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Mom

Mom is recovering.  It’s been two weeks since the surgery, and she’s doing really great.  She’s been really active.  The chemo exhausted her, and now that it’s over, she’s regaining her stamina.  My sister was here and they went out to eat and did some shopping.  The three of us even went for a short walk near the reservoir in town.  Now that school is out for me, we’ve been able to go thrifting and plant flowers and play games; today she’s coming with me to an awards ceremony at Cam’s school. 

But yesterday, I left her home all day; her only company was an antisocial young adult who likely spent most of the day in his basement bedroom.  I’m glad he was here in case she needed help, but I’m sure he didn’t provide her with any company or entertainment.  

The rest of us were at an all-day rugby tournament.  We were anticipating temperatures in the 90s and we knew from experience that we’d be out of the house for 10-12 hours. The tournament was out of state, nearly two hours away, so bringing mom for part of the day wasn’t a feasible option. We decided that it would be best for her to stay home. 

I feel badly because, in hindsight, I think we made the wrong choice.  The tournament was oceanside in Newport, Rhode Island.  The scenery was gorgeous, and a continuous ocean breeze made the temperature just perfect.  We sat in the shade of our canopy, cheering on our team, eating sandwiches, and chatting with other families.  In between games, I walked down to the water and put my feet in the ocean, or strolled down near the pier and watched the sailboats go by.  It was an absolutely beautiful day.  On the way home, we stopped for dinner at a pub we like, and it was great not to have to worry about cooking or cleanup.  

What I did worry about was Mom.  She mostly watched YouTube all day.  She watered the plants and put in a load of laundry (which she isn’t supposed to be doing).  She says she was fine, but it doesn’t help me feel less guilty about having such a lovely day while she was home watching TV. 

That’s actually been one of the hardest parts about having her here.  She doesn’t need much physical care, and she tries hard to be helpful.  She does the dishes and cooks and takes care of the dogs… but we all go off to work and school each morning, so she’s spent most of her days alone with our aging black lab.  They’re best buddies now, but I imagine they’re both a bit bored most of the time. 

When Mom came to stay with us, I was worried about a bunch of potential conflicts.  I was afraid that she’d judge my parenting and offer unsolicited advice.  I was afraid that she’d be too sick or weak to use the stairs and we’d have to set up a hospital bed in the living room.  I was afraid that she’d need more care than I could provide while working full time.  I was afraid I might have to take a leave from my job.  I was afraid she wouldn’t respond to treatment and the cancer would get worse.  

Thank God, all of those worries were unfounded.  I’m so grateful for that.  

What’s been hardest is being her only friend here.  What’s been hardest is balancing a full-time teaching job and full-time parenting and volunteer work against also being Mom’s best source of entertainment.  She hasn’t been driving.  So if she wants to go somewhere, I have to bring her.  If she wants to play a game, it’s usually with me.  If she wants to plant herbs or go for a walk or go out for ice cream, that becomes my agenda.  She tries not to be needy, but I feel guilt every time I tell her I can’t.  

Sometimes, even her helping adds to my to-do list.  I have a tendency to let the recycling pile up in the corner of the dining room until I have the energy or the motivation or the time to take care of it.  Mom will sort it and bag it up, but she can’t bring it outside to where it belongs. She leaves the bags for me to take care of, so the thing that I’ve purposely been putting off has to be done now, because she’s started it and she needs me to finish it.  

All that to say that having Mom here has been hard in a different way than I anticipated.  The beginning of my summer vacation has definitely helped.  I have more time to give her, and I can focus a little more on fun things instead of the daily grind.  Soon, she’ll move into an AirBnb with her husband and her dogs.  They’ll have their own space while she’s getting daily radiation treatment. I’m looking forward to being able to meet up with her for lunch, or get together for a game of scrabble, or take a drive to Newport for a visit that doesn’t involve 8 hours of rugby.  

Every once in a while, Mom gets teary.  She’ll hug me and say, “Thank you for saving my life.”  It feels extreme, but in the same breath, we brought her here for world-class medical treatment.  And it worked.  She’s got a new lease on life, and she’s thrilled to be on the mend.  She’s so excited to have her hair growing back, and her energy rebounding.  She’s thrilled to be with her husband and her dogs in her own space.  She’s thrilled to explore New England this summer, and I’m looking forward to doing it with her.  

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Driving

Today is my third day of summer vacation.  Sadly, my internal alarm doesn’t turn off as easily as the one on my phone, so I was awake as the kids got ready to leave for work and school.  

The older one works full time but lives at home.  Each morning, he packs his lunch and brushes his teeth and heads out the door at 7am.  He graduated a year ago, and it still sometimes takes me by surprise when I expect him to have ‘the day off of school’ and he leaves for his actual job.  

The youngest leaves at a similar time to walk to the bus stop.  But last week, he got his driver’s license.  So today, he grabbed the keys off the hook before he walked out the door, and my heart skipped a beat.  

My baby.  Driving.  Damn.  

I’ve been through this enough times to be able to predict how it goes. At first, there’s a queasy feeling each time they drive away.  A pervasive thought.  Something bad is going to happen.  I convince myself that it’s some sort of premonition and panic.  It’s not.  It’s just garden variety anxiety. It’s just part of letting go.  

We now have five adult children out in the world driving cars.  Before each and every road test, I thought “This kid is not ready.”  And every kid passed on the first try.  

The oldest just recently got engaged.  ENGAGED. To be MARRIED. And the youngest is operating a motor vehicle without supervision.  It’s exciting and terrifying.  It’s beautiful and awful.  

I know that the queasy feeling eventually subsides.  It’s replaced by a wary acceptance and mild judgement because I still think they’re all terrible drivers.  Even the one who’s been driving for a decade.  Maybe especially that one.  

Eventually, each phase becomes old news.  The specific, intense worries are replaced by a low hum of concern simply because they’re out in the world, existing, without you.  

My youngest has a newfound freedom.  And so do I.  All of a sudden, my evenings have freed up.  He drives himself to practice or to rehearsal or to the gym.  I have wide open hours.  

Every time this shift happened before, there was another kid waiting in the wings. And as the older ones moved on, I was reminded to enjoy this time with the youngest.  I knew I was going to miss those deep conversations in the car.  I knew I was going to drive him to school one day, not knowing it would be the last time.  I knew I was going to feel ill the first time he drove away on his own.  I knew all of it.  

And knowing didn’t even help.  Because I’m so freaking sad that this phase is over.  I’m trying to be positive.  I’m trying to be excited for him and for me.  But today, I’m just grieving.  

I didn’t expect this sadness.  I thought I was used to the feeling of kids leaving the nest. But he’s the youngest.  Every other kid drove away, and I held on to the idea that it wasn’t really over.  I could do it better with the youngest.  I would appreciate it more.  I would savor the moments.  I tried.  I really did.  And it ended anyway. What kind of idiot am I to be surprised by that? 

In the time it’s taken me to write this, I know he’s made it safely to school.  I have a vague awareness that everyone is where they need to be.  It’s time for me to catch up.  It’s time to get off this couch and shower.  I have an appointment for a mani/pedi and a thrift store date with my mom.  

If these kids can be out in the world being humans all on their own, then I can, too.  I just have to remember how.  

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Choices

Life has been overwhelming and busy. My kids are at an age where they push and pull me like the tides. They don’t need me at all. Until they need me so much that I’m afraid I will drown in it. I don’t want to be near their angst and anger. Until I crave fleeting moments with any connection at all.

Yesterday, I spent the evening with my son.  He’s at that decision point where he’s trying to figure out what to do with his life.  I see so much of myself in him.  He wants to do everything.  He hates to say no.  He hates to disappoint people.  I watch him overextend himself with a smile on his face, and I worry that he’s just like me.  

He plays three sports (okay, that part is not like me AT ALL). He sings in two or three choirs, depending on the season. He’s the anchor for his drama department at school.  He helps at church and he helps at home.  He works out and he cooks and he sometimes even does schoolwork.  And as we have heart to heart conversations about what he could feasibly let go, he brings up even more things he wants to do.  Dance lessons, so he can audition for higher caliber theater productions.  An elite choir to hone his skills.  Join a gym to bulk up for football season.  I love his enthusiasm.  I admire his commitment.  I am in awe of his talent.  And I am worried about his health. 

I have a moment of frustration because he is talking in circles. I ask him to list his priorities in order.  He does, and he seems confident.  And ten minutes later, he has talked himself into the opposite conclusion.  We’re not getting anywhere.  He wants to do it all.  And I realize that THIS is what my husband feels as we pass like ships in the night, with me trying to change my clothes in the fifteen minutes that I have between watching a lacrosse game and hustling off to a deacon’s meeting, all after a long day at work. 

Have I done this to him?  Have I taught him that his worth is tangled up in a web of how much he can DO?  Have I shown him how to please people at the expense of your own health and sanity?  Perhaps.  I hope not. 

I try to get him to focus inward.  What do YOU want?  What brings YOU joy?  And to some degree, his answer is ‘all of it.’  And then I hear it creep in.  “Plus, I already told my friends…”  “The director is planning this season around MY character…”  “My team is counting on me…” 

And I realize it’s not JUST people pleasing.  It’s validation.  I’m good at this.  I’m wanted here.  I’m part of something.  Isn’t that what we all want?  What we’re all craving, deep down? 

How can I fault him for wanting that?  I can’t.  I can just guide him and talk him through tough decisions and remind him that he has a great big life ahead of him. He will keep getting better beyond High School.  He doesn’t have to be done growing to graduate.  He can keep exploring and learning and trying new things for his whole entire life.  

And then I have a glimmer.  My anxiety fades a bit.  I realize that maybe I haven’t JUST given him people pleasing anxiety.  Maybe I’ve given him more than that.   Maybe I’ve shown him how to keep growing, to keep learning, to keep connecting with people even when it is easier to just slow down and sit on the couch.  Maybe I’ve shown him how to keep making new friends, even when you think you already have enough of them. Maybe I’ve shown him how to use your talents and time to build something new. Maybe I’ve taught him that even an adult can learn a new instrument.  That helping is hard, but worth it.  That life is a series of hard choices and we’re all just doing the best we can.  

Maybe I’ve taught him all of that, too.  I hope so. 

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Hard

Mom moved in.  It’s been a few months.  Three months, actually.  And it’s been hard.  Sometimes beautiful.  Sometimes sweet.  But mostly hard. 

Anytime you add a person to your household, the adjustment is rocky.  We know that from being foster parents.  And living with your mom again in your mid-forties is a definite change.  It’s not that anyone is doing anything wrong.  It’s just… different. 

We are tall people.  We keep things on the top shelves.  Mom can’t reach them.  So when she unloads the dishwasher (which is lovely), she stacks all the tall shelf things on a table for me to put away when I get home (which is annoying).  It’s stupid.  I know that.  She can’t BE TALLER.  I’m grateful that she unloads the dishwasher.  So why am I annoyed?  I don’t know.  I just am. 

There are a whole series of dumb, slightly irritating things.  We eat different food.  We have different schedules.  We relax in different ways.  

But none of those things is the thing. 

The thing is the fact that she’s here because of the cancer.  The stupid, life-changing, heart-breaking, soul-sucking cancer.  Breast cancer.  And from what I understand, it’s the worst kind of breast cancer.  Triple-negative, which means it doesn’t respond to targeted treatment or  hormone therapy.  Stage three (not four, so I guess that makes it the second-worst kind). 

Mom lives in Florida, which isn’t exactly known for cutting-edge medicine. So she’s here to get the best care she can get.  Every Monday, I bring her into Boston for chemo.  We get there early. We mask up on the way to the front desk.  We check in and answer the same questions.  “Name?  Date of Birth?  Who’s with you today?  Any flu symptoms? Any new rash?” The receptionist hands us our name tags and then sends us upstairs for the blood draw.  We check in with a different receptionist and Wordle while we wait. Once the blood draw is completed, we have the gift of time.  

While the hospital staff evaluates and analyzes and shares results, we head up to the third floor cafeteria.  The food here is surprisingly delicious.  Mom gets a spinach and egg white croissant with a cup of fruit on the side.  I always get a cup of coffee, but I switch up my breakfast.  Sometimes a veggie frittata.  Sometimes a ham and swiss sandwich.  Sometimes an omelette or a muffin.  We leave our paper containers slightly open, because we know the drill and the cashier needs to see what’s in there.  We check out and find a table near the window but away from the other people. We settle in and pull off our masks.  We watch the time and speculate about how long things will take today.  

After breakfast, we head up to the ninth floor.  Check in again.  Someone takes her vitals.  More waiting.  Sometimes we see the doctor.  Sometimes the nurse.  Sometimes we head right to the treatment room for the infusion.  

In a weird sort of way, I enjoy these days.  I enjoy the predictability.  I enjoy the time with her.  I enjoy the comfortable silence.  

We play Scrabble during every infusion.  Mom loves Scrabble.  She cheats, but I’ve decided to stop pushing against it.  If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.  So when the board is all blocked up, we’ll ask each other and look it up.  Is Qi a word? (Yes.)  What about Ta?  (No.)  We’re pretty evenly matched, and during a particularly long infusion, we can get in more than one game.  

We have the same nurse most days. Sandy. She’s amazing.  Knowledgeable and kind and compassionate.  She shares tips and tricks and is encouraging and patient and wonderful.  Thank God for these people.  The doctors and the nurses and the phlebotomists and the receptionists and the cafeteria workers who are making the unbearable bearable. 

My sisters have also been amazing.  They’ve all traveled here to take a turn performing this Monday ritual with mom.  They’ve  sent gifts and spent time and taken days off to help in this marathon of caring.  

Mom has just finished round one.  The first round of chemo, punctuated by tests and imaging and countless conversations.  Then round two will begin.  Then the first surgery (to move her pacemaker).  Recovery.  Then the second surgery (a double mastectomy).  More recovery.  Then radiation.  At least, that’s the plan.  Each step is dependent on the others, dependent on the images and the results and her responses.  

And as much as our hospital visits are predictable, her responses are not.  The effects of the medicine are cumulative.  Every week, she feels a little bit worse.  A little more fatigued.  A little more itchy.  A little more sick.  A little more insomnia. 

A little more depression. 

I mean, what’s more depressing than cancer?  Of course, we try to stay positive.  We are optimistic and faithful and hopeful.  But sadness sneaks in.  And when she appears, it’s best to let her stay and sit for a while.  If you shoo her away too quickly, she returns with a mask.  Anger.  Frustration.  Impatience. Those are her favorite disguises. 

Which brings me full circle, I think. Sadness. Frustration. It’s all hard.  

And none of them are going away.  Not the sadness.  Not the fear.  Not the frustration.  And not mom.  She’s here.  Thank God.  She’s still here.  And while she’s here, I just have to keep inviting joy to join us.  Family game night.  Takeout Chinese food.  Hamilton sing-alongs.  Top-down rides.  Knitting together.  Baking together. Trips to the library.  Tea and conversation.  Ice cream in the sunshine.  So many Scrabble games.  

That’s life, right? It’s not meant to be easy. In fact, all the best stuff is wrapped up in a whole lot of hard. So we lean into it. The good and the hard and the beautiful and the awful. Glennon Doyle calls it ‘brutiful.’ Brutal and beautiful. Lovely and awful. Fun and irritating. Like playing Scrabble with a cheater.

Pick your letters. Let’s do this, Mom. I love you.

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Villain

I’m the villain in her story.  God knows I never meant to be.  I wanted so much for her.  Joy.  Peace.  Stability.  Love.  Opportunities.  Connections.  Childhood.  I wanted to give her all of it.  I wanted to be the hero in her story.  

Is that the truth?  It’s what I wanted to believe.  But maybe the truth is that I wanted to be a hero in my own story.  Don’t we all?  Don’t we approach each choice as the protagonist in the narrative of our lives?  Don’t we all see ourselves as the good guy? 

And inevitably, we live our lives and we make choices and we say things and we do things that will make us the villain in someone else’s narrative.  Sometimes we know.  We break relationships.  We argue.  We become estranged.  We pull away.  

But sometimes we don’t.  We don’t know what we’ve done or said or implied; we only know that we’ve been shut out.  We’ve been sidelined or implicated or ghosted.  And it feels pretty awful.  

I held out hope for a while.  Maybe I could fix it.  Maybe she’d reconsider.  Maybe we would be able to reconnect someday.  In reality, that’s unlikely.  Sad, but true.  So how do we move forward?  What is to be learned?  What’s the takeaway?  How do we continue to love and laugh and make ourselves vulnerable, knowing that it could all end in heartbreak? 

I don’t know.  I don’t have answers.  But I have a theory.  I think I need to stop trying to be a hero in someone else’s story, and focus on being a real, evolving, growing, protagonist in my own story.  Good guys and bad guys only exist in Fairy Tales.  In real life, we’re all a little bit of both.  We’re all flawed and fallible and helpful and heroic.  

A hero can only exist in caricatures or fiction.  

But growing is real.  Learning is real.  Kindness and hope and compassion are real.  I can’t aspire to be a hero in someone else’s story.  I can only aspire each day to be a slightly better version of the flawed human I was in yesterday’s narrative.  

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Spinning

I haven’t been able to sit down for four days.  I have this nervous energy buzzing in my veins.  I’ll try to relax and watch TV; within 5 minutes, I’m up again.  Washing some dishes, checking on the kids, cleaning out the junk drawer.  In my mind, I’m planning to sit and crochet.  I pick up my yarn and hook and I can stick with it for about 8 minutes before I’m itching to get out of the house.  

This weekend, Jack and I did SO MANY lovely things.  We went out to dinner.  We did some furniture shopping.  We spent a morning in Coolidge Corner, shopping and walking and chatting and eating.  We visited friends. We went to church and facilitated a really important meeting about a really important mission.  We cooked and cleaned and did the meal planning and paid the bills.  He watched a football game, but I couldn’t make myself sit.  I did some lesson planning.  And even then, as it was getting dark outside, I called him upstairs to chat with me as I was changing the sheets.  “I need to get out of the house.  I have this itchy, spinny feeling, and I just cannot sit right now.”  We went to the grocery store, instead.  At 5pm.  Who are we?  Groceries are for 7am.  About that, I am sure. 

So now it is nearly 7am, and I don’t have any groceries to buy.  I have already sent three emails organizing a fundraiser.  I have put in a load of laundry and made the bed and fed the dogs and had my first cup of coffee. I have removed Facebook from my phone because I think scrolling might be chipping away at my sanity. 

And the itchy feeling won’t go away.  It feels like my soul knows that something NEEDS TO BE DONE and nobody has informed my poor, sweet soul that no amount of folding laundry is going to fix this. 

*********

Several years ago, I first mentioned the idea of a drop in center for LGBTQIA+ teens to my then-pastor.  She thought it was a great idea.  Then COVID hit.  

I mentioned it again when our new pastor started.  She loved the idea.  And then she got sick. 

I brought it up again at a church meeting in the Spring.  People seemed open to the idea and suggested I explore it further. 

I did.  I connected with a local agency.  We met.  We chatted.  We formed a partnership.  We talked to other community members.  There was a lot of enthusiasm.  

And yesterday, we had a church meeting.  The support was overwhelming.  And the pushback was frustrating.

To be honest, nobody has outright said they don’t support the idea.  We are, after all, an Open and Affirming church.  Obviously.

But I feel sad that we’re getting bogged down in details.  Permission slips.  Insurance.  Waivers.  If I dig deep enough, I can appreciate that there are people who are looking out for our congregation.  But inside, my heart is wailing, “Who is looking out for these KIDS?”  

*****

A family with a trans teen in Florida travels to Massachusetts every six months to see a doctor who can legally prescribe puberty blockers and hormones.  

A trans adult has a dream college in a deeply red state.  He won’t go there for fear of violence.  

A young adult just gleefully changed the gender marker on their birth certificate to ‘x.’ The family lawyer sadly advised them to change it back because it makes them a target if laws change.  

Trans people across the country are stockpiling their hormone medication, because there is a very real chance that it will become unavailable or unaffordable with legislative changes.  

Surveys tell us that 41% of LGBTQ+ young people seriously considered attempting suicide in the past year, including roughly half of transgender and nonbinary youth.

******

Is it something about the human condition that draws us to hatefulness?  Do we need to have a target or a common enemy in order to feel like we’re part of something?  Does there have to be an other for us to be in community?  The group keeps changing.  Black and brown people.  Jewish people. Gay and Lesbian people.  Refugees.

And as it becomes socially unacceptable to be hateful toward one group, do we just arbitrarily choose another?  We look around at who seems most different, and we put a target on their backs? 

My deepest condolences go out to the trans community.  You are officially the new target. Well… you and refugees.   

*****

Jack voted for Trump the first time.  Some of our worst fights were about that election.  I was focused on abortion.  He rolled his eyes at me.  “They’re never going to reverse Roe v. Wade,” he confidently proclaimed.  

His world shook when it happened.  He kept apologizing.  “I really never imagined that we would vote to go backwards.” 

He won’t vote again for someone who doesn’t support a woman’s right to choose. I’m so glad to be married to a man who can change his mind. 

*****

I woke my son up with tears in my eyes on November 6th.  “I kinda figured,” he replied, with sadness and resolve. 

*****

“Our country is cooked,” mumbled a quiet, shy, hardworking 8th grader, as he walked into homeroom.  He only had the nerve to say it because our vocal Trump supporter was absent. 

*****

“It was a hard day, mom.”  His technical high school is full of Trump supporters.  He’s been hesitant to go against the crowd. “In History Class, I said I was rooting for Kamala.  I kept getting side-eye from the football team, until the teacher said, ‘Me, too.’ That helped a little, but I don’t know if those guys are still my friends.” 

*****

My tears were ridiculous to my husband.  He thought I was overreacting.  “It’s just politics. It’s not going to affect our day to day life.  The only place politics have ever hurt me is in my wallet.”  

And there it is.  That’s the whole damned explanation, right there.  I looked at him with sadness.  “You understand why that is, don’t you?”  He paused, but didn’t offer a response.  “It’s because you are a middle class white man.  Nobody has ever passed legislation about your body.  About your medical care.  About your marriage.  Don’t you understand?  That’s the WHOLE POINT.  You have nothing to worry about. Must be nice.” 

I am guilty of it, too.  The word ‘privilege’ is so overused.  But that’s what it is.  It is a privilege to be able to focus on the economy as your highest concern.  You can do that if you’re not worried about someone taking away your basic rights.  For a long time, I wasn’t worried about that.  

I worry all the time now. 

*****

Yesterday, as we left the grocery store, I sighed.  “I probably just need to write.  I need to take all of these buzzy, frenetic thoughts and get them out of my head and onto a page.” 

 He held my hand and smiled.  “Probably not a bad idea.” 

*****

So here I am. Finally sitting. Buzzing just a little less. But maybe some buzzing is a good thing. Maybe we all need to be buzzing just a bit, so that we’re motivated to go out there and do something that makes the world just a little bit better today. And tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow.

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Student Loans

Okay, I get it.  If you paid back all your student loans, it feels kinda crappy that other people got theirs ‘forgiven’. I put that in quotes because the word forgiven doesn’t quite capture what happened to me. 

I was recently chatting with a friend who loves me.  I told her I was relieved that, after four appeals, my student loan ‘forgiveness’ was finally approved.  I could tell by the look on her face that she was trying to be happy for me.  But she also felt a little jilted.  She had paid back all of her student loans.  Financially, we were in similar situations.  We’d both been teaching for about 20 years.  And we had both worked hard to pay off our loans.  

I’m not a finance person.  And I was absolutely clueless at the age of 18 or 22 when I took out my school loans.  So, I’m not sure exactly how my friend and I wound up in such different situations, but this is what I explained to her. 

I took out $37,000 in loans for my graduate and my undergraduate degrees, in total. (These poor kids today need to pay that much in a year.  At least.)

As a young person, I struggled to make my payments.  I called the loan company for advice and suggestions.  I was pointed toward deferments and consolidation loans without fully understanding what I was agreeing to.  I mistakenly trusted their advice, and lowered my payments for a time, to something more manageable.  

Over the past 20 years, I have paid back more than $72,000 in student loans.  I have paid my loans back twice over.  And at the time of my loan forgiveness in March, I still owed $34,488.  

Listen, I understand that I was an idiot.  And that’s probably why more people aren’t talking about this.  Those of us who fell for this scheme feel stupid.  We’re embarrassed to admit our mistake.  But I keep seeing snarky memes and nasty posts.  “You take out the loan.  You pay it back.” That kind of thing. 

And after our conversation, my friend looked at me and asked, “Why aren’t more people talking about THAT? It’s not the loan that’s being forgiven.  It’s the interest.  That’s a totally different thing.”  

And she’s right.  I think more people should be talking about it.  So I am.  I’m trying to let go of the embarrassment so that we can all focus our anger in the right place.  Don’t be mad at the people who fell for it.  Be angry with the people who set up a system designed to take advantage of young, gullible kids.  Be angry with the lenders who deliberately mislead consumers into poor financial choices.  Be angry with the soaring, exorbitant costs of college.  Because these memes and arguments about loan forgiveness are designed to distract us.  They are designed to pit us against each other, so our bickering keeps us too busy to address the real problems. 

Don’t fall for it. 

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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.