Dear Sophie,

You and I will remember different things of this day, of this May 12, 2010.

I want to write something of it down for safekeeping—something I can give to you, something to help you remember your courage when it’s slipped your mind in the future. Courage has a way of slipping after a few setbacks, a few hard knocks. No one’s fault. It’s just a difficult life, sometimes. I would tell you I wish I could protect you from life’s difficulties, you and your sister both, but in truth, I would be doing you no favors. You’ve already experienced more than your share of life’s bumps and losses so far, and in spite of this (and, I think, because of it), you are becoming yourself in beautiful fashion.

Sophie, my love, may you forever remember that what you did today was your idea. Your quiet courage and your belief in yourself compelled you to enter today’s school talent show, and my baby, did you ever shine.

You stood before the entire school (“knees knocking,” you told me later in the school parking lot, but I didn’t catch even one knee jiggle). And accompanied by dear Mrs. P on her ever-ready guitar, you sang “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Alone.

I told you that if you had gotten up there and forgotten every word and every note I still would have been the proudest mama around, just because you dared to try. I stand by that. I will be there cheering you on, on forgotten-word, forgotten-courage days, as long as you need me to be.

But today was not one of those days. Today was one of those sweet days, when the words and the notes come, and the courage shows up to steady those knocking knees, just when you need it.

Your daddy and I started the day in a law office, and then laughed to find ourselves the first ones waiting outside the upper-school building at your school. Life is not what it used to be, but it is something different, and we will all find our way.

Your daddy and your Babci and your sister and your teachers and your friends and your schoolmates and your schoolmates’ parents and I were there. Did you see us all? The whole school community was there. Could you feel us smiling?

You moved us, honey.

It is one thing to hit all the notes. And it is still another thing to remember to take deep breaths and keep your shoulders down and stand still. (Those busy hands of yours played only slightly with the lovely white skirt Daddy found and washed for you, and I have never loved those hands of yours more.)

Yes. It is one thing to sing a song well, by the rules. It is a gift.

But it is another thing entirely to move people with your song. It is a gift on top of a gift.

I, your beaming mama, well—you know my happy tears were bound to leak out. But it wasn’t just me, honey.

You touched the hearts of a lot of people today. My goodness. If only you knew. I’ll let them tell you.

I will tell you something else:

Today, after you sang the last sweet, high note, you smiled. I now thank God that Babci brought her funny video camera, because I want you to see the smiles for yourself, in stop-frame slow motion.

There was the shy “thank you” smile for the applause so loud it surprised and delighted you. There was the “I’m bowing now” smile. And amid your classmates, who welcomed you back to your seat with high-fives, there was an elated smile, and a laughing smile of relief. But in between the bow and the high-fives, Babci caught on film another smile: a smile that belongs to you alone. I hope it stays with you always. It is the “hey, I really DID that” smile.

I don’t remember seeing anything so very beautiful for a very, very long time. I hope it felt as beautiful as it looked, honey.

Baby girl, you DID did it.

I have never done what you did today. Holy cow.

You are my hero, sweet, wise, brave one.

Later at a celebratory dinner, sitting in the big upholstered chair at our table at the ’6 Pub, you told me today was the proudest moment of your whole entire life. And later still, when Babci face-planted in a chocolate mousse tart and we were all laughing hysterically, you said it was the happiest day of your life, too.

I think you will have many proud moments, and many happiest days. I wish this for you more than I will ever be able to put into words.

But I wanted to write it down for you, just in case. I don’t remember the exact date of your first smile, and I’m sorry for that. (I know it was when I was crooning to you while nursing: Mommy has BIIIIIIG BOOOOOOBS.) But I remember this date, May 12, 2010, when you smiled a gorgeous “hey, I DID it” smile.

You told me you can’t wait to do it again next year. You told Hannah you would love to sing with her next year. (She’s thinking it over, I can tell.) You didn’t want too much fuss over yourself, because you knew your little sister was feeling out-of-sorts, a little jealous. She wants to try things, but at six, she is so afraid to make mistakes.

When the time is right, she will stand up, despite knocking knees, and I know you will be beside me and Daddy, cheering her on. She’ll find her own way, her own talents (we already see how she shines — she just needs to find her footing, find her core). With a big sister like you, so empathetic to her needs, yet pursuing your own dreams, I think she’s going to learn a lot from you. We’ll help her find her way.

And my offer to make Orphan Annie rag costumes and choreograph a scrubbing-the-floor song and dance (we can practice LOTS on OUR kitchen floor) still stands.

I love you with all my heart. Thank you for sharing your talent with all of us there today. I can honestly tell you that it was an honor to be there and hear your sweet voice create a rainbow in that wide-open room.

It sure is an honor to be your mama, baby girl.

Love always,
Mommy

“Forward.” I’ve been thinking that might be the tattoo I need. Maybe on my wrist.

Is there a nifty quote about forward motion, about not looking back?

I refuse to have the Chinese symbol for forward motion. If it exists. No offense, China. I just have no connection to you, except for, you know, almost everything I own.

Mother’s Day was lovely. The girls made beautiful, beautiful, glitter-glued, cursive-covered cards. Poems that knocked me out. And my mama had secretly taken them shopping. Hattie Bella selected a heart pendant for me with little sparkles all over it, and a tiny laughing gold Buddha. We decided he needed a bra, but he was so happy, he didn’t seem to mind his lack of support.

“Rub his tummy,” Hattie commanded. “For luck.”

I did.

Sophie Bean selected a smooth stone with “Good Fortune” carved into it, as well as an aqua-blue, half-moon glass prism to hang in the window. “It’s your planet,” she told me.

We had been talking about astrological signs in the car the other day, and how each sign is supposedly connected to a planet or satellite.

Basically, it means she was listening. They’ve both been listening: some luck, good fortune, a heart, and a moon. And words on paper.

Then they both took turns reading fairy tales to me. H, with great hesitation, needing much coaxing and praise. She is frustrated that the reading is not coming more easily to her. Soph made sure to compliment her sister, let H work out the hard words on her own.

Breakfast in bed, over at Babci’s house. All four of us getting crumbs of Boston Creme donuts and egg-and-cheese biscuits in the sheets. Eli and Carlita Kitty nudging their way into our tangled mess. So very much laughing. I was sandwiched by so much love — two other generations, one above, one below.

Mom found me a book on the heart and soul of geocaching. Ah. She’s been listening too.

After breakfast, Sophie and Hattie decided to make a card for the elderly woman downstairs, who had kids once, but no longer gets visitors. Their idea.

They delivered their card in bare feet.

Might be the best gift of all, and it wasn’t even for me.

That’s a pretty great Mother’s Day. Perfect, I would say.

I wish there were a reset button, a starting-over switch I could touch again and again, when I slip. I am trying to move forward, but it is difficult when they are not with me, not dropping crumbs on my pillow, and giggling as only little girls know how to giggle.

“Forward.” What does that look like?

Happy early Mother’s Day to all you glorious, exhausted, delirious, weepy, giddy, genuine mamas. You’re good enough, smart enough, and gosh darn it, I like you even if your kids don’t.

Beyonce may sue me, but hellz, this one’s for you, Single Mamas. New anthem at Work It, Mom!

So a bad thing happened recently.

A man sexually assaulted me. In the midst of the chaos of a crowded bar—with his wife and friends nearby, but not paying attention—he grabbed me violently, put his hands and body on me. To be clear: He groped my breasts, dry-humping me from behind, and would not let go.

And in that moment, I froze. I didn’t strike him. I didn’t scream.

Because I was there with people who knew him, who had known him for years, I didn’t call the police.

I didn’t know what to do, except wrench myself free of him, and then hide behind the people I knew.

I hid. As if I’d done something wrong.

I tried to explain what had just happened. No one had seen it happen.

I found I couldn’t find the words for the fear and nausea. I didn’t know how to make them understand. I choked.

I tried to shake it off. I tried to let it go. I sat back down.

But I am finding now, days and weeks after the fact, that I can’t shake it off.

I feel sick.

*****

When I gave birth to daughters, I was thrilled and terrified in equal measure. Terrified, because I know from my own experience the kind of ugly things that can happen to girls. (And to boys, I know now.)

I was trying to be nice.

Back then, in high school, I was trying to be nice when boys pushed themselves on me in ways I’d rather not recall.

Fast forward to almost 40.

What a shock to find that the curse of trying to be nice hasn’t lifted. My immediate reaction was the same as it was when I was 16: Be nice. Let it go. You’re okay. It’s okay. It’s not a big deal.

I can’t believe myself. I am angry with myself, frustrated, sickened.

*****

The guy was trouble from the start, I could see—verbally abusive, leering, sexual and violent in his comments. He wanted to “do me with a ball gag in [my] mouth.”

Everything in my gut had told me to get away from him immediately. But I was there with other people, who said, “Don’t mind him. He just likes to shock.” His wife told me across the table that they’d been happily married for 14 years. I wanted to believe her.

I didn’t want to cause trouble. So I ignored my gut: complete override. Figured I could stick it out.

Bad move.

After he assaulted me (and he and his wife left as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened), I shut down. I tried to shut it out. I put on my happy face, smoothed my hair, my blouse, my jeans, rejoined the conversation. Charming, be charming. Princess Charming. Be nice.

I smiled. I listened. I made conversation with the others. All the while, a stream of rationalizations rushed through my head: He was drunk, after all. He has problems, after all. He has a wife, after all. We have mutual friends, after all. I must be overreacting, after all. I’ll never see him again, after all.

After all, after all, after all.

And yet I would tell you that what I want to teach my daughters most of all is that intuition is an invaluable tool—a compass never, ever to be ignored. I want to teach them to remove themselves from any situation that makes them feel unsafe, before the situation can escalate.

After this recent assault (I almost typed “incident,” just to be nice — unreal) I suddenly doubt myself, doubt my ability to teach them what they very much need to know.

My dearest Hattie Belle,

These are difficult times for you and me. I know it’s hard to be six. I wish you knew how hard it is to be 39, with two daughters you love more than you love yourself.

But you: You tell me that you are never getting married, and that you are going to adopt a daughter on your own, so you don’t have to mess with that yucky business of kissing a boy—or marrying a girl, kissing her, and then procuring the necessary boy stuff to make a baby. Whatever you do, I’ll be behind you.

“Will you come and visit me when I adopt my baby? Or my four-year-old?” you asked me yesterday. (You think if you adopt a four-year-old of your choosing, you can pick the “perfect” one, and there will never be a hard day between you.)

I said, “Of course! Are you crazy? I’ll be there as much as you want me to! I’ll babysit!”

You smiled, pleased. You let me see that much.

Know this: I will be there as much as you want me to be there, for your whole life, in any way I can.

This morning, you pitched another colossal fit about getting ready for school. You crumpled in a cranky, defeated heap in your pajamas, just outside the bathroom door. “I CAN’T STAND UP! I CAN’T GET MY LEGS UNDER ME! YOU HAVE TO PICK ME UP!”

My beloved spirited one, I said no. I refused to play along. I told you that I expected you to stand up on your own, to get dressed, to go to the bathroom, to brush your teeth and hair. I told you that, like it or not, being six meant doing all those things. And if you wouldn’t do them, I would put you in the car in your pajamas, without breakfast, and drive you to kindergarten as you were. And that we would then have a word with your teacher.

To say you did not like my response is putting it mildly. You wailed. You shrieked. You screamed. You howled that I didn’t care about you at all, that your life was horrible, simply horrible.

I told you that I loved you very much, but that this behavior of yours was unacceptable. I told you I would not play this game.

You bawled, “I CAN’T STAND UP! I CAN’T STAND UP BECAUSE I AM SO TIRED AND YOU JUST DON’T CARE!” Then, lying in the hallway, you kicked the floor, the bathroom doorframe, the wall—anything your little feet could strike.

I walked away from you.

I went downstairs and made your lunch. I let the dogs out. I let the dogs back in. I put your lunch and your sister’s lunch into your respective backpacks. I fed the dogs. I fed the cat. I made sure your mittens were dry, behind the hot copper pipe, where I had wedged them the night before. I called your sister downstairs. She is eight, a fact that you know and hate. She has other issues, but getting dressed in the morning is not one of them. I brushed your sister’s hair into a ponytail and gave her some cereal. I drank some iced tea. I tried to breathe. Still no sign of you.

I went to the base of the stairs and listened. I heard it: the battery-operated whirr of your butterfly toothbrush. You could have turned it on and simply held it in the air like a fairy wand, wishing all of us away. I hope you actually brushed your teeth with it. But I knew better than to head back upstairs.

You finally came downstairs, dressed. You were cranky but subdued. I had brought a comb downstairs with me. I handed it to you. You pouted and asked me to wet it, to tame your wisps, your flyaways—inherited from me, so I figured that was a fair request. I ran the comb under a faucet and gave it to you. You combed your own hair. I poured you some cereal, and reluctantly, you sat down and you ate it.

We all managed to get into the car and to school on time. You didn’t feel like saying goodbye to me when we got to your classroom. I didn’t much feel like saying a proper goodbye to you, either.

I asked your teacher to come into the hallway for a second. I asked for her advice. She said, “Kids have a funny way of trying to make happen the very exact thing they are most afraid of happening—what they never want to have happen.”

Ah.

You are pushing me hard, pushing me away. Honey, I am not going anywhere. I am not going to lift you to your feet if I know you can stand on your own. I may walk away from your maelstrom, but only as far as the kitchen.

I am not going anywhere without you. Even when I must go somewhere without you, I am not going anywhere without you.

I know that you feel you must be perfect at school—you have told me this, many times—and your teachers tell me that that is all they see of you there: perfect Hannah. I know you must be working very hard to hold it all together for long school days. I am guessing that’s why you fall apart at home. Because no one can be that perfect, all the time.

I wish I could make you understand that it’s okay to spread out your mistakes during a 14-hour-day. It’s okay to spread out your mistakes during a lifetime, in fact. That’s going to be my number-one priority as your mother, I see now: teaching you that it’s okay to make mistakes. I want to teach you to spread out those mistakes. I want you to know that you will always and forever be so much more than the mistakes you make.

But your mistakes will be part of you, too. You couldn’t be human without them. You couldn’t learn without them.

I must find a way to teach you that we—your father and I—will never be far away with our love. We will never take our love away. But we know you can stand up. And you know you can stand up, too. So fall down, but get back up, and brush your teeth. When in doubt in life, get back up and brush your teeth. Floss. Wet your hair and comb it out of your face, so you can see.

These are not easy days. You don’t want to talk about what’s bothering you. You shrug at my questions. You say, “I don’t want to talk about that. That’s too sad.” But I see that you are sad. And I wish so much you would let me in, so I could try to find the words to make it better.

This morning, I could have come back up the stairs, lifted you under your armpits, raised you to your feet. I could have cooed and coaxed and cajoled until you let me brush your teeth for you, like I did when you were very little. I could have overlooked your tantrum, your rudeness, your messy hair.

I chose not to put you back on your feet.

Hear this: Despite the fact that I am human, and you are very precious to me, and I hate confrontation with you more than I can express, I will almost always choose not to put you back on your feet.

Because I know you can put yourself back on those small, sweet feet that I love.

Because my gut is telling me I am doing the right thing, as your mother.

You hate this now. You hate my rules, you hate my expectations. You make this very clear on a regular basis, these days. I am not making your life easier, is how it feels to you now. You feel like a mother should make life easier, all the time, like Snow White did for the Seven Dwarves, and Cinderella did for—well, just about anyone.

I am no fairy-tale, my love. I will never be a fairy-tale. I am your mother, and that makes me as real a thing as ever existed.

And I am exhausted, my darlin’. 

But I believe—I have to believe—that by being firm with you, I am making your future life easier. 

I don’t want you to push me away. I don’t want you to thrash and scream and yell like you did when you were 2, 3. But I want to be here with you. And the only way I can help you see that I am here with you, that I am never going away, is to be here, is to be the boundary that you bump up against. Again and again and again.

We are both going to be very tired for a while, this I can see.

I reiterate: I will walk away from you sometimes, like I did this morning. But I will only go as far as the (metaphorical) kitchen. No matter how hard you push.

I love you. I am worried about you. I don’t have all the answers. I am frustrated. Sometimes, I would like to walk farther away than the kitchen, I admit it.

But I don’t ever take a step without you (and your sister) taking it with me. You are in my heart, every minute of every day.

I am sorry you are hurting, that you are angry, that you are desperately afraid to make mistakes. Someday, I hope I can read this to you, or that you will read it to yourself, and you will know that your mother loved you (and will always love you) powerfully and completely. Hattie Belle, I love you unconditionally. Unconditionally is a big word, and most grownups don’t know what it means, because they’ve never seen it in action. But unconditionally means that I don’t care how many mistakes you make. I just want you to learn from them. I will help you learn from them, but you’ll need to listen sometimes. Really listen.

And: I’ll love you even if learning from your mistakes takes time. Every time. There is no shortage of mistakes in a life, and yours will be no different.

You are beautiful, Little-Almost-Big One. You radiate charm and charisma that have the ability to trip you up, confuse you. Your shining personality and cute-as-a-button appeal are not lost on others, and you are starting to know it.

“Everyone loves me at school,” you said to me last week at bedtime. “I don’t know why, but they do.” Your voice: a mix of pride and wonder, with the slightest brushstroke of smug. You are six; I do not fault you for this. Popularity is confusing at any age.

When you spoke those words to me, I tried to swallow my instant fear that you would become Beautiful and Popular from the outside-in, instead of the inside-out. There is no use in being Beautiful or Popular on the outside if your insides are empty and dark. It’s a surefire recipe for disaster, turning you into Little Red Riding Hood, led astray by the Big Bad Wolves of the world.

I have seen you at school, in action. You are always surrounded by adoring friends and admirers. Funny that this worries me, that this is the kind of thing a mother should be concerned about. When you adopt your baby or your four-year-old someday, maybe you will understand.

I tried to explain to you that night that people are always going to love you in life, because you are deeply, wonderfully lovable. Bright. Funny. Lovely. Generous. You listened, gathered Blankie to your chest and sighed.

As you drifted to sleep, I tried to explain that you—you!—will need to keep your eyes and heart wide open. As your breathing became slower, and your warm hand twitched under mine, I tried to explain that you will always need to be vigilant about giving as much love as you get. And being sure to include others—especially the overlooked ones of the world—in your circle of light.

But you had fallen asleep.

Don’t worry. It was a dry run for me. I know now that this is a topic we will need to revisit again and again. We both have a lot to learn, baby.

Just keep standing up. Don’t pretend you can’t stand. Someday, when you really can’t get your feet underneath you, I’ll know it, and you can bet I will be right there to help you up. 

I love you. I see you. I am yours. But you are yours, too. Always remember that, my love.

Mommy

Do all moms hate themselves a little bit
is what she asks me. She has heard me
arguing with my own mother, and I have
said, Yes, I know, my life sucks, thank you

(voices like bones scraping bones clean)

You said a bad word about your life,
is what she says. It is true, I have. One night
later and they are both screaming, wailing,
and I refuse to give in

(stone becomes stonier)

I’m supposed to be watching the Olympics,
my teacher said she’s not giving us too much
homework because I’m supposed to be watching
the Olympics, she says

(stretched and tearing)

Your teacher is your teacher and I am your
mother and you are not watching the Olympics,
not tonight, I say

(heat rises)

You should have done your homework earlier.
You had all day. That was your responsibility.
I know you are in between being a little girl
and a big girl and that is a very hard place to be,
but you still have to do your homework

(pack the soil, hard)

She cries into the bathroom mirror. I am ugly,
she says. What? I say. I am ugly, she repeats,
and I want to shake her and hold her and rock her all at once

(throat like scars on scars)

You are beautiful, absolutely beautiful, and that is
that. You still have to do your homework. Brush
your teeth and do your homework and no Olympics
and you are beautiful, period, forever, amen

(pulling, until rope burns through skin)

Stop being mad, she yells.
I’m not mad, I’m frustrated,
I say. THEY ARE THE SAME THING she insists,
and I say, THEY ARE NOT. Brush your teeth. Then
do your homework and I will come in and rub your back
when you are done

(claws stay in stay in)

The little one wants all, wants now, wants
chocolate croissant, wants water, wants ice
skating and bobsledding and no socks, not
ever, not ever, socks are stinky and so there
are screams, thrashing, gnashing teeth

(blood boils)

No one is happy and everyone is acting half
her age including the dismayed mother who
wants to know when why how here?

(vomit stay down stay down)

Skin is what quiets the night, coaxes the
beasts to settle, lie still. Rough hand on a warm
back. Whimpers subside while my heart pounds,
begs silently, pleads for the not guilty verdict

(throb but do not swear)

The little one sleeps at last while the older
one puts her finished homework into her
backpack and climbs into bed. Her hand
seeks mine and we squeeze. I know you
do it for our own good, I know that is why,
she says, and I hug her and the jury is dismissed

(breathe in breathe out breathe in breathe out)

“Hannah,” I say, “where are we?”

“Here. Home.”

“No pouting. You are six. You are not a baby. You are a young lady, and you will brush your own teeth.”

But the wails, the wails. The princess, shut up in the tower, alone with a dried, stiff toothbrush and horrid toothpaste!

I cannot stand it.

I take the brush, put her across my lap, and brush her teeth until she cries harder. I am not proud of this. But she is six. In this house, we brush our teeth. Six is not three and I will not recognize it as such: a vertical half of itself.

She struggles to the sink, spitting, sobbing.

“Bloom, kid,” I say. “Bloom. You are so close. You are SIX! You are no longer a baby, but on the verge of becoming a girl, a young lady! Do you know why I make you brush your teeth? Do you know?”

She shakes her head furiously.

I get down on my knees, look into her tear-stained face. She is so very, very tired from her cross-country flight the night before, and a full day of school today.

“It is my job to teach you to love yourself,” I tell her. “It is my job as your mother to teach you to love every little inch of your body the way I do, and to treat it with love and respect. And brushing your teeth? THAT, my dear, is part of loving yourself.”

I depart to Sophie’s room, let H have time alone in the bathroom, to moan and think. I curl into Sophie’s bed in the dark, wondering if I have been too hard on H.

Sophie does not think so. “She needs to brush her teeth.”

“She does,” I say.

All of a sudden, we hear an odd sound: footsteps approaching, with another sound layered over top. Brushing. Hannah. She is brushing her teeth over again. By herself. With toothpaste.

Sophie and I sit up with a gasp and watch as the shadow of her little sister brushes its shadow mouth, calmly, without tears.

“Wow!” we say.

“Bravo!” we yell.

“Atta girl!” we holler.

The shadow Hannah smiles, then returns to the bathroom.

“Go to her,” Sophie counsels me.

I leap out of bed and to the bathroom, where I hug Hannah and congratulate her for her excellent decision, her super choice.

“Way to go, kid,” I say. “THAT is the Hannah I know. THAT is the young lady that is in you! How do you feel?”

“Good,” she says, with no further comment but a pleased, if secretive, smile.

I tuck her into her bed and curl behind her, thinking of a sign my friend bought for her daughter. “I love you to infinity and back,” I say. “Do you know what infinity is?”

“Yes!” she says, animated now. “It’s like when it goes on and on and even the highest number you can go isn’t the highest!”

“Exactly. I love you that much, all the time. I knew you could make the right choice. I know I’m strict sometimes, I know I’m hard on you, but I just want you to know that you’re ready to shine, darlin’. You’re ready to be the lovely young lady you’re meant to be. You just have to take responsibility for her and let her out. You already know how to make those good choices. I’m very, very proud of you.”

“And even when we’re mad at each other we always love each other.”

“Totally true. And there will be plenty of times when you will be really REALLY mad at me. And I’ll be super mad at you. But, yup, the love will ALWAYS be there.:

Snuggled deep in her blankets, she smiled. “Yeaaaaah.”

I tiptoed back into Sophie’s bed.

“Tell me a story,” she requests.

“There are too many for tonight.”

“You’ve already told me about sex and bad guys and where to kick a boy if he’s, you know—”

She starts cracking up.

“What were you THINKING?” she asks me. “‘AIM FOR THE BUMP.’”

I put my hand over my eyes. “Honestly, I don’t know sometimes. You don’t get a guidebook that says, oh, 8 years old, tell your daughter this or that. I try to follow my gut. Sorry. Do you hate it?”

“Are you KIDDING? I wouldn’t trade you for any other mommy in the world. I can’t believe sometimes I was born to somebody so AWESOME.”

“I’m not so awesome. I’ve made a lot of mistakes.”

“So? Everybody makes mistakes.”

“Yeah, but I made mistakes that hurt people, hurt myself. Stuff I wish I could take back.”

“But you learned stuff.”

“Well. Thank you. That means a lot. Really. Coming from you, kid. Thank you.”

“Tell me one more story.”

“A boy stole my bike.”

“And?”

“And I punched him.”

“YOU PUNCHED HIM????” This is squealed with delight. “In the FACE?”

“No, he was a swimmer. I punched him in his shoulder, as hard as I could, because I was hoping it might mess up his performance in the next day’s swim meet.”

“Did it?”

“I like to think so.”

“Did you get the bike back?”

“Yep, but we’re still not friends on Facebook. Two grown adults with kids, and we can’t get past the stupid college bike episode.”

Sophie explodes with laughter. “OH! OH! OHHH! OHHHHH! YOU TELL ME ABOUT SEX AND HOW TO KICK THE BUMP ON BAD MEN AND PUNCHING SWIMMERS AND OHHHHHHHH!”

“I know, Soph. I’m sorry. I suppose I feel compelled to tell you as much about life as possible at an early age, so you can make your own decisions well if life throws you any curveballs early. I may be a total freak mom.”

“You are an AWESOME mom. I love you so much.”

“Kid, I think I might write this one down. To remember.”

******

P.S. New post up at Work It, Mom! Single Mom at Work: http://bit.ly/5fah97

A is for apples, which rot in the bowl.

B is for baby clothes, which sure need to go.

C is for Carlita, who drinks my bathwater.

D is for dogs, fantastic blog fodder.

E is for effort, I score a B-plus.

F is for fail, I throw myself under the bus.

G is for God, who could throw us a bone.

H is for Hattie Belle, who hates to be alone.

I is for I, who wakes up afear’d.

J is for Jenn, pleasantly weird.

K is for kids, raucous and fighting.

L is for love, like, and poor lighting.

M is for Mater, the echoing saint,

N is for Nina, dog saint, she ain’t.

O is for ogle, when I peer at me bum,

P is for perplexed, when I see what it’s become.

Q is for quaint, optimistic word for our home.

R is for roof, which crumbles like Rome.

S is for Sophie, pale, wise and wry.

T is for TV, may it never run dry.

U is for texting, forgive me my sins.

V is for Valentine’s Day, toss it to the winds.

W is for winning the lottery, HA HA HA HA.

X is for ex, SHA NA NAAA NA.

Y is for you, my sweethearts! My delights!

Z is always for zebra, zee bra ees too tights.

1) Pears. Apples. We are pears or apples as we age. An apple? You’ll be needing insulin shots. A pear? You’ll be needing an elliptical machine.

When we are born, we are delicious and undefined. Pomegranate? Banana? Mango. Guava. Strawberry. Vanilla. Chocolate. Almond. Milk. More milk. Still more milk. Cream, even. Sugar.

My wonderful friends Zeke and Karen have a new baby boy, Thomas. He is so delicious that now they glow too like sun-ripened fruit, no longer apples or pears on the kitchen counter. The three of them are glorious. When Zeke stood up and a screwdriver fell to the floor, he told his new son, “Papa just pooped a screwdriver!” And they laughed and laughed.

Laughter is the flavor, when babies arrive into ready arms. Delicious.

2) I know nothing about kittens. We have a kitten. If our dog does not eat her, she will stay, both existentially and in our home. Sophie is a little afraid of the kitten, who attacks Chapsticks and barrettes as if they are Nazi grenades and she is saving our lives with each selfless tackle. Just now, she bounced off my head and somersaulted through the air, because I had left a dangerous Chapstick unattended.

I keep Sophie calm by pretending I know things about kittens. I tell Sophie that our kitten is living in a comic book cat world, and her adventures are deadly serious to her, and we must not mock her for this. I tell Sophie that our kitten is saving us from monsters in the shower drain. I tell Sophie that our kitten is perfectly normal, although I have not heard of a kitten catapulting off of human heads. I tell Sophie she will be a most affable cat, once her comic book cat world is rid of some of its worst monsters.

Sophie nods.

“Do you think it was crazy, my bringing home a cat?”

Sophie nods again. “A little.”

I nod. “Yes.”

“She’s a little crazy. And goofy,” says Sophie. “Like you.”

“Yes.” We nod at each other on the bathroom floor as the kitten hurtles through the air like a calico Ninja, claws extended, pupils wild and devouring all light. Delicious.

3) Today marks one year since the death of an old friend’s daughter. Her daughter, Arden, did not make it to four years of age. They thought she might beat it. She was a remarkable, vivacious little girl, with a spirit undefinable. Neuroblastoma won this round.

I cannot understand this pain. I cannot step into it, I cannot begin to know it. Why Amy and her husband were chosen to know this pain, I will never understand. One year without a beloved child is just the beginning of a life without a beloved child, and they will know this every day of their lives. There will be laughter, there will be other beloved children, but there will never be another Arden.

That pain, the pain of walking into an empty pink room with butterfly lights and a pouncing kitten? A closet full of little girl dresses and socks? Untouched bookshelves with “I Love You Forever” and “Purplicious”? My mind will not take me beyond those fey images. I cannot reach Amy and her husband and her son where they are—I can only extend my hand to them, words trailing off the fingers. Nothing is right. And yet, nothing is right, too. The hand outstretched, the empty, jumbled words—they matter. This, I believe.

She—Arden Quinn—was delicious beyond description. As is the heart of her mother, Amy.

Amy wrote on the day Arden died,

“How can I be angry at God when he brought Arden to us? How can I be angry at God when he brought you all to us? How can I be angry at the doctors or nurses who work so very hard every day for our sick children and have Arden’s safety and well-being at heart?…

Life is so very precious. We appreciate every aspect of life, even the most difficult ones. We choose to celebrate life, not mourn or complain about it. We choose to love life, especially when we could potentially lose our dearest and closest family members or friends at any time.”

My God. Yes. This is love. This—she, they, all of us—this is what we are capable of. We can taste the tears, but we are sometimes wise enough to taste the sweetness too, when it is ours, and still, when it is gone. The love goes on.

Amy, Rick, and G-Man, our hearts are with you today, and with the delicious spirit of Arden Quinn. Always.

I pick the girls up from D. It is the fifth of July.

He is making bread in his kitchen. I use his bathroom, then sit at his counter. We talk about the week, about his Shakespeare rehearsals, about summer camp, as the girls collect their things. I tell him about the Fourth of July party I went to last night, the fireworks gone wild.

As the girls and I are leaving, I add, Don’t get naked. The city of Boston is watching. I tell him about the brouhaha. I tell him one comment made me throw up.

D tells me not to let it get me down, that the Boston Globe is probably thrilled to have a little controversy. He tells me the commenters are nuts, not to take them seriously, that we are fine.

We are not fine together, but I know what he means. As parents, we are still fine. We are still there for each other, when push comes to Boston Globe.

It’s a small moment. But I am grateful for it. I say a quick prayer. I hope for better days. Different days, for sure. But maybe one day it will be easier.

*****

I have some difficult decisions to make, decisions that consume me. I can’t shake them off my shoulders, no matter how hard I try.

So last night, I gave up on decision-making. I went to an old-fashioned, rowdy, country Fourth of July party in Ballston Spa, New York, complete with burgers, hot dogs, real dogs, kids, trampoline, bonfire, beer, secret ganja and a terrific band.

I went along as a roadie, knowing only the guitarist and the other band members. I floated from area to area, hiding under my new straw cowgirl hat, taking in the faces passing by. These faces were real ones, not like the ones I tend to *see* at night.

I played with other people’s kids. I realized I felt invisible and perfectly at home at the same time. It was a peculiar sensation. Every stranger felt familiar—’like family.’

As twilight fell and the nearly full moon began taking the stage, the dusk turned this New York state country road into an Iowa landscape—the only thing missing was the smell of pig manure. A silo, farmhouse roofs, scrubby trees, all in shadow. The sky was beautiful, and not eager to let go of its light.

“Billy” was in charge of the fireworks, which finally commenced at 9:20. I wasn’t expecting much. So I was knocked out by the half-hour display, bigger and brasher than some of the ones I’d seen in Philadelphia as a child. Each onslaught of fireworks was a bizarre luxury, I thought. How strange, that we welcome explosions here on this day, trusting in our safety and freedom.

With each wave of fireworks, I jumped and crackled. Firework-watching is not the best pastime for one with bipolar who’s battling a mixed state of agitation and anxiety. But I couldn’t look away. There is magic in gold dust raining from the sky. I was riveted to my small white rock in a field of mulch between rows of parked cars.

I held my hat over my ears while E. stood guard. I realized that my lips were moving slightly, with each gorgeous explosion. Each explosion became a prayer, to do better, to do right by someone I love. Each explosion—I found myself giving it a name, a blessing. Wil. Jackie. Scott. Karina. Heather. Linds. Etienne. The nearby gal pals. Shelly. Clemmy. Katharine. Karmen. Topo. Tree. Mom. Joe. Katieface. Dad. Davide. The girls. My nieces. My nephew. The readers I love. The commenters who break my heart. The military. The unseen in this country. The unseen in every country. There was no shortage of names or prayers, or fireworks, it seemed.

All the while, a patriotic soundtrack blared from the garage. My heart pounded. Too much noise, too much, too much. I held onto my rock.

“Billy” lived to tell, as did we all, but the fireworks went awry near the end of the production. Two rockets shot off into the woods, two into the parking lot—narrowly missing me and E.—and one hit the house, setting something or other on fire (quickly extinguished).

Prayers were cut short, then. No more fireworks. Drunken karaoke ensued, which was my cue to exit (my ensuing panic attack was another good reason, yeee-haw!).

On the way home I thought of the summer night air, the fireflies, the welcoming people I’d met. I thought of this country of ours, the one we are so quick to dismiss as uncouth, as graceless as a big dog. We wag our tail and it makes a grand mess much of the time, overturning coffee table after coffee table. This is true enough.

But we all must be somewhere, and a white rock in a field of mulch just off a country road in the U.S.A. is not a bad place to be for a half an hour. Not a bad place at all for prayer, as the angels throw glitter from the heavens and each gorgeous explosion speaks for the wishes we cannot say out loud.