Category: Reflections

I wake up to weird things in the house lately.  These kids stay up later than me now, and the evidence of their nighttime activities leaves me baffled. 

There is a two-gallon insulated Igloo drink cooler on the floor in the bathroom.  Why??? 

A mutilated can of sweetened condensed milk sits in the refrigerator.  Someone obviously couldn’t get the can opener to work, and maybe went at it with a knife?  What were you even planning to do with sweetened condensed milk after midnight?

A blue striped towel, the coloring drained in patches.  It’s been bleached by hair dye and dropped on the bathroom floor. 

A small saucepan on the stove, dried remnants of ramen noodles stuck to the bottom.  

Wrappers.  Wrappers everywhere.  Cheese-stick wrappers.  Lollipop wrappers.  Band-aid wrappers.  I find them in the most random places.  Next to the dog’s bowl.  On the side table.  Behind the toilet.  

There are socks on the dining room floor. A fork under the couch.  Eyelashes on the coffee table. 

Why are my dishwashing gloves in the backyard? 

Guys, these are REAL things! 

What is HAPPENING here??

These little messes annoy me.  But I’m grateful that they didn’t leave a whole sink full of dirty dishes after a night of binge-baking.  It’s been known to happen.  I’m glad that there aren’t snack bags all over my living room, like last week.  I’m grateful that nobody forgot to turn off the oven or blow out a candle or push the freezer door all the way closed.  I’m glad that I didn’t wake up to burned brownies or a newly-pierced nose or a flooded basement because someone overloaded the washing machine.  (All actual, true events.) 

And then I have that moment.  The moment when I remember. In a few short years, they’ll be gone.  There won’t be any messes to wake up to.  There won’t be any 2am giggle fests.  There won’t be any disastrous baking attempts or pink hair dye or midnight ramen.  

It will be so clean.  

And so quiet.  

And so strange.

Oh, God.  I pause.  I say a prayer of gratitude.  I vow, once again, to take in these moments.  To laugh at the absurdity of the bathroom cooler and the backyard gloves and the mutilated can of sweet milk.  To appreciate their curiosity and their fearlessness and their appetites.  To be grateful for the chance to teach them and laugh with them and love them.  

One day very soon, I’m gonna miss this mess.   

It all happened really quickly this time.  I mean… quickly in the way that DCF only moves quickly in an emergency situation. 

But I guess it’s really been brewing for months.  

This particular student isn’t technically MY student (which is actually important because of conflict of interest stuff).  But I know her well.  We have a good relationship.  She stops by my room to chat or to procrastinate or to vent, and she’s really something special.  And I know enough about her situation to know it’s not good.  

Over the past months, I’ve talked about her with Jack.  Each time, he holds up his hand as if to say, “Stop right there.”  And he raises his eyebrows and simply says, “No.” And every time, I’ve agreed with him.  “You’re right.  You’re right.  I know you’re right.” He smiles and hugs me and tells me I don’t have to save everyone.  

And so I wait.  I wait for someone else to step up.  For something to change. For DCF to find a new placement. I pray for this young woman and for her family.  And I listen to her vent and I help her with her homework and I dispense after-school advice to her and her friends.  Until…

*****

Wednesday

First period, she came to my classroom, clearly upset.  She started telling me a little about the situation.  She felt sad.  She felt scared.  She was going to move in two days and miss the last week of school.  I reassured her.  I listened.  She needed a hug, and despite all of the stupid school rules, I wrapped my arms around her and squeezed.  

When she left, I emailed the social worker.  She’s someone I know fairly well; she was in my home once a month for the five years that Bea was with us.  In my email, I said I hadn’t talked to my family and I wasn’t ready to make any commitments … but I wanted to know if this amazing young woman was going to a safe, stable placement. 

 The answer was no. 

And I realized I couldn’t wait anymore.  I hid in the principal’s office while she was out to lunch, because I needed a private place to call my husband.  I told him the situation.  “Can we just do a week?  Let her finish out the school year?” And without hesitation, he replied, “OF COURSE we can do a week.  Of course.”  Pause.  “But you know it’s not going to be a week, right?” I took a deep breath.  He was right.  Of course, I’d thought about that, too.  What would happen after a week?  Once school was over?  How much would change in the next 7 days?  And my amazing husband interrupted my thoughts with, “Just take her. We’ll figure it out.  Just take her.”  I started to cry.  

I thanked God for sending me this deeply GOOD man to be my partner and my rock and my strength.  Together, we talked to the kids, who were also incredible.  Cal’s response was, “As long as I get to keep my bedroom, then it’s fine with me.” Lee said, “I think it’s a good idea. Honestly, mom, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner. I kinda figured this was gonna be a thing we just DO now. ”  And a few hours later, when I checked in again he told me, “Actually, I’m excited.  The house has felt a little empty since Bea left.  I think it’ll be good.” 

So, that afternoon, I re-submitted our DCF paperwork.  It was a pretty quick process, because mostly we were just updating a few dates.  I made an appointment to meet with the social worker the next day.  

*****

Thursday

I was eager to talk to this young woman about what was going on, but the department advised me to wait.  I knew they were right; the thing about child placement is that it can literally change at any minute.  A distant relative could be located.  A cousin could step up.  Our application could be delayed or denied for some random, arbitrary detail or missing piece of information.  I wanted to give her some time to process; I wanted to be able to answer her questions and calm her fears.  But I didn’t want to set her up for disappointment if it wasn’t yet official. 

So we went through the school day, and she began to say her goodbyes. She asked me to sign her yearbook and told all her friends that tomorrow would be her last day.  She’d made a lot of great connections with adults in the building.  She asked a lot of us if we could be friends on Facebook, and when we inevitably said no, she gave us all her personal email address so we could stay in touch.  The whole time, I was praying that all of these goodbyes would be a moot point by the end of the day.  

After school, the social worker visited.  We asked about each other’s families and marveled at how much the kids have grown.  She asked about Bea and we gave her the update.  We went through the formalities.  She took out her tape measure and noted the dimensions of the bedroom.  She tested our smoke detectors and asked where we keep our medications.  She gave us a brief outline of the family history and told us that we should be approved as an emergency placement by the end of the day.  The visit ended at 4pm. 

By 5 o’clock, we had official confirmation.  But this young lady still didn’t know.  She was out with friends.  She should be home by 8, and the social worker planned to tell her then.  In less than 12 hours, she would leave her current home and she still didn’t even know where she’d be going. 

At 8:15, the social worker texted me.  “She’s been told. She has your number, and she’s going to reach out.”  

And about two minutes later, I got a text that just said, “Hi.”

After a few quick texts, I called her.  She was in shock and still processing.  We talked a little and I told her the way it all played out from my point of view.  I told her we’re excited to have her.  I told her to try to get some sleep. 

I was awake all night. 

*****

Friday

In the morning, her foster mother and the guidance counselor loaded her belongings into my minivan.  She would leave with me in the afternoon.  

We hadn’t seen each other since this decision was made.  I caught her eye in the hallway, but there were students everywhere.  It was not the right time to chat.  We both kept moving in opposite directions.  

During first period, she was in French class.  She got a pass to go to guidance, and we finally connected.  I asked her if she was okay.  She said yes.  I ask her if she was anxious.  She said no.  I asked her, “On a scale of 1-10, how weird is it that you’ll be living with a teacher?”  She smiled, shrugged, and said, “Like a 2.  Well, if it were Mr. Kensey or something it’d be like a 20.  But it’s you.  So… yeah.  Two.”  I laughed out loud.  

We were a little awkward with each other during the day, but in a sweet, playful sort of way.  We were both a little nervous. We were both hoping for the best. 

When the final bell rang, she appeared at my classroom door.  We chatted while I cleaned up my room and packed a few things.  We waited for the hallways to clear out, and then we went to gather a few of her things from the guidance office.  The teachers had started a little collection for her.  There was a gift basket with gift cards to Target and Home Goods, a few small trinkets, and a book of well-wishes. 

This kid is so loved.  I hope she felt it.  

Before we even went home, we went shopping.  We got throw pillows and soft bedding and a bunch of toiletries. We bought a couple of new outfits and some new socks.  She lit up when I said she could buy LED lights for her bedroom.  She was grateful and enthusiastic and adorable.  

*****

That first weekend, I barely recognized her.  She was quiet and timid and supremely agreeable; a far cry from the sassy, outgoing, outspoken student I had come to know.   She was still getting her footing.  She took photos of her new room to send to her friends and family.  The little dog slept at the foot of her bed. We binge watched Stranger Things and made some of her favorite foods and just got to know one another.  

*****

It’s been ten days now.  She’s settling in.  

Last night, I was reading in my bedroom.  She and Lee and two dogs were sprawled across the carpet, making jokes and outrageous requests and belly laughing.  

This weekend, she jumped right in on family game night and joined me for grocery shopping and she and Lee are already plotting to convince us to get a new pet.  

I know we’re in a honeymoon period.  No parenting is easy, and foster parenting has so many complicated layers.  Maybe that’s the reason WHY these beautiful, easy moments feel so incredibly special.  

We’ve got the whole summer ahead of us.  We’ve got time to get to know each other, to establish routines, to have adventures.  I’ve got the next few months to spend quality time with Lee before he gets his license and takes that next step toward independence and adulthood. 

I’ve got the next few months to connect with these kids.

To make memories. 

To make mistakes. 

To learn lessons. 

I’m not going to pray and wait for it to get easier.  I’m not going to leave the work to someone else.  My life is always more bold and more beautiful when I say yes to the hard things.  When I get in there and get my hands dirty and let my heart get a little bruised. Bring it on. 

In the center of our downtown area, there is a rotary.  The island in the middle showcases a Vietnam War memorial and beautiful landscaping, as well as crosswalks that help usher pedestrians across this busy intersection. 

Community groups often gather in this space, holding signs to promote their favored cause or candidate, and no permit is required to do so.  

Yesterday was my first event in the rotary.  I am a member of a Pride Allies group in town, and we organized and LGBTQ+ Pride Rally, inviting members of the community to gather in support.  I packed up my collection of Pride Flags, a bulk-sized box of skittles, and a cooler full of water.  We had rainbow stickers and markers and poster board for anyone who didn’t bring a sign. We were ready.  

*****

A slightly awkward preteen boy pulled up on his bicycle.  I greeted him, asking if he was part of the local middle school GSA.  “No.  I go to a different school.  I was just going to the store and I saw you here, so I decided to come back for a while.”  He stayed for three hours.  

*****

A little old lady, wearing wrap-around sunglasses and struggling to see over her steering wheel, smiled at us and waved as she puttered around the circle at about 7 miles per hour.  

*****

A large man in a mid-sized sedan drove through a little too fast.  He saw my sons standing with their signs and their flags, leaned halfway out his window, and bellowed, “FAGGOTS” before he flipped them off.  

 *****

A bald man in a grocery delivery truck shouted, “Happy Pride! Keep it up!” and send out two short blasts of his truck’s startling horn. 

*****

A twenty-something woman with spiky pink hair leaned a bit out her window and shouted, “GO QUEERS!” while pumping her fist and honking her horn. 

*****

A family of four drove by with their windows down.  A preschooler in her car seat shouted, “Happy Pride!” out the window.  The rest of the family was silent.  

*****

A middle-aged woman in a white SUV drove almost all the way through the rotary before shouting, “I LOVE MY WHITE HUSBAND” and speeding away.  

*****

A woman in her fifties, driving a Subaru with a co-exist bumper sticker, shouted “Thank you!” as she drove past.  

*****

A bald man in a pickup with an NRA logo in the window smiled and gave us a thumbs-up. 

*****

On more than one occasion, we were pleasantly surprised.  Our own stereotypes were shattered by the tradesman and truckers who threw us a thumbs-up or blared their horns.  

*****

There is research that tells us that simply having a GSA (formerly ‘gay-straight alliance’, now updated to mean ‘gender-sexuality alliance’) in a middle or high school reduces suicide rates.  That’s even if students don’t ATTEND the GSA.  Having it in place and visible speaks to the culture of the building.  It lets students who often feel ostracized and alone know that they do have support. 

If that’s true in a school, imagine how much MORE powerful it is in our communities.  

I won’t lie; the negative responses stuck like barbs.  They pissed me off.  But the honks and waves and cheers of support outnumbered the negatives by a hundred to one. 

A whole group of kids left that rally feeling a little more seen and a whole lot more supported.  They had a chance to hear the nasty comments and then build their resilience with the backing of a hundred honks and cheers.  

I’m going to call that a good day.  

There is a stretch of I84 in New York, just before you hit the Taconic Parkway.  At first, you catch a glimpse of the mountains through the trees on your right.  Every time I pass that place, my heart skips a beat.  I know what’s coming.  

A few moments later, you round a slight left turn at the crest of the hill and the whole of the Hudson Valley spreads out in front of you.  You can’t see the river just yet, but you see the hills and mountains in the distance, and my heart whispers home every time I see it. 

I never thought much about the landscape of where I grew up.  It was background to the more important things.  The piano lessons and soccer games and bonfires.  The boyfriends and pool parties and teenage drama. 

But now it speaks to my soul.  I feel the ache in my chest.  I love it and I hate it, too. 

*****

My parents split up for a few months when I was in first or second grade.  At the time they had two kids.  Maybe it seemed like easy math. They each took one.  

I was the obvious choice to stay with my mom.  After all, Frank wasn’t even my Dad.  Well, he wasn’t my biological father, anyway.  I didn’t BELONG with him. 

And Dad took my little sister, Justine.  They moved two hours away to stay with my Aunt outside of Albany.  

I tell you this because, during their eventual divorce some 15 years later, we split up the same way.  Like our bodies remembered where we BELONGED.  

Justine belongs to Dad.  And I belong to Mom.  It’s been that way for as long as I can remember.  

*****

There is muscle memory that kicks in as I drive the route to my childhood home.  I notice the things that are the same.  I note the countless ways that things have changed.  I remember my elementary school bus stops as I drive past.  Marlena lived there.  Missy lived there.  That was Chris’ grandparent’s house.  I wonder who has moved on and who is still here.  

I pull into the driveway.  I know to park on the grass.  Dad’s pet peeve has always been people who don’t know how to park.  We had a double-wide driveway and I could see the steam coming out of his ears when my teenage friends parked smack dab in the middle of it, so nobody else could get by. 

The house is a different color now.  The fence is gone.  The pool has been replaced by a hot tub.  They’re lovely changes.  But they still strike me.  There’s a dissonance.  This place is home.  This place is foreign. 

*****

When I graduated from High School, my parents threw a massive party.  I think there were a hundred people in our backyard.  My friends were playing chicken in the pool.  My family sat around in folding chairs, eating homemade meatballs and talking about how fast the children grow.  Dad started a bonfire in the barrel out back, and my friends and I cheered as we threw in our notebooks and binders to be devoured by the flames.  All of Dad’s family came, pinching my cheeks and handing me envelopes and congratulating me as if I were one of their own.  

*****

I wander into the backyard with my cooler and my bags and my gifts.  I’m greeted with hugs and “Let me carry that” and “How was the ride?”  It is lovely.  I head upstairs to the bathroom.  Most everything about the house has changed, but the bones haven’t.  It’s weird how the eight steps to the second floor remain the same but feel so different under my feet.  The stairs feel smaller and the bathroom feels larger and I look at the tub and wonder how my sister and I ever fit in there together.  

*****

One time, when we were small, my mom found a booger on the bathroom wall.  Yeah.  You read that right.  Someone was in the bathtub and picked a boogie and just… wiped it there.  

Mom was grossed out.  She yelled at my little sister.  It MUST have been her.  I was too old and too smart and too clean to do something that gross.  I stood in the bathroom doorway, wrapped in my towel. I listened to my mom yell and I watched my little sister’s eyes go wide as she insisted, “It wasn’t me!”  

It took me far too long.  My mom was still yelling.  I didn’t want to get involved.  But then I saw the tears welling in my sister’s eyes. 

“It was me, Mom.”  

“What? It was YOU?” she was shocked.  Indignant.  I braced myself for the tirade.  She took a deep breath.  She looked at my sister.  She looked at me.  Back at my sister.  I can’t remember if she apologized.  I do know that she looked at me, still seething a little, and said, “Thank you for telling me.  Thank you for being honest.  Now go clean it up.”  

She never yelled at me. 

*****

Today is my sister’s baby shower.  I brought some appetizers and a salad.  I worked for hours yesterday threading tomatoes and olives and cheese and salami on skewers.  They were pretty and I was proud.  

I made sure that everything was prepped in my cooler so I wouldn’t take up too much space in the kitchen. I prefer to stay out of the way, to stay in the background.  I’m unsure of my footing and I don’t want to stumble in front of everyone.  My sister set out my fancy antipasto appetizer kebabs on my new serving tray while I placed the curved shrimp along the edge of a fancy glass dish.  We worked side by side at the dining room table. 

*****

My mom had been dreaming of that table for years.  When it finally appeared in our dining room, her face lit up as if she had finally ARRIVED.  It wasn’t a hand-me down.  It wasn’t disposable particleboard furniture.  It was a solid, oak dining set, with leaves and a chair to match.  It seats 12 with lots of room and maybe 16 when we squished.  She was so proud to host holidays at that table.  For the first few years, she covered it with a clear, plastic tablecloth, so we could protect the surface but still see the beautiful wood finish.  She loved that stupid table.  He got it in the divorce. 

*****

We sit and chat, the women talking motherhood around one table, the men talking sports around another.  The kids play on the swingset and run around the yard.  My sister is glowing.  She’s beautiful and nervous and gorgeous, in that way that only very pregnant women can be.  She doesn’t realize yet what a miracle she is because she’s a first time mom and she only feels bloated and sweaty.  But I know better now.  I’m in awe of her.  

The weather is beautiful.  I packed sunscreen but I don’t need it because we sit in the shade of an oak tree that covers half of the yard now.  The kids climb that tree and sit on the lowest branches, swinging their legs and eating snacks.  

*****

We planted that tree together.  I don’t remember who was there, and I’m not sure how old I was.  But I know that the tree was small enough (and I was small enough) that I could sit on my Dad’s shoulders and reach the top of it.  When we put it in the ground, we imagined the day that it would be big enough for our children to climb in the branches.  

*****

The afternoon is lovely.  The food is delicious, and the conversation flows easily.  Stories get told and repeated.  I’m listening to one about my aunt.  Elizabeth pipes in.  “Is this the hair dye story?”  She smiles and laughs.  “We’ve heard that one before.”  I haven’t.  I laugh anyway, as if I’m in on the joke. 

Elizabeth opens her gifts, and we all ooh and aah over tiny baby clothes and blankets.  It is a celebration.  A joyful one. 

I overhear snippets of a conversation.  Someone says that Dad must be excited for his first grandson, after all these girls.  I have four boys.  I don’t speak up, and I feel as if I’m betraying my children.  I feel as if I have been betrayed.  I smile anyway. 

*****

Growing up, my dad washed the dinner dishes, and I dried.  I’m not sure how that came to be the rule. It was a sort of unspoken agreement.  The little kids cleared the table and swept the floor.  They finished pretty quickly, and then it was just me and my Dad.  Doing the dishes.  Sometimes we talked.  Mostly we didn’t.  We just worked there, side by side, every night.  We were a good team.  I remember the day that I noticed that I wasn’t looking up to him anymore.  We were eye to eye.  It felt like a milestone.  

*****

As we clean up, I end up drying dishes next to my Dad.  Right back in my old spot.  I say something.  “Wow.  We haven’t done this in a while.”  He smiled and nodded.  “I was just thinking the same thing.”  And mostly, we keep working in silence.  It is a weird, ordinary, beautiful moment.  

My dad pulls out cardboard takeout containers and insists that I pack up some leftovers.  He knows how teenage boys eat, and this is good stuff.  Over the years, I’ve come to understand that Dad has two concrete ways of loving.  He will fix your stuff and he will feed you.  For two decades, I’ve been too far away for him to love me in the ways he knows best.  We’re only just starting to figure out alternatives.  But for today, I am happy to accept his love and his penne a la vodka. 

*****

The baby shower is wrapping up.  A few people have already left.  Normally, as the sister of the guest of honor, I’d stay until the bitter end, cleaning up and making small talk.  But because I’m home so infrequently, I decide to bow out a little on the early side.  I have something important to do. 

I leave the baby shower and head toward Sarah’s mom’s house.  I haven’t been there in 20 years.  I asked for the address, but later realized that I didn’t need it.  My body remembered the way.  

*****

It was July of 2020.  A friend from high school text-shared an article from my hometown newspaper.  At first I was confused.  It was about a house fire.  Heartbreaking.  Tragic.  The daughter survived, but a little boy and his dad lost their lives.  I didn’t make the connection.  I didn’t recognize the last name.  I texted a question mark.  She replied, “That’s Sarah’s family.  Sarah’s ex.  Sarah’s son.”  I couldn’t catch my breath.  I couldn’t see through the tears.  

I didn’t know if they’d let us in to the funeral.  COVID and all.  The rules were unfamiliar.   Family only.  Masks.  Six feet apart.  I drove there anyway.  I’d stand outside if we weren’t allowed in.  I just needed to be there.  I didn’t know what else to do. 

 *****

In our friend group, Sarah was the solid one.  She was strong and spirited; just a little more mature, just a little more aware than the rest of us.  She had a wild streak, but I never saw her lose control.  She had an easy smile and an infectious laugh.  So, in eighth grade, when she asked me if I wanted to skip gym class and walk to the high school with her, I jumped on the chance.  The high schoolers had a half-day and she had a chance to kiss her boyfriend before he got on his bus. We thought it was a quick walk, in that way of children who can’t accurately estimate time and distance.  Surely, we’d be back before lunch.  We had old-school Swatch watches, and as we began to realize the walk was longer than we thought, we picked up the pace.  We ran, full-tilt, through the nearby backyards.  One old lady shouted at us from her porch, baffled.  We arrived, out of breath, and just in time.  I hid beneath the bleachers while she found the guy and kissed him goodbye.  But he was just a side note to this story.  I don’t even remember his name.    

When we finally made it back to the middle school, three class periods later, we were sure we’d be caught.  We braced for the punishment.  But miraculously, we arrived between classes.  We snuck in through the gym door.  Nobody ever knew we were gone.  The first time we told that story, we were 13.  Through the decades that followed, we retold it countless times, always to an audience who found it far less amusing than we did.  That memory brought us belly laughs well into our adulthood.   

 *****

Of course, the funeral was heartbreaking.  I sat there, unable to hold back the tears for a child I barely knew. I cried for that spirited, optimistic, thirteen year old girl; the one I could still see so vividly running through strangers’ backyards; the one who could never have known that her path would be interrupted by such a tragic turn.  I watched her and I continued to be in awe of her.  She was still standing.  She was still full of grace and gratitude, with grief settling in to the empty spaces.  I realized that when people say they couldn’t go on without their kids, they’re full of hubris and ignorance.  Of course you think you can’t.  But you do.  It is your only option.  My friend stood there, supporting her daughter and holding on to her family and mourning her loss in the arms of the people who love her.  Is it heartless to say it was beautiful?

*****

Maybe my body remembered the way to the house, but my brain blocked out the route.  I forgot that I would drive right by.  Right by the spot where we stood, nearly two years ago, staring at the charred remains of a house, placing down flowers and saying futile prayers. Crying in each others’ arms.  

My breath hitched as I took the turn.  I couldn’t hold back the tears.  It’s not even my tragedy.  It’s not my pain.  And still, I hope that by holding it a little, I can lighten it for her.  

*****

I pull in right behind her; she waves a polite wave, as you do in this part of the world.  I’m halfway down the driveway before she realizes it is me.  Her eyes light up, and that familiar, infectious smile spreads across her face. “What are you DOING here?” she asks. 

“Surprise?” I say, a little meekly, because I’m not sure this is my place and I have shown up anyway.  “Kate said she was coming to meet the baby.  I hope you don’t mind that I crashed.”  She wraps me in a hug and I am humbled and honored to be part of this moment with her. 

In the two years since I last witnessed her grief and grace, she has become even more beautiful.  Her baby is only two weeks old, and she has the glow of a new mom.  But there is something more.  There is a calm, a peace, a gratitude… she exudes something that I can’t quite explain.  Her pain has given her a depth that I can only admire, because I don’t have the words to describe it.  

*****

Of course, the baby is beautiful.  Her older daughter plays the piano and presses me for embarrassing stories about her mom in middle school.   I politely decline.  There are laughs and baby cries and exasperated teenaged eye-rolls and it is all so incredibly, mundanely beautiful.  

*****

As I climb back into the driver’s seat, I check my phone to see how long my return trip will take.  The service that far out in the country is unreliable. When Google asks for my destination, I push the button for ‘home.’  After a long wait, my phone declares, “Can’t find a way there.”  

How appropriate.  

***** 

Visiting my childhood home is hard.  I don’t know if it’s hard like this for everyone.  It’s not bad.  It’s just exhausting.  It brings up so many memories, so many feelings, so many long-forgotten moments. 

It’s a three-hour drive home, and I need it.  I need the time to think and process and unwind and regroup.  

Maybe I don’t have a horrible memory, like I’ve always told myself.  Maybe I’ve just spent most of my adult life away from the people and things that will spark recollection.  

What is it about this place?  Home.  Can I still call it that?  It rips my heart out and then, in an instant, fills it with joy.  This place is beautiful.  It is brutal.  Brutiful, as Glennon Doyle would say.  

But maybe I’m thinking about it all wrong.  Maybe it isn’t this place.  Maybe it isn’t the ‘going home’ that is brutiful.  

I think… maybe it is just LIFE that is brutiful.  

Beautiful things happen.  Horrible things happen.  And we continue to put one foot in front of the other.  We visit friends and go to work and hug our kids and celebrate all of the joys that we can. 

Fully living means showing up for the hard things and the easy things and all the things in between.  It is beautiful.  It is brutal.  

And I am grateful for it. 

“So, how do you define family?” a friend asked me, as a group of us warmed ourselves by the fire pit.  The air was crisp and the conversation had gotten deep. 

I had just shared a little of my story; how I am an only child with ten siblings, and a parent to five kids with three different moms.  

It seemed like it should be an easy question to answer.  It seemed odd to me that I had never asked myself before.  And yet… I couldn’t come up with a response.  

*****

A few days later, I asked my 15 year old.  “How would you define family?” 

“People who share your DNA,” was his prompt response.   

I pushed back. “Well, by that definition, Bea isn’t our family.  Grandpa Frank wouldn’t count as family.  Your dad wouldn’t be MY family.”

He revised his answer, “Okay, well… how about people you live with?”  

“If that’s your definition, then your brothers aren’t your family.  Aunt Sarah and Uncle Brandon aren’t my family.  My dad isn’t my family. I feel like that doesn’t fit, either.” 

He sighed his exasperated teenaged sigh, “Jeez, mom.  I don’t know.  I’m only fifteen.”  Dramatic pause.  Shrug.  Smirk.  “I actually don’t know much.”  Aaah.  A rare admission of truth. I laughed. 

And then I continued contemplating.  What’s family?  What does it mean to be family?  

*****

Something else has happened recently.  Bea isn’t talking to me.  She’s in her first semester away at college and she won’t return my calls or texts.  I send care packages and get no response.  She’s removed herself from my cellphone plan and hasn’t answered about her plans for Thanksgiving.

It’s breaking my heart. 

*****

And all of that has me thinking about family.  I think of Bea as MY family, but maybe she doesn’t think of me as hers.  

That realization brings me back to my childhood.  My father met his third wife when I was eleven or so.  She had five daughters, which was awesome.  That summer, when my dad went to work, I spent my days with them.  We rode our bikes around the neighborhood, built forts in the living room, and set a fire in the kitchen (that’s a whole other blog post).   We swam in the community pool and played flashlight tag after dark.  The oldest two girls were right around my age.  We became fast friends.  

Eventually, my dad and his wife bought a house together.  They wanted this new house to feel like home to everyone, so I had a bedroom.  It was shared with my stepsister, but it was billed as “our room.”  There was a full sized bed for us to share, and I had my own spot for stuff in the closet. It was a conscious attempt at blending a family, and it felt really nice.  I already liked these girls a lot, and I couldn’t wait to be part of the family.  

It took me far too long to realize that you can’t just make yourself part of someone else’s family.  You can’t show up a few weekends a year and expect to be a sister.  It didn’t matter how much I wanted it.  They had each other 365 days a year.  They had me for maybe 15.  They had their inside jokes and their mutual friends and no matter how hard I tried to fit in, I would always be a visitor there.  

*****

But there was the opposite, too.  My mom and my stepdad got married when I was about four.  I don’t really remember a time before they were together.  When my three younger sisters were born, I never thought of them as my half-sisters.  They were just my sisters.  And Frank was just my dad.  We were a pretty typical family. I was never treated differently.  Dad just had four daughters.   

And in that home, where I lived most of the time, where I knew I was part of it all and accepted and loved… I still never quite fit in.  

I was the only kid who left for long weekends to go see my other dad.  I had to deal with divorce drama that my sisters didn’t understand.  I was the timid one; the neat freak who loved country music and shied away from conflict. I was (and still am) just a little more different from them than they are from each other. 

I have another half-sister, too.  Sarah is nearly a decade younger than me.  Her mom is my dad’s second wife.  Mostly, she grew up with her mom and I grew up with mine.  As kids, we would see each other a couple weekends a year.   Our age gap and our infrequent contact had kept us from really getting to know each other until we were grown.  

And when we started to spend more time together, I realized that this sisterhood was different.  The first time we hung out at the kind of local dive bar that we both love, we ran the pool table against opponents who were obviously surprised that a couple of girls could beat them.  We discovered that we love the same music. We have the same mannerisms.  We like the same food and laugh at the same jokes.  We communicate in the same way.  We both like the rush of riding a motorcycle, but hate the spin of a merry go round.  It was strange to think that I had spent so little time with this sister who was so much like me.  

Genetics are a powerful thing.   

*****

So I circle back.  What is family?  I still don’t know.  I can’t define it.  And if I can’t define it for me, I sure as hell can’t define it for anyone else.  

That’s really hard right now.  I want Bea to PICK ME as part of her family.  But I can’t control that.  I don’t get to say I’m her family and have it be so, just like I couldn’t just become a sister all those years ago.  

All families are complicated.  Mixed and blended families are just another version of complicated.  Attachment, love, loyalty, shared history, genetics, traditions… these things weave us together, and we become entangled.  

Maybe that’s what family is.  Maybe if you spend too much time trying to untangle it, to sort it our or define it or fix it… maybe you’re missing the point. Maybe the beauty lies in the messy, complicated, undefined nature of it.  

That leaves me without a definition.  Instead, I have a plan.  I’m going to stop overthinking it.  I’m going to stop trying to define it and control it.  

Because no matter how you define it, family is a blessing.  Today, I am choosing to just be grateful for it.  

Earlier this week, I was walking around a little lake here in town near the football field where my son was practicing.  I was admiring the foliage and listening to a podcast and stopping every so often to take photos.  At one point, I realized I was smiling.  It was a spontaneous, content, all-by-myself smile.  It struck me as strange.  And sweet. 

It happened again making dinner.  I was listening to music and chopping vegetables and when I felt the corners of my mouth turn up, I didn’t even really know why.  There was just a contentment, a pleasure, a calmness that came over me.  And I smiled, all alone in the kitchen.  

I recently got a new mug.  It’s colorful and textured, and when I sip my coffee in the morning, I love the feel of the grooves under my fingertips.  I love the sound of my fingers against the ceramic.  Somehow, this mug makes me slow down and appreciate my coffee even more. 

The pace of my life is slowing down.  Some of it is work related, for sure.  Compared to the past two frantic school years, this one seems nearly normal.  I’m not reinventing everything.  I can pull from my old files and I can experiment with new activities and I can take a few moments to laugh and joke with my students without worrying about falling further behind.   My own kids are older now, and I can stay a little late to make copies and plan lessons without panicking about child care.  

And sending Bea off to college has certainly made a difference. There’s one less schedule to track and one less mouth to feed.  Of course, I still worry, but it’s less immediate.  I worry about whether she’s making friends and getting her work done and having fun… not when she’s coming home or if she has laundry to do or if she made it safely to her friend’s house.  

The two remaining teens spend most of their time in their rooms or out with friends.  The living room will stay clean for days, with the exception of accumulating dog hair.  Their messes haven’t disappeared; they’re just contained behind closed doors and cloaked in loud music.  Every so often, I yell about the clothes they need to wash, or the stack of dishes on a nightstand.  But I don’t spend my evenings cleaning up after them.  

This year, I’m determined to help them develop a few skills; cooking being on top of my list at the moment.  So they add to my grocery list, and every Tuesday, Lee is in charge of dinner.  On Wednesdays, it’s Cal.  Thursdays belong to my husband.  So my cooking responsibilities have been cut in half.  Which is great, because my driving responsibilities and my church responsibilities have multiplied.  

I’m keeping busy, for sure.  But it just feels different.  I drive my son to football practice, but because someone else is cooking dinner, I can stay and walk around the lake.  I’m hosting and attending church meetings, but I can sit in my upstairs office and sip my tea while I zoom in.  

Mornings used to be frantic.  There was rushing and yelling and missing shoes and barking dogs and I was the only one bearing the weight of the responsibility, because Jack would already be at work.  Now, Lee takes care of the dogs and gets ready quickly, because he knows he might get a ride and breakfast from Dunkin Donuts, if he’s early enough.  Cal gets up as we leave, and he walks to school, so there’s no worry about catching a bus if he’s running a few minutes late.  

I’m cherishing those rides to school with Lee.  I order breakfast on my Dunkin app, and he runs in to grab his bagel and my coffee.  The ride to school is about 15 minutes long, and I’ve learned more about him and his friends and his life in those short rides than in all of our dinner table conversations combined.  Bea leaving has been a reminder of how precious those moments are.  Soon, he’ll be driving himself, and those rides will be a sweet memory.  

I’m trying to be more mindful of those moments when they happen.  I’m trying to be more mindful overall, I guess.  And now, I have the time to do it.  For years, I would try to meditate, or get an exercise schedule going, or just find the time to slow down a little.  I thought something must be wrong with me because I felt so frantic all the time. 

But there was nothing wrong with me.  I was just in the thick of it.  In the thick of parenting young children and building a home and building a life and taking care of all the things that no one else could.  

I feel like this particular season is a well-earned respite.  I have managed to help those small children become young people who are helpful and self-reliant and capable.  They can care for their pets and do their own laundry and arrange their own social lives.  They can cook a few meals and at least one has demonstrated the ability to acquire employment.  For sure, there is a lot of work left to do.  After all, someone still has to teach them the difference between the nightstand and the sink.

We arrived at our vacation rental in the evening, and we were finally ready for bed around midnight.  We had spent some time getting familiar with our new surroundings, but I still wasn’t sure what supplies were provided and where they were stored.  I noticed that the toilet paper roll was almost empty.  But there was no replacement roll in the bathroom.  Maybe I could find one in the basement.  Or the pantry. But I was too tired to look.  I noticed the box of tissues that would be my backup plan, mentally put ‘toilet paper’ on my shopping list, and climbed into bed. 

In the morning, I stumbled into the bathroom, bleary-eyed, remembering a little too late that I needed to look for another roll.  I looked to the left, expecting an empty cardboard tube… or maybe a single square.  And there, mounted on the wall, was a brand new roll of toilet paper.  The old one was in the trash can, a few feet away.  I walked into the kitchen and thanked Jack for replacing it. “Where did you find the extra toilet paper?”  He looked at me blankly.  

It dawned on me slowly.  It wasn’t him.  It had to have been… a TEENAGE BOY?  One of my offspring took that initiative?  Looked in ANOTHER ROOM for a replacement?  When there was a box of tissues right there in the bathroom?  PRAISE JESUS.  

*****

In the morning, we grabbed a few bottles of water and slipped into our bathing suits. We were on the boat by 9am.  Nobody complained about the early wake-up as we pulled away from the dock.  I sat in my favorite seat in the bow of the boat.  Lee took the coveted spot next to me.  As we skimmed over the water, I glanced to my left.  His eyes were closed.  His hair was blowing in the wind.  The smile plastered on his face reminded me of afternoons at the playground; him pumping harder on the swings to see if he could get his toes to touch the trees.  God, I love that smile. 

This kid has been practicing the art of surliness for over a year.  He’s a master.  But every once in a while, he forgets that he’s trying to project coolness and misery.   I was busy cherishing that moment, when Jack decided he wanted to play.  He increased the speed and took a hard left.  This boat can practically do donuts in the water, and he was testing its limits.  Lee’s eyes popped wide open.  He glanced at me, wide-eyed.  But that look wasn’t fear.  It was pure joy.  He held on to the nearest handle, and his smile was replaced by the biggest grin I had ever seen.  He laughed out loud, and when the boat straightened out again, I could hear him singing along to the radio.  Bliss. 

*****

Jack and I wanted to do another cruise after lunch.  The kids wanted to hang back and watch a movie and make root beer floats.  So they stayed behind.  The adults threw a few drinks in the cooler and pushed away from the dock.  We putted around and admired the houses on the shoreline. We found the party cove and did some people watching.  The dark clouds started rolling in, and Jack opened up the throttle.  When we hit a wave and went airborne for a moment, I squealed with delight, like a little kid on an amusement park ride.  We docked the boat as the first raindrops started to fall. 

When we got back to the cabin, I hung my towel in the bathroom.  Right next to… wait.  What was that?  On the towel rod?  Lee’s bathing suit?  He remembered to hang it up?  Oh, my goodness.  After all these years.  It’s finally sunk in!  I smiled, congratulating myself that this kid might someday be a functioning adult.  

I checked in with Cal.  “Where’s your bathing suit?”  I fully expected to find it on the floor.  He looked up from his iPad, quizzically.  “Ummm… it’s in the laundry.  I did a load while you were gone.”  WHO ARE THESE CHILDREN?  

*****

But really, who are they?  It’s not a ridiculous question.  They’re growing and changing so fast.  Sometimes I notice Lee’s dry humor and perfect comedic timing and I think back to bungled punch lines and bad knock-knock jokes.  Or Cam offers to carry the groceries and I remember carrying all the bags AND him on my hip as I climbed the stairs to our old apartment. 

But the daily grind is a constant distraction.  At home, I remind them to do their laundry and walk the dogs and take their medicine.  I drive them to the mall and to football practice and to their friends’ houses.  I serve them dinner at the dining room table and they groan because I won’t just let them eat in their bedrooms.  They ask me for money and I dole out chores and more often than not, I forget to notice who they’re becoming. 

*****

So far, this vacation has been exactly what we all need.  With only one screen to look at, we all crowd together in the small living room.  The kids want to watch a horror movie.  I hate scary movies.  We tease each other back and forth for a bit, but they actually ask good questions.  They want to know what scares me. Psychological thriller type stuff freaks me out.  I can’t handle zombies or humanoid alien creatures.  I hate creepy-ness.  Dolls that come to life.  Child murderers.  You get the picture.  But I can handle suspense.  I can close my eyes for the gore.  So they choose something gory and suspenseful, and I agree to give it a try.  They agree to turn it off if I hate it.  

As it turns out, I didn’t hate it.  And I learned a few things I might not have otherwise noticed.  Lee gives a great teaser without sharing spoilers. He is stoic and observant and also incredibly funny.  He doesn’t mind the scary parts, but he warns me to close my eyes during the sex scenes.  Cal notices everything and asks really good questions.  He closes his eyes for the gory parts.  He wants to be fearless, but after the movie, he asks me to watch a little bit of a Disney cartoon “to get those images out of my head” and then he sleeps with the light on.  

*****

Our summertime vacations usually consist of camping trips with a group of friends.  Or a borrowed lake house with a few other families.  Or trips to visit family out of state.  Renting a place for just us is a new luxury.  Prompted by Covid and financed by newly terminated child support payments, it feels like a hard-earned reward.  I’m realizing that a vacation feels different when it’s just our little family.  

Don’t get me wrong.  I love those crazy, huge get-togethers with family and friends.  I love the loud, raucous camping trips and cramming too many people on a pontoon boat.  I love the late night laughter and guitars around a fire pit.  

But this year, the pace of this small family vacation feels just right.  Three of our five kids are technically adults, and I’m realizing that the clock is ticking on the time that I have with these last two. I’m grateful for the chance to peek in on them as they sleep in.  To hear their laughter on the water.  To sit quietly by the dock or roast marshmallows in the fire pit.  To watch stupid slasher movies and play cards and notice who they’re becoming.  

Because I won’t have unlimited chances, and I won’t get this time back.  Someday, they’ll be ignoring my texts from their own apartments.  They’ll be paying their own bills and managing their own schedules and securing their own transportation.  They’ll be hanging up their wet clothes and replacing the toilet paper roll and doing their laundry, and I won’t even be there to notice. 

And I want that for them.  OF COURSE I do.  After all, isn’t that the point? And I can just pray that I am able to keep knowing them… to keep learning about who they will become. 

Starting today.