Grief

Grief. Everyone has an opinion on what it looks like, how it should feel. In the five months since my mother has died, I have been consumed by it. 

Here is my grief story. 

I witnessed grief rise up from my Mother’s hospice bed, conscripted to walk beside her husband, her children, her grandchildren. I saw grief shift to fit the form of each of us, our needs so individual. I watched grief change the faces, the postures, the hearts of my family, as we all went home and tried to live without our Mom. 

In my life I can only compare the bond I share with grief to the time I spent with my newborn babies. Always with me, day and night, and if I wasn’t holding them or feeding them, I was attending to them in some other way. Grief feels similar to that. It demands my attention, and it is uncompromising. Grief pays no mind to anything else, and it shouldn’t. There is nothing that compares to the job that it must fulfill. It will not be set aside, for if it is it will only grow in its authority. The loss of another human – especially a parent, has seismic implications, and grief is the guardian of that loss. It is a shapeshifter, unapologetically changing from one moment to the next, without warning. For me, it is my steady companion. It gives me license, it grants permission, it insists, – without consideration of time or place - that I do what I must do to process this loss: sob, rage, sleep, or just sit in my car and cry until there are no more tears, or until this giant hole in my heart covers over with scar tissue.

Sometimes grief is an ethereal shadow of my Mom, walking with me, letting me know she sees how I am hurting, quietly helping me become accustomed to her absence. She brushes by my cheek in a burst of wind. She sings to me through my ear buds, encouraging my tears to run and giving me much needed space in my lungs to take a full breath. Sometimes grief is a reflection of myself. I see her in the windows of the stores as I walk by - she looks like me, but changed. She looks so tired, and demands much sleep. Some days I try to run away from her, when the pain is too raw. Faster and faster I add miles per hour to the treadmill, but she knowingly, patiently waits outside the door to join me as I walk home, matching my tired steps. She forces me to face this unbelievable loss, to look closely at who I am now, so much older in just a short time. She challenges me to consider who I want to be. Sometimes grief is another person, showing me kindness, leaving me vulnerable and awash with gratitude, and in a puddle of tears. 

I am at once exhausted by it, thankful for it, resentful of it, but also terrified to be without it. Who knows what life is like when grief has faded into everyday, when it decides I am ready to live without its presence? Will I be ready? Will it have seasoned me? Showed me how to live with the spirit of my Mom without seeing the loss of her?

My soul is too tired to consider that right now. But I suspect grief will force me to, in its own unrelenting way. 

Hi Mom

Mom,

I haven't talked to you in three weeks and one day. That's the longest ever. It's so long, and yet it will only get longer.

I think about you all day long. Mostly, I am incredulous that you are gone. I honestly just can't believe it. How could you be gone? You've always been here, how could you have just gone? I spend a lot of my time thinking about that. About how I can't be sure I can reasonably be expected to live the rest of my life without you. It feels grossly unfair, and very heavy on my heart.

The last 19 days have been very hard for everyone. There is this colossal hole in our family. Nobody really knows what to do. We just keep scratching our heads and wondering how things have changed so much in such a short time. And we go about our days with some part of us missing.

For me every emotion is amplified. That makes it harder to do anything, everything. I feel like an open wound.

I have a cold. I am exhausted. I cry a lot. Everyone has kind words for me, and I am grateful, but I still feel terrible.

What would you say to me if we could talk this over?

Me: I miss you Mom, I miss you terribly.
You: I know honey. It's okay to miss me.
Me: I feel like you left so quick.
You: I did! Once they told me I could go, I couldn't wait!
Me: But...
You: No buts! You, my darling, know how much I love you. Your siblings, and your dad know how much I love them. It was time for me to shed this broken body and transcend to a new life. It was time for me to become a celestial being, your own star, your own angel. It was time for me to walk with Jesus. My time on earth was over.
Me: But I wasn't ready!
You: That's okay. You still have me! I am still with you! I put my heart and soul into you every day that I was blessed to be your mom. I cherished every moment, every hug and kiss, every tear I wiped away, all of it. You and your siblings are my life's work! You are my legacy! You are my miracles.
Me: I miss you. I don't know if I said everything! I don't know if I gave you enough hugs, enough credit, enough love!
You: How could you doubt?! Your love for me, and the love of your siblings, and your dad, that was what lit the path I walked as I left that hospital room. And as I looked back I knew I had settled all my accounts - each one of you knew how much I loved you - and I knew how you loved me. We cherished each other, you know that! I know you know that!
Me: I know.
You: So now you have to accept, and that is hard to do, that my love for you has gone from a physical expression to one that is in the air around you, in the sun's rays warming your face, in the embrace of your siblings, in the love of your dad. It's there any time you need it - you just have to allow for that change. And once you do, you will feel the full expression of my love. One without any limitations! Imagine that! I know this is so so hard. My darling, I know you miss me. Our lives have been knitted together since before you were born - of course this is hard! A transition like this takes time, and patience, and tears, and it changes everything. I know you can't touch me, or hug me, but we have shared a thousand hugs at least, and those will sustain you, I promise. Have faith, and I promise you will feel me.
Me: I feel so very sad Mom.
You: I know honey, I know. This is not easy.
Me: I love you
You: I love you too! I always have, I always will. Listen for my voice - it is one of love and self acceptance. It is one of kindness and courage. It is one of softness and light.
Me: I will try.
You: I know honey, I know.

An exercise in futility

I’m certain that the feeling of distress that envelops me as I sit here in the dentist’s chair has less to do with the dental work - which by the way I loathe, and more to do with the concept of futility. 

Today I am having a crown replaced. Dentist: We’ve found decay under one of your existing crowns. Me: Great. So the initial trauma of the crown is now compounded by crown part two. Oh, also, a cavity. The ineffectuality, the time given to repetition and routine, is that what causes me to bristle? The cumulative minutes, hours, days of time spent in brushing, flossing, rinsing, all leading up to this most recent episode of dental futility. I know myself well enough that the need of a re-crowning can’t be the only thing bothering me about this, my reaction is too intense. I decide to take this time while I am captive in this chair to try to understand. In the mean time, I instruct my tongue to stay far away from what remains of my tooth. Any accidental bump makes me slightly nauseous, as I consider what it must look like without it’s protective crown. 

A little over a year ago my 86 year old Grandmother lost her front tooth. It dropped out of her mouth, and I envision her catching it in her cupped hand, her long fingers closing around it as she gasped in horror. This was a front tooth, not to be taken lightly. She didn’t, she was so upset she didn’t leave her house until she could be seen at the dentist. Like a sentinel surrendering his post, with that loss my Grandmother became wholly vulnerable to aging. She reacted as I am sure anyone would in that kind of trauma, with an all out assault against time. And in doing so she replaced ALL of her teeth – with big, bright white shiny choppers. 

It follows that when you are fighting for the very idea of yourself that you will do anything you can to dig in and hold on. I try to look upon my Grandmother’s decision, which I found both upsetting and unsettling, with a kind eye. I am only beginning to have an understanding of what it means to have your youthfulness leave you. Leave you, abandon you, betray you, whichever, depends on my mood and the day (mid forties are just around the corner). I believe the choice to have an entirely new set of teeth attached to her head was both painful and humbling, not to mention very expensive, and sadly I don’t think there was any going back once the process had started. In the fight against aging – despite arming herself with a shiny new smile, she remains on the losing side. Her teeth look ill fitting, her speech is affected, and somehow her face has changed. It looks, well it looks like someone has stolen her real face. 

My Grandmother was a beauty for most of her life. I have the gallery wall in my house to prove it. She was a stunner at sixteen, a pinup girl in real life, frolicking on the sandy beaches of Lake Ontario. The photos I lovingly rescued from exhausted old picture albums came with scalloped edges and black and white glimpses into a another time. I treasure them, but I wonder if they make this process of letting go of youth and beauty even harder for her. She held on to her enchanting looks long after her contemporaries. It is perhaps her greatest achievement, as hers was not a mind for education, and she was raised in a time and place and culture and family that didn’t value her for much besides her looks. That makes this surrender even more poignant - no matter her late age. 

Your crown is ready! My dentist chimes, as she lowers the chair back down and prepares to attach it to what used to be a very nice tooth. Now, to everyone else, the change is invisible. But I know.

In spite of the pulling and continued requests to tap tap tap my teeth together, I begin to grasp what has affected me so. In two short hours this process has restored my tooth, and thereby some earlier rendition of me. Is this how my Grandmother felt? That with the help of those pearly whites she was able to be some younger version of herself? The drive to appear younger is not new, by any means. But lately something inside of me, or outside of me, or both, is trying to convince me that younger is better, and that is new. Analytically I understand that idea to be a fallacy, but emotionally it is harder to dismiss. Today a two hour process to a new tooth. Last week, a suggestion of fillers to plump up my cheeks in an effort to alleviate the dark circles under my eyes. A trick here, an add on there, all to mask the way we are aging. But besides being a temporary balm, it remains, ah, there it is – an exercise in futility. 

I am as old as I am, just like my Grandmother is. We can’t go back, and likely we wouldn’t really want to. We have hard earned crows feet and smile lines, bodies softened from having babies, wisdom showing on the tops of our hands, and more, so much more. I comfort myself with the knowledge that age is the great equalizer. We are all aging, even those in their twenties, there is no getting around that.  

Now, off to the gym. 

We’ve moved! Or, oh dear, what have we done?!

My family has relocated from lovely, tranquil, quiet (okay I concede to sometimes too quiet) Williamsburg to quite busy, quite rigorous Northern Virginia. It’s a big change, which now appears to be the understatement of the century.

We arrived one week and two days ago. And it’s been a challenge. TO SAY THE LEAST.

Shit keeps breaking. Like seriously. Example: yesterday afternoon as I walked across the basement I felt a drop of water hit my head. What? I looked up to see the ceiling yellowed with water, the retro salon light (I don’t know they are these ugly long lights that look like they are from a pool hall) above me filled with water. Hmmm. Electricity + Water = Bad in my limited scientific experience. Currently we sit without water waiting for the plumber. Waiting and waiting. For like almost four hours now. Hey, take your time buddy.

But seriously, what the hell?! We just bought this house, and in the space of a week my husband is feeling some serious buyer's remorse.

Maybe I am too, I just don’t want to join the fray in saying it. Like if I do, this choice to move up here, might not have been the right one. Anyway I don’t like to say those things out loud, even if I am the only one who stays quiet about it. Also, that would ruin my longstanding role as peacemaker, soother, placater, roof holder upper.

So along with a rainy ceiling we have a list of challenges. Ah where to start?

1. Locks that were installed in the maybe 1940s. Me: locksmith see these lovely antique locks, can we replace them with something that will not cause an anxiety attack when I try to open the door? Locksmith: Sorry lady, they stopped making those like fifty years ago. To be brutally honest you need to replace the entire door, or doors actually as there are like five of them. Me: hahahahah fuck you
2. More water! Rainstorm this time. Fills the window wells. Then they cry and lots of water, I guess they are just the tears of this fucking house that find their way, conveniently, if I do say so, to the drain in the middle of the utility room. Huh, that’s funny. One of them is actually coming in right behind an outlet. See above equation.
3. Bathrooms. Ok this one is a first world problem, I get that. But since I live in the first world, it’s relevant. The sinks are for PEOPLE WITHOUT PRODUCT.  They are not for haircentric people, which I OBVIOUSLY AM. Or even regular people who need to have space for things like toothbrushes and toothpaste. I know, I know, I saw the sinks before we bought the house. I am certain they have shrunk since closing.
4. No curtains. Maybe never any curtains. So yes, everyone sees everything. Since we have like 1000 windows it might take me reentering the workplace to cover the cost.
5. Rapunzel. Our darling girl Ella, in the throes of puberty has ascended the third floor and very rarely is seen down here with us, well, more normal, less aggressive, less moody individuals. I have this odd vision of her as a caterpillar who is up there, in the trees, maybe in her chrysalis, waiting and planning and biding her time before her big reveal. I think this and then recall SHE IS ONLY TWELVE, WE ARE JUST GETTING STARTED. Then I cry a little bit, as she is driving me to drink.
6. The outlet behind the bed. It looks, when I wedge my head between the headboard and the wall, to be dead center, just out of my reach from either side. I try to move the bed. Sorry it weighs 5000 lbs. Why oh why didn’t I plug in the surge protector while the movers were here? I had one! Damnit! So I am, for the foreseeable future destined to plug my phone in seventeen feet from my side of the bed. No more Candy Crush Soda Pop or Audible to lull me to sleep at night as I try to NOT THINK ABOUT THIS LIST.
7. The couch. So beautiful, so comfortable. So doesn’t fit in this house. So doesn’t fit down the steps to the basement. Ninety six inches long and I am pretty sure it cost like 96 hundred thousand dollars. Since move in day it sits quietly in the sunroom, taking up the entire space. And now I resent it and what it represents. Which I guess is a foray into Craigslist, which is seriously inconvenient.
8. Riding bikes. Today I took my first bike ride at 7:15. I rode to see the danger level that Ella would encounter should she ride her bike to her new middle school. She is, as is Holden, within one mile of school, and qualifies as a WALKER. You see, they haven’t met her, or they would DISQUALIFY her. That bike ride down this busy road? They have to be kidding. Shawn says fight the transportation office. At this point I will fight anybody. Holden’s school, though the bike ride is only 6 minutes and relatively easy hardly the level of busyness we can expect in September. :ugh: In his quest to be more grown up he leads the way as we ride to his school and back, and then again, and one more time. And then with Shawn. Also he cries when we say we are too busy to go again. Yes, cries, like real tears and everything. Lots of them.

I haven’t been to the gym yet, but I didn’t list that. And I am sure that is making me crazy, too.

Oh, the other house, the the one in quiet, easy to access Williamsburg, the one with so many easy to access outlets, and large sinks, it waits for a sale, and we watch with baited breath, and try not to think of the stress that will accompany two mortgages, in addition to the stress of the above letters a - h.

Transition. Just take it slow, easy, one day at a time. That’s what mothers and other smart people say to me. Why is that so difficult? Why is it making all of us so irritable and frustrated. Why is it taking the glow off of an experience that should be exciting and fun?

Oh who knows. The plumbers just got here.

Maybe things are looking up?

Fingers crossed.

Knock knock

It is not often in life that we are given the gift of a second chance in life. 

I get that sounds dramatic. I like a little drama. Not too much, but a little bit. 

For the last seven months I have been considering that statement. Some of those days it was overwhelming. Paralyzing, even. And I shut it down, refusing to hear it, look at it, think about it. 

But as time goes on, and I heal from my old life - a terrible work life that bled into all other life forms - my choices - good or bad, good and bad, I feel less afraid of the second chance. Less. 

I am tentatively curious. What could this mean? What could it mean to everything? Too much...what could it mean to today? Tomorrow?

My husband waits and watches to see what I do. 

I wait to see when I will shrug off the remaining guilt, the paralysis of the last five years. 

He says it's time to let it go. Stop being so introspective already and let it go. 

Let go of shitty and stuck. Because you're not. 

Let go of things that bound you to a life that is no longer yours. 

Ghosts of fear, anger, resentment, hate, yes, hate. In the last year I spent a lot of time with that word - a terrible tasting word, on my tongue. It infected my other words, and settled in my mouth like a toothache, but one unable be brushed or flossed or hell, drilled out of your mouth. I know, I tried. 

Time is the only salve, and God knows, it takes its time. 

More than losing - losing? my business. Lose. Walk away. Give away. Trade away. Escape. 

Which is it? 

Depends on the day. Or hour. Minute. Moment. I have needed time to heal from that too, and I've been taking it. I've been given it. Give and take give and take. 

When I used to sit in Wendy's office, (my beloved therapist of my early twenties) perched in some tall office building on 57th St, I had this concept of myself as being special. I felt it. It was magical, hard to explain but very real. 

As my situation worsened, that idea went away. But the memory of it did not. 

And lately I think - is it coming back? Or what is that - some twinge of something good and hopeful. Words and ideas knock knock knocking to be let out out of my introspective brain, out of my on-the-mend broken heart. Could I/it be coming back? I hope but I can't dwell on what it could mean. 

Not yet. 

For now I blow on the embers and pray for fire. 

Tiempo y espacio. My go to reflection from my recent trip to Spain. 

Also it sounds better in Spanish - more dramatic. 

Time and space. Luxuries not afforded to many. I get that. 

I also know that without them I wouldn't be healing. 

And I am. 

-----------

I am who I am.

I write that reality. 

And when I fail, I fail spectacularly. 

Catch and Release

Navigating girls as they go through the rough waters of adolescence may be the toughest job we have as moms. 

It is for me. 

I am reminded of this daily as I struggle to keep my darling daughter on course. She is my biggest challenge, a true dichotomy - girl and woman at once. It is as if she has only just been born, just emerged from her shell, glowing and glorious like Botticelli's Venus, and then in a moment, I must carry her, for her weak and untested legs reduce her a baby again. 

It is this that makes mothering a tween so so hard. Independence. Need. No. Yes. Mom. Alone. It is a dicey game of catch and release. Stay. Go. Show me the way. Go away. Know. 

Eleven has proven to be our most trying age. For a mom and daughter who locked eyes only moments after she entered this world - and have been steeped in love ever since, eleven threatens to make us strangers. Minute to minute, that is how I track our progress these days. Minute one she is doey eyed and emanating love. Mom, I love you! And two, her sharp edged tongue wounds and forces her retreat inside a mind that moves so fast I must watch from the sidelines. 

She is two sides of a coin. I see her growing - and measuring her space, flexing, reaching. She cringes as she responds to this world of women judged so often by exteriors. She recoils when I try to reason why and judges me harshly for allowing that absurd reality into our safe and virginal eleven-ness. All while the hallmarks of puberty have their way with her. She begs for a phone - and I fiercely protect her from one. Her analytical mind questions the antics of her pubescent peers while her tender heart longs to be included. 

As her body grows she has become all angles. Affectionate touch from a tween is at your own risk. There is no telling where her next awkward limb launch will land. Knees. Elbows. Headbutts. Ouch. And then she sulks. 

Straddling youthful innocence and cringee "I am going to nibble at the fruit from the tree of knowledge" is not a comfortable position. Just recently the sixth grade hosted "twin day." Please ask Sarah's mom if we can match tomorrow. Both of us moms thought this a darling idea. Sarah, not so much. She is in a faster lane to grown up-ness. Genuinely troubled by this rejection, my daughter looks at me with a little girl's eyes, and a little girl's question - why mom? Sarah has an older sister and is naturally influenced by her. My girl still loves cats, puppies, bunnies, bugs, you name it. I hear her trumpet: I Love Snails! She has no time for frivolity, be it make up or boys or clothes. Or, now that we've come around to it, clean clothes, brushed hair and teeth - all of these things feel like inefficiencies to her. 

I know that soon her oft repeated statement of "my friends like me for who I am" will start to show wear, and I will have to gather her up in my arms and comfort her and try to help her understand the unfairness of the world she is toeing into. 

The spectrum of child to woman-like is vast - just look at the sixth grade lunch room. Each table it's own microcosm of the journey to adolescence. Each time I deliver lunch I try to peek at the other girls - are we close? Are we very far behind? What is normal? Is awkward our new normal? The first few months of middle school were painful to watch. Painful to participate in - that was very obvious - and felt interminable. Ask any mom. Ask any sixth grader. You'll find your tribe. Don't worry, they are out there.  Assurances from a mom who hoped by saying it with conviction might make it happen sooner. Praying it actually happened. 

Quirky. An odd duck. Nose in a book. Happy to be alone for long periods of time. (They feel long anyway.) Would she remain a spectator at the lunch tables? Would my sixth grade hot mess find a match at the lunch table dating game? Am I the only one worrying about this?! 

That part has taken care of itself - thank God. The new year brought similar friends - surprisingly, even some who also write stories and read books about warring tribes of cats. Who knew. Maybe Grandma did. Maybe it was just time, time and space that these little ones needed to show themselves. 

Daddy's girl, sister, granddaughter, niece, my girl: all relationships are affected by this change and are evolving at a different pace. On the other side of her we walk with tentative steps. We tiptoe actually. Her brother - younger by two very important years (years of play and silliness that she has largely left behind) - lives in a state of villainy with her. Sadly, he may be the only one confident in his position. He mourns the loss of her, and waits for glimpses of the sister she used be. I try to explain. 

In addition to, or, I feel it is important to add, I am a parent to a daughter with high anxiety. She emerged from the womb with this temperament, looking at me and at her father with eyes that searched for meaning. We knew then that she was special. Brilliant. Beautiful. Difficult. Gifted children often battle high anxiety, as told to us by her pediatrician. And preschool teacher. And counselor. And reiki therapist. And grandma. And GI specialist. 

Oh, and each other. My husband and I tell that to each other. 

So, yes, our path into puberty is ensconced in anxiety. But that is a separate story. 

Any journey we take as humans where we transcend our previous reality is fraught with challenge - I can say that and I believe it. I get it. 

Also, it is exhausting. 

And heartbreaking. 

And gratifying - periodically. 

And also beautiful, if only for a minute at a time. 

Ruminations on tweens. Or tweening. AGAIN.

Catch Me Mom!

Tweening: the act of becoming a tween, traversing the space between little girl and teenager. It is a very murky place, rife with the tween fighting to grow up and the parent wishing they wouldn’t. I WISH SHE WOULDN’T. It's being there to understand your little girl when all of a sudden she is speaking a new language, albeit one of pouting, irritability, and annoyance. With me, with dad, with her brother. WITH EVERYTHING. But you still have to be there. You still have to look into her eyes and say: I've got you.

Mom. Mom. Mom!

As a little girl she was so sweet - she is still sweet. Then she hoods her eyes and starts glaring at me. And I hardly recognize her.

Anyway, it’s awful. I don’t know who has it worse, me or her.

Right now it feels like me. Uh oh, nope, it’s her, poor thing. (because in the last few minutes acne has made another appearance)

It’s knees and elbows, literally, like they said it was. Ow, that hurt!

It is: brush your hair please, oh, um, when did you last brush your teeth...that shirt is dirty you need to change.

It is brushed! It looks AMAZING!

She turns around and I am certain I see a bird fly out of it. Brushed them last night.

Hmmm, really?

This shirt is fine. Emphatically: My friends won’t care, THEY LIKE ME FOR WHO I AM.

Oh brother. The hair - well peer opinion/pressure should eventually take care of that, right? The teeth? This has always been a battle. And the clothes? Changed.

Sound familiar? Well if it is, it is because we are ON LOOP. Same conversation repeated regularly. Ad nauseam.

Time for someone to modify their behavior, and fast. Turns out it’s me. UGH.

I have identified these as my top need to work on issues.

ISSUE: LOUD VERY LOUD CHEWING

Maybe it is just me but my daughter, this sweet little thing is the loudest grossest consumer of food and drink that I have ever met. I don’t get it. See my previous blog where I wonder if she is just playing me, that is how bad this is.

SOLUTION: DON’T SAY A THING. JUST WALK AWAY.

ISSUE: WILL NOT REMEMBER TO TAKE DAILY MEDICINE. TWICE.

Can’t remember. Won’t remember. Whichever.

SOLUTION: ALWAYS REMIND HER. FIND A WAY TO ALWAYS REMIND HER BEFORE ALL SYSTEMS COME TO A HALT. DOESN’T MATTER THAT YOU CAN’T REMEMBER YOUR OWN ALLERGY MEDICINE. REMEMBER HERS!

ISSUE: BEDROOM MAY BE CONDEMNED BY THE HEALTH DEPARTMENT

I would not be surprised to see the producers of A&E’s show Hoarders filming an episode inside of her room. Thankfully the hoarding is limited mostly to her drawings of cats, miniaturized examples of well, everything, Warrior Cat books & manga, and multiple cat posters. Note: we do NOT own a cat, as we are all mostly allergic. We do have a dog. I am not sure she notices, though.  

SOLUTION: YOU CLEAN HER ROOM TO AVOID POSSIBLE CROSS CONTAMINATION WITH THE REST OF THE HOUSE.

ISSUE: HAIR

Actual text: “Mom, I’m getting older, and I was thinking about changing my appearance a little bit. So I was wondering if maybe this weekend or around that time you could take me to the hair salon and I could get some blonde highlights in my hair?

I know that it seems like a crazy request, but I’m starting to care about my appearance more, so I was thinking I needed a little change.”

Hahahahah. What?! Face palm.

SOLUTION: ASK SOMEONE FOR HELP. YOU ARE NOW VERY CONFUSED AND THIS IS ABOVE YOUR PAY GRADE

ISSUE: THE THREAT OF MENSTRUATION

Paraphrase: Mom, the book you got me about periods, remember? Yes, yes I do. Well, it suggests that I honor getting my first period with a period party. A what? A period party. I invite my friends and we have a sleepover to celebrate this important event in my young life.
She really said that!

SOLUTION: FETAL POSITION, MAYBE SOME HYSTERICAL LAUGHING.

I am certain sometimes that I must be ruining this kid, with my expectations, my imploring looks, and how sometimes when she asks me something that is so utterly basic I just stop what I am doing and stare in another direction, allowing her to realize I am really really close to losing my mind. Or like the time when I told her if she didn't practice her violin I will put her up for adoption. (Looking back, although slightly funny, was probably NOT the best thing to say and really just my frustration talking. Don't worry - we went over this in counseling.) I know I forgot to say how awesome she is - but if you have read any of my other blogs you will already know - she is the bomb.  

This face. I mean come on. 

And then this happens:

Mom, I love you soooooo much!

I love you too babe.

You are the best mom in the world.

Um, unlikely. But I try my best.

I know.