a team. What happens to me and my body affects him, my kids, my whole family. It disrupts, rearranges, and alters plans. Also it makes people worry about me. A lot.

He knew before we got married that this disease could occasionally dictate my life. No matter how hard I fight the disease, it just wins sometimes. Or it thinks it does. “You want to get married in August?” I don’t think so. The disease does what it wants. Often in a destructive, chaotic, and cruel way. I get to choose how I will respond. We had to postpone our wedding. Ironically, I sent out the cutest “save the date” lottery scratcher cards. You scratched the wrong date, folks. If having to postpone your wedding due to surgeries gone wrong is not enough to scare a potential spouse away, then you’ve got to be really into me. Or a little crazy. Or both. Not everyone gets the opportunity to witness how “the one” will react to sickness, real sickness before they sign the papers. Seeing someone you love moaning in pain, hurting, pissed, crying on the bathroom floor with greasy hair. Hopeless. Apathetic. Scared. That’s a lot. For even the most saintly of folks. I didn’t have a lot of money, either. Actually, I had credit card debt.

The kicker is that my husband has never made me feel that guilt, embarrassment or shame. That’s something I do to myself. I think a lot of us do. He’s constantly there holding this massive amount of grace, understanding, compassion and humor too. That I desperately need. It wakes me up, the laughing. I’ve always been a sucker for laughing at inappropriate times. Especially at my own expense. He’s holding his arms wide open for me, always, showing me what unconditional love does. More than words. The action oriented, super hero fighting kind of love. It lays in your hospital bed with you. It holds your hand through the grossest procedures. It takes over every household duty. It doesn’t keep score. It tells you “you’re so beautiful” when you feel the farthest from beautiful. I can only hope that my sons will learn this most graceful way of handling hurt and pain from watching their dad. He knows when I’m fragile and he handles me with the most gentle tone and touch. I imagine that if every person felt this kind of unselfish love and sacrifice, the world would be different. Better.

Don’t get me wrong. He’s not perfect. Like me. He leaves clothes, shoes, hats and receipts everywhere. He gets really pissed when he steps on Legos or when the boys have opened his good guitar and maybe played on it. He loses stuff too, like his wallet and keys. Though, it’s hard to get annoyed with that tendency. If only in our irritated, frustrated, pissed off with each other moments, we could just stop and focus on how great of a team we make when life is hard. Really hard. And that’s what matters the most.

Leonard Cohen, who my husband happens to love, has a song “Anthem.” A part of the chorus says:

“There is a crack, a crack in everything
that’s how the light gets in.”

So once again, I’m thankful to be reminded, in a rather unexpected way, that my cracks are there to help reveal the most beautiful parts of others. The helpers. The encouragers. The love-you-so-incredibly-much they would take all your pain away. Through my struggles, others, especially my husband, teach me that the cracks invite people in. They let the light in. And they prove that brokenness can actually be quite the opposite of what it looks like from the outside.

Some Monday mornings I am emotionally hung over. I get home after midnight, and try to process some really hard moments, often until 3:00 am. At the kitchen table, usually in the dark, while my boys sleep soundly upstairs. One of them talks in his sleep. He sometimes calls out,”Mama….Mama.” This cues me to stop thinking so much and go console my half-asleep little boy. They wake up revved up and ready to go. Like every other morning. They’re running around. Now they’re out of school. They could ask me to do just about anything and I would say, “Yeah. Yes.” A hundred times, yes. My eyes hurt from crying, especially the right one. I wonder if I may be getting pink eye again. Or if it’s just exhausted, dehydrated and sore from over crying. My accidental exfoliation with the mascara that bled down my face may have something to do with its over-irritation. It serves as a visible reminder this morning of a painful, draining night.

Hard, awful stuff happens sometimes at the end of a really long shift. Normal people don’t want to hear about it. I get it. Last night I walked out of work hating that place. The halls seem never-ending when you’re ready to vanish, escape, get out of there as quickly as possible. You crave the ability to erase your eyes, your heart, and your mind from seeing what you’ve seen. Will five days off really be enough? My husband called to help talk me through my drive home. I could barely speak. Overthinking, sobbing, attempting to process the unfathomable. My chest physically ached and I wanted to throw up. There was nothing in my belly. I had last eaten “resigning or going away” cake hours before to honor an amazing co-worker. I envied her last night. Who wants to know about and experience firsthand the awful, painful, incomprehensible stuff that can happen to kids? Why would somebody choose to work here?

After the cake eating and goodbye party, it got crazy busy. Up and down the halls, popping in and out of rooms, hold your pee for hours kind of busy. I left a trail of spinners, bubbles and other toys in every room that I entered. Except the last room. That last room will forever scar my heart. I will remember the faces of the nurses and doctors. The faces that can not hide the deep gut punching unfiltered reaction to devastating, mind jumbling, heart piercing hurt. Everybody wanted to cry. Everybody. Paralyzed. Daniel Tiger played on my iPad. I turned it off and left to go get some warm blankets. I made eye contact with a nurse outside of the room. She saw the hurt and the pain in my eyes, the same way I saw it in all of my co-workers faces that stood around her bed.

It’s a heavy tugging hurt that weighs you down. Consumes you. Smothers you. If you don’t put up a fight. It makes you think this world is full of awful, cruel people. Sick fucks, for lack of a better word. It scares you. It makes you overprotective, under trusting, and hold those you love extremely close, like always within arms reach. Piled on your lap. By your side. You’re always doing everything in your power to secure their safety. Knowing, deep down that even that may not be enough. It’s so hard to understand if you’re not in those rooms, in those breath robbing moments. Trying to inhale. Then exhale. Just breathe. Don’t cry. Not yet. Soon. When you leave, no one is in the halls so you give yourself permission to cry while you clock out, while you ride the elevator, while you look at the Kansas City skyline and walk to your car. The whole drive home.

The doorbell rang this morning. I still had my pajamas on, I had not brushed my teeth, my hair.  It was almost noon. I came to the door. My sweet neighbor stood there holding dinner for us. With the most genuinely kind and caring look on her face. She said that she knew that Monday mornings are really hard. She wanted to help. Pay it forward. She was right, especially today. Perfect timing. Just too perfect. God’s timing. I started to tear up, especially that right eye. She gave me a hug. And she unknowingly did something so much greater than providing dinner for us tonight. She proved that there is a world full of truly kind and loving people who are working around the clock to make it better. I hope that God will nudge me to do something as thoughtful and unexpected as paying attention and showing up for someone when they least expect it, yet need it the most. Thank you, Leslie.

One of my nurse practitioner friends pointed out some “sexy” princess reward stickers at work today. And how they were a little ridiculous. I agreed. What happened to their floor length princess dresses? Snow White looks like she may have acquired a couple of STDs, perhaps from the seven dwarfs? Their dresses got traded in for cropped tops and short skirts. These were the “teen princesses.” Scantily clad with pouty lips, and just wrong on many levels. I proceeded to discuss how it somewhat offends me to even give out Barbie dolls. Maybe I’m getting kind of old in my age. No woman looks like them. No girl should try to aspire to be them. They are not real.

I can’t help but wonder if our culture’s obsession with girls being pretty and princesses and perfect has also created women who fear aging, fear having confidence in their imperfections and who strive for the unattainable. I didn’t have any Barbies of my own growing up, but, ironically, I get to clean them every weekend at work. Co-workers tell me, “Stop playing with the Barbies.” I’m typically looking for Ken’s pants. Where do they always go? To be honest, Barbies drive me a little crazy with their perky boobs, little waists and high-heeled tiny feet. I think if they could talk they might say, “Let me out! I don’t wanna make out with Ken anymore. I’m tired of standing on my tippy toes.” I could be wrong… They may just want some fries and a milkshake.

It worries me that girls today are being nudged to grow up too fast. And made to feel like they need to look pretty and perfect. Or look sexy, pseudo-mature, a lot older than their chronological age. I don’t have young girls, but I once was one. A long time ago. I loved playing “heart and soul” on the piano, making up dances, playing house, climbing trees, playing sports, riding bikes, wading in creeks and a ton of other stuff. I hardly ever wore matching clothes. I don’t think it mattered to me. In fact, I had this one pair of flowery jeans as a kid that I wore all the stinking time. My nine-year old niece actually texted me the other night and asked if I would give her permission to wear her favorite shorts several times a week. Her mom had told her about my love and bi-weekly wearing of my flowery jeans. I texted her back, “Of course you can. Send me a picture.” When the hot weather rolled around, I cut those jeans off into new-ish shorts. Made perfect sense to me. I was hardly a fashionista. More like a tomboy. My sisters’ closets typically offered me my best chances at a good outfit.

To this day, I love dressing up for about fifteen minutes or so. Then, I want to put my hair in a ponytail and throw on some jeans and flip-flops. It’s too much pressure to try to walk and talk and wear high heels. All at the same time. It’s hard for me to do my head back, open mouth, ungirly like hard laughing without falling down. Or rolling an ankle. My feet admire women that wear them everyday. I also applaud women who can accessorize and put an outfit together that just looks awesome. Similar to my admiration for musicians, artists and others who have natural gifts that I just do not possess.

I know that I have told little girls, nieces and friend’s kids, even girls in the grocery store, “you look so pretty.” I don’t think it’s necessarily a bad thing if I am telling them something else empowering also. I try to be more observant, and notice and recognize other characteristics too. I hope if you know a girl, or meet a girl and have the ability to influence that girl that you tell her how smart, creative, funny, brave, amazing, strong or perfectly imperfect she is a lot more times than you tell her that she’s pretty. That way, she doesn’t have to feel like her whole self-worth lies in being “pretty.” Acting pretty. Talking pretty. Or pretending to be pretty. Being pretty to me strictly defines an outward appearance.  Flowers are pretty. Women have so much more to offer the world than being pretty. Women often possess limitless grace, indescribable beauty, and a gentle strength that reveals itself when given the opportunity. When encouraged, nurtured, and respected, girls and women possess the power to change the world.

Truth be told my heart is breaking a little tonight. I’ve jumped the gun. False start. I’m thinking about tomorrow at 3:00. I’m starting to switch between rapidly blinking and a wide-eyed stare to prevent my mascara from running. Though it’s almost midnight and it doesn’t matter if I look like a raccoon, while drinking my beer and eating lemon cookies. I just neatly arranged my boys’ baseball pants, socks and cleats on the bench for their first baseball game tomorrow. Their first ever real live baseball game. And I won’t be biting my nails and cheering them on from the stands. I will be working. Cue the sad faces, sympathy “ahhhs” and awkward pats on the back, if it were possible.

I know. I know. I am not the first person or parent to ever miss out on something special and important because of other obligations, specifically work. I just need my little pity party, my moment in the guilt-infested sun. It’s been raining here for weeks. Will it rain out my boys’ baseball game tomorrow? Most likely not. I have left my boys notes in the back of their baseball pants. But it’s not the same. Before going to bed, I had them promise to call me when the game is over so I can hear all about how they played. In reality, I’m sure I will hear about the snack they got at the end. I told them how sad it made me to not be there. I made their little almost four-year old brother promise to cheer really loud for both of his brothers.

And I am certain that my heart will break a little more tomorrow when they page me at work. I will probably need to go somewhere where I can sit and listen while big, slow tears scoot down my face because I didn’t get to see for myself their excitement, their efforts, or their sweet little six-year old eyes looking for me in the stands. They will have their dad, brother and most likely both sets of grandparents there to cheer them on. I should be happy and grateful, but I’m just not. I’m a little resentful and bummed.

Yes. They will most likely have a million other sports events, school events, etc. that I will have the privilege of being present for, but those aren’t all happening tomorrow. Just their first baseball game is. It just sucks sometimes. It sucks to be the only one not there. “Where’s their mom?” Not finishing up surgery, but maybe blowing some bubbles. Nothing is more important to me than my kids knowing that I love and support them. And that I am so proud of them. All the time. More than anything else.

I played sports as a kid growing up and even into college, and I just felt more relaxed when my parents were there. Both of them. I have no idea how they did what they did, with seven kids to watch. My mom would typically be knitting while keeping stats up in the stands, it was her nervous habit. And my dad typically arrived late, straight from work, and would be cheering in his suit, with his bag of popcorn in hands. Always the popcorn, probably his dinner, that awful concession stand popcorn. Now, as a thirty-five year old mom, I get it. I understand what they felt like when they couldn’t be there. For every thing. The older I get, the more I understand about the sacrifices you make for those you truly love the most. And sacrifices just suck sometimes.

The end.

Sob story over.

Yesterday, on Mother’s Day, I heard a mom say, regarding her teenage son, “he’s gonna ruin my special day.” The reality of the situation, from my perspective, was that she appeared to be ruining every day of his life. I recognize I’m an outsider looking in, seeing a piece of the puzzle, but to belittle, name call, shame and repeatedly hurt the child that, ironically, provides the reason you’re to be celebrated at all seems wrong to me. I’ve never been huge on Hallmark holidays. I’ve worked every Mother’s Day since I became a mother. I’m not trying to earn a martyr ribbon. Typically, none of the moms that I meet at work planned on spending Mother’s Day in the hospital, with their sick child. I know I will work, every weekend, and I get paid to be there. That’s not the case for the mothers of patients.

I guess, when given the choice, I would rather be celebrated, appreciated and loved equally the other 364 days of the year. So, I’m a little needy perhaps. High expectations. However, I will never scoff at flowers or leave chocolates unopened very long, but if you brought them to me with a thoughtful card on say, a random Tuesday, I would smile and be joyful that you cared. On that Tuesday. And I actually was spoiled on the morning of Mother’s Day. I got sprayed down with three different perfumes by three over excited little boys. I also came home to some really cool porch lights, thanks to their dad.

I don’t have teenage sons yet. I’m sure they can be difficult, like all children of all ages. Frustrating. And draining at times. That mom reminded me of how selfish we, humans, can be. It’s typically all about us. All of the time. Even when we try really hard to be aware of the selfish eyes we filter everything through.

It’s a challenging, humbling thing to not take everything so personally. No matter how conscious we are of our own egotistical tendencies, our initial reaction is hard to tame. Why would she do that? Just to make my life miserable, I’m sure. Wait…We have our thoughts, our experiences, and our beliefs about others and we tend to think we know what everyone else is thinking. Especially when they never tell us, using their own mouth and words. I react. And a lot of times, it’s in the form of jumping. To conclusions. Making it about me. When it’s definitely not. That hindsight can be a phenomenal teacher. If we ever venture into her classroom. Ugghhh. I typically think how something first and foremost will affect me. My over eager pride calls “shotgun,” always wanting to be right up there in the front seat. Ready to be the first wounded passenger when things get out of control. After all, pride never wears a seatbelt. Obviously. It doesn’t need a seat belt. It’s. Pride.

We need people who can tell us our faults. Open our eyes. Remove the debris. Help us out, without fearing the repercussions. How rude for someone to remove our planks only to have them hurled hysterically back in their direction. I tend to gravitate towards people who will tell me I have mascara running down my face. Or will flat-out say “you have something green in your teeth.” Or much harder, they will say that I’m overreacting, over feeling, or being selfish. I think we all want to be better versions of ourselves. It just takes the right people to help us on the journey. I hope if I ever did something, said something, or didn’t do or say something that hurt you that you would know that you have an open invitation to my front seat. I want to be better. You may just have to sit on or shove that pride out-of-the-way. And that’s fine with me.

I watched a baby bird clinging to a branch. Just one bird, scared and out of its nest. Her mama waited on the ground. If that baby bird could hop back up into her nest a couple of branches above, I think she would have. Her mama was saying something, over and over again. I think I heard, “Come on. You’re ready. You can do it. I’m right here for you. I believe in you. Nothing will harm you. Its safe. Your wings are strong. You can fly.” That baby bird looked at me peering in on her. I think I could have reached into that tree and held her. She looked paralyzed. By fear. Of the big, big, unknown world. The world beneath her and the world above her.

I’ve never been a mama bird gathering vigorously the sticks, strings, and pieces of other materials worthy enough to create a nest. In hopes of nurturing new life in that homemade nest. I think I can relate though. I have gathered up experiences, moments, hard times and happy times, meaningful words to create something for others to read. I have built the words into sentences, paragraphs, then sat down. Rearranged it, often in the middle of the night. Read it over and over again. Left it alone. Wondered if it would help others, or if it might hurt others. Wondered if anyone would care. Hoped that someone would. Even just one person.

I let my baby bird go this week. I paced around. I got so scared. Maybe she wasn’t ready. Or maybe I just wasn’t ready to let her go. What if people hurt her, shamed her, threw stones at her? Or even worse, what if people ignored her? I panicked. I would never know everybody that came in contact with her. Maybe, hopefully, others would let me know, “I saw your baby bird flying. The wind was strong. She was stronger. She just flew and flew and flew. You would have been so proud. She couldn’t have been more ready to leave your nest.” My baby bird was a piece of writing that represented an unashamed, braver, less fearful, more honest me. I hoped that if I gently pushed her out of the nest, that she would fly and that I would feel like I helped set her free.

That’s all I could hope for. All I could do. I couldn’t create something really small, a baby bird that possessed hope, youth, fearlessness, strength and the ability to fly and then force her to stay in my nest. No matter how many hours her nest took to make, it was not meant to be her home forever. Thousands have seen my baby bird. And I can’t begin to know all of them. See their faces when they met her. Many have written to tell me that she empowered them, educated them, and impacted them. Just a tiny little baby bird of mine. I feel proud. I feel uncertain. I feel a little naked. Who knew my baby bird held such power beneath her new wings? Not me. I guess we can never know where the things we create will go if we never give them the opportunity to leave the nest. Fly away. Thank you all for encouraging and cheering on my baby bird. Thank you for sending me postcards to let me know that she is beautiful. And strong. And filled with hope. You have turned this strange, empty, anxious feeling into the feeling I could imagine a mama bird possesses when she watches her baby bird soaring.

“Mom, do you have my shoes?”

My six-year-old son asked me this when we arrived home from the park, the park not just around the corner. Its thirty minutes away.

“Nope, buddy. Do you not have your shoes?” I am well versed in this shoe hunting game conversation.

“I left my shoes at the park. Under the bench.” He confessed.

Partially responsible due to being the adult and parent, I remembered that in my attempts at getting four boys into the car, to leave the park, I failed to notice that one of my children had not put his shoes back on his feet. Everywhere we go, the first question my boys typically ask is, “Mama, can I take off my shoes?” Sometimes I say “no” but usually after the hundredth time, I just give in. They would rather be barefoot. Always. And so would I. They have not hurt their feet in a freak barefoot accident at parks. Ever. And we go to the park all the time. Knock on wood. So, I don’t fight them on this bare-footed tendency. After all, they are part monkey and I think shoes most likely hinder their superb climbing capabilities. Blackened toenails much? Yes. I will most likely be the mother (sneakily) washing her child’s feet off in the sink of the ER if we ever land in there with a broken limb. Or barefoot related accident.

I negotiated with my six-year-old son. We would drive back to the park, thirty minutes away. Oh, I already mentioned that. To teach the old “time is valuable” lesson, I would require him to help with housework for the amount of time spent driving to and from the park to retrieve his lost “glow-up”shoes. Well, they actually weren’t lost. They were forgotten. Left behind. Poor Sketcher glow-up (too small) of shoes. I honestly doubted they were even going to still be there. However, it presented an opportunity to teach a few valuable lessons.

His twin brother opted to hop out of the car and stay home with his dad. And his little exhausted brother fell asleep in the car on the way back to the park. I got to have a meaningful conversation with my six-year-old son. I recognized that earlier he had befriended a little boy at the park that nobody was playing with. My heart swelled up. We talked about how important people are. And how he included that little boy. And that I was proud of him. I told him that people matter the most. Always. I told him that shoes cost money and it’s important to take care of them, but they can be replaced. I told him that he mattered WAY more than a lost pair of shoes. That we could buy another pair of shoes. I looked back in my rearview mirror and he had tears in his eyes and said, “you can’t buy another Julian.” Yep. 100% truth. I normally would not have been so even keeled and carefree about the time spent driving back to the park but I had unexpectedly gained eye-opening, heart aching perspective from earlier in the day.

It’s every parents worst nightmare. Or one of them anyway. Somehow your child gets lost or separated from you. In a place where people are around. You panic. It’s a heart ripping, pounding, agonizing feeling. There are cars coming and going. The world should just stop. Everybody should stop what they are doing and help you find your child. Cars full of people pass by. Strangers, who don’t know your child. They don’t recognize that you’re out of breath, searching, thinking the worst things, as you look frantically, maybe yelling out your child’s name even though you cannot see him. Or her. Anywhere.

I witnessed a kindergarten classmate of my boys heading down the hill, a biker, on her last day of school. My boys pointed her out from the car. That wasn’t her. She never came this way to school, I thought. My boys were right. The crossing guard hunched down to talk with her. School traffic eased by. She tried pushing her bike down the steps to the school entrance but she was sobbing. Something was really wrong. She was alone. That wasn’t right. I dropped my boys off and got out of my car and went over to her. She began telling me that she lost her daddy. They had come a new way to school and she got lost from him. I tried to calm her, telling her that he was probably looking really hard for her and I told her to head into her classroom. I knew that she was safe, yet really sad and scared. I reassured her that I would go drive around and find her daddy. I would have him come to her classroom when I found him. I knew I would find him. I had to. I thought that he must be sprinting, with his stroller, panic-striken not knowing where his daughter was. I began driving around the neighborhood. I saw him finally, though it was probably only minutes, I am certain that it felt like hours, or days for him. The relief flooded his face entirely when I told him that his daughter was at school and safe. I told him that I promised her when I found him that he would go see her in her classroom. Not that nine layers of security could begin to stop him from going to hug his sweet daughter.

Kids get biking too fast. They get focused on playing so hard and they wonder away. We once temporarily lost a child at a school carnival. It was awful. He had snuck off to a bounce house. It still hurts to think about. And remember that panicked feeling. Kids can focus so intently on what they are doing. Or where they want to go. This characteristic can be really amazing and it can be completely terrifying, as a parent.

Driving back to the park for a pair of old shoes that may or may not be there seemed tiny and insignificant in the grand scheme of today’s events. Even if we didn’t find the shoes at the park, I know that I would have been grateful to have an hour-long car ride with my deep thinking, sensitive and big-hearted son. I think he knows that people matter the most. They don’t listen or hear me a lot of times, but today I think he heard me. There were no brothers to interupt. Just me and him talking about really important stuff. I hope and pray that should one of my children ever get lost or separated from me that someone will notice and do everything in their power to help. I can always buy another pair of shoes. But never ever could I buy another Julian. Or Asher. Or Colby.