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Thanksgiving 2023

The dishwasher is running again.  The tablecloths and napkins are in the washing machine.  The leftovers are piled in the fridge and the soup is on the stove.  It’s 6:30 in the morning, and everyone else is still asleep.  

I made a cup of tea and put a fire in the fireplace.  This is my moment to relax in the aftermath of a successful Thanksgiving celebration.  

I was a little obsessive about the planning this year, but I think my color-coded, time-ordered lists paid off.  It all came together smoothly.  Both turkeys were delicious.  Nothing was burnt, and nothing was raw (although the sweet potatoes could have used a few more minutes in the oven).  There were lots of laughs and a few family arguments, a bunch of old stories and a new board game.  

And it was our first family holiday without Papa.  My husband’s father passed away in April.  Over the past few months, we’ve all grieved, but I was honestly worried that this holiday was going to be pretty awful. I talked with my mother-in-law and I talked with my husband, and we tried to create moments for remembering.  Conversation starters at the dinner table.  A memory book. Familiar songs. 

But in the course of the evening, those things didn’t play out exactly like we imagined.  We asked people to share memories at the dinner table.  We started by going around the table, but as conversations are wont to do, stories evolved into other stories, and devolved into arguments about details, and not everyone got a turn.  

We put the memory book on the table, but it sat unopened as we chatted and caught up and played games.  

Jack prepared a few songs on the guitar, but we didn’t quite get to them, and the kids serenaded us with silly songs instead.  

But what I didn’t realize is that we didn’t have to try to create these moments of remembrance.  They just happened.   “Papa taught me that.”  “He loved this song.”  “Papa would disagree.”  “Remember the time…?”  Someone asked Kyle about his college essay; he brought out his chromebook and let Nana read his beautiful tribute to his grandfather. 

We didn’t have to manufacture the celebration of his life.   All of the people in this house were here because of him.   We ARE the celebration of his life.  Our inside jokes and our political arguments and our oft-repeated stories.  The shouting and the stubbornness and the delicious food and the tendency to drink too much and laugh too loud…. The tough love and the good advice and the gratitude… He is in all of those things and in all of us in a way that isn’t quite as apparent when we’re all scattered and living our separate lives. 

He is there in our gathering.  It’s palpable and beautiful and bittersweet.  I’m pretty sure it’s exactly what Papa would have wanted.  

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Beach Day

I took the kids to the beach yesterday.  We really needed to get out; with my knee surgery last week and all the rainy weather, it feels like this summer has been mostly spent sitting in the air conditioning or wandering around WalMart.  Not exactly stuff to write home about.  

So the knee is getting stronger, and I asked around to find the beach with the least amount of walking involved.  My facebook friends did not disappoint.  We found a great spot, with a parking lot right next to the sand. It was perfect. 

Going to the beach is one of those things that we’ve been doing since the kids were small.  I have tons of photos of sand castle building and ice-cream eating and wave jumping. When you’ve been doing a thing for so long, it’s only natural to make comparisons. 

Some things remain the same, and some things are different now. 

*****

Same: They wake up easily, excited for a day at the beach. 

Different: They shower and find their bathing suits and grab a towel… without any help from me. 

—–

Same: I pack sandwiches and snacks in a cooler bag. 

Different: They load up the car with chairs and umbrellas and bags. 

—–

Same: We stop at Dunkin Donuts and get munchkins and an iced coffee for me…

Different: … and they get iced coffees, too. 

—–

Same: We crank the music loud and sing along as we drive down the highway.

Different: They control the playlist, and I admire their taste in music. 

—–

Same: The drive is longer than expected.

Different: Nobody asks Are we there yet? 

—–

Same: We pull into the parking lot and someone announces It smells like the ocean!

Different: A competent teen walks across the lot and slides in my credit card at the paystation.

—–

Same: There are umbrellas and chairs and coolers and boogie boards to unload…

Different: … but the sand toys are conspicuously absent. 

—–

Same: I throw my cooler bag over my shoulder and reach for my beach chair…

Different: … but the boys have grabbed everything else, and I walk toward the sand feeling strangely unencumbered. 

—–

Same: We forgot to bring the stupid spiral attachment for the bottom of the umbrella. 

Different: A different competent teen grabs a rock and hammers it securely into the sand. 

—–

Same: The kids head for the water, before I’ve even taken my shoes off. 

Different: I watch them, without rushing, and settle into my chair. 

—–

Same: They spend hours jumping waves, splashing and giggling in the ocean. 

Different: I lounge in my chair, sipping lemonade, reading my book, and watching them play.

—– 

Same: I count heads in the water. 

Different: I also read my book, close my eyes, and relax, (mostly) unafraid that someone will drown. 

—–

Same: I swim with them, once I’m hot enough.  We splash and joke and they implore Mom! Mom!  Watch this! 

Different: When I’ve had enough salt water, I splash them one last time and begin to swim back toward the sand.  No one begs me to stay. 

—–

Same: They come out of the water when they’re hungry. 

Different: They eat everything I’ve packed, and nobody drops food in the sand. 

—–

Same: I mention they’re looking a little pink. 

Different: The youngest doesn’t argue.  He replies, “Crap.  Thanks.  Will you pass me the sunscreen?” and asks his brother to spray him. 

—–

Same: I’m ready for a nap and they’re ready to go back in the water.  

Different: I lay on the sand and they go back in the water. 

—–

Same: The beach begins to empty.  They still splash in the waves. 

Different: I’m content to stay.  We have no timeline; no naps, no meal schedule or bathtime worries.  We’ll be done when we’re done and eat when we’re hungry and sleep when we’re tired. 

—–

Same: There’s a mixture of contentment and vague disappointment as we pack up.  

Different: They shake the sand of their towels and pack up the chairs and umbrella. They bear the burden of lugging it all back to the truck.  I carry my bag and walk slowly behind them, watching their broad, bare shoulders and wondering where my babies went. 

—–

Same: We drink from lukewarm water bottles and relish in the air conditioning.  

Same: They fall asleep on the way home; peaceful, content, exhausted.  

Same: I sneak glances at them, overwhelmed with love and gratitude and joy.  

Different: I want to end there.  On that beautiful, happy, note.  But that is not truth, and I want to be truthful.  The truth is that I am filled with a deep, deep sadness.  Not grief, but impending grief.  I know that these days are nearly over.  I used to take four of them to the beach.  Now we’re down to just two.  I used to think these summers would be endless, and now I’m grasping for just one more.  

I know that it’s coming.  I know that they’re leaving.  I know I can’t stop it.  What I don’t know is what my summers will look like when they’re gone. 

The truth is that I’m sitting here in my office, with tears rolling down my cheeks as I type, so desperately sad that we’re running out of time.

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Sanctuary States

Yesterday I read a post in one of my online parent groups.  A family from Florida waited a year to get into one of the best gender clinics in the country, which happens to be in Boston. They were seeking the best possible care for their child.  And while they waited, their home state banned transgender medical care for minors.  It’s heartbreaking, but not entirely surprising for Florida.  

This family traveled across the country to Boston.  They had a great appointment; consulted with the psychiatrist, the social worker, and the gender specialist.  They worked with a team of doctors and medical professionals to determine the best interventions and care for their child.  And then they got a call that their treatment plan was ‘on hold.’  

On hold while the lawyers figure out how to deal with ‘families like theirs.’  

Supportive, loving families from 19 states in our country (yes… NINETEEN) no longer have access to appropriate, affirming medical care for their children.  Those with the means are crossing state lines.  Because that’s what we do to take care of our families.  We do whatever is necessary.  

California, Colorado, Connecticut, Illinois, Maryland, Massachusetts, Minnesota, New Jersey, New Mexico, Vermont, and Washington have declared themselves ‘sanctuary states.’  These states are protecting medical professionals and families who provide gender-affirming care.  

I hear ‘sanctuary’ and I think of political refugees and endangered wildlife.   If you need a sanctuary, you are not safe out in the world.  Out there you will be persecuted, prosecuted, hunted.  

In the United States of America… land of the free… in the year 2023… our  children need sanctuary states to receive appropriate medical treatment. Because there is no doubt about it, our CHILDREN have a target on their backs.  They represent the hot-button political issue of the day, and they have become the collateral damage in this war between politicians.  

It makes me ill.  There is a helpless, hopeless feeling that engulfs me when I read these things. Even the most established gender clinic in the country, in a sanctuary state, isn’t sure how to handle out of state families.   

*****

Most of you know that my husband and I have very different political leanings.  I don’t know how this issue became about being a Republican or a Democrat.  I don’t know how we wound up putting people’s personal, private medical care at the center of our politics. 

Our societal problems are not the fault of gender-diverse children.  Our societal problems are not caused by families doing the best they can. Our problems aren’t created by average people living average lives.  They are a result of a broken system, corrupt leadership, and abuses of power.  

We are being played.  We are being manipulated by a system that knows how to rile us up and keep us distracted. Instead of looking to limit the power of the politicians, it’s beneficial to those in charge if we keep fighting with each other about things that are deeply personal, highly emotional, and hotly contested.  

How about this?  How about we trust other humans to take care of their own damn deeply personal, highly emotional, hotly contested business.  

Then we can focus on making the kind of real changes that might just save us all.  

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Terrible Students

I spend my days working with dyslexic middle schoolers.  When I started in this position, nearly ten years ago, my students would come to me with questions and challenges.  They could identify what was hard for them and they were eager to get help.  I loop with the same small group of students from sixth to seventh to eighth grade, with a few exceptions.  By the end of three years together, this group starts to feel like a little family.  I become their ‘school mom,’ sometimes nagging them to complete their work, often providing encouragement and support, and always advocating for them in their classrooms.  We have a lot of laughs, and we work through some hard things, and it is incredibly rewarding to see how much they grow and change over three years.  Most of the time, I love my job. 

I spend my evenings with teen boys, too.  One has ADHD and the other has mild autism.  I’ve often told my friends that my hardest years of teaching are the years when my children at home are in the same age range as my students at school.  When you teach middle school and go home to pre-schoolers, it’s a different kind of hard.  When you teach middle school and go home to middle schoolers, it’s the same kind of hard ALL day long.  That’s exhausting. 

But yesterday was pretty great.  My students were focused, well-behaved, and productive.  My youngest son brought up his science grade from a D to an A.  He talked with me about an essay and worked on his homework without me nagging him about it.  My oldest son made up three quizzes he missed while attending his grandfather’s funeral last week. I was feeling pretty good. 

And then today happened.  

My oldest son’s guidance counselor reached out.  He wants to meet because my son’s grades are so poor.  Just when I thought things were looking up. 

My youngest son’s grades got updated.  Sure… he’s got an A in science… but he’s got an F in math and a D in history.  

I thought I had a good lesson for my 8th graders today.  But they came in for their first period class half asleep, and it was like pulling teeth to get them to make eye contact, let alone answer questions.  I wanted them to read 9 pages of a book, and you would think I asked them to donate a kidney.  It was torture.  

I had a fun lesson planned for my 7th graders, but they spent the whole class making faces at each other and laughing at inside jokes and followed exactly ZERO of the classroom instructions.  

My sixth graders were working on something I thought we’d mastered, and they were making a ton of errors.  When I tried to help them correct their mistakes, they responded with eye-rolling and snark and deep sighs.  

*****

I’ve been talking to colleagues and friends, and we’re all frustrated. We know there’s a problem, but we can’t figure out the cause or the solution. 

Was it COVID?  Did they miss out on some developmental growth that’s still having an impact? 

Is it technology?  Are they too accustomed to quick answers and immediate gratification? 

Is it attentional?  Are they so used to constant entertainment that they can’t focus on text or classroom discussion? 

Maybe it’s that parenting styles have changed.  Are we so focused on supporting kids that they aren’t able to build resilience? 

Are kids just too busy?  Overscheduled with sports and music lessons and tutoring and after school jobs? 

Is homework outdated?  Does it serve a purpose?  Is asking kids to work at home akin to asking employees to work after hours?  

Or maybe we’re not teaching them to set priorities and manage their time and find balance in their lives.

It could be any or all of those things.  Teachers blame it on parents.  Parents blame it on teachers.  And being both a parent and a teacher, I don’t think I can point a finger at all.  My students are terrible students.  My CHILDREN are terrible students.  And despite my best efforts in both arenas, I feel pretty helpless because I can’t seem to find ANYTHING that makes it better. 

*****

Imagine a scenario.  

Bobby is a seventh grade student who struggles with dyslexia.  Reading is really hard for him.  Bobby is able to move slowly through class assignments, but rarely completes any work outside of class. Bobby also has ADHD, which makes his phone particularly addictive to him. He frequently has to be reminded to take off his hood, put away his earbuds, and turn off his phone. 

Bobby’s teachers are concerned. They  work overtime to ensure that all of the text he encounters is available in audio form.  If the audio is not readily available, the teacher creates it.  Assignments are modified to limit text, and Bobby has a special education teacher who supports him in class and during his study hall.  She creates a list of missing assignments and strategizes with him about how to tackle the work.  All of his teachers offer to meet with him after school.  Some offer extensions so that he has additional time to complete overdue assignments.   Bobby’s teachers want to take his phone during class so that he isn’t distracted by the technology.  School administration tells them they’re not allowed to confiscate the students’ (expensive) personal property. 

Bobby’s parents realize that he is not doing well in school.  They log into the classroom portal.  They make a list of the missing assignments.  They set up a quiet study space and check in with the child each night.  They try to provide incentives: rewards for good grades.  Believing that they’re doing what’s right (and what’s expected of ‘good parents’), they set up a meeting with school staff to advocate for Bobby.The team comes up with a plan.  The teacher will email weekly.  The teacher will modify homework.  The teacher will stay after school with the student.  The teacher will let the student re-take tests.  The teacher will provide extra credit opportunities.  (Even though this creates extra work for teachers, nearly all of us are willing to do it if it helps our students to be successful.)

But the problem comes when the plan is NOT successful.  Bobby’s behavior remains consistent.  The only thing that has changed is the atmosphere, both at school and at home.  Bobby’s teachers are frustrated that their efforts haven’t been successful.  They begin to feel helpless, because they don’t know what else they can do to improve the situation. At home, Bobby’s parents are tracking his work.  They see missing assignments and ask about them.  Bobby shrugs.  “I don’t know what that is.”  “I swear I turned that in.  She just hasn’t graded it yet.”  “That assignment isn’t due until next week.” Parents attempt to get clarification by scrolling through Google classroom, emailing the teacher, or checking with other parents. Hours are consumed.  There is arguing and misery and, ultimately, the parents don’t have enough knowledge about what happened in class to guide the student to make better choices. 

Both the parents and the teachers feel that they are working hard, to no avail.  They begin to blame one another.  In Bobby’s case, his parents may sue the district for an expensive outplacement because the district has failed to educate their child.  Bobby’s teachers may start grading more leniently, ensuring that Bobby gets at least a ‘C,’ to avoid confrontation with the parents.  Everyone involved becomes exhausted and angry.  

Everyone except Bobby.

*****

Which leads me to a thought. 

In education over the past few years, we’ve moved away from concrete consequences.  And I understand why.  I really do.  I also used to believe it was the best thing for our students.  We should provide incentives for them instead of punishments.  We should adopt restorative practices and focus on relationship building.  

Yes.  And.  

I had a few students fail classes last term.  These were NOT students who fell through the cracks.  These were students who were given every opportunity to succeed.  After school extra help.  Modified assignments.  Parent conferences.  Tracking sheets.  Support classes.  Reference sheets.  Study groups.  And after all of that, a team of teachers got together and determined that we could not, in good conscience, give these students passing grades.  

When teachers allow a failing grade to stand, we haven’t done it lightly. We gave those Fs thoughtfully.  Regretfully.  With lots of conversations with family and colleagues and students.  

And then, we were brought in for a discussion with our administration.  The message delivered was, “Let’s think outside the box to figure out how to help these kids succeed.”  The message received was, “Don’t allow students to fail.  It looks bad.”  I felt insulted.  Angry.  Resentful.  

It felt as if we were being told that the students didn’t have any responsibility for their own learning.  

*****

I have a junior in high school.  And I think he needs to fail algebra (and maybe history). That probably sounds harsh, but it’s a natural consequence.  

Imposed consequences don’t work for this kid.  I’ve taken away his phone.  Grounded him.  Taken away his keys.  Taken away his privileges.  And all of that just means that he sits in his bedroom with his sketchbook.  He becomes antisocial and depressed but it doesn’t MOTIVATE him to complete his history project or study algebra.  

Last term, I thought, “He can’t take his mommy to college with him.  He needs to develop self-monitoring skills and internal motivation.”  I decided to let him fail.  

Which he did.  But you know what?  It didn’t change anything.  He swore up and down he’d bring up his grades for last term.  He hasn’t.  

And I honestly believe that the only thing that will push him to change is the meaningful, natural consequence of having to repeat the class.   

*****

What we have to remember is that we’re all on the same team.  We all want these kids to succeed.  We want them to develop academic skills and motivation and resilience.  But they won’t be able to do that if the adults in their lives can’t get on the same page.  We all need to provide encouragement AND hold them accountable.  We all need to be consistent in our messaging and provide consequences when they’re needed.  We all need to be open to listening and working together. 

I think I’m writing this post for myself more than anything else.  I look around at other families and it feels like they’ve got it all together.  I keep trying to figure out what I’m doing wrong.  But I also know I’m not entirely alone.  I’ve been in many parent teacher conferences with frustrated moms who can’t hold back their tears.  They look at me helplessly and ask, “What can I DO?”

I don’t have the answer.  But I can relate.  And I can share some things that I’ve tried in my own home.  Here’s the list. 

Things that (sometimes) worked for my daughter with trauma and anxiety:

  • Let her work in her room.
  • Give her lots of space. 
  • Edit essays with her once they’re done. 
  • Help her find the right word.  For as long as it takes. 
  • Provide lots of encouragement and reassurance.  
  • Let her listen to music. 
  • NEVER email the teacher.  For the love of God.  How embarrassing. 

Things that (sometimes) work for my son with ADHD:

  • Make him work anywhere BUT his room. 
  • Sit in the room with him.  Don’t help unless he asks.  But be there. 
  • Provide good snacks. 
  • White noise helps.  Avoid music. 
  • Email the teacher.  Often. 
  • Physically take the phone.  It can’t even be near him. 

Things that (sometimes) work for my child with autism:

  • Quiet.  He needs quiet. 
  • Music.  He can’t work without music. 
  • Sit with him. Help.
  • For God’s sake, leave him ALONE to work. 
  • Email the teacher. 
  • Let him email the teacher.  He’s in HIGH SCHOOL, for God’s sake. 

As you can see, I don’t have any answers.  But I freaking love these kids.  All of them.  The ones at home and the ones and school.  So I’m not giving up.  And I’m open to suggestions.  

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Hospital

Lee has had a cough for over a year.  It’s a niggling thing; it fades for a bit and then reappears.  He’s been on antibiotics and inhalers.  He’s been to urgent care, primary care, and a pulmonologist.  Nobody knows what’s causing it.  We’ve spent hours discussing possible allergens and reviewing his medical history and we don’t seem to be making any progress.  

The latest referral was to a hospital we don’t typically use.  We made the appointment, and I assumed we were all set until the secretary who called to confirm the appointment used the wrong name.  

What?  How did that happen?  Everything is changed.  Legally, medically… everything.  It was a process, but we went to the county court for a name change and got all the right letters and documents and updated the social security information and the insurance information and all of the medical records.  His passport and his driver’s license are both correct.  I thought we were done with this.  I was wrong. 

Apparently, we had used a doctor affiliated with that hospital about a decade ago, pre-transition for Lee.  The old information must’ve come up when we made the new appointment.  

So… I made the call again.  First to the hospital main line.  Then they transferred me to Pulmonology, who transferred me to Patient Services who transferred me to Medical Records. Each time, I explained the situation.  One hospital employee assured me that they made a note and would use his ‘preferred name.’  I took a deep breath and explained that she was misunderstanding me.  There was no need to note a ‘preferred name.’  Lee is his LEGAL name.  The old name shouldn’t appear anywhere. “Oh,” she seemed confused. “That’s strange.  It’s in here as his preferred name.”  I nearly groaned.  “Yes.  I know.  That’s what I’m calling to fix.” She transferred my call again.  

*****

The doctors scheduled a bronchoscopy.  Lee would need to go under anesthesia, but the procedure itself should only take about ten minutes.  We were both a little anxious, but eager to get some more information about what was going on.  

A few days before the procedure, I got an intake phone call.  “Is this the parent or guardian of Lee?”  “Yes,” I replied.  The woman on the phone talked me through the process.  No food for 12 hours before the procedure.  No water one hour before arrival.  We would get to the hospital, check in at the front desk, and make our way to the fourth floor.  He should wear his glasses instead of his contact lenses and remove all of his jewelry.  It seemed pretty standard.  “I do want to double check one thing,” I explained to the voice on the other end of the phone.  “I want to make sure that the name is correct.  I did speak to patient services and medical records, but if you could double check for me, I’d feel better knowing we’re really all set.”  The woman told me that it was, and I breathed a sigh of relief.  

And then she told me that they would collect a urine sample prior to the procedure, because they needed to run a standard pregnancy test.  

I explained to her that pregnancy was impossible.  That Lee had been on puberty blockers since the age of 12 and that he doesn’t have functioning reproductive organs.  She apologized and told me that they still needed to run the test. “Can they just take the sample then?  Without saying it’s for a pregnancy test?”  I was imagining the defeated, devastated look on Lee’s face.  I wanted to spare him the embarrassment. And the discomfort.  And the dysphoria.  

“Of course,” the woman replied.  “No problem.  I’ll make a note.”  I breathed another sigh of relief and began to feel optimistic.  

*****

The morning of the procedure, we drove into Boston, navigated the crowded streets and backed into a tiny spot in the packed parking garage with plenty of time to spare.  Lee was already fantasizing about his post-procedure meal, because a 12 hour fast is an eternity for a 17 year old boy.  

We checked in at the front desk as directed, and then made our way to the fourth floor.  The receptionist was wearing rainbow colors on his lanyard and two tiny silver ♂ symbols on a silver chain around his neck. These visible statements of LGBTQ inclusivity were reassuring, and I relaxed a little more.  

We sat in the waiting room, feeling a little anxious, and a friendly gentleman was tasked with walking us through the maze of the hospital to our next location.  We walked a short distance to an elevator and traveled three floors down.  A left turn, right turn, long walk.  Right turn, quick left, another elevator.  Four floors up.  I was sure I’d never find my way back to the car.  

We didn’t need to check in this time.  We were walked directly to a cot behind a curtain in a line of cots behind curtains.  A nurse approached.  Leah?  She asked.  My heart dropped.  “This is LEE,” I asserted, not masking the aggravation in my voice.  “I was assured that the other name wouldn’t appear anywhere.”  The nurse stammered a bit. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I misread.  Mispronounced.  I apologize.”  I pushed back.  “Is the name correct in the file?”  “Oh, yes.  It’s correct.  I just mispronounced.”   But the thing is, EVERY time a doctor or nurse or medical professional uses the wrong name, they try to correct by saying that they misread or mispronounced.  Because the names are so close.  So I didn’t let it go.  “It’s not listed as ‘preferred name,’ is it? It’s the ONLY name in the file?”  The nurses’ eyes widened and she looked around for backup. Another nurse came over and suggested that we move to a different space, because of the crying baby two curtains over.  “We don’t want you to get a headache while you wait,” she explained.  

They walked us a few yards through the open space to a room with walls and a door.  I’m sure it had nothing to do with my raised voice and irritated questions.  “I’m sorry.  I know you’re just doing your job.  But I have spent hours on the phone trying to fix the situation with the name.  And the ONLY name that should appear in your files is Lee.  Does another name appear?” The second nurse rolled her computer screen so I could take a look.  “Here. Look.  It’s just Lee.  I’m sorry that happened, but it’s correct in the system.”  I had to let it go.  “Okay.  Thanks.  I hope you can understand my frustration.”  “Of course,” she replied, unconvincingly.  

By this point, I had noticed lots of the hospital staff with the progress pride colors on their ID lanyards.  I also noticed that this nurse wore a plain black lanyard.  I couldn’t help but wonder if that was a deliberate choice.  

She asked all of the typical questions.  “When’s your birthday?” “Any allergies?” I was happy to be in a room with walls, but the nurse kept the door wide open, and she stood partly in the hallway.  “Do you get periods?” I did a double take.  Seriously?  With the door wide open?  And I had already explained to the intake nurse on the phone that he doesn’t.  And that they shouldn’t ask.  I was angry, but I looked to Lee first.  He seemed only mildly irritated when he answered, “no.”  I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself.  

And then she handed him a small plastic cup.  “We’ll need to do a pregnancy test before the procedure, so this is for a urine sample.” I watched his eyes grow wide and then lower in shame.  He couldn’t even look at her.  I growled, “I was TOLD that you weren’t going to say that.” “I was just explaining to my patient why we need a urine sample,” she argued.  I reiterated, “The intake nurse said that you could just TAKE the SAMPLE and you didn’t have to trigger him by saying WHY.” “Oh,” she looked back down at her notes.  “I do see it here.  It’s noted.  I just hadn’t gotten to it yet.”  She didn’t even apologize.  She handed him the cup and gave him the directions and walked away.  

I was FUMING.  When she left, I had a whispered conversation with Lee.  I apologized.  I explained what happened.  I ranted a little and told him I was going to write a complaint letter to the hospital administration.  And I knew he was upset too, because he didn’t try to calm me down.  He didn’t tell me I was overreacting.  He just headed to the bathroom to take an unnecessary pregnancy test.  

*****

From that point on, everything was fine.  We waited longer than we expected, but the procedure and Lee’s recovery went well.  He woke up, high on anesthesia, and I laughed at his inappropriate, unexpected comments while he ate three popsicles and slowly regained his motor function.  We stopped for fast food on the way home. 

At the follow up appointment, we got good news (no blockages, no infection) and bad news (we’re still not sure what’s happening, so we’re referring you to another department).  

So we’re bracing for another round of medical drama, with new doctors and departments and sometimes great, supportive staff, and sometimes careless, callous staff.  As if this whole thing weren’t hard enough already.  

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Alone

I’m sitting on the couch, with what is possibly the last fire of the season crackling in the fireplace. Under the Bridge filters through the bathroom door while my son takes a shower.  At least he’s got good taste in music. Who doesn’t like the Red Hot Chili Peppers? 

Lee is getting ready to go out for the day.  He takes his showers in the dark with loud music playing.  He’s never explicitly explained it, but I know that it’s common for trans people to come up with creative ways to make it through the triggering daily routine of washing a dysphoric body.  

Jack and Cal are at work.  In just a few minutes, everyone will be gone, and I’ll have the house to myself. 

I’ve got my crochet project next to me, along with my brand-new reading glasses.  Yup.  Reading glasses.  I’m a little freaked out by that, but they’re pretty helpful. And kinda cute, honestly. I’m settled in with my coffee and my computer and I’ve got a vague plan for the day.  

And then Jack’s van pulls in the driveway.  What I thought would be a full day at work only took him a few hours.   It’s not even 10am. He walks in the door.  Relieved.  Excited.  Happy to be home.  I feel horrible because I’m disappointed.

From this angle on the couch, I can see a potato chip under the coffee table.  Gross.  I’ll have to remember to pick that up. 

The vibe of this day has shifted, and it feels unfair.  I feel antsy.  Itchy.

He won’t be hurt or offended or upset if I do exactly what I planned to do today.  So why do I feel the need to change things because I’m not alone? 

I was looking forward to a spinach and mushroom omelet for brunch.  It’s one of my favorites; something only I enjoy.  And now I’ll feel obligated to also make a fried egg and toast for my husband, because I’m cooking anyway. 

I was hoping to sit in front of the fire and start my online class.  But he’ll want to watch TV.  Or sit next to me on his phone, which irrationally makes me seethe.  

I wanted to change the sheets.  But if he’s sitting and doing nothing while I do chores that he’s equally responsible for, I bubble with resentment.  

He just got a new amplifier.  Literally.  FedEx just delivered it, and he set it up in the room right next to me.  Of course he wants to try it out.  Who wouldn’t?  But the toddler in my brain screams, “I was here first” and “I want QUIET!”  He’s not doing anything wrong.  There’s no place else for him to go.  And he’s excited.  I don’t want to crush that.  So I move. Now I’m in my office, away from the fireplace, but with a few candles lit and white noise playing on the alexa to try to recreate the quiet I had half an hour ago.  

It’s not working.  The guitar amp fills the house with chords and rhythms; starts of songs that never finish as he tests out the sound. Wagon Wheel. Toes. Starting Over. Against the Law.  I can’t focus.  

I love him. I really do.  Last week, we got dressed up and went to a nice restaurant and laughed through a lovely dinner.  The week before, we spent Saturday in the garage, reupholstering the boat seats.  We each had our own staple remover and we sang along to songs on the radio. I’d make sure the new covers were lined up just right and he’d staple and reassure me a thousand times that he was being careful and I didn’t have to keep saying it.  Together, we laugh like crazy and play a mean game of scrabble and cuddle on the couch. 

And yet.   

I crave time ALONE. 

I don’t think that’s crazy or unusual.  I know lots of friends who feel the same way. Sure, I could leave.  I could go sit in the library or a coffee shop.  

But I just want to be in my pajamas, alone on my couch, eating food that I like and doing things that I love without having to be considerate of anyone else at all.  

I just want permission to be totally selfish for a few hours. 

I think back to when I lived alone. I would spend hours sitting on my front porch, writing and sipping coffee and watching the world go by.  When I got hungry, I would make whatever I wanted to eat. Apple crisp for breakfast?  Why not?  I would spend whole days scrubbing my apartment, contentedly, because I knew it was my mess and it felt satisfying to clean it.  And I only had to do it once or twice a month.  If I wanted to talk to someone, I’d pick up the phone.  If I wanted music, I would turn on whatever I was in the mood for, and nobody was there to comment on my musical taste or the volume of the radio. If I wanted quiet, I sat in silence, and I enjoyed every minute of it. I didn’t feel obligated to wait for someone else to watch my favorite show.  I could be in the flow of writing for hours, without anyone playing inescapable, distracting music.  

I have a sister who just recently found herself living alone for the first time.  She’s struggling a little with it. I try to be supportive, but deep down, I can’t help but be a little jealous. 

I know the grass is always greener.  And I try to remember that it’s all about balance.  Because when I did live alone, it was sometimes awful, too.   

Cooking for one was boring and eating alone was a little sad.  I had to lift all the heavy stuff and pay for someone to fix the brakes on my car and call the oil company when my furnace broke.  The projects were mine alone, and choosing the music is less satisfying than having someone to sing along with. There was nobody to play scrabble with and nobody to tease me about my inability to sit and watch a movie all the way through.  There was no one to cuddle on the couch.  There was no spontaneous guitar from the next room.  The silence was sometimes deafening. 

*****

He’s playing In Color.  I love this song.  I love his voice. I take a moment to breathe.  And count my blessings. My stomach rumbles.  It’s time  to go make that spinach and mushroom omelet.  And a fried egg.  

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Dry March

I gave up alcohol for Lent.  It was easy at first.  I made a strawberry balsamic shrub and added it to to lemon water in a martini glass.  I made a vanilla honey syrup and mixed it with homemade blackberry sage reduction.  I squeezed grapefruit juice into coconut water and sipped it on the rocks with a slice of lime.  I hosted two parties that way and didn’t miss the buzz at all.  

But by the time the third Friday afternoon rolled around, I really wanted to sit at a bar and sip a cocktail with my husband.  Instead, I snuggled up to him on the couch with chamomile tea.   Saturday night was the progressive supper at church, and I sipped my lemon water from a wine glass.  And here we are, on Sunday evening.  I went to the local liquor store to buy a sampling of NA wines to try to find one that doesn’t taste like Welch’s white grape juice.  

Success.  For now.  There’s ice rattling in my fake Sauvignon Blanc as I type this.  

*****

I’ve always been mindful of the Lenten season.  As a kid, I’d give up cookies or candy.  As a teenager, I’d abstain from a certain television show or favorite food.  But at some point in my early adulthood I began to take on a commitment instead of giving something up.  I would read a daily devotional.  Keep a faith journal.  Donate one item every day.  

But this year, I felt pulled back to that old tradition.  A sacrifice of some sort. But not abstinence for the sake of abstinence.  

I wanted to make a sacrifice that would, in some small way, force me to be better. More present.  More productive.  More alert.  More aware.  

*****

Anyone who lives in New England knows that March is gross.  It’s when we battle the last of the winter weather and when our seasonal doldrums are at their peak.  We’re stir-crazy and cold and tired of winter coats.  

Anyone who teaches in a public school knows that March is the absolute worst.  The kids are ALSO stir-crazy and cold and tired of telling their parents that they don’t need a coat.  The meetings are piling up and the term is finishing and state tests are looming.  There’s no break in sight and everyone’s nose is running.  

Every March, I consider alternate career options.  I’ve been doing this teaching gig long enough to recognize the March job hunt as a passing phase.  I’ll be fine by April.  

But it’s convenient that March coincides with Lent.  It gives me a little extra motivation to pull myself out of my annual funk.  I get introspective.  As I was recently starting a new journal, I thought about the things I do that make me, well… better. I put them into categories.  Connect.  Move.  Explore.  Create.  

Each night, I jot down a note about those goals.  Who did I connect with?  How did I move my body?  What new place or idea did I explore?  Did I create a meal or music or a blanket? 

And with a little less alcohol in my life, there’s a little more of all those things.  More sitting on my son’s bed and hearing about his day.  More simmering fruit to create homemade syrups.  More crocheting and more reading and more walks and more phone calls.  

And more blogging.  I’m sorry I’ve been gone for so long.  It’s good to be back.  

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Snow

When I woke up this morning, the house was freezing and it smelled like piss. My nose was runny, my throat hurt, and my head was foggy.  It took my brain a minute to work out the details.  

Yesterday, it was nearly 60 degrees.  I opened some windows and turned off the heat.  It was nice to have fresh air circulating in the house.  I know I closed the windows before I went to bed, but I must have forgotten to turn the heat back on.  Hence the temperature in my bedroom. 

I’m happy to report that the piss wasn’t human, so that’s a win.  The dog must have another bladder infection.  Great. Time to break out the steam cleaner.  Again. 

The unfriendly Minute Clinic nurse told me yesterday that the sore throat and runny nose aren’t Covid or Strep, so my best bet is some more Advil and a teaspoon of honey.  

*****

All that is settled now.  The carpet is cleaned.  I lit a couple candles to help with the smell.  The advil has kicked in and the warm coffee feels nice on my throat.  The heat is on, there’s a log in the fireplace, and I’m watching the snow fall outside my living room window.  Yes.  Snow.  Just the perfect amount, and I’m loving every minute.  

Lee slept over at a friend’s house last night.  Cal is still in bed.  Jack left for work about an hour ago.  The dogs are asleep beside me, one curled into a tight little ball and the other sprawled on her side, snoring just a little.  The snow is only supposed to last about an hour, so I’m planning to sit here and watch it until it stops.  

It’s vacation week for me and the kids.  We have a few plans, but no big trips this year.  Last year at this time, we were in Florida on a boat watching dolphins with my mom.  That was an incredible trip, but there’s something nice about this, too.  I’m doing small chores around the house; cleaning out closets and drawers, making the phone calls I keep putting off, repotting the plants in my windowsill. I’ve already read two books and crocheted about a quarter of a blanket.  Tonight there will be chicken pot pie and rehearsal with the bell choir.  I’ll have brunch with a friend and book club later this week.  Both boys have plans to go into Boston with friends, and it’s strange and wonderful that they still want to go to the Aquarium, albeit without me.  

Yesterday, I was a little sick, but super productive.  I changed the sheets and did a few loads of laundry.  I took the dog to get her nails trimmed and did some grocery shopping and changed the lightbulbs and moved the lamps so that I can read in all my favorite places.  I went to the Minute Clinic and bought some cough drops and wrote an article for the church newsletter.  I dropped some clothes off at the donation bin and helped Lee clean the pet cages and brought out the trash.  I read a little and watched a movie with Jack.  

Yesterday, it was important to me to be productive because I was feeling a little bit stuck.  Today, I’m feeling exactly the opposite.  I feel like my runny nose and the snowy weather are exactly a perfect excuse to stay right where I am.  I’ll get up to make another cup of coffee or put that chicken in the oven, but this fire and this weather aren’t going to last all day.  I’m just going to enjoy them while they last. 

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Tuesday Night

I left work around 4:00 on Tuesday.  I had a club that ran until 3:15, and then I stayed to finish up a few things.  I stopped at the grocery store on the way home, and at about 4:30, I got a call from my son. 

“Mom, the dogs got skunked.  There’s a dead skunk in the dog pen and everything stinks.” 

Great.  That’s great.  I had just purchased the rest of the ingredients for the new recipe I planned to try.  Spicy Peanut Chicken.  I had just enough time to cook and eat before Bell Choir rehearsal.  The evening’s schedule was already full.  I had not penciled in time for dealing with a skunk. 

“HOLD UP,” I interjected.  “I have questions.  First of all, are the dogs back in the house?”

“No.  I left them outside.”

“Okay. Good. Next question. Did THEY kill the skunk?”

“I don’t think so.  I inspected it for bite marks and wounds and I didn’t see anything.”  

WHAT?  “You INSPECTED it?”  

“Yeah.  I put it in a plastic bag.  Can I put it in the freezer?” 

“HELL NO.” 

“But it’s in a scented trash bag, so it barely even smells.  I can use it for taxidermy experimentation.  There’s already a dead goldfish in the freezer.  How is this any different?”

“A GOLDFISH is not a SKUNK.  And I don’t want the goldfish in my freezer, either.  STOP collecting dead animals.” Ugh.  Things You Never Thought You’d Say: Teenager Edition.  

“Fine. I’ll put it in the woods out back. When will you be home?”

“I’m leaving now.  I’ll see you soon.”  

I texted the bell choir director.  There was no way I could make it to practice. I had to de-skunk my two dogs and dispose of a dead animal carcass and try to get the stench out of my house and also feed my children.  A woman can only handle so much.  

I pulled into the driveway and smelled it right away.  I wrinkled my nose and instinctively held my breath.  But you can’t hold your breath forever.  When I finally inhaled, I could taste the skunk smell.  Gross. 

As I walked toward the front door, Lee met me in the driveway.  

“Do you want me to take them to the Dog Wash Station at Tractor Supply? I’ll just load them into my car.”

HOLY CRAP.   My eyes went wide.  Did I want him to take these smelly creatures away from me, to a place that wasn’t my bathtub, and remove the offensive stench?  

“Yes.  Yes, I do.  And I will pay you 50 bucks to do that.”

“Seriously?  I was gonna do it for free, but I’ll take 50 bucks.” 

“I will happily pay for the privilege of NOT bathing those dogs.”  

On the way home in the car, I had started to imagine what the evening would look like.  It involved wrestling the small dog into the bathtub, while she repeatedly tried to jump out.  The ‘little’ one is about 45 pounds of muscle and bathing her is a two person job because she HATES it.  

The big dog weighs 130 sweet, dopey pounds.  She doesn’t actively try to fight a bath, but she’s huge and not particularly HELPFUL about the whole thing.  

And after a dog bath, we would spend about an hour and a half with the blow dryer, trying to dry them off because wet dog smells worse than dirty dog.  And after a skunking, wet dog is a nauseating undercurrent to the lingering skunk smell that will make your life miserable for approximately 72 hours.  Don’t ask me how I know.  

And after the joy of all THAT, I would get the pleasure of cleaning the bathroom that would be covered in dog hair, with drips of soapy water on every surface because no matter how hard you try, you can’t keep them from shaking after a bath.  

Once the dogs and the bathroom were clean again, I would need a shower.  

And, amazingly, I was going to get to skip all of those steps.  Because I have a capable, helpful teenager with a driver’s license.  

Not only was he offering to take care of the baths; he would be able to do it without destroying my bathroom or stinking up my car.  

HALLELUJAH.

I sent him on his way, and skipped ahead to the part where I try to get the stink out of our home.  I opened the windows on the side of the house opposite the dog pen.  I sprinkled baking soda on the furniture and the carpets.  I wiped down the surfaces with a vinegar and water mix.  I lit candles and ran the vacuum and sprayed Febreeze.  

Eventually, I discovered that the worst of the smell was actually emanating from the basement laundry room.   Apparently, the spot where the skunk expired was directly next to the dryer vent.  I rewashed that entire load, using a liberal amount of baking soda and white vinegar.  Even so, they needed a second washing. 

As the machine ran, I checked the yard for skunk carcass.  There was none to be found.  I double checked the freezer, just to be sure.  Just meats and butter and one small, dead, frozen goldfish.  Excellent. 

At that point, it was a little after 6 o’clock.  I decided not to give up on my dinner plans.  Spicy Peanut Chicken, coming right up.  

As I started to chop and mix and measure, another child entered the kitchen.  She put her hand up, as if to stave off an attack.

“Don’t yell at me.  You can yell at me later, but please don’t yell at me now.” 

“What are you talking about?  Why do I need to yell at you?”

“The skunk.  The dogs.  The smell.  Whatever.  It’s my fault-but-I-didn’t-see-the-skunk-and-I-just-let-them-out-and-I-didn’t-know-what-to-do-and-I-know-you’re-mad-and-it’s-my-fault-but-it’s-not-really-my-fault-and-I-don’t-want-to…”

“Stop.”

“…get-in-trouble-and-it’s-really-not-fair-and-I’m-already-punished-and-I’m-never-gonna-get-my-phone-back-and-I-think-I’m-gonna-die-without-snapchat-and-I…”

“Hold on.”

“…miss-everything-because-my-friends-are-all-hanging-out-online-and-if-I-can’t-have-my-social-media-back-I-think-I-need-to-find-someplace-else-to-live-because-I’m-legitimately-depressed-and-it’s-affecting-my-mental-health-and-I-can’t-live-like-this…”

“PLEASE STOP TALKING.”

“What?”

“First of all, I’m not gonna yell at you.  The skunk is not your fault.  You let out the dogs.  I’m glad you let them out.  You didn’t know about the skunk.  It could have happened to any one of us.”

“Oh.”

“And the whole phone thing is a different conversation entirely.  Do you want to talk about that now? “

“Uh… no.”

“Okay.”  Awkward pause.  “Are you hungry?” 

“YES.  I’m starving.  What’s for dinner?”

“Spicy peanut chicken,” I replied with an enthusiastic smile. 

“Yuck.” 

I take a deep, calming breath.  “Actually, it’s made with habanero peppers. You love habanero peppers.  I think you’ll like it.  And if not, there’s rice and broccoli and carrots, too.”

“Fine.”  She was unconvinced. 

“Do you wanna help cook?” 

“I gotta finish my homework.”

She headed back upstairs.  I continued to saute and simmer, washing dishes as I went.  Jack came home and got the whole story.  I poured a glass of wine.  The night was starting to look up, but I was also concerned that Lee wasn’t home with the dogs yet.  It’d been more than two hours. I tried to call, but he didn’t answer.  Understandable. I assumed he was elbow deep in dog shampoo.  

The chicken was browned.  The sauce was nearly done.  It was starting to smell delicious.  The rice was simmering, and I threw the vegetables in the saucepan.  I rinsed the spatula, and accidentally splashed some water on my face.  I wiped it away, casually. Thoughtlessly.  

AAAARGH!  FIRE!  I literally screamed.  Jack ran into the kitchen.

“What’s wrong?  Are you okay?”

“No! AAAARRRGH!  Oh, my GOD.  My eye is on FIRE.  It’s on FIRE!!!!”

I began to rinse my eye with water cupped in my hand, but scooping the water with my habanero-pepper-covered-fingertips felt like I was literally adding fuel to the fire in my eyeball. 

“SALINE.  PLEASE GET MY FREAKING SALINE FROM THE BATHROOM UPSTAIRS!”

I heard footsteps running into the kitchen.

“What is HAPPENING?” Cassie asked. 

I couldn’t catch my breath.  I was crying real tears and hanging my head under the faucet and somewhere deep down, I felt like this must be an overreaction but it didn’t matter care because HOLY CRAP it hurt. 

“I got habanero pepper in my eye,” I wailed.

“Oh.  Is that all? I thought you were dying.”

“I AM DYING,” I shouted. 

“Uh… can I help?”

The phone rang.  She looked at the screen.  My head was still under the faucet.  

“It’s Cal.  Should I answer it?”

 “Yes.  Please.  Answer it,” I whined. 

Just then, Jack returned with the saline.  I washed my hands and doused my eyeball and I washed my hands again.  It was reminiscent of the skunk scent.  No matter how much I washed, the spice lingered. 

“Can you go and pick him up? He’s done with practice.” Cassie relayed the message as my eye continued to swell shut.  

Jack seemed happy to have a mission.  “I’ll get him.”  He grabbed his keys.  I couldn’t tell if he felt bad for me, or if he was just trying not to laugh.  

The fire in my eyeball started to subside.  

Jack returned with Cal.  Lee returned with the dogs.

“Thank you.  You’re a lifesaver,” I said to Lee. “I was starting to get worried.  That took forever, huh?”

“I kept washing them and smelling them and washing them again.  Every time, I could still smell the skunk.  And then I realized…”

“What?”

“It was ME.  The smell was ME.”

In spite of ourselves, the five of us laughed.  We stood in the kitchen, giggling and loading our plates up with Spicy Peanut Chicken and rice and veggies.  

We sat down in the dining room, where the faint, lingering skunk odor was finally dissipating.  It was replaced by the scent of peanuts and peppers.  

Anticipating a delicious, hard-earned meal, I took the first bite.

“Meh,” I said, underwhelmed.

“It’s not bad,” Cal chimed in.

Lee ate white rice and broccoli.  Cassie just ate the broccoli.

Jack looked at my swollen eye, with a little bit of sympathy and a lot of barely disguised amusement. “Maybe this recipe isn’t a keeper. I’m not sure it was worth it.” 

I had to laugh.  Sometimes, you have to laugh so you don’t cry.  But, over the years, I’ve learned that these insane stories are the ones that we’ll still be laughing about in 10 years.  We’ll be sitting around the dining room table, celebrating some holiday or someone’s birthday, and someone will say, “Remember the time that the dogs got skunked and mom burned her eyeball making that terrible chicken?”  

And we will retell the story, full of familiar quips and funny one-liners.  We will laugh together and at each other.  We will revisit this crazy night as part of our shared history; as part of our family’s story.  

For better or for worse, that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? We’re writing our family’s story.  One terrible Tuesday night at a time. 

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Wedding

Jack’s niece got married last night.  We’ve been saving the date for nearly a year.  About two months ago, we started thinking about what everyone would wear.  Last week, we took the kids clothes shopping.  During all this time, we got the typical teenage pushback. 

“Why can’t I just wear jeans?”  

“This shirt is sooo uncomfortable.” 

“Converse ARE nice shoes.” 

But we persevered. Yesterday, everyone had ties and belts and pants that fit.  We got all gussied up and climbed into the minivan for a 40-minute drive to the ceremony. As usual, the kids argued over who sat in the way back and who chose the music.  

We gave them a lecture about appropriate behavior and told them to leave their phones in the car.  They groaned. 

The ceremony was short and sweet, with all the right moments.  A groomsman started off the ceremony with a gag and a great laugh.  Grandpa sang the processional and his voice cracked as his granddaughter walked down the aisle with her father, who was holding it together until that moment, when his eyes welled up. The bride and groom wrote their own vows, and the groom’s sister pronounced them married to a cheer from the crowd.  It was perfect.  And I didn’t have to shoot my kids death glares.  Not even once! 

We were summoned for photos with the new bride and groom, and I got a few shots of our family while we waited.  Our two oldest, Jack’s boys from his first marriage, are grown and flown now.  It’s less and less frequent that everyone is available to get together.  Mark, the oldest, has a steady girlfriend who we all love, and it was sweet to see them all dressed up and making eyes at each other.  Mitch, the next in line, embraces his role as the family clown.  He makes everyone laugh in an entirely open and unself-conscious way.  I admire his dry humor and his openness.  Lee is also coming into his own.  He’s got a unique style and he’s beginning to lose that teenage awkwardness and project confidence instead. Cal has grown in stature, but he still has that puppy-dog goofiness about him.  He’s eager to please, and at 6’1”, he looks like a grown man. Only his enthusiasm and awkwardness give away his age. Cassie still doesn’t know the extended family all that well, so she’s a little bit reserved.  Even still, her sharp sense of humor pokes out every once in a while, and her generosity appears as she offers to grab a soda or hold a sweater as the photos get snapped. She’s a good sport about the whole thing. 

As we entered the reception, I was about to give them another warning about being appropriate and staying off their phones, when I overheard Mitch challenging Lee to a dance battle.   I expected him to get turned down.  I expected Lee to respond with, “I don’t dance, bruh.”  Instead, he started talking smack!  These two went back and forth, trash talking each other and boasting about their moves.  And when the music started, they didn’t disappoint. 

And it wasn’t just Lee and Mitch.  Mark and Cal and even Cassie got out there and that little group owned the dance floor.  It was the exact opposite of what I expected.  I thought they’d sit at their table, trying to sneak glimpses at their phones. I thought that Nana and Papa would have to coerce them into a dance or two with the family.  I thought they’d be shy and self-conscious and withdrawn.  I couldn’t have been more wrong.  They were the first ones out on the dance floor.  They danced with each other, with their cousins, with their great aunts and uncles.  They absolutely cut it up.  Our whole family was laughing and enjoying their enthusiasm, and I had this crazy revelation…  

Our kids are FUN!  

Okay.  Wait.  That sounds awful.  Like I’ve never had fun with the kids.  Of course we’ve had fun.  Watching hockey and football games.  Playing board games or cornhole at cookouts.  Building with Legos.  Watching movies.  Boating and tubing and swimming.  At zoos and amusement parks and beaches. 

But last night was different.  Last night, it wasn’t kid fun, or family friendly fun.  It was just regular, adult fun.  And instead of us entertaining THEM, they were entertaining us.  They’ve ALL got razor sharp wit.  They have an affection for each other that is apparent in the trash talk and the pep talks alike.  They were engaged and engaging and enthusiastic.  

When Mitch stole the cherries from Katie’s drink, Cassie silently got up, went to the bar, and came back with a plastic cup full of maraschino cherries for her new friend.  She’s observant and generous and thoughtful, in a totally understated way. 

Katie has been the designated driver for as long as she and Mark have been together.  This summer, she finally turned 21, so tonight was her turn to drink.  Every time she grabbed Mark’s hand and dragged him onto the dance floor, he shook his head and smiled a little.  And then he danced.  He had fun but stayed sober, knowing it was his turn to make sure she got home safe. 

Mitch sang and gyrated and twerked and flirted with the camera as the photographer zoomed in on him.  He made everyone around him laugh with his easygoing enthusiasm.  His smoothness is effortless and his energy is infectious. 

Cal took his inspiration from Mitch.  He has his older brother’s energy and enthusiasm, but he’s still working on his finesse.  He claimed the dance floor as his own, taking his space with squats and kicks that resembled the workouts that have helped him build his confidence and his physique. 

Lee wore his sunglasses all night, but loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves so he could move freely and still rock his effortlessly cool look.  He bounced and bobbed to the beat, occasionally lifting one hand in the air and jumping like he was at the world’s coolest concert.  His moves matched the music, and I was stunned.  I didn’t know he had that kind of rhythm. 

I got to see a different side of all of these kids last night.  I got this glimpse of their grown-up selves.

Confident.  Responsible.  Respectful.  Enthusiastic.  Cool.  Funny.  Considerate.  Strong.  Connected. 

How incredible is that?