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A Reintroduction

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Dusting off the keyboard…..It has been a hot minute since the last Three’s a Herd post. Life got a little chaotic and was taking me in a different direction. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I was going to ever come back to this sweet corner of the internet. Is blogging still even a thing? Is what I have to say relevant? Does it matter? But after much prodding from a life coach, I’ve decided to re-enter my blog era, to just write and see what happens. Since it has been quite some time, I thought a reintroduction would be appropriate before diving back into things fully. Sooooooo……here’s me, us.

Why “Three’s a Herd?” Well, we have three children. When I had the third, Spouse said we no longer had kids, we had a herd. It stuck. Who are those three? Big Man is the oldest. He is our micro-preemie, born at 26 weeks due to a placenta abruption. He was our introduction to parenthood – a rather abrupt and rude introduction to parenthood. After ninety-three days in the NICU, we brought him home. Did I mention we’d gone through 18 months of fertility treatments and one miscarriage before getting pregnant with him? Diagnosed with endometriosis AND PCOS, my fertility doctor told me I had a less than 10% chance of ever getting pregnant without medical assistance/intervention. Hold that thought…..The week after Big Man came home from the NICU, I was wiped out, exhausted, still pumping every three – four hours, stressed out, and underweight. But literally ONE time, and I got pregnant with our Princess. We had to evict her at 41 weeks and 1 day. Thirty-six hours after her birth, they sent us home. I was almost more terrified to bring her home than I had been Big Man – there was no five page list of things we had to prove we knew how to do, no carseat test to make sure she’d keep breathing while in said carseat…..nothing. Just here’s your baby, off you go! One boy, one girl…..the perfect family, yes? Except I wasn’t done. I’d known for the longest time I wanted three kids. So back to the well we went. Z was born when Big Man was 3.5 years old, and the Princess 2.5 years old. Three kids under four years old….Yes, it was a lot. We had our Herd, and it was complete.

A Preemie, a Princess, and a Work on Progress reads the tag line. Why a Work in Progress? It was apparent by the time Z was in Kindergarten he was beginning to fall behind his peers emotionally and socially. To put it lightly, I was micromanaging every minute of every day trying to keep him from melting down, having tantrums, or just utterly causing chaos to all those around him. He was incredibly smart, and had an insane vocabulary, but the only emotion he seemed to have was anger. Finally, halfway through second grade, he was diagnosed with ADHD, and on the spectrum. We definitely covered all the bases…..Big Man had had follow-up care and therapies for three years following his birth, due to his micro-preemie status. The Princess was full-term, healthy, and, outside of skin allergies, totally easy. And now we had all the therapies, medications, and the world of IEP’s/Special Ed.

That’s how the Herd came to be. I originally started blogging in 2005 when I was part of an online community for NICU parents, and we still were dealing with the fallout of Big Man’s premature birth. It was an outlet for me, a way to process. As Z was diagnosed and we were navigating that world, it became a lifeline. It helped me, but I also liked to think it helped others to read our story, all the things we were facing and working through, and maybe give them a little hope.

Where are we now? Well, the Herd is grown. Big Man is playing a long game for his undergrad studies, which is completely fine. They don’t put how many years it took you to earn your degree on that certificate. He’s working full-time, and continuing to take classes every semester. He’s on the right path, after diverging for a bit. He has great friends and the loveliest, sweetest girlfriend. He lives six hours away. IMO, I don’t see him often enough, and I miss his incredible hugs. The Princess just graduated college, and is heading to law school next month. We had the privilege of watching her return to dance continue as she made the dance company at her college. She had her last performances this past January, and yes, there were lots of tears. We are excited to watch her journey continue. She has the sweetest boyfriend. Z….his path is never going to look like anyone else’s. He graduated high school two years ago, and takes classes at the local community college. He will earn his Associate Degree in December. He has the sweetest boyfriend. d

Me? Part of my time is taken up as an admin for a non-profit, for 17 more months anyways. Then I will “retire” to do all the travel and things I’ve been putting off for 24 years while I focused on husband, children, household, job. I am also on the board for our local March of Dimes market. I am involved in four book clubs, read avidly, still run but mostly walk these days. Spouse’s business has really taken off in the last few years, and we travel to one or more offices throughout the year. I’m figuring out what and who I’m going to be in the next season of life, which is coming quickly. I’m learning who I am beyond just “mom” or “wife” or “admin”. I will be re-adding “writer” to my list of titles, and plan to be here two or three times a week going forward.

So, that’s the Herd behind Three’s a Herd. If you’re new here, let me know how you found us, what interests you, what your corner of the internet looks like. Here, you’ll hear about motherhood, transitioning to a new season of life, life on autism and ADHD street, having daughters, parenting baby adults, books, and just living. Welcome, and Cheers!

22

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Before I get to the light-hearted, loving birthday post for my birthday girl, I would be remiss if I didn’t address the terror going on in Israel and the Gaza Strip. I’ve struggled for days to wrap my brain around it, to try to understand. There is no understanding terror. I’ve sat in tears, watching video after video, news report after news report, knowing families here, families I know, are suffering, have family and friends in direct line of trauma and danger. I cannot begin to understand. I can only say my prayers are continual, my heart with those suffering the pain of this war.

…..22…..

If you’re doing the math, or have taken any notice of my much-neglected little blog, you’ll recall I just did at 23 post for Big Man not even three weeks ago. Yes, boys and girls, my oldest and my middle are a mere 12 months and 19 days apart. Trust me, not intentional. And yes, after 18 months of fertility treatments, I do know exactly how babies are made, so ignorance isn’t to be blamed. Honestly, we had quite literally everything working against us having a second child at all, much less so immediately, except as my lovely perinatologist told me, my “hormones were at just the right level” and I was “lucky.” This was exactly the point my lovely Spouse began laughing. And then my MIL laughed, saying we just had to beat her (Spouse and his older brother are a year, a month, and a day apart). No my friends, I wasn’t trying. But our girl was coming, just 12 months after the too-early, traumatizing birth of our oldest. Have I mentioned God has a sense of humor?

Twenty-two years ago, at 3:19am, a beautiful, full-term, pouty, screaming little Princess came into the Herd world. Our lives were turned upside-down again. Man, but I love this girl. Has she hauled us through it at times? For sure…they all have. But damn, I love her so. She makes us SO proud. She makes us laugh. She makes us think. I am in awe of her determination and focus, in her ability to fight through life’s many challenges. She has overcome so much, and battles on, scarred but still full of love and caring.

Often in my mind, she remains that little toddler with the long, blond, spiral curls that I used to curse having to comb out, until the day Big Man cut them all off…and I do mean ALL OF THEM, to her scalp. I see her in her first tiny ballet slippers, in her first soccer cleats, in her first pointe shoes, in her first field hockey uniform. I see her experience sand for the first time (hated it), the first time she put her toes in the ocean in Maui, and in the very cold stream in Yellowstone. I see her and Big Man wrestling on the brand new carpet in our brand new house. I see her very yellow first bedroom, and her full-of-pink first closet. I see her helping her baby brother find the hidden Easter Eggs, and the plastic animals on the scavenger hunt at his first birthday party. I see her dancing her first solo, and her last. I see her walking across the graduation stage solo at her 2020 Covid high school graduation.

I see all the wonderful life in front of her. She has just clicked submit on half of her law school applications. We are planning her graduation trip, and her graduation weekend. She is making plans for the next season of her life.

22…..Yes, the Taylor Swift song has been in my brain since I woke up this morning and wrote her birthday Instagram post. What it is to be 22…..no longer a baby, no longer a teenager, grown but not quite grown, and so much ahead. Happy Birthday, P. May 22 be the best.

There Goes My Life

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There is a song by Kenny Chesney called, “There Goes My Life.” If you don’t know his music, or don’t know country music, it’s a song about a man who unexpectedly becomes a father at a young age, and is resistant to giving up the dreams he had for his life, but as the song goes on, he realizes his daughter is the real dream he gets to have in his life. That song, for whatever reason, has always made me think of our Princess, not because her birth made me give up any dreams, it’s just the circumstances, as well as the little girl in the song having curly blond hair and blue eyes (which P did when she was a toddler), and the fact that every time we drive away from visiting her at school, or she drives out of our driveway to head back to school, I feel like my heart, my life is leaving.

As to the circumstances of our pregnancy with her….We had just been through an 18-month fertility journey, and I’d delivered her brother 14 weeks early. He had JUST gotten home from a 93-day NICU stay, and it was literally one time and we got pregnant with her. Every odd was working against us getting pregnant – endometriosis, PCOS, still nursing/pumping, very underweight, and very stressed, and literally one time, but yet, there we were, pregnant. I was terrified, and mortified, nervous as hell. We knew, even after our prematurity and NICU experience, we wanted more children, so she was in no way unplanned or an “accident”, it just wasn’t our choice of timing. God has a sense of humor, and is quite brilliant when it comes to it. I was not mentally or emotionally prepared to basically have two infants. They would be developmentally 9 months apart when she was born, if she was born full-term, which she – BLESS- was. Two babies in under 13 months…..Not ideal in my mind, but we were in it. There goes my mind, there goes my sanity, there goes any hope of having any one-on-one time with a second newborn, there goes sleep for even longer, there goes having autonomy over my body for yet another year, there goes my life. Except it turned out that she was a dream I didn’t really know I had. Once we got through that full-term, healthy pregnancy, and I had my baby girl in my arms, once we got through the nightmare toddler years, I knew I would not have had it any other way.

I loved watching the two of them together. They were so close. Yes, they did drive me to the brink more often than not. They would play off of each other, they were extremely creative and very smart. I don’t know they realized they were separate people. The little boy across the street never called them by their individual names, he called both of them by both of their names strung together. They’ve of course gone their separate paths as they’ve grown up, particularly when Big Man headed to middle school and then high school a year ahead of her. They were in different groups, had different interests, were different people. We did get to see them off to his Junior and Senior proms together in a sense (not each other’s dates, we just were able to take photos in one place of both of them). They fought like maniacs for awhile in their teens, but have become relatively close once again.

Our Princess is a young woman, a baby adult, living her best life at college. It’s just under 5 hours away from home, but she is busy dancing, writing, working, and of course going to classes. She will graduate in just over a year, then it’s on to law school. Each time she drives off to head back to her life, her individual adult life, I hear that song in my mind, thinking, “there goes my life….” Love that girl so very much. Did she get here when and the way I’d imagined way back before we ever started having our babies? Totally. Would I have it any other way? That’s a solid nope.

A strange bias

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The Princess goes to California Polytechnic, San Luis Obispo. It is a Cal State school (yay – not expensive for us in-state peeps!), however it also has a deserved reputation for being difficult to get accepted. It is something of a prestigious Ag/Architecture/Engineering school. There are now three Cal Polys in the state, with the other two being in Pomona and Humbolt. I don’t know the level of difficulty there is for getting accepted to Pomona or Humbolt, I only know our experience with SLO. It is a different kind of experience to go to Cal Poly. Students really have to know what they really want to study – it is extremely difficult to change majors once you’re there, particularly if you want to switch “school” ie from Ag to Engineering, or a Liberal Arts field to Ag. These kids are brilliant at what they do, and have to be decisive at 18 when applying. But I am yet again off topic. Suffice it to say, Cal Poly SLO is a school full of incredibly smart, incredibly focused, incredibly talented students.

Here is what I’ve noticed from the minute the Princess was accepted to CP SLO and clicked the “Commit” button…every time – and I mean EVERY SINGLE TIME – I tell anyone she goes to Cal Poly, the person assumes, and asks, “Pomona?” as if there is no way a girl, much less my girl, could get into or attend Cal Poly SLO. Honestly, it’s infuriating. She’s wicked smart, and she works her ass off. She earned that admittance, has earned four quarters on the Dean’s List which puts her on the President’s List. She has her major and two minors, dances with the Orchesis Dance Company on campus, writes for the Mustang Media Group, and continues to have a strong social life. Oh, she also works. Most of the kids at Cal Poly do the same, have the same level of intensity to their experience.

As the mom of a daughter, I am offended by the bias a girl shouldn’t/can’t go to a polytechnic school, much less one with a prestigious reputation. Her friends are some of the sweetest, most-engaging, fun girls, who also happen to kick ass at math, science, engineering, marine science, aerospace. GIRLS are doing these things, often with more ease than their male counterparts. So when someone responds to me with, “Pomona?” when I say she goes to Cal Poly, I lose my ish. Why do we still, as a society, consciously or subconsciously assume a girl can’t be successful in STEM? Can’t be “smart” enough to get into a STEM school?

Earlier in P’s college career, she actually did a paper on females in the engineering school on campus. I had the opportunity to read that paper and was stunned. The bias these young women come up against is ridiculous, given we live in the 21st century where we actually have female world leaders. How far we have come, but how far we have yet to go? It is mind-boggling, to say the least.

P will graduate well before this issue resolves. I’m sure for years after she graduates, when I tell people where she graduated from, they’re still going to ask, “Pomona?” No, you tool, my daughter, as well as many other young women, is quite brilliant and if she’s good enough for Cal Poly SLO to accept, then you should too, and these women should be acknowledged and honored for their incredible minds, strong work ethics, and just basic badass female abilities.

And still, she dances

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We had a couple of very difficult years with the Princess. It seemed to kick in the middle of her freshman year of high school, just after turning 15. It wasn’t pretty, and I didn’t handle it well. Probably one of the worst days for me was the day she said she didn’t want to dance anymore. Mind you, I’d never forced her to dance. Activities, once the kids reached a certain age, were strictly their choice. We had one rule – once you start something, you finish it, so I did force her to finish that dance season, going through recital that summer. Those car drives to and from the studio most nights each week were just such a joy.

The last time she took that stage was the last time I thought I’d ever see her take the stage. But as things go, she came out of that horrible teenager stage, and, at the start of her senior year, said she wanted to dance again, as well as compete again. Going back to the studio, to our dance family, was like coming home. Covid cut that competition season short, and summer recital was outdoors, in a parking lot, on a very small stage, with only the parents of each particular dance able to watch. And the last time she took the stage was the last time I thought I’d ever see her take the stage.

There was no dancing last year. She was off at school, living in a dorm room all by herself, doing all of her classes remotely in that dorm room. No studios there were open. The company associated with the school wasn’t running. I truly believed her dance days were likely completely over, except for maybe a way to get some exercise in.

This past fall, she called me after the club open house at school. The dance company had a booth there, and she signed up to audition. She wasn’t sure she’d make it – fifty kids were auditioning for about 25 spots. But she did make company, and was put in four pieces. Tomorrow, Spouse and I will head to her school 4.5 hours away to watch her perform, and next weekend I’ll go back up with one of her besties to watch her again. That last time was not the time. And still, she dances.

The Dancer

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If you’re like us, when your kids are little, you put them into all kinds of activities – to keep them busy, to socialize, to get them moving physically, to learn new things, and to have to listen to other adults in their lives besides their parents.

I knew when the Princess was very little, I was going to put her into gymnastics and/or dance as one of her activities/sports. I never imagined it lasting more than a few years, particularly after she started soccer, and excelled in that sport. Anyways, she was three years old when I tracked down a local studio, and found a Saturday morning ballet/tap/tumbling class. Perfection! That fall, we made the once-a-week trek downtown, and I would sit on the back patio of the studio, watching her through the glass as she learned to plié and leap and summersault. Her first recital was precious – my tiny ballerina in a tiny pink sparkly tutu.

Once she reached 7 or 8 years old, and soccer was taking more and more of her time and focus, I would ask her before the start of each dance year if she still wanted to continue. The answer was always yes, and she even added a jazz class. We were now at the studio a couple nights a week, plus two or three soccer practices, and games every Saturday in the fall. She was a busy girl, but she kept at both.

When she was eight, we moved studios when two of her ballet teachers opened their own studio. We knew it was the right move. P and C are incredible teachers, perfect directors. They care about the kids as whole people, not just dancers. When she turned 11, the Princess decided to hang up her soccer cleats. She was dancing full time (in studio 5-ish days a week), and playing competitive soccer. She would have to change in the car between the soccer fields and studio). It wore on her. She was exhausted. She knew she had to choose, and we would not make the choice for her. She chose dance, and then I had her sit on that decision for a few weeks. It stuck, and we were off.

She danced competitively. She did recital every year. She performed in the Nutcracker, playing the role of Clara in 8th grade. More than all of that, we were part of a family at the studio. Her dance classmates were her friends, her teachers became mentors, older dancers were leaders and advisors, other dance moms became second moms (and my close friends). We slogged our way through injuries, travel for competitions, pointe shoe fittings and ribbon/elastic sewing, costume alterations (and a couple costume miscues during performances that made for some good laughs), and pre-performance dress rehearsal meltdowns.

Yesterday, the Princess performed for the last time with our studio. Of course with the pandemic, it didn’t look like it has in the past. Instead of a crowded theater, a stage was set up outside in the parking lot of a movie theater by the studio. One class at a time would arrive, block their routine on the stage, and then perform it two or three times, with each being recorded to make one video of the recital. She and her dance bestie were front and center for this performance, honored as the seniors. They have danced together since they were three and four.

There were lots of tears, especially when one of our directors presented the two senior girls with flowers and cards, and a heartfelt speech. We are so grateful for our dance family, for the directors who have helped my girl grow into not just a beautiful dancer, but a wonderful young adult. I don’t know who she’d be without this part of her life – who she would have become but for her dancing.

I can’t believe this part of her life is over, but I’m so grateful she went back to it after an 18-month hiatus. It will always be part of her, and I’m so very thankful for every person who has touched her life at that studio and in her dance life – P and C, Miss A, all the dance moms (and grandmoms and dads), all the other dancers, every master class and summer intensive instructor. Thank you for helping raise my girl.

Absence

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The Princess decided early last summer that for her Senior year, she wanted to go back to the competition ensemble at our dance studio, and she wanted to do a contemporary solo.  She had a very specific idea what she wanted – a tribute piece to certain people, certain circumstances for those people, in her life. She eventually chose the music, a song called Absence.  It’s a beautiful, haunting song, and the piece her contemporary instructor choreographed for her…it moves me every damn time.

Because of the current world situation, the competition we went to in early February may have been her last. She blew it out of the water, scoring higher than she ever has with a solo. At every competition, you have the opportunity to spend stupid amounts of money to purchase videos and photos of your child’s performances. It being her Senior year, I of course plunked down the checkbook. Given what’s happened the last few weeks, I’m thankful for that choice.

The links to the video and photos arrived last week. Then all the news started hitting this week. As of last night, our entire state is on shelter-in-place, with no defined end date. Big Man is home until the fall, doing all his college classes online. He moved out of his dorm and turned in his keys Monday.  The other two are home until at least April 14th. We don’t know about Prom, we don’t know about any of the Senior celebration activities, we don’t know about graduation.

My girl is devastated. She has worked so hard for thirteen years, only to lose all the celebratory parts of the milestone of graduating high school. I’ve told her she’s allowed to be sad. I’m sad for her, sad for all the seniors whether our school or any other high school or college. As the pictures of her contemporary solo scroll across my computer screen, I feel like she could have been dancing it for the Absence of her senior year as much as what her original intent was. It’s about loss, and grief, of reaching out and finding empty space, of the person not being there who used to be there. Now, it’s the absence of all she knew, of all she’d dreamed about for this year, of all she’d hoped for these last few months of her high school career. I will never see this dance the same way again.

Tattoo

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The Princess turned 18 this past weekend.  Big Man surprised us all and came home from school for the weekend to be here for her.  We had a family lunch Saturday afternoon, and she had friends over for dinner and to hang out Saturday night. She’s not much for having big things made for her. But she was celebrated, and it was a good weekend. I do have to tell you about the gift we got her (or are getting her), the story behind it, and how step 1 went down on Saturday.

For almost two years now, she’s asked for just one thing for her eighteenth birthday – a tattoo.  We aren’t really a tattoo family, in that neither Spouse nor I have any tattoos. Just never been on our radar. I’ve seen other tattoos I’ve liked and appreciated, I’ve just never found one I loved so much I needed to go through the process. But we told her at 18 years old, it’s her body, her choice. We just wanted her to consider the permanence, and the location, particularly as she wants to go into the medical field. Spouse, being a professional in the development/CRE/engineering industry knows many companies are still fairly conservative and asked she keep that in mind for her future. But she’s been consistent and persistent. So, as soon as field hockey season is done, she will be getting her tattoo.

I’m sure you  may be asking what tattoo she will be getting. Well, there’s a story to that, and it involves me also getting a tattoo. Yep, not only did she ask for a tattoo for her 18th birthday, she asked to get matching tattoos with me. I know right??!! After the struggles we went through for nearly two years, I was probably more surprised than anyone. It was a REALLY rough time, but we’ve both come a long way back to normal, particularly in the last twelve months. I’m so thankful for that. And this has so much meaning to me that I’m taking the deep dive and getting a tattoo as well.

She’s danced since she was three years old, with that 1.5 year break after her Freshman year of high school. She also played competitive soccer, for which I was the team manager (think Team Mom  on Steroids). We have spent more hours than I can possibly count in the car, waiting at fields between tournament games, and waiting at dress rehearsals and competitions. The windshield time is probably our most precious time. We have time to talk, and we always have the music on. We generally are singing along (we don’t suck at singing, and even if we did, we wouldn’t care…we’d still sing). We both also love Wicked – the soundtrack has been part of our rotation for years, especially after Kurt and Rachel sang “For Good” on an episode of Glee.  Now that song became a particularly special and meaningful song for us, and we’ve learned to sing the parts – me the part of Elphaba and her the part of Glinda.

When she suggested matching tattoos, I just told her it would have to be perfect, and it would have to mean something to both of us. It took nearly a year, but she came up with tattoos that represent our time together, our “things” we do, what matters to us. So, we will be getting tattoos of the broom for Elphaba and wand for Glinda, the sticks/stems of which will say “For Good”. They’re amazing, and I can’t wait.

I love that girl more than words can say. I’m glad she doesn’t seem to think I’m a crazy tool of a mom. I’m glad she wants to share this with me. I’m glad (really) we will both be getting permanent, visual marks of what our relationship means to us.

And now for the really funny part….We can’t get the actual tattoos until after field hockey season and my half marathon are done. Something about sweat and covering…blah, blah, blah. I know nothing about tattoos, so I’m totally taking the advice of the professionals. P did want to meet with the tattoo artist we’d chosen to go over what we want, where we want them, and to just get to know him (before he’s shoving needles into our skin), and she wanted to do that ON her birthday. So Saturday afternoon, we jumped into our SUV and headed to the tattoo place.

Lemme back up….we are white, suburban girls. I mean, we show up in the dictionary under “suburban white chicks”. So we roll up to the tattoo place in my mom-mobile, I think I even hard a cardigan on, and walked in front of about five guys out front who were smoking and definitely had experience with tattoos. No judgement on our part, but we could definitely see them smirking at us. We were nervous as heck, and totally laughing at ourselves. Pretty sure we were both blushing up a storm as well. The selected tattoo artist came over and handled our nerves like a pro. Once we’d discussed what we wanted, what we need to expect, and scheduled the actual appointment, we walked out, got into the car, and could not stop laughing.

So, on November 13th, we will be getting our matching tattoos. Happy Birthday, my P. I love you, and thank you for even wanting matching tattoos with your mom.

A Whimper….

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The Herd is just fine, I promise. And we’ve had some really great stuff happen this summer, including Big Man’s high school graduation, solid time with family, and our trip to Italy. But, not gonna lie, our summer is going out on a whimper. Too much shtuff. Too many feels. All the things.

We deliver Big Man to his dorm room in exactly two weeks – and I mean this EXACT time in two weeks, we will be unloading his truck. The date has been on the calendar for months. We’ve been filling out forms and sending money for months. I’ve logically prepped. But now it’s really here. It’s no longer this idea you begin thinking about when your child starts high school, if not before. This is reality.  In two weeks and two days, Spouse and I will pull away from that dorm building, leaving our biggest baby behind to face the big world all on his own. I. Am. Freaking. Out. I can’t do this. I’m not ready. He won’t wake up on time. He won’t go to class and he won’t do his work. He won’t know what to do if he’s sick. He won’t know how to adult without me there helping him. These are all the things spinning through my brain. Now I know he’s capable. And again, logically I realize he’s going to be just fine – he’s ready – and whatever he doesn’t know, he will figure out. That’s a big part of why we send them off to college, right?

I’m most worried what our household is going to be like without him here every day.  He’s our leveler. He’s the most emotionally consistent of all of us.  He’s the kid who gives me at least two hugs every day, always says “I love you” as he walks out the door, always asks how my day has gone, checks in to make sure I’m okay. He has the sense of humor that lifts us up. He knows how to laugh at himself, the golf course excluded.  And he’s not going to be here. I’m going to miss the hell out of this kid.  I’ve already told him I will lift my FaceTime ban, and will actually talk on the phone for him. You should have seen his face when I told him that – this is a HUGE deal for me!

I just find myself super weepy. Everything makes me cry these days. Add onto that, we have other things going on around here.

My mom continues to strive towards recovery from her stroke. She’s made huge progress, but remains in a skilled nursing facility. She can say a few words, and she can read, but she cannot write, cannot spell. She communicates mostly with flash cards, facial expressions, and head nodding/shaking. She has begun to take steps, within the parallel bars, and with braces.  The hope is to get her on day field trips, but we don’t know when she will be released, and it’s unlikely she will ever live independently again.

I’m facing the reality my parents are aging. It sucks to say the least. I spent a week taking care of my Daddy. He’s slowed considerably.  I truly enjoyed a quiet, one-on-one week where the most strenuous thing we did was decide whether to watch a baseball game, another Hallmark movie, or House Hunters. I read nearly 1500 pages. And we just talked. But it is so hard to see your parent’s fragility, see what effect time has had, see his own frustrations with where he is. Saying goodbye, even knowing I will see him again soon, gutted me.

The Princess….she had recital last month, and decided that after field hockey season is done, she will take on more of a return to dance. This was her decision, but I’m sure you can see me smiling from there. However it works out, if it works out, I’m just happy I got to see her on the stage again, doing something she does so well. But she’s had her own struggles this summer.  I won’t share the details as they aren’t mine to share, but good gracious, it sucks to see your kid hurting and know there’s nothing you can do to make it better but stay by their side, and help them as much as you can to get through the process, because there’s no skipping the process. I can’t take it away, I can’t fix it. I’m just here. But my heart hurts for her.

The Herd is in a time of transition, and it’s really hard.  We have lots more BIG THINGS coming up soon…..The Princess starts her  Senior year next week (weren’t we *just* here with Big Man?) and turns 18 in the fall.  Little Man begins his Sophomore year on Tuesday.  And then there will be the saga of Big Man adjusting to college. I promise a post on our trip to Italy. I just need to get through a few things first. The Herd is okay, we’re just sending this summer out on a whimper. Edited Banfi Winery family

Still Watching

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The Princess has been back dancing for a couple of months now. Most night she has class, I go with her. I don’t have to go. She’s had her driver’s license for over a year, and is fully capable of making the trip herself. But if I don’t have anything else going on, I go with her, because I can, because she asks, because I truly find comfort, pride, and joy in watching her dance.

It’s different now than it was before she took her 18-month break from dancing. I don’t have to be there. It’s not a burden, or imposition, nor even a must-do. It’s a choice – I want to be there. Not that it was ever a burden before. It’s just different now. I know what it is to live without watching her do something she in which she excels. I  know what it is to miss out on seeing her do something creative and beautiful.

If you have, or have had, a teenage daughter, you know how it is to be shut out of portions of her life. That’s just the normal way of teenagers – it’s part of their development to pull away from their parents. I have this back now – she lets me in, asks me in, to this part of her life.

It is a different experience now. She’s a different dancer than she was two years ago, although just as talented. She has more life experience, and is at an entirely different level of maturity. It shows. She appreciates the movement more, and you can see it. I think she has a different appreciation for dance for having been away from it. I love watching her explore this side of herself all over again, express her thoughts and emotions through movement.

I know I won’t have the opportunity for much longer to watch her dance.  She’s more than midway through  her junior year of high school. Before I know it, she will be off to college herself. I won’t be part of her daily life. I’m therefore reveling in the precious moments we have together – the commute time in the car to talk, sing along to the radio, just be together, as well as the time just watching her do her thing. She may think I don’t pay attention while she’s  in class – that I just sit on the other side of the glass, talking with other parents, trolling social media, or reading my book. But I see way  more than she thinks I do. Lately, I try to keep my head down so she can’t see the tears forming. Yes, those tears are pretty close to the surface during every class.

Watching her is different now because she’s there for a different reason. She’s not competing for any roles, she’s not competing at all. I was never much of a stage mom, tried not to critique nor to overtly show my thoughts on her form. But when your child dances at a certain level for years, you talk about things she does well, things she can improve upon, you support and encourage. Now, because she’s dancing for an entirely different reason (for herself), I can just enjoy and appreciate. I don’t notice if a foot isn’t pointed completely, or a hand is aiming the wrong direction. I just see her, total, and she’s beautiful.

I am so grateful for the gift of watching her dance again. Some people might think I’m crazy for taking time out of my life two nights a week when I don’t have to. But I know what it is to not have this opportunity, and I know that our time is short before she flies out into the world, so I’m still watching, because I can.