The Phoenix

I woke up on Tuesday morning full of excitement, hope, and enthusiasm.  As I embraced each of my daughters that morning, I looked them straight in the eyes, and said with conviction and clarity, "Today is the day!  Today is the day we've been waiting for!  Today, in your lifetime, you will see the first woman be elected President of the United States."  

I believed it to my core.  How could this election go any other way?

And then it did.

 I came to a shocking realization that I live in a bubble: it is a bubble called California.  And I have felt a physical grieving inside of me that I haven't felt since Foxy died.  This pit in my stomach.  A feeling of unease, and utter sadness.  A deep and dark despair, that I live in a country that believes it's okay for the next Commander in Chief to grab a woman by her "pussy".

Memories that lay asleep in me for countless years, out of shame, and guilt, began to bubble to the surface of my being.  A flame, which for decades burned as a flicker, became a raging fire.

Overnight.

Please allow me to be completely transparent.  The time to share this is now.  I trust you with my vulnerability, but it takes some courage.  But I would place a bet that very similar things have happened to you, too, if you're a woman.

And if they haven't happened to you, they have happened to your mother, your daughter, your sister, your cousin, your daughter-in-law, your sister-in-law, your grandmother, your Nana, your Nonnie, your Oma, or your best friend.

Irregardless of race.  Irregardless of  spiritual beliefs.  Irregardless of stature.

Irregardless of who you chose to cast a vote for in the election.

You see, the first time I was "grabbed by the pussy", I was six years old.  This act of molestation only happened once, thank God, but I remember it vividly.  I can picture where I was sitting on the couch, the flowered nightgown that I was wearing, and the fact that I was alone with this person.  And I knew one thing: I did NOT like it one bit!  After he was done, I said, with utter disgust,   "I'm telling on you."  

I felt no shame OR guilt.  I was reeling, and kept asking 'Why did he do that to me?'  Looking back now, it felt like I was a little under aged lawyer who demanded justice.

But things get tricky.  And this was before Mc Gruff, the crime dog.  And well, I'm not sure if justice was ever really served.

The next time I was "grabbed by the pussy",  I was with my college basketball team in Mexico for a tournament.  While I was dancing with a man, he stuck his fingers up inside of me.  INSIDE OF ME!  In public.  With people surrounding us.  He just acted like it was business as usual.

I was shocked and disgusted!  I didn't know how to react except to get the hell away from him as fast as I could.  I was ashamed, and felt dirty.  Even though I had done nothing wrong!  

I never told anyone.  You're the first to hear this.

Another time a guy tried to get handsy with me, I was in college at Chico State.  When I politely refused his advances, he slapped me across the face.  I stood there stunned.

And then I went fucking nuts.  I came at him, fists flying.  He was huge.  A big guy.  My friends had to pull me off, because had he gotten the opportunity, I am fairly certain I would have ended up in the hospital.

But why is it that I have kept these secrets hidden for so long?  Out of shame, guilt?  Why?!  I have done nothing wrong, and yet, as women, we plow ahead like it doesn't affect us.  Well, this person we have elected as our next Leader, IT AFFECTS ME.

What frightens me is what we are becoming.  Saying we hate women is okay.  Grabbing a woman by her pussy is acceptable.

And believe me, I'm just getting started.  I don't have time, nor do you, to hear what I have to say about other issues regarding equality, bigotry, and absolutely no tolerance for racism.

I will just say this: if you are any shade other than white, I love you.  If you are a Muslum/Hindu/Christian/Jew/Atheist, or are just not sure, I love you.  If you have two moms, or two dads, or a mom and a dad, I love you.  If you were born a man, but feel like you may want to be a woman, I love you.

This is what I teach my daughters, and that will never change.

And we will rise like the Phoenix, out of the ashes.  Flash forward four years, and believe me when I say we will RISE.  Three of my five daughters standing by me side by side, as we walk into the voting booth.

Until then, we will promote love.  Because love is always the answer.

Always.

The Boy

There is a boy in the mix now.  Bella met him at Jesus Camp.  He is also a twin,  No I'm not making this up.  Yes, we should have our own TV show.

And so, I got to meet this boy, who shall remain nameless, (because quite honestly, if my OWN kid finds out I'm telling you all of this, she'll KILL me, so I can't throw the boy under the bus too...just my own offspring).

Here is one thing you should know about our family: if you date one Walsh girl, you are basically committing to dating the entire clan, our tribe, yep...all 7 of us.

Case in point: when the boy arrived, and rang the door bell, Cosette dropped her Calico Critter hedgehog family, and came hauling out of her room like a freight train, to unbolt the locked door, while screaming at the top of her lungs, "HE'S HEEEERRRRRE BELLA!!!"

Yeah, we're super low key like that.

As Charlotte and Cosette wrestled each other to be the first to welcome him in, Abby strolled into the living room slowly, protectively, like a predator, to claim her spot on the couch, and simply watch all of this chaos unfold.

Meanwhile, Tom, who had parked himself at the kitchen table pretending to fix something, says to me, "What are we going to do about this kid?" , like it's a Math problem that we need to solve.   And I say, "Um, let him in?  Like, we're not burying bodies, or anything.  At least, not yet.  But if we ever need to do that, I have some excellent hiding places."

 I almost wish I would have had a Go Pro camera attached to my head to record exactly how visibly nervous the boy was, as he politely, but firmly shook my hand.  From the smirk on Abby's face, I observed that his trembling fear, satisfied her completely.

In fact, not long ago, Abby, Bella and the boy went to a movie.  And where do you think Abby sat?  Right smack dab in between the love birds.  Because she's awesome like that.

There have been lots of "firsts" lately.  Like Ms. Emma, who has earned nothing but straight A's her entire life, (yes, she's mine, but I'm not sure how), failing her first Geometry test in High School.  Poor Em.  She was absolutely beside herself.  Bawling, sobbing, shaking from side to side.  I walked into her room, knowing I needed remain calm, and inquired hopefully, "Have you emailed the teacher?"

"Yesss," snort, sniff, long whine, snot, "But" (GASP), "I haven't" (ANOTHER GASP), "heard" (COMING UP FOR AIR),  "back yet." More wailing.  Followed by yet more crying.  Tears and snot combined to make a slimy river, running down her face.

See, here's the thing, when my daughter is losing her shit over a test she just bombed, I am thinking, "Welcome to my world of not straight A's, sister!  Build a bridge, friend.  Put on your big girl panties.  Learn from this."

 I know, I'm a horrible person.  But I'm being honest.  I truly suck in this department.

So I offered, "Great job advocating for yourself," and then slowly, but deliberately removed myself from the Black Hole of Sorrow, and proceeded to pour myself a drink.  Peace out, Girl Scout.

Don't judge.  But instead, join me in my excellent decision making.

Which is exactly what Tom did: joined me on the couch with his drink.  Because this is what couples do at the end of a long day with kids.  We hobble to the couch, talk about our day, while having a drink.  It's like a ritual: similar to working out, eating a balanced diet, getting enough sleep, or making time for prayer and meditation.  Except with alcohol.

But because of Emma's impending whining, we couldn't hear each other.  And this was making us both want another drink.  As if on cue, Abby came wafting into the living room, to inquire why her sister was on another planet.

It was then Tom made a request, "Abby, can you please go handle that?" pointing in the direction of Raging River.  See, what I did just there?  Just like the Native Americans, I named my kid to match her behavior.  Like, I wonder what my Native American name would be...Lady With Big Mouth Too Many Kids.

And so like a first born, who is also a Boss Lady, Abby vanished to go deal with her blotchy faced, red eyed sister, who was convinced her life had taken a turn for the worst.

Tom and I heard Abby's voice rise and fall, like the wind during a storm, but also noticed Emma's crying ceased.  And after about 15 minutes, Abigail confidently rolled into the living room, faced us on the couch triumphantly , hands on her hips, and asked, "Did you even hear what I said in there?!  I KILLED it. And by the way, you're welcome."  She then disappeared into her room to retire for the evening.

Another "first" is that Cosette is now walking home from school with friends.  She even got hit by a car near our house, while crossing Lincoln at the light her first day.  Yep, that ADD is a real thing.

Maybe "hit" is too strong of a verb.  Tapped by a car?  But here's the deal: THE KID NEEDS TO LOOK BOTH WAYS, MAKE EYE CONTACT, AND THEN PROCEED,   I'm relieved she wasn't actually hurt, and glad that it happened the first day.  Lesson learned.   I'm like, SEE?! You can get HIT/TAPPED by a CAR, when you don't LOOK, and aren't paying ATTENTION.  I was RIGHT (about one thing).

I bet by the time Charlotte is old enough to walk home, she'll just hitch hike.  I will be so elderly, and exhausted by that point in my life, I'll just be glad she made it, and ask her to fetch me a Protein replacement shake from the kitchen.

But for now, there is a tribe of 3 Littles that stroll home with me: Charlotte, and two neighborhood sisters, Leslie and Sammy.  I leash the beast, and Bo greets the girls outside the school gate with his kidney bean dance.  As they run, their happiness is clearly tangible. All three Little's snuggle their faces in his mane, and give hugs and kisses. Tell him he's a good boy.

The girls devour their half eaten lunches, while we amble the mile and a half  back towards home.  Leslie, who's backpack is bigger than she is, walks Bo, while keeping him on a short leash, letting him know who's boss.  Along our path, we must stop to look at the chickens through the chain link fence near WGHS.  Sometimes, we talk to them.  We then make yet another stop to pet Kody, my friend's dog.  And while the girls are giving Kody loving pets through the gate, Bo is on the prowl for the cat who resides here, so he can essentially, eat her.  But Leslie's got it under control.

Right next door to Kody's house, we check out a neighbor's rather elaborate fairy garden she has set up in her front yard.  It has multiple bridges, that cross a river, as dragons and fairies look on from where they are perched.

 This is on the daily.

 I feel like parenting this beautiful combination of "being in the moment" with my children, and grieving that the moment has passed by.  It's fleeting.

Like being enchanted with fairies.  Or walking home for the first time from school. Or having your first boyfriend.  Gone.

And I came to this realization: the time that I spend with my daughters creating memories, reminds me of how I felt with my Mom when she and I were blessed enough to spend time together the last two years of her life.

And I don't want it to ever stop. 

I miss my Foxy Mom.  I miss my friend who would listen to me without fear of judgement or shame.  I miss doing her hair and painting her nails.  Most of all, I miss laughing with her.

There are so many times, I just want to call her up, and say, "Oh my gosh Mom, guess what happened today?!  Cozy got hit by a car!  But she's okay Mom!  And Bella is interested in a boy.  But Abby is on Security Patrol with that situation.  Oh and Mom, Charlotte still believes in fairies."

 And it's then I sense her presence...I see you, Michelle.  I'm right here.  Believe me, I wouldn't miss any of this.  And in case I forgot to tell you, I am so proud of you.

Questions for my Kids...

Are you the only person in your house that knows how to change the roll of toilet paper?  This is code speak for change the roll so the tissue is falling the correct way.

Not that I have control issues.

Have you ever found a container of Organic milk that costs over 5 bucks a gallon, left unattended on the kitchen table 3 hours after breakfast was eaten?  Do kids, jump up after eating, and say: breakfast completed!  That super expensive, deliciously cold gallon of milk  that came right out of the fridge, doesn't need to go anywhere.

Bye!  I'm off to play/school/ hang the toilet paper roll incorrectly. What the H-E-double hockey sticks.

Have you ever found one of your kids bawling their eyes out on the second day of school, while her twin sister, has seemingly had "the BEST day of her life"?!, (no names shall be used to protect the innocent)

It's like observing a live reenactment of Comedy/Tragedy.


In a different life, on another planet, in a place that does not exist in reality, I would receive answers to these questions.  But for the time being, I remain bewildered by these conundrums that have taken over on the daily in my home.


Riddle me this:  why do my girls leave smelly, crunched up, dirty socks stuffed inside their shoes, at the end of the day?  This one makes me really ponder my very existence.

Like will they wake up tomorrow after a sound slumber, and say, "Gosh, I can't WAIT to put on those nasty ass socks I wore yesterday, that have been marinating in my own foot juice overnight!"  

For the love of yo Mama, I know it's an entire additional 2 steps, but please put them in the dirty laundry basket.  I'll even pay you...by letting you live.


Parents of daughters, you will relate to this one:  why are there so many hair bands littering my entire house?  Pink hair bands on the kitchen table, stuck in a fresh puddle of syrup from this morning's pancakes and next to the $5 warm gallon of organic milk.  Blue hair bands on the bathroom floor.  Multi colored hair bands under any, and all beds, including my own.  Glittery hair bands stuffed into underwear drawers.  Nasty hair bands washed up in the tub drain, matted with tangled, and slimy wet strands of hair. Hair bands crusted with toothpaste that someone smeared all over the bathroom counter.  Hair bands knotted in shirts, to make said shirt fit more snugly. (WTF?!!!)

And my personal favorite...hair bands used as adhesive "belts" on hundreds of small stuffed animals to hold toilet paper clothing in place.

It's like Hansel and Gretel... but no bread crumbs...just HAIR BANDS.

Why is Charlotte hugging me so much lately?  Not like, a sweet, little snugly hug.  But more like a constant and needy, incessant smothering, 'I'm here to suck the ever loving life out of you',  hug? What's happening?  Is she regressing?  Is something going down at school?  Is this just a phase?

 HEY!!  Is that a hair band in her shirt?!!!!!

Why do the Bigs routinely ask, "Mooooom, have you started (your period) yet?

 Like I'm the Mother Ship of Menstruation.  The Ovulation Boss Lady.  The Timekeeper of Uterine Wall Shedding?

 It's like these teenage girls are  full of raging hormones that make them irritable, hangry for carbs and sugar, while simultaneously, wanting to take a 4 hour nap in the middle of the afternoon,

 And they turn to me like I'm the Period Gate Keeper.  I want to shake my fist and shout, "I'm just a Peri-menopausal mother who lives in a shoe, with too many children, and I may have a hot flash at any given moment, and doesn't know what to do."

If you're a dude, and don't get any of this, just a heads up:  typically, the oldest female in the tribe, sets the "tone" so to speak.  The Elder is  the beacon, and our ducklings follow our lead.  Simply put:  we start, and they follow.

Still not with me?  Watch any female sports team for a month. You'll become an expert at this.

At this point, it's all coming to fruition:  my understanding of why back in the day, women went into a Menstrual Hut for a week to cycle together.

 In fact, I'm thinking we should bring that back.  Put me in a tent, where I can put my feet up, read People magazine, and eat crap food that I neither cooked or prepared.  A place where everyone hangs the toilet paper roll correctly, puts the organic milk back in the fridge without being prompted, and actually uses hair bands for pony tails, all while placing their dirty socks in the laundry basket.

Sounds like a DREAM.

Be

As Cosette and I embarked on an evening stroll after dinner one night, out of sheer curiosity, I inquired about fourth grade, "So, how's school going Co?"

"Oh Mom," exaggerated sigh,  "my teachers love me!" Cosette explained without apology.  I stifled a laugh, and asked, "Hmm, Cozy, why do you think that is?"

A nano second of thought passed, "Well, Tommy and Katie went to Booksin back in the day.  Then the twins were next, and Emma followed in their footsteps, and the teachers loved them.  It's like this Walsh Legacy..." she trailed off for a moment, and then came back, "so you know, I got to keep it going for Charlotte."

Before I could even comment on her genuine display of kindness in regard to her younger sister, Cosette brought her thoughts to full disclosure, "That way, when Charlie rolls in, since she's the last one," Cozy threw her arms up in the air to really make her point, "she can just screw it all up."

True story...help me.

On a different night, on a different walk, with a different daughter, Abigail, the oldest of our tribe (but only by 15 minutes to her twin, and only because the doctor asked me to stop pushing, you know, so they could just "check" Bella's position...CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT?  I'm like, "Hey Doctor-man, I got my game face on, pushing out babies and what not, and you want to do an ultrasound to check 'BABY B'?  I'll tell you exactly what position Baby B is in:  she is straight up laid out on a lounge chair, relaxing pool side, holding a Pina Colada in one hand and a People magazine in the other, because her womb mate, who had been secretly eating all of her Organic peanut butter for 9 months, clearly labelled with HER name,  FINALLY got a  job, and moved OUT."

Sorry.  What was I talking about?

Oh yes!  Abby, who is matching me in size, inch per inch, and pound per pound...but like, she's waaaaay cuter :)  I love these after dinner strolls because it is prime one on one time with the girls.  I get to find out the deets of life, with no other sisters chiming in with their opinion.

Here are some things that humble me regarding this child in particular:  although Abigail tore her ACL, and fully understands she will be off the Basketball court for up to a year, her attitude is positively amazing.    Case in point:  the surgeon explained to Abby, she needed to be off crutches at least one week prior to surgery (she walked into his office on 2 crutches).  By the time we left a mere 30 minutes later, she was already practicing walking on just one, and kept saying as she paced the halls of Kaiser, "I'm so proud of myself, Mom".

Fast forward two weeks, she's off crutches all together. Her surgery isn't for 3 more weeks!  In the same week, her range of motion in the injured knee, has gone from 90 degrees to 138 degrees!

Give Abigail a challenge, and this kid sees an opportunity to  rise up every single time.  It humbles me.

But when the topic turns to getting her driver's permit, something she really doesn't feel particularly motivated to do, a different side of Abby, but one that's just as true, emerges.

"Mom, why am I going to worry about driving?  I mean, being in a car, that could like kill another person, while I'm driving it, sort of freaks me out.  Why should I go through all of that, when Bella can just drive me around?  Or you and Daddy?  Plus, I won't have to have to pay for car insurance, or gas!"

See?  See how the eldest thinks?

Abby knows darned well that Bella was the one poking and prodding about the online driving permit course.  Abby knows that Bella is hell bent on getting her license, so life doesn't pass her by.  And you know Abby's like,  "I'm just gonna ride on your coat tails, younger twin sister by 15 minutes. And yo, give me a ride.  And no, I don't have any gas money."


Although I see Abby's point, it is not a vision I shared as a 16 year old back in the mid 1980's.  As a teenage girl, with my big bangs, and my ability to make poor choices, driving represented straight up FREEDOM!

Freedom to leave parents in the dust, telling them we were going to the movies, when in actuality, we cruised around looking for cute boys. or cruised into a Taco Bell to eat a Bean Burrito, or cruised over the hill to Santa Cruz, looking for cute boys AND Bean Burritos.   (Dad, in case you're reading this, I  just heard about other teenage girls engaging in this irresponsible behavior, I never participated).  Okay, maybe once.  Or more than once.

But Abby's not interested in driving, cute boys, or bean burritos.  Not one single bit.  At least, not yet.

And all of these children, are the main reason, that in the wee hours of the early morning, while the  girls still slumber, I start each day with prayer: like a lot of prayer.   Mainly, for survival purposes.

The offspring understand that if they do rise up, and happen to wander back into our bedroom, (the prayerful/meditation place, depending on whether I'm talking to the JC, or Dee Pak Chopra is guiding me, reminding me that I'm okay just the way I am, and that the Universe is totally on my side, and the like), the girls are not allowed to disrupt the Zen by even uttering a word.

So last week, when Charlotte stumbled in, still half asleep, donning wrinkly Ariel pajamas, curly, red haired bed head, and missing a handful of teeth, she just crawled up into my lap and didn't dare make a sound.

And within a matter of 10 breaths, we were one, she and I.  Inhaling and exhaling, we were just together, as Mama and daughter.  Our embrace reminded me to just be ...before the day really got rolling, while life was still quiet and the sun not quite risen, to just be.  Before I embarked on a run to get a work out in.  Be.  Before I called Booksin to tell them Cosette was legitimately absent a week ago, but I just remembered yesterday.  Be.  Before I returned a knee brace purchased for Emma, but didn't provide adequate support.  Be.  Before changing all of Abby's pre-assigned morning PT appointments at Kaiser, because apparently they think she's a grown woman, who has accrued paid sick leave, not a Sophomore in High School prepping for Finals, who can't miss school.  Be.


 Be is this moment with your toothless 5 year old.  Because you will never have this same morning, in this same place with this same child, again. Ever.  

The Zen was broken with Dee Pak Chopra telling us to "release the mantra", but he doesn't really have to remind me, because I usually forget the mantra 2 seconds after I hear it....SQUIRREL.

It was then, Charlie exhaled calmly, gave me a little squeeze, hopped off my lap, before getting dressed for school, and said, "Snuggling always makes me feel better, Mama."

The feeling is totally mutual Red.  Thanks for the reminder :)

Whispers

The 5 year old Red Head perched in my lap, as we sat on the beach, waiting for the sun to fade out of sight, and fall beneath the horizon.  We both understood the special-ness of this time of day that was just about to slip between our fingers.

That  moment when day becomes night.  The sun disappearing from view symbolized that the Earth would be bathed half in light and half in a blanket of darkness.  And for my Tribe,  represented the close of yet, another blessed 75 degree day in February, spent at the beach.

And that is when she asked, for what must have been the 10th time, "Mama, what's for dinner?"

I paused, and took a long drawn in breath, trying to remain calm.  I was holding onto my patience like a crumpled, worn out Kleenex that you find in the bottom of your pocket, as you are searching for one inch on unused tissue...all I need is just one inch of patience to answer this question for the 10th time.

"Charlotte," I said, voice lowered, pulling her in close, "I feel frustrated when you ask me the same thing over and over again, because my answer is the same.  I need you to be a better listener.  Do you understand what I'm saying?"

She looked at me, leaned back into my chest, and focused her attention on the sun which was about to set, and now resembled a melting pat of butter on a pancake, hot off the griddle.

"Yes, Mama.  I think my brain is just stubborn and forgets.  I'm sorry about that.  I know that you are a very hard working Mama.  And that, well, you have a lot of kids.  It's my stubborn brain," she finished up.

What is a parent even to say to that?  When you figure it out, will you please shoot me a text because I still haven't responded.

Thus far, 2016 has been the year of Retreats.  Honestly speaking, I do love me some Retreat time.  I love unplugging from laundry, and making dinner, and keeping the dog from eating the mailman.  I love how the urgency of getting stuff done (answering email, buying more milk, paying the PG&E bill before they shut it off), dissipates while on Retreat.

Retreats are like a bonafide EXIT from the responsibilities of life.  Retreats offer much needed down time, some quiet reflection, getting your Spirituality on (if this is what you desire), all while someone else  is cooking you breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  You feeling me?

And from what I understand, there are all sorts of different kinds of Retreats.  Maybe you want to go to a Yoga Retreat.  How about a Spa Retreat?  There are probably even Wine Retreats.  And if there aren't, I totally need to capitalize on that shit, like yesterday.

I bet you're feeling like you wanna go on a Retreat right about now, huh?  Well, I don't blame you for a second. And in fact. I highly recommend it (right after you finish reading this very informative and life altering blog).

I was blessed enough in January to go on a Mother Daughter Retreat offered through Notre Dame.  Oh. My. Goodness.  Not only did I enjoy the time spent with Abigail and Isabella, but I so very much loved meeting the other Mama's and daughters in attendance.

Fairly quickly, I came to understand something:  we are all just trying to figure this relationship thing out.

Daughters honestly and vulnerably shared that they are feeling stressed and pressured about staying balanced with academics, sports, and extra curriculars, all while trying to apply for college, and plan their futures. It's like this cloud of anxiety, that follows them, some of it coming from home, but much if it, self induced.

Moms were shocked by this.  Many of us had absolutely no idea that our girls had this constant sense of stress.

And Mamas?  Well, we feel the same exact way, except regarding parenting, and working, and like being happily married.  Half the time, we don't know what the hell we're doing,  We make a decision that we think is best for our kiddo, but there's like no manual, you know?  And we're left thinking: "God, I hope I'm doing okay.  I hope I didn't totally mess that up."

Our daughters had NO idea this is how we felt.  This new nugget of information, that Mom is treading water, appearing to know what she's doing, while winning an Oscar for being an amazing actress, was a "Come to Jesus" moment for them.

During group sharing, we were taught that if someone said something that struck you as truth, you could wiggle your fingers in agreement.  Simply, it's called Spirit Fingers. (like Jazz Hands, but like ND style)   Little waves from the digits that said, "I hear you, girl", "Oh my gosh, I thought I was the only one," I'm feeling you my sister!"  And Moms waved their fingers as other daughters or Moms spoke.  And vice versa.  And by the time we left, a brief 36 hours later, one thing was crystal clear: we were bonded.  All 28 pairs of us.

ALL of these daughters felt like they were mine.  In fact, I have since seen some of them on the ND campus or at different functions, and we come together in an excited, messy and unrehearsed hug, or a little wiggle of spirit fingers.  And the twins are so visibly embarrassed by my enthusiasm, that it just makes it all the better.  Because if either one of them turns away from me like they don't know me, that's MONEY!

Just this past weekend, Tom Walsh Super Genius and I attended a Couple's Retreat in one of our favorite places ever: San Damiano in Danville.  Imagine the majestic and lush green mountains from The Sound of Music, ( but a little less Alp-y, more rolling hills) and me as Frau Line Maria.  Except that I cannot carry a tune to save my life.  And I am no nun, nor have I ever entertained that notion.  Also, Tom doesn't blow a whistle for our kids to line up (actually, not a bad idea),

But we DO have waaaay too many kids.  So see?  There is at least one thing we have in common!

Now leaving as a couple for two days, is just a tad bit different, than blasting off by yourself.  There are small people to farm out to multiple locations and people,  plans to be executed regarding pick up and drop off, and clear directions for like not letting the house burn to the ground if  you happen to be a teenager who is occupying, said house. 

You know, the little things.

 In fact, on Friday afternoon, around 4 PM, guess where I found myself?  No, not the Pub silly, but that would have totally been my vote if I was you, too.  Bo and I took a field trip to the vet.  You see, the Beast had a dew claw, hanging on and off his paw, simultaneously.  It was split straight to the quick, and I knew if we waited, infection was sure to set in.  Now mind you, Tom and I were supposed to leave no later than 6 PM, and here I was, promptly handing over my grocery money to the Vet (who is totally saving up for a Yacht), ((and probably just bought her second vacation home somewhere tropical)), (((but I'm not bitter))).

Let me tell you in lay man's terms what $306 will get you regarding your Black Lab: one dew claw ripped off, lots of anti-biotics, a handful of pain meds, one cone of shame, and peace of mind.  I knew I would be thinking about that stupid dog all weekend if I didn't check that off the list.

Finally, at 6:15 PM on the Friday evening of a holiday weekend, we were off: that's code for we sat idly in unmoving traffic. But with no kids chirping in our ears, it was like a mini vacation.  There we were, Tom Walsh Super Genius behind the wheel, and me riding shot gun, listening to the new Serial podcast.  It was so romantic  practical.  And awesome in an extremely simplistic way.

Upon arrival, our dinner plates were handed to us, and we were escorted to join the other couples in the dining room.  We were immediately embraced by the presenting couple, Karla and Richard, and one of our favorite Priests, Father Rusty.

A huge piece of this equation is how this trio interact not only with each other, but the couples who choose to join them on this weekend long adventure.  Karla and Richard have been married for 27 years, have 4 kids, and their love for one another is tangible.   Tom and I especially admire their ability to be transparent and vulnerable in their sharing, all while truly being present and in the moment.

 I am not sure about you, but I don't know many people who have that gift.

Father Rusty, well, I like to think he's a Mystic.  He's part of the Franciscan Order.  I don't know much about the Holy Orders.  The whole ordeal with Priests and Nuns sort of reminds me of  Fraternity/Sorority Rush Week in college.  You pledge, try to impress, pay your dues, probably drink too much, and then, you realize where you belong...or who wants you.  I'm not sure how that all works out.

All of the Catholics who are more knowledgeable than me regarding this topic of Orders (basically, anyone who's breathing, and who's been baptized), stop shaking your fists at me!  I can feel your rage.  I will Google the deets later, and get back to you.  And if I'm coming totally clean here, I was never in a Sorority either.  So I have absolutely no idea what Rush Week is about. But I did dress up for Halloween one year like a tri-Delt.  So that counts for something.

Or not.

Honestly speaking, I have more respect for people who choose a Holy vocation, than I could ever express here.  Just for clarification :)

The first night, Tom and I were blessed enough to light a candle in the chapel representing our intention for the weekend.  As each couple put their candle in the sand bowl, the church walls became illuminated that much more, representing that collectively, our marriages will burn brighter and stay lit longer, if we are in it together.

We also were lucky enough to receive Reconciliation as a couple.

You can re-read that last sentence if you need to.

I know!!  I know you're saying, "WHAT the wha?  WHY would I want to confess anything to anyone, let alone, do that craziness in front of my beloved?!"  Believe me, I was right there with you last year.

I love how I convince myself, "You know Michelle, you're a pretty good person.  You haven't really sinned that much," And soon as we begin walking over to the Chapel, shit starts to get real.  And the tears come.

And I realize that I  harshly judge myself and others.  And that I lose my patience far too quickly with my children and Tom.  And that I have negative thoughts about myself and others.  And that I have a mouth like a sailor.  And the tears continue to flow.  And I realize that I am human. And I make mistakes, and that's okay.  Because I am still lovable, even with all those scars, and marks, and flaws.

And after that, WE DRINK WINE because Confession is very hard work, and if anyone deserves a drink, it's someone who just aired out all their dirty laundry.  And the weekend closes on Sunday with the renewal of our vows.  And it's really beautiful.  And it reminds me of the very first time Tom and I said yes to each other 18 years ago.

 And I know it's cliche, but I love him so much more now, than I did then.

And with the chaos of raising kids (while hoping we're not completely screwing them up), trying to put food on the table, (to feed the small Army of offspring we have created together),  communicating lovingly and openly about all topics (emotionally draining, and not for the weak of heart), I find peace in knowing that Tom loves me completely.

And even more importantly, he loves me unconditionally.

Each of these Retreats have delivered these little whispers of truth.  And all I need to do is show up, be still, listen, and be willing to receive the goodness.








  

Love Hard.

Openly.  Honestly.  Vulnerably.  Without regret.  Because nothing is promised.

 Nothing.

 A few years ago, my husband, Tom Walsh Super Genius, attended 6:30 AM mass every morning.

You see, our son, Tommy, a Corpsman in the Navy, was on his first of three tours in Iraq at the time.  And so Tom, went to church each day to pray.  For strength and courage for T.  For faith and acceptance for himself.  Because I believe this is faith:  accepting a circumstance, regardless of the outcome, and knowing, deep down, everything really will be okay.

While attending mass at St.Chris each morning, Tom met a woman named Flo.

Flo is 91.  Tom is not.  But age didn't matter.  Because Flo is like light and love and beauty all rolled into a real live human being.   And well, Tom is sort of like that too.  And so, you can see, how these two beauties would naturally connect.

Flo has hair as white as the fallen snow, styled into a little bob cut.  Her cheeks glow from the inside out.  And her jubilant blue eyes, well, they tell a pretty special story about her 9 decades on this Earth,  without saying one word.  You can't help to not be drawn towards Flo.

Sometimes, Tom would bring Emma, Cozy, or Bella with him to church before school, those many years ago, because the girls adored that one on one time with Daddy.  (Abby and I, being the sinners of the group, preferred sleep, and asked them to pray for us).  And so, Flo, slowly but surely, began to meet and become acquainted with each member of our tribe.

Our last meeting of circumstance at church, took place on Christmas Eve.  As our family sat, taking up an entire pew, waiting for mass to begin, in walked Flo, who slipped in two rows in front of us.   Immediately, Bella got up to embrace Flo and invite her to sit with us.  Charlie, seeing an opportunity for hospitality, followed her big sis, and before you knew it, the priest was walking down the aisle.  Mass had begun.  And the trio of Flo, Bella and Charlotte sat together, while the rest of our family, perched a few rows behind.

 It was like this little miracle that I was blessed enough to observe.  Flo, smiling from ear to ear, while Bella patiently held Charlotte on her hip.  It was beautiful, really.

After mass ended, Flo invited us to her home to hear some music that she had written, and wanted to play on the piano for us, that very night.  But having it be Christmas Eve and all, we set a date for Sunday, mid afternoon, two days later.

When we arrived, I observed almost immediately, Flo's home was immaculate.  Flo had made sure her Christmas lights were lit up brightly on her tree, and that her manger was set up, just so.  She even had a lamp placed so that Jesus had sort of a spotlight on him.

She explained, "Oh, I just love having the manger set up.  But I need to remember to turn this lamp off when I go to bed, because it makes this moss here, on the manger very hot"  We all nodded in understanding, and I thought silently, "Oh my God, I hope Flo doesn't go up in smoke one night."  But then I was like, "Jesus totally has Flo's back."

As we entered her kitchen, she explained that she had made a cake from scratch, which included a secret ingredient.  Carefully, she cut and served each of us a piece on fancy dishes, with cloth napkins.  Even the table cloth had been ironed.

"I want you all to have a slice of this cake and see if you can figure out what the secret ingredient is," she said, with a glint of anticipation in her eyes.

 I was sort of hoping it was Bourbon, or Tequila, or anything with a high alcohol content.

The girls started calling out like we were on a game show, and NONE of us got it.

"Carrots!" No.

 "Zucchini!"  Nope.

"Coconut!" Flo shook her head back and forth - the universal sign for NO.

Finally, we all threw up our hands, and proclaimed, "We give up!  Tell us what the secret ingredient is, Flo!"

She smiled, the way that someone who has a secret that they are about to share with you would, head cocked a bit to the side, leaning in, gleaming cheek to cheek.  "It's beets,"  she said patiently, but finally relieved to be sharing this news.  Then she explained how she couldn't find fresh beets at Safeway, and hoped that canned beets would be okay, but wasn't sure of the measurement because the recipe called for a cup.  And would one can of beets be sufficient?  She had better get two cans to be on the safe side.

And as Emma cleared the dishes, and Cosette and Charlie came and went through her sliding glass door into her backyard, Flo told us about her life.  Flo raised two kids, a son and daughter, for the most part, solo.  Flo's husband, became very sick in his early 40's, and the doctors could not diagnose the illness, that piece by piece, was stealing his ability to live.

I tried walking in Flo's shoes for a moment, and it was incomprehensible.  Two small children, and one extremely sick husband, with absolutely no diagnosis or treatment in sight!  I know if I was Flo, I would have felt incredibly scared, resentful, angry, worried and FRUSTRATED!

In fact, Flo had to find a job to support her family, and quick.  Luckily,  by the grace of God, she found employment working at the phone company while her kids were in school, but home in time to cook them a hot meal.  After work, but before dinner, she would go to the library and read medical texts, looking, scouring, hoping to find an answer to cure her ailing husband.

And she did find the answer.  And doctors did come to help.  But it was too late.

When I asked her, "Flo, you are so calm while you're speaking about this.  What do you attribute that to?"

Without hesitation, "My faith, prayer, and meditation."

And I'm telling you what: when a 91 year old woman is dishing out that kind of info, it's time for me to start taking notes.

Next, it was time to make our way into the living room, where Flo wanted to share some music that she had written.  "I didn't even know I could write music, but then one day I just figured, why not?"

I began to love this lady more and more, by the second.

Flo had never remarried, because she just wasn't interested.  She had already loved and lost "the one".  But she shared how she had gone on a cruise in her late 80's (not to be confused with the 1980's), and met a very nice man.  A man who doted on her.  A man who paid attention to her.  A man who danced with her into the late evening and early morning.  She never knew her heart could feel this way again.  And when she returned home, she knew immediately, she had a story inside of her to be poured out on the piano keys.

We all listened, mesmerized, as she played 3 songs, all dedicated to this brief period of time in her life.  She played with her heart, vulnerably, and telling her truth about how she felt from this experience...all through music.

"Flo, what happened to this guy?"  "nosy/no boundaries" me asked.

"Well, we lost touch, and I heard he remarried another woman.  But, you know, I am okay with it.  I was just surprised that a man could still make me feel that way."

Sigh.  Wow.  Acceptance in it's most perfect form.

Like, if I was Flo, I would have stalked that guy...big time.  I would have sent letters declaring my love.  I would just randomly show up at his barber shop, while he was getting a hair cut/nose and ear trim, because, well, you know, 'I just happened to be in the neighborhood.'

Not Flo. She has class.  Acceptance.  Faith.

She played a song she had written for her daughter, all the while, telling the story behind the notes, sometimes singing or humming along.  Flo narrating, "And here's the part where she rises up from her divorce, realizing she'll make it, she'll survive!" big, hearty keys being played.

YES!!  I believe you, Flo.  She rose up, and continues to rise up because you're her very awesome-sauce mom.

Just as we are making our way to leave, Flo noticed that Charlotte had been quietly looking at a doll, perched in a rocking chair, near her fireplace.  "Would you like to take that home with you Charlie?  It's about 50 years old, and was made by a very dear friend of mine."

Charlie lit up, and nodded, with an enthusiastic YES!

Flo, then, took each of our daughters one by one, into her painting studio.  Yes, Flo also paints, and continues to take painting classes, because I guess even at 91, she continues to be open to learning and discovering.  And it was in this room, that she gave each one of our daughters a gift.  Each treasure was different, but these were things, that she no longer needed to hold on to, and was grateful to pass on.

I looked at Tom, and glancing back, we had the same epiphany: she is getting ready to go.  Flo is dotting her i's and crossing her t's.  And doing so with grace and love.  But more importantly, with gratitude.

Because Flo has Cancer.  But she's not scared.  At her age, she has chosen life over the standard treatment that would most likely kill her before the disease.

Flo prays.  Flo meditates.  Flo receives Reiki healing through her son.  Flo has faith in a divine plan.

You see, we lost someone in our family about two weeks ago.  Tragically.  Unexpectedly.  Without rhyme or reason.  My cousin's 19 year old son, PJ,  was killed in an accident.  He had just gotten off a shift at  work, at an elderly care facility.  It was  3 o'clock in the afternoon on a Monday.  I never knew PJ, but this is what I have heard about this remarkable young man:   PJ was the Valedictorian of his graduating class the year before.  He was going to college and knew that he wanted to study medicine, working in either Pediatrics or Hospice.  PJ, without question, knew he was loved.

And yet, he was taken.  Without explanation.  Without understanding.  This child who had given so much in the short time that he graced us with his presence.

And so, Charlotte and I have been praying very hard each night for the Francois family.  We pray for his loving parents, Peter and Shari, as no parent is made to endure such an inconceivable loss.  We pray for PJ's brother and sister, Ashley and Spencer.  We pray for his grandparents, my Uncle Jim and Auntie Nancy, who were always there, without fail, for Foxy and my family, as my own mom battled Cancer.  We pray for Shari's parents.  We pray for his Auntie Nanette and Mark.  And we pray for his long time love, who he would have most likely, married, as they were high school sweethearts.
We pray for clarity, and peace, and comfort in such a devastating and confusing time.  We pray for PJ in Heaven.

Each morning, I wake, it feels like someone has punched me in the stomach.  I'm constantly thinking about Pete and Shari, and I ask, "Lord, please shower them with your grace.  Please let them feel your presence in this dark time.  Please walk with them."

 A few nights ago, Charlie looks at me, and says, pondering "Mama, I know that you're my Mama now.  But I just can't remember who my Mama was before you," like this wasn't her first rodeo.  She had done this "life" thing before.  Which I'm totally down with, by the way.  But I certainly have never discussed this spiritual philosophy with my five year old.

"Well baby, next time we come here, how about you be the Mama, and I will be the daughter," I suggest.

"Mama," she says with an exhausted sigh, "when we die and go Heaven, we get to choose to be a daughter or a son.  I will have to make that choice, as your mom," she finishes up.

I'm thinking Caitlyn/Bruce Jenner would have totally appreciated a heads up on that.

In other words, life here is a blink.  A whisper.  A song.  A vapor.

 And nothing is promised.

Without a doubt, PJ left this earthly world, knowing he was loved.  Loved by all of his family, loved by his friends, loved by his girlfriend, and loved by the elderly folks that he cared for at his work.  Many of whom, I'm sure he will greet as they transition to The Other Side.

And PJ continues to be loved by the very one that created him.  I don't doubt this, not even for a second.  This morning I was awakened by an extremely authoritative voice.  It said clearly but with conviction and without question, "Rest assured.  PJ is walking with me now."

And for the first morning in almost two weeks, that pit in my stomach disappeared.

Love hard.  Openly.  Honestly.  Vulnerably.

And without regret.

It's Hard Being Five

And it's even harder being 45.  Even though I'm not forty-five yet.  I've got at least a solid 20 months left before that happens.  So yeah, I'm not going to make myself older.

But does it count if I feel like I'm 105?

Charlotte exhibited a temper tantrum of an entirely new and exciting way last week during Abby's Volleyball match.

That's the fun part about parenting...all of the unpredictable circumstances you find yourself in.  I especially love it when my kids go ape-shit in public  give me an opportunity to discipline in front of an entire crowd.

I swear to God, I can't even remember what set her off.  But let me tell you what I do recall:  Charlotte's incessant whining over fill-in-the-blank-here, that quickly escalated into annoying and rather loud crying, that I, nor did anyone in the stands need to endure any further.

And herein lies the predicament: this is the part where I knew as her Mom, I must physically remove Charlotte, knowing full well, that I could miss the entire Volleyball match, which was the reason I was there in the first place.

I picked her up horizontally to the floor like a guitar, (a flailing guitar, with red hair, kicking feet, and flying fists), and proceeded towards the exit.

Tom actually told me later that he thought she was going to take me down.  Any parent knows, that when their kid is in that state, it is a matter of pure will. The Notre Dame parents who were perched in the stands, sat with heads cocked somewhat sideways, sending me an understanding look of "Been there.  Done that.  Have the shirt and flask to prove it."

We walked, her dragging her feet, me pulling her along, as her screams echoed throughout the empty school hallways.  Eventually, we ended up next to a maintenance shed, enclosed by a chain link fence, where no other breathing person would be bothered by her screaming.

I said simply, "I can't even remember why I am giving you a time out, but it will start when you're quiet."

She went on.  I waited.  She continued.  I stepped away from her, fearing I may be on the 5 o'clock news for homicide.

Eventually, she quieted.  A minute passed, and I glanced over to observe Charlotte doing Child's pose.  Yoga...good for adults and kids alike!  A few more minutes ticked by, and she was in Corpse pose, little chest heaving for air, calming herself after a long and exhausting crying fit.

And then, just as if nothing had happened, she was ready.  Charlotte apologized to me for being disrespectful, and almost turning me into a raging alcoholic.  She then proceeded to say sorry to both my cousin, Nicole, and Tom for disrupting the game.

I swear, between Halloween (ie: my kids eating candy as a meal replacement),  the time change (we may have gained an hour, but why do I feel like a decade has been added to my life), and minimum school days this week (got to love Parent Teacher conferences), I feel like I'm talking and moving the way the parents did in the Peanuts cartoons:  wah, wah, wah, wah, wah wah.

Speaking of Parent Teacher conferences, guess what I learned about Charlotte at hers, last week?

That my five year old hired a Hit man to "take care of a boy that bothered her".

It's okay, you can re-read that sentence to fully process it if you need to.

Luckily, I attended Cosette's conference first, where I discovered she is doing swimmingly in 4th grade.  I walked out of Ms.Macon's room, feeling content for my girl, who is finding her way.

I then walked over to Ms.Pak's class, where Charlotte is attending Transitional Kindergarten.

For me, there is typically one child out of the bunch, that um, I've sort of neglected a bit.  Like I mean, she is fed and bathed, and read to nightly and everything.  But if we are being completely honest here,  I didn't really have a pulse on how Charlie was adjusting to TK.

And if we're being super duper completely, don't hold back honest?  I was just so stoked she was gone for 6 hours daily.  I mean, come on, raise your hand if  you're happy when your kids walk out the door for the day.  I really hope I'm not the only one raising my hand.

 Ms.Pak begins the conference with how Charlotte is performing academically: she's top of the class.  And I sit across from this teacher, who has more patience than me on even one of  my most Zen of parenting days, head cocked, listening, but not totally believing I will walk out of here unscathed.

 You know how you just KNOW something?  "This is great Ms.Pak.  But I'm sort of waiting for the other shoe to drop", I said.

This is when she leaned in, and said, "Well, there are just a few things."  I nod in agreement, and a weird sense of relief.  Shit's about to get real.

I sigh, lean in, and mentally prepare myself.

"Charlotte cries a lot. If she makes a mistake, she has a difficult time fixing it without getting upset."  I nod in understanding.  She continues, "She was also the last student to present from Craft Center.  I had to practically force her to do it." I nod yet again, at the visual of Charlie digging in her haunches, refusing to do something, as she often does at home.

"And there's just one more thing," Ms.Pak, continues.  "Charlotte was upset with a boy, and she told another boy to punch him in the stomach."

I sat, taking this in, my daughter, the red headed Testa Rosa, had embodied an Italian Mafia Boss Lady.

"She hired a Hit man, is what you're telling me", I stated, connecting the dots, to which Ms.Pak starting cracking up.

 And then, almost as to show me that perhaps this wasn't as bad as it sounded, she finished up, "But she kept her hands clean.  She's very clever."

I know.  That's what scares me.  Sigh.

Yet, at the end of a long day, as Charlie is climbing into her bed, she will ask, "Mama, will you snuggle with me?"  And there we will be... spooning Mama and child, on her twin size mattress, stuffed animals piled in the corner, books in a basket at the foot.  My long and fatigued body and back facing outwards, protecting us in our cocoon.  She nuzzles into me, her hair still damp from the tub, and grabs my hands into her small grip, saying, "Here, Mama.  I will keep you warm."  And soon enough, under the flickering candle glow of her nightlight, the sleep envelopes her.  Her breathing becomes slow and even.

And her restful peace reminds me of why I chose to become a Mom.  An often times, thankless job, that leaves us exhausted, spread then, balanced, and grateful beyond words.

The Tooth Fairy

"Baby, whatcha doing?," I asked Cosette, observing her hunched over a piece of paper, frantically scribbling a note of some sort, after prepping her lunch for school, the eve prior to her 10th birthday.

"Oh, I'm writing myself a note to put in my lunch, you know,  so I have something to look forward to.  All the parents write notes to their kids," she pauses, turning towards me, making direct eye contact, making sure I have her full undivided attention.

An awkward silence ensued, followed by me asking sheepishly, "All the parents, except me, huh?"

"It's okay, Mama.  Don't worry," she reassured me.

AWESOMEST MOM OF THE YEAR AWARD does not go to MICHELLE WALSH.

Our little Cozy Wozy,  has more than a few tricks up her sleeve.  She gives you the straight info, no added boring unnecessary details, and bluntly tells you what time it REALLY is...all the while, you listen, trying not to laugh out loud, but get the sense, that truly, Cosette is a spot on observer of this little thing we call, Life.

In fact, just a few weeks ago, a monumental milestone took place for Charlotte:  she lost her first tooth!!!

 TWSG  poignantly pointed out to me, "Oh babe, it's our last first tooth."   What kind of husband says nuggets of truth like this?

Tom. Walsh. Super. Genius.

As soon as Charlotte got wind that she would get money-money-MONEY for that loose Chicklet  she could not keep her grubby little 4 year old fingers out of her slobbery, wet, mouth.

I'm quite sure those same fingers, had touched at least one toilet seat, the inside of the actual toilet bowl, and/or  even what came out of her, while using,  the same said toilet.

But there she sat, during the twins Volleyball match, pulling that little grain of rice forward, backward, and side to side.

Until finally, the one little string holding it to her gums snapped, and BOOM, blood trickled down the front of her chin.

She appeared like she had just come victorious from a battle, as she clutched the tooth, and red drool puddled on her dress, saying with a lisp, "I losth a toof, I losth a toof," to anyone who would oblige.

That evening, Cosette explained to Charlotte, as a big sister does, what would happen next:  a Tooth Fairy, stranger danger, would enter her room under the dark of night, fiddle around under her pillow, all while watching her sleep soundly, to take Charlie's tooth, in exchange for a quarter.  This bedtime story, that upon further reflection, should scare the ever living shit out of most children, did not deter Charlie from going to bed without making a peep.  A 25 cent piece was in her immediate future...saweet!

Cosette rushed up to me in the kitchen after Charlie was tucked in her bed, "Mom, I want to give her some pixie dust to go with her money,"  I stood dumbfounded, not sure I was processing correctly what had just spilled out of her mouth.

"Cozy, how do you know how this Tooth Fairy thing works?" I asked, seriously puzzled.

"Mom," she answered in a hushed tone, as to not alert her little sister, who may still be awake, "I always see Emma come into my room, and take the tooth, but pretend I'm asleep," she answered, very matter of factly.  "Give ME the money...I'll do it!"

Cue the Oscar music...AND THE  BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS IN A DOCUMENTARY goes to COSETTE WALSH!

The other day, as I was rushing out the door for work, the 3 Bigs (code for Abby, Bella, and Emma), sat at the breakfast table, shoulders slouched over their stack of  microwaved pancakes, still rubbing the sleep from their eyes.  Although it was barely 6:45 AM,   I couldn't help but notice, Abby's hair.

It was, well, um, like most of us, at that time of day:  not brushed, and more than a little bit wild.  However, by the way the bundle of hair was thrown into a rubber band atop her noggin, and the fact that she was dressed in her uniform with her shoes on, it looked as though that tangled mass of bundled hair, was good enough for her to brave the day.

Now, please don't get me wrong.  We are not a "picture perfect" family.  In fact, if you want to know what NOT to do, just watch us, and proceed with our actions by doing the exact opposite, as your raise your kids.

But, I do believe it is my job as a Mom to teach my girls that  part of taking care of yourself includes, but is not limited to the following:  making your bed, packing your lunch, brushing your teeth, putting on deodorant, wearing clean underwear,  and yes, running a brush through one's hair.

So when I very innocently said, "Abby, honey, you need to brush your hair," she quickly and efficiently delivered  'The Look'.

You Moms of teenage daughters know EXACTLY what I am talking about.

The glare of all glares.  The direct eye contact that verbalized so very much, without saying one single word.  I do believe she was shooting laser beams at me, as I stood in the front entryway, wishing me dead at that moment.

Me, standing there with my brushed hair.

'The Look' will make even the strongest of Moms, quiver.  I still have the PTSD from 'The Look'.

As I stumbled out to the car, recovering much like a bomb had gone off in my face, I thought,  maybe my timing could have been better?  Perhaps I could have phrased it differently?   But the simple truth is this:  I was leaving for work, and TWSG wouldn't notice something like that, or if he did, would be too kind to say anything.

So that evening, I broached the topic again, but very carefully.  I decided the timing would be okay, like after she had been fully awake for a solid 12 hours, and had been contributing to society, and the like.

But still, I treaded lightly, "Abby, honey, you know that I wasn't referring to your hair, as much as I was taking care of yourself, right?"

Much to my relief, the laser beams, had been replaced with peace signs, and sparkly rainbows (RIGHT MOMS OF TEEN GIRLS?), and she replied simply, "Oh Mama, I know.  I just wasn't really awake when you said that."

Whew...another therapy session averted.

When someone invites my entire family over for dinner, I know they really must actually like me.  Especially, when this same someone special, had a house warming party, and all the other guests arrived with a nice bottle of wine, while Tom and I rode up on our cruisers, with a Costco sized bottle of Fireball buckled safely into the baby's bike seat.

Classy.

Inititally, when someone asks us to come to dinner as a family, (it's only happened like twice), I am skeptical.  I over think it.  I wonder WHY would you want SEVEN people up in your SPACE?

I mean, ask yourself this question, "When was the last time you had a couple with 5 kids over to your house to break bread?"  

Um, hmm.  Right?

My reply went something like this:  "You are so kind and brave!  I don't want to bore you with details, but this weekend is a little busy."

A little busy is code for:  you don't really need to know all the reasons of why tomorrow won't work.

Because you know how you're trying to get a date on the calendar with a group of 6 friends,that works for everyone, but one person, in particular,  feels the need to tell everyone else on the group text, how they have a colonoscopy scheduled and it just won't work out?  But they will be free after they have the fatty cyst removed from their...yeah, you know, THAT person?

I'm about to be her. Right. Now.

I can't come to dinner tomorrow night because:  Abigail has to be up by 5:30 AM, to be at her team mates house to get a ride, to play in an all day volleyball tournament in Belmont, or San Mateo, or some stupid place up north.  (I don't even know which city my kid is going to, okay?)

Cosette and Charlie have the Booksin Walk A Thon, where thousands of kids raise millions of dollars, all in the name of fund-raising.  (You think I'm kidding, don't you?  CHECK IT OUT.  I am NOT joking.  In fact, once Foxy got word that the WAT raises over $150,000, she plainly said, "I'm not giving them any more money." And I can't say I blame her.   A heads up: smart parents pack in a road soda, or seven to survive the day).

Next up, Emma!  She has the High School Placement Test tutoring class for the next 5 Saturdays.  She is so not EXCITED to be doing that from 10-2, on one of her only free days of the week!  And can you believe, that you too, can sign up your future High Schooler to do the same for the mere cost of $750!  It won't ensure that she'll pass the test, but between Emma's work ethic, and my prayers to God, I'm pretty sure she'll rock it.

Come to think of it, I bet I could pilfer some money from WAT to pay for it.  Too bad Foxy isn't here; she could drive our get away car.

But please, promise me something:  keep the dinner invitations coming!  God as my witness, I will bring the Fireball.

We're Going to Miss This?

Tom Walsh Super Genius and I have this little inside joke going between the two of us.

Just like all couples, shuttling between work,  kids' school functions, and other daily responsibilities, by the end of the week, we are filled with physical and mental exhaustion,  I call it hitting the wall.

I'm either loading the washing machine with the twins smelly work out gear, or am unloading the dishwasher to prepare for the next day.  While Tom is sorting through recycling, or mail, or a stack of accumulating bills.

And that, my friends,  is when it happens.

One of us, like a helium balloon that has a slow leak, releases this loud and exasperated sigh.

"The sigh" speaks volumes without saying a word.  "The sigh" communicates simply: "Put a fork in me, I'm done.  I'm not sure I can handle another day like this one.  Why, oh why, did we have 5 kids? How will I find the strength to this again tomorrow?"

Tom will look at me, twinkle in his eye, his grin reassuring me in only the way that he can.  And he says as if on cue, "Babe, someday we're going to miss this."  

And it makes me laugh every single time.

And then there are moments, and I know it sounds silly, but when I feel like I'm in a tug of war with Time.  You know, trying to like make it stop.

As I observe Charlotte confidently rolling into Transitional Kindergarten, Cosette devouring chapter books like the grown up 4th grader she is, Emma running Cross Country in 100 degree heat (true story: stay tuned), and the twins entering their Sophomore year in High School...I ask myself, when did this become my life?

And the tug of war against Time ensues.

I stand firm, holding one end of the rope: head centered, my shoulders strong and broad, heels digging into the Earth,  all my weight is thrown backwards.

Time decides to make direct eye contact with me, and plants itself firmly into the ground on the other end.  What an arrogant SOB.  I cling to the rope with weathered hands, in what proceeds to be an extremely futile attempt, to stop Time.

I did not see this coming.

Unbeknownst to me, Time has totally been to the gym lifting weights, and uproots me from the dirt, slowly at first, inch by inch.  But Time is gaining momentum, and soon, I'm being dragged foot over foot, until finally, Time yanks me off my balance.  I falter, as the rope slips from my grip, and Time drags me over the line, securing Victory.

 I can't win, I just can't win.

I surrender Time!  I get it Time!  You will continue moving forward, taking me, and everyone I love, with you.

Sigh.  Sniff.  Whimper.

As of late, Emma is emulating a college kid living in a dorm, even though she's still in 8th grade. When she showers in the evening, she has a make shift shower caddy, that has become like a trusted companion.  I guess my Dove soap doesn't cut it, because Emma brings 'her' Bath and Body Works shower gel, 'her' Neutrogena Deep Clean facial wash, and 'her' L'oreal shampoo and conditioner.

When she exits the bathroom, all squeaky clean and fresh smelling,  she takes all of 'her' bathing necessities back to her dorm room.  It is almost as if, well, as if she doesn't trust us.

But I can't say that I blame her.  Try living with 5 other females in the same house.  It's like, we have a terminal condition where we just can't get enough of all that Bath and Body works shower gel/lotion/body butter.  And it makes no matter, if we have smelled "Weekend Getaway" shower gel 100 times, we must sniff it up again!

Innocently, if we notice a "new" bottle of that deliciousness in the shower, (code for: that shower gel isn't yours because you did not buy that shit at the mall with your best friend, with your birthday money), we literally, just cannot help ourselves.

And God help you if you leave it unattended.

Flash forward 24 hours, and I can almost guarantee, that brand new bottle filled to the brim (that in most households, with a normal number of females, would last an entire month), will be empty.

It's like the Hunger Games, but with Bath and Body works shower gel.

The shower gel struggle is real, for Emma.  In fact, Emma probably sleeps with one eye open, keeping watch of her shower gel while she sleeps.  I wouldn't put it past her.

Can you believe that she had a Cross Country meet scheduled for Tuesday in over 100 degree heat?! These adorable 6th, 7th, and 8th grade kids were scheduled to run... a long distance...on a dirt trail...with no shade...at 4 o'clock in the afternoon...in a race.  Thankfully, it got cancelled.

Am I a bad parent if I confess that I was relieved?  I can't imagine anything worse than "watching" your kid run, while entertaining her other 2 sisters, in that kind of hotness.

I'm still not really sure how  I am supposed to "watch" Emma run.  At the start, she darts off in a pack of kids, running off into the distance of what I assume to be hills, and rocks, and dirt.  I am not exactly certain of the terrain, because the spectators can't see anything.  The kids, like any well executed magic trick, disappear, leaving only a cloud of dust in their wake.  Then about 20 minutes later, they return to the same exact place, trickling in, looking rather exhausted and flushed.

 Maybe I could put a Go Pro camera on her shoulder, named Mom.  It would be like my clone.

Then you would find me, relaxing in a comfy massage chair, getting a pedicure.

Which I did yesterday, by the way!

Like most moms, I had in my possession, an unused pedicure gift certificate that was given to me by a very sweet friend, circa 1999...maybe for the twins baby shower?   Well anyways, I finally got a chance to use it!

How incredible it felt, to have another human being slough off my dead feet skin!

These miracle workers even massaged my legs and feet (which, I will confess, I  feel a bit guilty about, mainly, because my legs are  super duper long, and my feet are a size 12, so it usually requires like 3 women, and a power hose to complete the process).

As I reached to put on my flip flops, I noticed that the woman who painted my toes, was visibly worried.  She stood up with a start, and spoke these words with conviction, "I DO.  I DO FOR YOU.  YOU NO DO," motioning to my shoes.

"Okay," I said surrendering, "You do it for me," picking up on her impending anxiety that I was going to completely wreck all of her very good work.

Which I did, about 5 minutes after I walked out.  Completely smudged by big toe...Murphy's Law.

Charlotte, who has started Transitional Kindergarten, is just loving life.  At the hour long TK orientation on the first day, I looked around the classroom, and recognized something pretty scary:  I was a solid 10-15 years older than most of these parents.

I guess most people, who find reliable birth control, stop having babies after age 38.  Not us...we love the Rhythm Method.  It's so reliable...

These 30 something, younger, wrinkle-free, adorable parents appeared all fresh and dewy.  They had also actually gotten a shower before 10 AM because they still had the energy to do so.

 Then there was me...sweaty, raunchy work out clothes, pony tail, and very tired.  So very tired.  They probably thought that Tom and I were Charlie's grandparents.

So many Walk A Thons lay ahead of me.  So many,

Charlotte has taken quite well to a little ritual we started about a month ago, before bedtime.  After stories, but right before she climbs in for slumber, she lays on the floor, and I give her a little leg massage with lavender lotion.

Her eyes usually sorta roll back in her head, and she says, "This is so relaaaaxing, Mama."  I tell her I'm glad she likes it, and I hope one day she will do the same for me when I'm old and gray.  "Don't worry Mama.  I'll massage your feet, just like you did for Nana."

Sniff.  Snort.

And  just like that, those twins think they can be all 15 and everything.  They completed Volleyball try outs, but this being only their second season,  were not  quite convinced they would make the team.

Well, they made it!  While Bella is playing for JV team, Abby got pulled up to Varsity,

This is the difficult stuff that isn't in the parenting manual: act proud, (but not too proud), that one twin got moved up, while the other stayed on JV.  I mean, it's so tricky.  I feel so proud of both of them.

When I explained this to my family in an email, it read: "So if you would like to see both twins play, just plan on living at Notre Dame for 5 hours.  And please bring me wine."

As always, my family has been nothing but supportive!  Everyone took time out to send their congratulations to both girls.

But I won't lie when I say that it created a bit of friction between the two.  They started bickering more, getting short with each other, pushing each other's buttons.  This behavior is very unlike them.

Finally, one morning at the breakfast table, Abby gently approached Bella, and said, "Bella, I think we both really need to work on our tone when we communicate.  We need to do a better job of supporting one another."

Those twins did not see me, sitting on the corner of the couch, as this took place.  I wasn't lurking, but also couldn't help but eavesdrop on their conversation.  And I felt a surge of Mama pride, as I observed Abby being courageous enough to communicate her truth to her sister.  Not out of spite or malice.  But rather, out of love.

And TWSG's words rang loud and true: I AM going to miss this.


*I would like to give a special shout out to Aparna, the giver of the Pedicure certificate. Next time, my friend, let's go together! Maybe you can even put my flip flops on for me, since I can't be trusted.

20 Questions

Except, not like the "Twenty Questions" game you played with your siblings or friends, on long car rides or walks home.

In actuality, the game I'm referring to should be called "One Hundred Million Questions That You Ask Your Mom On The Daily" so she never gets a break, or a moment, or to pee with the door shut. Nope, Moms never get much of a break... Not in One Hundred Million years.

The game is rather simple in nature:  it's you (the Mom) against all of these tiny contestants (your kids). These offspring that you grew for 10 months (not 9!), nursed, clothed, and continue to keep alive, ask these seemingly, innocent, even, silly questions.

These people throw these questions at you, (the Mom - not to be confused with Dad, because for some reason, he NEVER gets asked these questions), like little hand grenades.  Your kids pull the pin from the grenade, throw it at you, and then before you even have time to roll under a table to safety, they are throwing another bomb at you.  And you dodge, and swerve, and try to get away.  But NO!  More grenades!

Typically, this takes place before you have poured your first cup of coffee.  Or my personal favorite:   just as your head is hitting the pillow for bed.

Word to your Ma.

Emma asked me yesterday, "Mom, why do you get up so early?"  My answer came bumbling out of my mouth before I had time to edit (as is often the case), "So I get time for myself, before all of you are up in my booth.  I need to pray, journal, and think uninterrupted...like without kids around."  Big sigh, followed by direct eye contact.

She sort of finished up her smoothie with a half nod, jumped down from the counter where she had been perched, and left the kitchen mentioning something about "Homework" in a hushed tone.

So I now invite you to take a quiz.  You know, like those fun little quizzes you used to take in Cosmo magazine, when you sat on the beach, beer in one hand, smutty Cosmo mag in the other...BEFORE you had kids?!  Yeah, like that.


If your kids ask you these same questions, clap twice for each one.  If you clap more than 10 times, meet me down at Aqui's on Lincoln for an industrial strength Swirl at 5 o'clock.

And here we go:

Who's picking me up?

What's the weather going to be like today? ( Because I'm a GD Liberal Studies Major, not a Meteorologist)

What's for dinner? (asked at breakfast)

Where are you going?

When will you be back?

Do you know where my skirt / permission slip / knee brace for Basketball / lunch box / book report is? (usually, but not always followed by an annoying whine "I left it riiiiiight herrrrrre.")

Why did you take a shower?  

Why do you look fancy? (code for: I took a shower)

Why do you drink so much wine?

Why are you leaving?

How many times did you clap?  Please tell me 10 times. I'll see you in about an hour!  TTFN.

So Long Midnight...

Let me start by explaining that our dog ate our rabbit, Midnight.  Oh, and did I mention, that this homicide went down the day before Easter?

Yeah, true story.  You feeling me?

Let me back up a bit: for 2 years, that big old beast of a Black Lab, has effortlessly hopped the gate to Twilight and Midnight (God rest her soul), with one clear intention:   Bo would make his gene pool proud, do them right, and actually be victorious in retrieving a bunny.

Honestly, we never thought he had it in him.  Those bunnies are quick as lightning, and well, Bo, not so much.   Imagine Tom Walsh Super Genius' surprise, when after filling the buns water and food, turned around to find Bo with Midnight, clamped in his jaws.  No blood was shed.  Bo just sort of stood there, surprised himself, essentially embodying  Lennie, from Of Mice and Men, when he accidentally killed the puppy by "petting" it.

In fact, Midnight appeared to be sleeping.  Except that her eyes were open.  And her soft fur was matted with dog slobber.

When we broke the news to the tribe, it sort of went like this:

Me: "Girls, Daddy and I are going to share something with you,"

Cosette, interrupting at a rather deafening volume: "YOU'RE PREGNANT!!!!!!"

Charlotte:  "MOM'S PREGNANT!!!  I'M GOING TO BE A BIG SISTER!!!!"

Me: "No, no, no.  I'm NOT pregnant.  Usually I am, but today I'm not."

Collective head nodding, followed by, well-then-what? stares.  "Listen, you have to promise not to mad at Bo, but he killed Midnight, by accident.  He just couldn't help himself; it's in his nature."

 (Me, in my head, 'He can't help that he murdered your beloved pet rabbit, the day before the Easter bunny visits.  Fucking killer.')

All:  sob, snort, sniff, wail, "NOOOOO, not Midnight!  Why her?"

Being that Midnight was officially Emma's bunny, she was the most traumatized by the killing, and so I tried to calm her by running her a hot lavender bath, because, well, she's not old enough to drink wine yet.

Tom and I then took the beast on a walk, for fear the girls would take to him, like Piggy in Lord of the Flies.

All these literary references, are making me sort of feel pretty good about myself.  Thanks to my High School English teachers, Mr.Hardin and Ms.Gundacker!  Never mind, that now all I read is Us Weekly.

So while out walking Bo on Lincoln Avenue, a random guy asks Tom, "How old is your Lab?"  Tom answers politely, "About 3."

Next, I kid you not, the guy asks, "Do you ever hunt him?"  Tom answers, without missing a beat, "Well, today he got a rabbit."

Yea, he got a rabbit, all right.  TWSG failed to mention, Bo killed the family pet.  But I can't say I blame him.

Speaking of unfair, Cosette was explaining the very real injustice lunch time at Booksin, where the first, second, and third graders have to sit at certain tables.  while the fourth and fifth graders leave campus in their cars, and go to out to lunch at Mc Donald's.  (Okay, so that last part was embellished, but sometimes, I am pretty sure that's what it feels like to a third grader with NO freedom to chose their lunchtime seat partner).

So, Cosette did what any 9 year old would do: she made up a petition, and had hundreds of students sign it.

I think it read something to the effect of "We, the people, find it completely unfair that we sit at assigned tables, while the upperclassmen bring back Big Macs to campus, and eat them in front of us."  Yeah, something like that.

Anyways, the petition passed!  It sort of made up for Midnight's death.  Sort of.

Okay.  Not really.

After walking in from Basketball practice one day last week, Abby says,  "Do you wanna tell her Dad, or should we?"

I look at Tom, and then at the twins.  Tell me what, exactly?  Tom lets out a big sigh, and explains that while at Basketball practice at Grace Community Center, (a place where mentally ill folks can hang out during the day) a former inmate, who found God, befriended the twins.  Honest to God, when Tom walked into the gym, he thought the guy, the former inmate, (who found God), was a coach.  Tom gave the guy 20 bucks.  And his socks.

The sweaty socks were a genuine display of kindness, but I am adamantly against giving folks money, and I explained why, "NO MONEY!  No, no , no.  (because sometimes one NO isn't enough).  Money is a band aid that often, feeds their habit.  We need to direct them to the right resources, okay?  NO money!"

Well, I guess Charlotte was paying close attention, because the next morning she matter of factly told Tom, "Daddy, we don't give money to people who just got out of Juvy."

I looked at him, trying hard not to crack up, and agreed with our very intelligent 4 year old.  "Yeah.  NO money."

On our most recent trip to Santa Rosa to visit my Dad, I finally felt ready to go through Foxy's clothes.  Or so I thought.

Here is what no one will tell you about touching, and sorting, and smelling the clothing that someone you love so much feels like:  a wave of grief that leaves you missing them, wanting them, and realizing that the Coldwater Creek skirt you're holding, is the only material thing that is left.  And your mind will start to reminisce, the last time she wore that skirt, with that matching J. Jill  top.

My Mom and Dad did very well raising the 3 of us on a butcher's income.  We never wanted for anything, but as teenagers, we also knew better than to ask for money to go to the show.  That's what babysitting was for.  My Mom, especially, was very logical and thrifty.  We may not have ever gone on a family vacation to Hawaii, but the Francois house had more pot roasts than anyone in Campbell. Word.

So, I found it comical, that I went through THREE closets of my Mom's beautiful clothes, and TWO dressers.    It was like, once she retired, she thought, "I done raised those kids, and kept 'em alive...I'M GOING SHOPPING."

And Coldwater Creek, Anne Taylor Loft, and Talbotts were never the same.  In fact, I imagine that Stevie Nicks would have loved Foxy's flowing, rayon skirts, with paisley and flowered designs.

 As a family, we decided that the pieces we didn't keep for ourselves, would go to The American Cancer Society Discovery Shop, where all proceeds go directly towards Cancer Research and patient care.  But man, was that emotionally draining.

Cozy, who has been wearing one of Nana's zippered, sassy sweat shirts with a jungle print, ran up to me in a rush of excitement yesterday, and exclaimed, "MOM! Guess what I found in Nana's pocket?"

"What, baby?" I asked, taking a breath in.

"Candy!  Candy from the Olive Garden."

One of Foxy's favorite restaurants.  Candy.  Candy from the Olive Garden.

And I didn't feel so alone.

She Lives in Me...She Lives in You

Hello Sweet Foxy Mama,

I sink into the corner of our sectional each morning, before anyone rises from slumber,  I prop the pillows, and wrap myself with the fuzzy blanket, near the window, with the shades still drawn.

You know exactly where I am talking about because, this is where you sat Mom, each and every time you came to visit.  This was your corner, Foxy.  And I have come to realize that I sit here, because I long to feel you, in a way that is no longer possible.

March 26th marks one year that you left this Earth plane, and were born into Eternal life.  I feel you around me, Mom, grinning, laughing, whispering advice, and often times, shaking your head.

On our leisurely strolls home from Booksin, after picking up Cosette from school, Charlie will often inform me of the obvious, "Mom, Nana is dead now, but she's walking right next to us."

I half nod in agreement, and answer, "Yes, baby."  These little comments initially sting, but then after a moment, bring me a bit of comfort.

And have you seen how Cozy is growing, Mom?  She has become quite the independent Ms.Thang.   She is writing a Biography book report, and chose Dad because that Santa Rosa Baseball player is writing a book about him.  In true Cozy fashion, she explained to me, very matter of fact-like, "Mom, so I'm supposed to dress up like Papa for my book report," (pause for effect-dead pan look of seriousness), "so it looks like I'll hafta cut off my leg."

Emma continues to prepare to be the first female President of the United States.  But man, I love to raz her.  In fact, after opening her progress note of late, I called her into the kitchen, and sternly reprimanded, "This is unacceptable Emma," handing her the documentation showing all A+'s.  She dissolved into giggles of relief.  I say, "Use your powers for good, Em."

I'm sure you watch how Emma finds true pleasure in helping the adorable family with four little ones, 2 doors down from us.  On any given day of the week, 5 year old Sammy, 3 year old Leslie, and 2 year old Jake will amble down to our porch, calling for the Walsh girls to come and play.

And without hesitation, like a well performed symphony,  giggles, screaming, laughter,  sidewalk chalk and bubbles fill the air.  Emma and Bo typically lead the procession - on and off the trampoline, up and down our street.  It's like having a parade, audience optional.  Their zest for dress up, and make believe and warm cookies from the oven, insatiable.

 I love it, Mom.  I'm learning to cherish these precious shenanigans.  You taught me that.

And those twins.  God, Mom, you would be so proud.  You remember first hand,  how they struggled with their learning challenges?!  If you saw them now:  Abby and Bella are navigating the college prep waters of Notre Dame, like the diligent little fighters with 504 Plans, that they are.

Their grades are solid, their faith nourished and growing by leaps and bounds, their confidence bursting at the seams.  More importantly, they are genuinely happy, Mom.  Applying and being accepted into ND, was the first parenting triumph where I can honestly exhale, and say, "Whew...I'm glad that worked out."

Make no mistake about it, I'll put them into therapy for something, but it won't be linked to ND.

While out on a walk with Bella just recently, she shared with me, "You know Mom, Abby and I used to be jealous and competitive of each other."

"What?  You were?"  I took this new information in, dumbfounded.  "When did it change? And how did that change come about?"  I can't NOT interrogate.


Isabella contemplated for a moment, and answered quietly, "Probably around 7th grade is when it changed.  I think that we started loving ourselves more, and then we could then love one another more.  We were able to appreciate our differences, instead of viewing them as a threat."

Wow.  Did NOT see that coming.

Everyone says the first year after you lose someone is extremely difficult.  It's like learning a new dance without the partner that was an instrumental part of the routine.

There were all the "monumental days" without you, Foxy:  Mother's Day, all the girls' birthdays, Christmas, and now, your Heavenly Birthday.  I'm racked with this thirst to hug you gently, smooch on your sweet cheek, paint your nails sparkly.  And hear you say, "You're such a good girl," one more time.

I used to worry that without you here, I would lose the ability to seek your wisdom on raising the girls, feedback on growing in my marriage, furthering my faith journey, or sharing the latest pictures from People's Sexiest Men Alive, of Chris Helmsworth and Hugh Jackman.  That was pretty sweet, hugh, Mom?

But the funny thing is, I hear you,, I smell you, and I feel you all around me constantly.  It's like the Lion King song, when Mufasa is teaching Simba, that all of their ancestors live on, in and through them.  And now I am Simba, realizing, that you live in me.  And you continue to live in everyone you touched.

I am homesick to be with you, and our Creator, but understand and accept that my work here is far from complete.  And that fact, in and of itself, will make our reunion that much more lovely.

I have been incredibly blessed on so many levels, Mom.  I look at the girls and Tom, and I am continually humbled by their authentic love for each other and for me...especially when I feel unworthy of that love.

And when I miss you terribly, I remember the one thing you had on your bucket list: taking the grandkids to see the Broadway production of The Lion King in San Francisco.  We checked that one off, Mom.

And I listen to this song, and remember Mufasa's and Rafiki's words to Simba,
Happy Heavenly Birthday.  I love you so much Mom.