Fifteen Years

Fifteen years ago I woke up, far earlier than my personal preference, to my three-year-old son jumping in the crib of my giggling two-year-old daughter. Their dad wasn’t awake yet, since he had been working until 4am, so it was all me. Unfortunately I realized, once I was able to think clearly, that my throat was hurting and my head throbbing. 

Side note: it was also my wedding day. Our wedding day. 

Yes, folks, Gilberto and I planned and carried out a full-on wedding with two busy babies, full-time jobs and, as it happens, a pretty bad case of strep throat. I am so in awe of those young parents, because these days Gil and I can’t figure out how to order gas before we run out. By the way, why does gas always seem to run out on a Saturday night? As we speak, clothing is draped all over the house because we have a gas dryer, and I’m trying to psych myself up for another ice-cold shower.

The funny part is, I wasn’t even very stressed out about the wedding at first. We created a digital invitation with our children as the hosts, I bought my simple white sundress off the rack downtown (it’s still my favorite item of clothing in all the world), and we got a local seamstress to sew the rest of the family’s wedding attire. A  wonderful parent from our school helped us plan a beautiful, simple dinner at the hotel he managed and a friend of mine asked to be the wedding coordinator and madrina of the flowers. 

Who needs tons of decorations when the beach is your venue? Who needs to audition musical acts when all your friends are musicians? Who needs a hair and makeup person when you’ve got a full bottle of mousse and some mascara? Who needs to plan the perfect wedding when you’re already living on love?

Two days before the beach wedding we married legally in the world’s smallest courthouse in little Bahia de Banderas. The night before the wedding, we had a rooftop barbeque for our out of town guests. 

And the morning of my wedding, I woke up to two babies jumping in the crib and a raging case of strep throat. That’s kind of when I started to think this day might be a bit of a disaster. I really hadn’t done a lot of planning with timelines like when we’d take pictures or when the sun would actually set. We didn’t have a rehearsal because, well, we didn’t really organize one.

I started wondering what kind of person invites eighty people to an event they don’t really organize, and what kind of person gets married with strep throat, and what kind of person forces their children to tell all their friends they were the ring bearer at their own parents’ wedding.

And as I stood in that room, wondering what medication was going to make a dent in what was becoming a pretty Big Snag in the day, someone put his arms around me from behind and I remembered what this was all about.

It was about two people from two completely different worlds who met up and found something real. It was about a family, created and sustained by love. It was about celebrating something so unlikely and so wonderful. It was about building something every day, in sickness and in health.

So strep throat actually kind of fit. Spontaneity and a bit of chaos REALLY fit.

How was the day? I don’t remember much about not feeling well, or the fact that dinner was delayed because I mixed up the schedule. 

But I remember saying “I do” before the sun set. And I remember the music. And I remember dancing with our babies who were covered in chocolate and sand. And I remember holding hands all day with my groom.

Happy fifteenth anniversary to my love, who always reminds me what this is all about.

He’s an Adult!

Well, village. Well.

I woke up this morning wondering if I’d even be able to put pen to paper with all that I’m feeling today. But I have to, because I need to share with you all exactly what we have achieved together. We have done it – something I had hoped we’d do, but was quite sure on a number of occasions we would not. Together, we have raised a full human being to adulthood, alive. 

That’s right, today is my son’s eighteenth birthday, and I am feeling so many feelings. I feel happiness, because he is absolutely vibrating with all the possibilities that adulthood brings. I feel almost tearful relief, because, despite my parental fumbling in the dark, he is bursting with vigor and good health. 

I feel nostalgia so intensely that it could be mistaken for grief. I would give almost anything right now to vault myself back in time. I would spend every night rocking that wakeful baby, holding my breath as he quiets in my arms. I would even put up with the disappointment of then looking down, only to find two large, curious, totally unsleepy eyes gazing back into mine. 

And I feel gratitude. Just vast, overwhelming gratitude to this village in which we live, still surrounding us with the support and care it has taken to bring this boy to a man. Because the truth is that I don’t know how we would have done this without you all. I mean, we would have done it, I suppose, but I wonder if we would be having such a happy ending today without your devotion to my son.

I’m grateful for his grandparents, who dedicated one third of every year to living in our home and co-parenting him with us. They talked to him, played with him, walked with him, read to him. They helped us raise a child who knew he was loved.

I’m grateful to the woman he calls his godmother, the first person who held him after his father and me. She has remained his greatest fan, and helped us raise a child who knew he was talented.

I’m grateful to his uncles and aunts and cousins, by blood or by heart. I’m grateful to his younger sister here, and older brother and sister in Canada. They formed loving relationships with him that have remained his constant. They helped raise a child who knew he belonged.

More quality.

My beautiful crew

I’m grateful to his friends and his friends’ parents, who draw him out and allow him to be himself; the cool, funny, irreverent one that we don’t always get to see. They helped raise a child who knows how to be independent and strong.

I’m grateful to his teachers and support professionals who have guided him so carefully and lovingly since he was three years old. They helped raise a child who knew how to meet a challenge and take on the world.

I am grateful to his father, my copilot and strength. He has been the mentor, the dad, the sage in my son’s life. He has never wavered in his absolute dedication to our son. He helped raise a son who knows how to make just, moral, wise decisions.

The love breathed into my son’s life – there’s just no way to measure it. But I look at him today, this compassionate, wise, brilliant young MAN, and I know the village did this work. I know we did this work. And I am grateful to you all.

Sweet and Sixteen

It’s been a nostalgic, busy week, which means I’m feeling a little fragile due to the a) exhaustion that comes with being a teacher in June and b) emotional rollercoaster of being a parent with a kid hitting milestones like a game of pinball. To explain this, let me take you back to this same week sixteen years ago.

Back in 2006, I missed kindergarten graduation, which is pretty much  the pinnacle of a kindergarten teacher’s entire year.  I was actually on bedrest, because my principal Kathy sent me home the day before. 

She sent me home because she came into my classroom after my students were gone and I was still sitting on the carpet, cross-legged, unable to get up without a great, herculean effort. Which sounds alarming, but isn’t really that odd when you’re nearly nine months pregnant and attempting to teach young children full-time. 

I had planned on staying because I wanted a longer maternity leave after my baby was born, you see. And Kathy was ok with that until she saw me sitting there like an uncomfortable, immovable turnip. She sent me home, rolling her eyes into the back of her head as I insisted that could totally get up if I felt like it. 

Anyway, I missed graduation and went into labor instead. Sixteen years later, I’m getting ready for another kindergarten graduation, a birthday party and a grade nine graduation. So, you know, I’m a bit of a wreck.

I’m so proud because she’s such a beautiful sixteen-year-old, even more beautiful than the baby girl with the rosebud lips and deeply cherry-blush cheeks who arrived that day. She doesn’t have a clue that she is, of course, because she’s a teenager just figuring it all out. She’s brilliantly creative, with a wicked sense of humor and a great sense of irony. She has an artist’s hands, which fills me with awe (because I don’t), and an artist’s deep soul, which fills me with empathy (because it’s genetic). 

And I’m emotional because sixteen years have flown by in one sense, and yet they have also been filled to the brim with this girl. Sixteen years of her laughter filling the house, her devilish humor, her shoes scattered in front of the door. All these years of all the things she’s collected and adored with her entire being for a few months (remember Shopkins and Littlest Pet Shop? Come over, I’ll show you her closet). The music, oh my goodness, the music. In 2013 it was “Do You Want To Build a Snowman” and since 2019 it’s been My Chemical Romance.

These sixteen years of Christmas cookie bake-offs and doll houses and rescued puppies, they have flown by. Even so, there’s so much to turn over in my mind, to hold tightly to in my heart. Because when I think about all those precious years, it seems unfathomable that I might only have a few more with her under this roof with me.

But she grins when I get sniffly about it, and probably posts something sweet about it on Tik Tok that she’ll never show me. Then she’ll plunk herself down on my bed when I’m almost asleep and snuggle up against me to remind me that she’s still here. And that I’ve still got a few more years to fill up this heart of mine before she flies away to light up the world in another corner.

Sixteen years ago, my girl made me stop in the middle of my life so she could make her grand entrance. Nothing has ever been the same. And I’m so grateful to her for making sure of that.

I wish my girl a happy birthday and a happy grade 9 graduation. I’m so proud of this wonderfully caring, creative daughter who is the joy of our lives. Happy birthday, kiddo.

Parenting Wisdom (Teeth)

Parents of young children – pull up a stump. Sit down if you have a minute, stay standing if you’ve got a teething baby in your arms. But don’t leave just yet, because I have some urgent advice I need to impart.

You see, I’m a mom of two teenagers who were (I SWEAR this) teething like, last week. I mean, it feels like that. At that time, I thought teething was the worst of my problems. Ha. Just wait. You see, I have just spent the last three days with my fifteen-year-old daughter, nursing her after she had two of her wisdom teeth pulled. So there. I just paid real money to have the teeth removed that we struggled to bring to the surface.

https://www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=5694130481&set=a.4674120481

Do you remember getting your wisdom teeth removed? I do. I was twenty-one, a university student, and I did not have a very good time. My cheeks swelled up like Sloth from The Goonies and I was in horrendous pain. So much pain, actually, that my mom called the dentist and described the situation in a bit of a panic. He rushed over with medication that only he himself could pick up from the pharmacy. After that, things improved greatly, because not only could  I no longer feel any pain, I could not even understand that my head was attached to my own body. 

I don’t know that many people who struggled as much as I did to recover from wisdom tooth extraction, and I have always pinned that to the fact that I was only given local anesthetic while most of my other friends were actually unconscious during their surgeries. Understand that this is not based on science, but on my firm belief that you will suffer less pain from a medical procedure if you are relaxed as opposed to if you are tensed up.

However, I do have this dramatic story about my wisdom teeth, and so, like most parents, I have shared it many times with my children with slight (!) exaggeration that has grown incrementally over the years. And here is the lesson for you all, wrapped up with a beautiful shiny bow on top: do NOT share stories with your children if these stories can come back to bite you hard. 

I give myself this much credit: I had no idea that kids as young as fifteen needed wisdom teeth removed. So I couldn’t have known that I would have to talk down a teenager after outfitting her with the strong belief that wisdom tooth extraction with local anesthetic is roughly as awful as rolling down a lava mountain into a pool of crocodiles. My daughter, upon learning that she needed her wisdom teeth removed and would NOT be given general anesthetic, immediately referenced my need for narcotics and rolled into a ball of despair.

So, I’ve been spending the weekend in a task that would already be unpleasant, made worse thanks to my own selfish need to have my kids find my stories funny and interesting. Learn from me, parents. 

Just so you know, she’s doing fine, because we have a lot of ice cream and decent painkillers, and because she’s far more tolerant to pain at fifteen that I was at twenty-one. Also, she’s doing ok due to the fact that recovering from local anesthetic is less of a problem than general, according to actual science and not my personal experience.

like mother, like daughter

On top of that she’s got a great sense of humor, so she’s been able to laugh at herself and at the photos I shared with her of my very swollen face twenty-seven years ago. She’s got some great material for her own story:

• Her mother doing deep breathing exercises in the dentist’s office after he described the need to cut into her daughter’s bone to get the root out. 
• Her mother putting her head between her knees as she retold the dentist’s description to her father.
• The medication causing some severe distress to her esophagus, resulting in her mother calling the dentist in near-panic

She’ll have a great story. I feel a little sorry for my grandchildren

Our Vallarta

For me, it’s either really hard or really easy to write with a broken heart. If I have all the information I need, even it’s devastating, then it’s easy. Writing becomes my medium, my channel to connect my pain to some sort of release. But if there’s confusion or chaos, then it’s like my feelings have nowhere to go from the pain. And it’s hard to put them to paper.

Last night, I went to bed to the sound of the trees being buffeted by the wind. If you live in Vallarta, you know that most places don’t experience more than a pleasant sea breeze for much of the year. So wind lashing our trees around is not something to which I fall asleep. Sheets of rain pelted our skylight all evening, and our lights flashed off and on about ten times.

Around 4:30pm, August 28

Around 4:50pm, August 28

After the eye had passed over us, later that night

But I fell asleep easily, because the storm was starting to abate, and I was safe and warm. More importantly, I had just spent my evening surrounded by my family, who all instinctively camped out in our living room while Nora spun her circles outside. We watched the storm and listened to music while chatting and drinking tea. It was a mother’s cozy dream. I looked around me with gratitude at one point, watching my dogs tumbling over my kids while my husband played guitar. That was last night.

Now it’s today. I’ve just gotten up the morning after Hurricane Nora churned her way through the town of my heart, Puerto Vallarta, and I don’t know much. But here’s what I DO know:

• Rivers burst their banks, hurtling themselves all over places they don’t belong
• People’s homes are damaged or destroyed
• Rivers continue to rise
• There are missing people
• I haven’t heard from all the people who are very important to me

And so, writing this is difficult. I’ll write it up and send it in to my editor, and I imagine next week when you read this, so much will have changed. What I’m hoping is, it will have changed for the better, because this is pretty bad. Every time I open my newsfeed, it gets a little worse, but I keep opening it, because I have to know.

I can hear sirens come and go on the street beside mine and I send up my prayers with the passing of each. All I can do is what the authorities have asked, which is to stay home and keep checking on the people who are part of my community. I am gathering information to make sense of what’s happened, and to know how to direct the help I’m able to offer.

My heart is broken, because Vallarta has been my home for twenty-one years. If you’ve been here then you know how this city gets right inside your soul. She’s a special lady, quaint and old-fashioned on one hand, but sassy and beautiful on the other. She doesn’t sleep because she’s haciendo la fiesta all night long. Her skirts are sandy beaches, where the party’s still going in the morning.

So if my Vallarta is hurting, then so am I. So are we all who call this place home. The good news is that I know we have an amazing Civil Protection team who work tirelessly and organize with incredible efficiency. I know that we’ve got emergency response teams who are the most astonishingly hard-working and compassionate group of people, and who have seen us through so many disastrous moments.

And I know this community, because I was here during Hurricane Kenna and I saw what a community can do when disaster strikes (in the form of a category five hurricane). We come together and we brush each other off. We link arms and we stand up. And, as we rise, Vallarta rises with us.

Because we ARE Vallarta, and we will stand again.

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My Quinceañera

In my HEAD, I have always known that parents aren’t supposed to try to force our kids to live our unrequited dreams. But in my HEART, I have always known that I would have been so cute in a tutu, had I had the opportunity to try ballet lessons. And that’s why I was thrilled when my three-year-old told me that she would be a ballet princess. I was so excited to buy the leotard, the tutu, THE TINY BALLET SLIPPERS. I mean, come ON.

She went willingly to her class at the Biblioteca Los Mangos twice a week. I’d drop her off and wait among the book stacks, convinced that she was on her way to childhood ballet greatness. I wondered if she’d add some jazz dance along the way or if she’d be a ballet  purist and I’d have to actually master the pristine hair bun. 

The dream.

A few weeks ago, she and I found some old videos of her very first and very last dance recital, because she refused to go after her debut season. It was an amazing window into her developing personality. Spinning when everyone else was standing still. Attempting a pirouette when everyone else was doing a plie. Waving her arms in the air and sticking out her tongue when everyone else was, well, NOT doing that.

The reality

We laughed a LOT because it was adorable to see her, pristine little hair bun (her father’s work), frothy pink tutu (often found in her mouth), and gorgeously tiny ballet slippers (pounding like a pair of tap dance shoes on the stage). But it also made me laugh because she has never been anyone except her own beautiful self, parental dreams or not.

This week, she turned fifteen, and she is more herself than ever. She loves My Chemical Romance, anime, and wearing black. She hates crowds and noisy parties. Sure, she’s been blessed with some of her parents’ finer qualities. 

From her father she got: 

• an incredibly discriminating (outrageously picky) palate that resulted in a year or two of eating only yogurt, Cheerios and applesauce
• a killer combination of perfectionism and creativity that has resulted in a talented sketch artist
• a persistence that works very well when she needs to get a job done, but doesn’t work well when it’s really really REALLY time for bed and the sketch she’s working on isn’t quite right.

From her mama she got:

• The overthinking gene, bless her heart. Those 4am internal alarm clocks that wake her to worry over something she said to someone three years ago – that’s all me.
• The slightly atypical sense of humor – yeah, well at least we each have someone to laugh at our jokes now.
• A life in song – yes I sing a bit. Mostly in the shower nowadays, but it helps me get my frustrations out, and it’s far better than screaming. She has found the same pleasure, and her voice is so lovely.

But she’s also her very own person with so many unique qualities. She sees injustice in the world in a way I never did at the same age. She understands and empathizes with people’s pain in a way that seems beyond her years. She has an intuitive way with animals that’s been there  before she could walk, and they seem to gravitate toward her like she’s magnetized for fur.

She has this incredible sense of rhythm, which most CERTAINLY didn’t come from my Canadian genes (thankfully), and could always be found front and center in the folkloric dances performed at school.

She doesn’t do ballet anymore, and she wouldn’t wear a pink tutu unless it was ironically. And of course, I wouldn’t be able to tell, so I’d tell her she looked amazing and then she’d laugh right out loud like she does.

She’s fifteen and she has grown well beyond my own little unrequited dreams. She’s got her own dreams, because what she’s capable of surpasses what I could possibly imagine. She’s strong, and kind, and so so good. She still spins when others stand still, and pirouettes when the others plie. She amazes me, my girl, and I am so glad she’s still dancing to her own beautiful song.

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My Dad

I am one of those people who was fortunate to have a dad who was present throughout my life. And by present, I mean that he has always been there for me on a daily basis. And by involved, I mean that he would absolutely not think twice about driving around town at 3am when I was in high school and missed my curfew (long story, don’t tell my kids).  

But when I say he is present in my life, I also mean that he and I still have a continuous conversation on text that we can pick up at any time during the week and not miss a beat. He has made a point to have a relationship with people who matter to me, and loves his grandkids and son-in-law dearly. 

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He wasn’t the kind of dad who would come home after a long day of teaching and flop on the couch, even though he sure must have felt like it. I can still remember the excitement of my dad arriving home, because he was always ready with a funny, unlikely story or a cozy cuddle in front of the TV.

My dad put the time in and entertained my childish ideas. When my twelve-year-old friends said they’d be holding tryouts for a super-exclusive cheerleader squad, he spent hours in the backyard with me, perfecting my routine. I could not even do a cartwheel, which was part of the basic criteria, so he decided I’d learn how to do one. I still cannot do a cartwheel, and definitely shouldn’t nowadays, but boy, it wasn’t because he didn’t want it badly enough. 

My dad never judged me, even though he tried very hard to help me become a kind, caring person. I can’t say I never let him down. I did. A few (more than a few) times. But I always knew that, no matter how badly I messed it up, he’d always stick around. And that his love for me wouldn’t change a bit.

One of the greatest things about my dad is that he has always been the puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit into the neat space called “dad”. When I was a kid he was weird, guys, but, like, a great kind of weird. He read us books from unconventional, funny people. He did unexpected things like start singing Happy Birthday in the middle of a crowded restaurant (it was never actually anybody’s birthday when he sang it). He dressed up for Halloween. He rode a unicycle. He juggled. He had a Smothers Brothers-esque routine he did with my uncle (another unique piece of the puzzle) at every family wedding.

Even now, he likes to dress up in his favorite masks (I forgot to mention his collection) and send us photos. He hides severed arm props around the house when we visit. Yeah, I have lived an entire lifetime thinking that no one could hold a candle to my dad. And who can blame me?

When I moved to Mexico and decided to stay, I knew it was hard for my dad. We have always been close, and it was obvious that this was going to make him sad. He wanted so many things for me; to be safe, to be close by, and to be happy. But how could I be anything other than his daughter, someone who didn’t always follow the regular rules in life? And how could his daughter be completely happy if she didn’t do a little singing in her own tune? 

And so I have raised my children the way my dad raised me. When they want to try something new, no matter how silly it may seem, I will help them give it a try. When I come home from work, I try to be ready with a story and a cuddle. And when they tell me their dreams, their mistakes, their sorrows, I listen and try not to judge them. 

And yeah, I tend to hover, worry and check up on them. They know I wouldn’t hesitate to jump in my car at 3am in order to find them, any day of the week.

My dad’s presence in my life has helped me become a caring parent. It has helped me become a person who follows her own path and listens to her own heart. And, lucky me, it’s given me one of the best friends I could ever have. Happy Father’s Day, dad.

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Getting the Jab

It’s been a long, hard haul to get to the place where the teachers of Jalisco found themselves a few weeks ago. After over a year of closed campuses and online learning, we were scheduled for appointments for our one-dose vaccinations as part of a multi-step plan to get our students back in the classrooms of Mexico. 

I have been a teacher at the American School of Puerto Vallarta for almost twenty-one years, and this year has been, by far, the most challenging one. So I was ready for my vaccine if it meant taking one small step closer to the thing we knew as normalcy.

This was no small feat for me, personally. I have a certain level of syringe hesitation. In layman’s terms, I’m a scaredy cat when it comes to needles. HUGE. Also, I faint as easily as a thirties movie heroine. Except without the graceful part. 

And the sad part is, there’s no particular reason why, except that I don’t like when stuff hurts. Couple that with the bit of vanity in me that hates people seeing me swoon from the sight of a needle in my arm.

 Sigh. I know. And yet, I weighed the risks to me plus the risk to others plus my eagerness to return to the life I had pre-pandemic (except in my mind’s eye, it will be even cooler). I weighed them against the thought of me laying on the concrete floor among hundreds of my colleagues, passed out after witnessing injections in so many arms. There was no contest, though. I was going for it.

I want to share that our local health authority is a BOSS at organizing some vaccines. I arrived, a bit shaky, to La Lija, a large sportsplex in the colonia Lomas del Coapinole. I did not wait in a single line. People were wonderful, calling us all “maestra” with gentleness and respect. We were ushered inside and given clear, calm instructions and the utmost care. They played upbeat music, giving everyone (including the nurses) the urge to move to the beat.

Because we were all masked, you couldn’t truly tell if people were smiling. But you just knew that everyone was, because how could you not? I could feel the pull of my own grin, tugging at the sides of my mouth, because there was a certain joy in every person there.

I imagine there was a feeling among the medical team that finally their job included this preventative step that would save thousands, instead of simply trying to keep everyone alive.

You could almost hear a released breath among the teachers, who had just lived a tough professional year of change and uncertainty, while holding their students together as tightly as they would their own family (but mainly at a distance).

As it happens, joy can be more contagious than Covid-19.

And yet, at the same time, I couldn’t hold back a few tears, thinking about all that has happened to us over this historic year. I thought of those hundreds of thousands of Mexican people who would never have the chance to take steps to prevent this disease. I thought of my family, none of whom I have seen in over a year. I thought of many millions here in this country, hoping and waiting for their turn before the virus catches up with them.

And yeah, I thought of me. Little old me, about to get a sharp needle in the arm (scaredy cat). But the stars were aligned and I did not faint. Actually, I didn’t even flinch. Well. Not a lot, anyway.

I hesitated to share my story just a little. I respect everyone who shared their vaccine selfie, because it’s a shared moment in history, but I know that there are many here waiting for their own turn. I worry that these stories and pictures will amplify their anxiety and their impatience to get their own vaccine and move on with their lives.

But I wanted everyone to know that this process is happening, and I wanted to bring some hope to the day for anyone out there wondering if their children will ever do a spelling test in a location that is not their living room.

It’s happening, people. Keep the light on and don’t give up. We’re going to get through this, our children will get back into school again, and we will go on. And I hope that, when your turn comes, you’ll feel like dancing too.

Mother’s Day 2021

My son told me that I should start this article by saying, “Mother’s Day is special because I have amazing kids.” He provided this true and self-congratulatory sentence because I was having a bit of trouble finding my topic sentence. Also, he needed me to hurry up and finish my article because he needs help studying for a physics test.

 And so I AM starting it according to his suggestion because a) this article will be about Mother’s Day and b) this whole sentence and story behind it perfectly describes motherhood. Kids are amazing, and they are much better at helping out when they have something to gain from it (I love you, my boy, but you know this is truth).

To all the mamas in Mexico: we have done it. We have completed more than ONE YEAR with our children under our feet, in our fridges, and on our technological devices. We have helped these children stay healthy, become educated, and remain more or less socially appropriate.

 Many of us also held down a job or two that had nothing to do with our children. Some of us lost our jobs and we had to think of new and creative ways to keep these growing bodies in decent clothing. 

We have done this by ourselves, in our own homes, just like the pioneers. And, unlike the pioneers, WE NEVER ASKED FOR ANY OF THIS. But we have done it, just like mothers do and have done forever. 

All the while, we are missing our own mothers, who are far away from us now. It’s been fourteen months since I’ve laid eyes on the woman who raised me. I don’t know when I will see her actually, although now that the vaccination programs are taking on a bit of momentum, it’s becoming more likely that it could happen.

And I miss her. Yes, we talk multiple times a week, through texting and lots of emojis with hearts in them. Yes, she gives me advice about lots of things and tells me to drink a lot of water and talks about her neighbors in the condo complex (most of whom I have never met). So it’s a little bit like having her there with me. But we both know that’s not the same thing.

As a mother, I need my own mother more than ever. I am trying to get my children through this last bit of online learning, I am trying to lose the pandemic weight I’ve gained, I am trying to work full time. I am trying to make decisions about my kids so that they don’t become lonely hermits, while still respecting the fact that we are in a worldwide health crisis.I am trying to be a kind wife even when I am deeply annoyed. I am trying to keep friends even though I am keeping my distance. I am trying to keep the fear about the future at bay. 

And, as I find my way around the toughest time in the modern age to be an adult, I Just. Really. Need. My. Mom. I need her for many reasons. Allow me to outline the main ones:

1. She is emotionally supportive and uses the teapot like a therapy couch.
2. She is a fantastic Nana and takes over when I am in my room, doing breathing exercises
3. She cooks all the things that make me remember why my childhood was so great.
4. She doesn’t sit around and agree with my nonsense when it’s nonsense (and there’s nonsense, all right).
5. She absolutely backs me up when there’s nonsense from anyone else.
6. She constantly reminds me of my strengths and never lets me get down on myself.

So mamas, I applaud you with a ten minute standing ovation for the parenting you’ve done this year, the good, the bad, the hideously ugly (and I know there were all three kinds). You’ve had a tough year as a mom, but you have pulled it off and made it beautiful. You’ve done it all, wore all the hats and most of you have done it without your own mom.

Happy Mother’s Day to all of those who have lived in these trenches this year. And Happy Mother’s Day to the mothers who sat helplessly by as their adult children texted in some seriously concerning messages when the WiFi went out mid-math test. Soon we’ll be together again, and soon the math tests will happen in another location, in a place where we don’t have to know about them. And that might be the greatest Mother’s Day gift of 2021.

The Future is Here

My son talks a lot about the future these days. I don’t blame him one bit, because the present is still a little slow, to be honest. We spent two weeks of a spring break hanging around home, mainly, watching the Harry Potter series (again), going for ice cream, seeing some friends individually (#pandemiclife) and generally staying in pajamas. 

So he likes to talk about what the future holds (which will surely be more exciting than walking the dog to the Oxxo and back), and what he needs to do to get ready. My son, you see, is the eldest, which means he takes his responsibilities SERIOUSLY. 

I regularly remind him that he is not thirty-five with a mortgage and growing family, but this boy leaves nothing to chance. He gets the grades, studies hard and works on his side interests like they are his job. In seventh grade he started leading community service projects at school because a) he really enjoyed it, b) he agreed to do it and therefore had to live up to his commitment and c) it would be great for his college applications. He thought all of these things IN SEVENTH GRADE.

I am fascinated by him because I remember that as a teenager I wasn’t really concerned about what lay beyond high school until about three-quarters of the way through twelfth grade. My grades weren’t terrible but they weren’t blinding anyone’s eyes with their glory. I got into the program I wanted and into a great college dorm, but that had very much to do with my mom always being On Top of Things. So watching him take out his laptop on spring break to complete a math assignment and finish an English project was like watching a UFO land on my lawn – it’s unfamiliar, incomprehensible and a little frightening.

The good thing is that my daughter, the baby of the family like I was, balances things out. She spends her days in the quiet joy of avoiding homework until the last minute. When I ask her what she might be interested in studying in university some day she rolls her eyes (her particular gift) and says “MOM, I’m only FOURTEEN.” Yes, that’s my girl.

Regardless, I should be used to these conversations with my son by now. And yet. The other day we were in the car and he was talking about the possibility of doing a double major at my alma mater in Manitoba, when it hit me. And when I say it hit me, I am telling you that it was like the steering wheel expanded in three seconds and pinned me against the seat. It was instantaneous. This boy is sixteen and a half. He is taller than me, better at math than me, and he was planning his future that wasn’t at all theoretical. 

His voice kind of faded away in my head (which isn’t a small deal because he isn’t really a quiet talker), and I saw his life flashing before my eyes. Baby getting his first vaccination, wailing in his father’s arms (I cried), little guy with the most beautiful curly hair at his first haircut (I cried), school ager getting his blue belt in tae kwon do (I cried), young man climbing the stairs to get his president’s award for academic excellence (of course I cried). 

• 

• 

Suddenly my eyes welled up and tears started pouring down my face, much to my surprise and to my son’s horror. Considering all the other times I cried, it shouldn’t have surprised me in the least, but I understood my son’s horror, since I was driving at the time. 

He said, urgently, “Mom, are you sick?”  I replied that no, I was fine, just realizing that my days of trying to find him a sports interest was over. My days of choosing when to cut his hair or dragging him to get his vaccinations or even planning play dates for him are done. We are coming to a new threshold and I visualize an empty room, one less plate to set, a whole lot less food to prepare.

He said “I know mom, I’m scared too.” And that really woke me up. Because this is something I recognized – being strong for my child even when I’m scared. I have spent sixteen years teaching these kids how to face the unknown with a bit of grit even when I was absolutely cowering on the inside. He may be planning his future, but he still needs his mom to let him know that it’s going to be just fine. 

So I blinked back the tears and grinned. Then I started to laugh because honestly, Leza, get it together. Time to start taking the multivitamin again. My son’s concern melted away a bit and he smiled back, looking hopeful that perhaps his mother would be able to drive the car to our destination after all (which was ice cream). 

Sure, I’ll get us there. After that, the wheel’s all yours.