Grease: Live Is The Word

Posted on February 2, 2016 by missemtoo

We all have Those Movies: the ones we obsessively watch whenever we catch them on TV, no matter how many times we’ve seen them or who needs dinner. Grease is one of Those Movies for me.

I don’t remember when I first saw Grease; by high school, I’d memorized it. There was – and remains – little about it that I didn’t positively adore, from Sandy’s accent to Danny’s cool, sideways smile; Rizzo’s knock-you-dead-with-one-look glances; the outfits, the dancing…

Oh. And the music. THE MUSIC! I put “Summer Nights” and “We Go Together” on mix tapes. When I was feeling particularly dramatic, I’d theatrically walk around our yard and belt out “There Are Worse Things I Could Do” (no joke). Last spring, when I announced to friends via Facebook that I would love to have a lip sync battle party, I even recorded myself lip syncing to “Hopelessly Devoted To You.” (Nope, no video here; you’ll just have to imagine the awesomeness.)
Screen Shot 2016-02-01 at 11.55.33 PM

Grease isn’t just the word, yo. Grease is my jam.

So I was both excited and apprehensive for Fox’s Grease: Live, which aired last night. I thought it would be neat to see it in a new format, but I was also nervous they’d screw it up – and, not only would it pale in comparison to the original, it would just be a mess.

Still, Grease is Grease, so there was no choice but to watch.

I’ll just cut to the chase: It. Was. Fantastic.
More than that – it was sort of mind-blowing.

I might even have liked it more than the movie.
BLASPHEMY!

I won’t officially “review” it (you’re welcome) – if you head to Google, there are dozens of those. I will say I was insanely jealous of the studio audience; I loved the tongue-in-cheek/inside-joke references; seeing Didi Conn and Barry Pearl don their original Pink Lady and T-Bird jackets was pure nostalgic glee; Boyz II Men made me ridiculously happy; the cast’s diversity was just stupendous; and I thought “Hopelessly Devoted To You” and “There Are Worse Things I Could Do” were knocked out of the park.

It wasn’t perfection, of course. Some so-so acting, singing that didn’t compare to the original, sound/technical glitches. I saw them, sure.

Overall, though, those were such small “issues” that I hardly noticed.
What I DID notice was how utterly spectacular the production was. The sets were so clever, the girls and I marveled over them during commercial breaks. The costume changes were imaginative and lightning fast; we were floored. The choreography and cinematography were SO DAMNED GOOD, especially for the finale.

This Yahoo review sums that part up perfectly:

This ten-minute sequence included complex, expertly executed choreography, set changes, costume changes, crowd work, the presence of American military (?), DRONE FOOTAGE, curtain calls, and was possibly one of the more rousing TV celebrations ever filmed. And they did it LIVE. Again, the scope and ambition on display were only outdone by the sincere emotions onscreen, and the incredible effect it had on me as a viewer.

The LIVE aspect of this cannot be overstated. We were continually astonished by the breadth and depth of the production, saying aloud, “How did they DO that??” It was SO big, SO creative, SO daring. Knowing that it was live – that anything could happen – added the perfect element of nervous excitement (you’ve gotta admit – seeing that golf cart nearly bite it at the end was pretty wild).

And that, I think, is the first reason why this production resonated with me: it was beyond anything I’d ever imagined on television. We were watching something extraordinary; history being made. Whereas so much of what makes modern media great is, well, its modernness – 3D and CGI and other technical stuff – Grease: Live was made spectacular simply through imagination, hard work, ridiculous planning and precision and practice, and a go-for-broke attitude, all part of director Tommy Kail’s tremendous vision. When I showed Nick my favorite scenes, I wasn’t raving about the special effects or the actors’ Emmy-worthy performances; instead, I showed him the finale and “Freddy My Love” so he could see how impressive the sets and staging were. (He was duly impressed.)

Which brings me to my second reason for so thoroughly loving this show: it was a spectacle. As I’ve said before, I’m big on ceremony. I love pomp and circumstance and pageantry and huge, sappy gestures. Whether it’s the Olympics, the Tonys, the Super Bowl, Presidential inaugurations, soldier homecomings, “We Are The World”, or a flashmob wedding proposal — the more people who come together to joyfully celebrate something, the more I am ALL IN.

Would you look how excited these guys were when they finished? How can you not love that??

Grease: Live also contained one of my favorite forms of entertainment: a peek behind the scenes. When I was a little girl and lucky enough to go to Broadway shows, my mom made sure we sat in the front row of the balcony so she could point out the marks on stage and we could see the orchestra, the actors behind the curtains, etc. I thought it was the coolest thing ever. Likewise, I got such a thrill glimpsing the cameras on Grease:Live, watching Vanessa Hudgens take a group selfie, and seeing how Keke Palmer’s ultra-fast costume change happened. For me, those details don’t take away from the effectiveness or power of the production; they add to it. In this case, they helped fuel my belief that we were witnessing one helluva television feat.

The final reason why Grease: Live really hit home for me was completely unexpected: watching it with my girls was just the best. I hadn’t planned for us to watch it together; at 9 and 11, they’re too young for the material of the original, and I assumed the same would be true here. But then I read that Fox changed some of the racier lyrics (ditching “sh*t” and “p*ssy” is probably wise when it comes to prime time) and they were aiming for a “family friendly” show, so I decided to give it a go.

(Fox and I must disagree on what constitutes “family friendly” because the broken condom and Rizzo’s pregnancy scare were still in last night’s production [this isn’t a problem or a complaint – they’re integral to the plot line; I just wouldn’t normally choose to show Ella and Annie a story where multiple sexual partners play a critical role], so my girls saw a slightly censored version…)

At first, they weren’t enthusiastic. “Why do we have to watch this stupid musical?” I told them to give it a few minutes; then they could go elsewhere.

They never moved.

By the time I sent them to bed with an hour remaining in the broadcast, they were absolutely hooked, with Ella yelling, “THANK GOD!” when I told her I was recording it and they could see the rest tomorrow.

It wasn’t just that they liked it; these are kids who think watching America’s Funniest Home Videos on YouTube is quality entertainment, so I take their “approval” with a grain of salt. No, they felt it; they got it. Ella understood the show’s humor immediately and was “in” on all the jokes, which was such a hoot. (Her raised eyebrows when Principal McGee announced she was “looking for a place to build a bomb shelter with enough room for almost everyone” were priceless. “ALMOST everyone??”)

Annie was so into Sandy and Danny, so rooting for them. “But Mom! He didn’t want to dance with Cha Cha! HE STILL LIKES SANDY. Omg, WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO THEM??” It was hilarious and sweet and fantastic.

Also unexpectedly, I found myself thinking about the musical’s message. Turns out, it’s kinda awful (I mean, the underlying “moral is: Change your appearance and give up your values to get a man, right?!). And yet, as I found myself analyzing the plot and the characters in ways I hadn’t before, I discovered why I liked the story so much all those years ago.

Kids! They make you do the darndest things.

Plus, there was still the music. Even if the vocals were lackluster at times – and tremendous at others – the songs remain the same. They’re infectious and timeless. Sharing all of it with Annie and Ella was, in a word, wonderful.

Since I don’t remember the first time I saw the movie Grease, I don’t know if I experienced similar euphoria upon watching it. Maybe I did. Or maybe it just grew on me; hard to say. I don’t know how Grease: Live will hold up over time. Perhaps I’ll be just as awed by it in ten years. Or perhaps this feeling will fade and I’ll discover the production doesn’t carry its weight; its success was in the spectacle.

Either way, I doubt I’ll forget how it felt last night to be a part of it, to sing along, to watch my girls joining in the celebration.

Grease was definitely the way we were feeling.

We Really Did It

Posted on January 13, 2016 by missemtoo

It was cold tonight. I worried that the girls’ hair – still wet from showering just ten minutes ago – would crackle and freeze.

After the first tentative glides, grins spreading across our faces, I looked in disbelief from one to the other. “Oh my God. We did it. We really did it!”

~~~~~~~

It’s been a weird winter. A few cold days, sure. But the snow? It’s just not happening. Seven measly inches so far (compared normal average of 40″ by this time). While this is actually lovely in many ways, it has not boded well for one of our most favorite winter pastimes: the ice rink.

After our warmest December on record and not even the slightest chance of getting the ice to set, Nick declared shortly after January 1st that he just isn’t feeling the rink this year. Too much work, too few days when the ice might be skate-able; maybe next time.

I was crushed. I’m not sure if that’s because I actually love skating (given that I’m a terrible skater, this seems a bit unlikely) or just because I love the idea of skating, but the thought of not even having the chance to skate made me really freakin’ bummed. I decided to ask the girls what they thought; if I was the only one who wanted the rink, it was probably silly to have it. If they wanted it too, it was probably worth it.

They wanted it.

When I said I’d build it, they were incredulous. “You’ll build the rink??” As though maybe I was suggesting that I’d capture a caribou and ride it across the lawn, Chuck Norris style. (I doubt that Chuck Norris has ridden a caribou, BUT HE COULD.) I told them I most certainly could – and would – build the rink.

So I did.

I sized up the spot in the yard, conferred with the girls on how big we wanted it (smaller than last year so it would freeze more easily and be simpler to maintain), set up the planks (with the girls’ assistance), and put ’em together. With bracket-y things. And screws. And a drill. It was beautiful.

Exhibit A: NO SNOW. Nope. Nada.

Three days ago, the moment for filling the rink came: at least a week of lows in the teens and highs below freezing. It was time.

Exhibit B: January 10th. Still no snow.

I knew what I was doing; I’ve watched Nick for years. When I turned on the hose, it was 50* but was predicted to drop to the teens by nighttime – perfect.

While all of my plans went exactly as – well, planned – the weather decided to be… difficult. Oh, it dipped into the teens, all right. But it did so in the span of 90 minutes (rather than many hours), ushered in by a wind storm so violent, it knocked out power in our neighborhood for over three hours that night. Almost instantaneously, the once-pristine rink was filled not just with standing water but gazillions of leaves and several dozen sticks and branches.

In case you were wondering, an ice rink with the consistency of a thick soup doesn’t make for very good skating.

With Annie’s assistance, we removed as much junk as possible. Then, we waited. I hoped that by today – three days after filling – it would be frozen enough to go.

Things started off well (freezing as scheduled!), then took a turn for disaster (snow melted into the surface and turned it into very deep sandpaper). Disheartened, I had all but decided that maybe Nick was right to skip this year; maybe, with this bizarre weather, it was just impossible.

I wasn’t quite ready to give up, though. We were this close… So I crossed my fingers that maybe a few buckets of hot water would fix things up.

Six hours later, with just enough time to skate before the girls went to bed, I held my breath and examined the earlier repairs.

The ice was smooth.
Not perfect – some bumps remain – but absolutely skate-able.
Thirty minutes later, we were on it.

By God; I know how to make an ice rink. SWEET FANCY MOSES!!

~~~~~~~~~~

The girls and I just kept laughing. Annie – ever the daredevil – took one hesitant step (slide?) onto the surface and then was ready, cutting curves around our little rink. Ella – ever more cautious – was surprisingly sure of herself. “Mama, we made this! So I know it’s good. I’m going to work on gaining confidence so I can skate more.”

We made “fishies” and practiced crossovers, spun and glided. At their request, I played Adele from my phone; we circled and soared to “Send My Love (To Your New Lover)” and “Sweetest Devotion.” We watched snowflakes – huge, glittering – fall to the ice in the floodlights. The air was refreshingly crisp; we didn’t even notice the cold.

And over and over, we kept coming back to the same idea: We made this. We did it. We built it and it worked and now we are on it and it is glorious.

“Mom, how come everyone always asks if we have figure skates?”

“Yeah! It’s not like only boys can play hockey! Why couldn’t we have hockey skates?”

“Besides! Hockey skates are way more comfortable than figure skates!”

“Right! Girls can wear hockey skates, too.”

“Girls can do anything!”

~~~~~~

Tonight? We really felt like we could.

So very proud of themselves.
Also? Wearing hockey skates. Because we can do anything.

The Age of Magic

Posted on December 23, 2015 by missemtoo

Eleven is usually one of those ages that no one really notices. It’s not the first double digit, it’s not the last year before teenager, and it’s not thirteen (omg), which of course launches children into an entirely new category. So eleven typically kind of slides by…

Unless you happen to be a (huge) Harry Potter fan.

Because if you are, then you know that eleven is the age at which witches and wizards receive their owls inviting them to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Eleven is the age at which everything changes, where the chosen ones are weeded out from the muggles, where new horizons are tantalizingly around the corner.

Eleven is magical.

As I’ve said before, one of the most marvelous and astonishing things about sharing the Harry Potter series with Ella (and now Annie) has been that they see the story from Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s perspective.

By the time I met Harry, Ron, and Hermione, I was already an adult myself. It was fascinating to watch them grow, but I did so with an emotional distance – they were kids, and although I was extremely drawn in by the power of [the] storytelling, I never once imagined what it was like to BE eleven. Ella, on the other hand, is viewing the stories through the eyes of a child, almost as a peer. She doesn’t just envision the Gryffindor common room (as I did); she envisions herself IN the Gryffindor common room.

And so I suppose it should come as no surprise that, as she approached her eleventh birthday, Ella hoped she would receive an owl. She never told me so explicitly – she realizes that the books are fiction, obviously – but it was clear that, somewhere in the back of her mind, she was entertaining the possibility that maybe somehow, in some parallel universe we have yet to tell her about, there really is a Hogwarts and she really is a witch, and, well… Wouldn’t that be amazing?

It would. It would be amazing. And I have no doubt that, should such a place exist, Ella would be qualified for admission (if only due to sheer adoration and willpower).

Alas. If there is such a parallel universe, it has yet to make itself known to us. Or maybe we really are just muggles. Whatever the case, Nick and I knew that there would be no owl arriving at the house this past Friday when Ella turned eleven. We’d already celebrated with a Harry Potter party, which was one of our gifts to her (I really will write more about it soon, I promise), but I still wanted her magical birthday to be special…

So, the dining room became the Great Hall – kinda.

Hogwarts house banners and colors, “floating” candles, and a balloon owl (it was the best I could do) — but with an actual letter from a super cool Etsy shop.

It looked pretty neat all lit up.

A bunch of gifts, from all different family members, were Harry-themed. Ella loved each and every one. Even our Elf on the Shelf, Hermey, got into the action.

He was waiting for her – amongst her HP collection – in her bedroom that morning.

Naturally, not every part of Ella’s birthday was about Harry. Annie contributed several additions that, really, were more than a little awesome. First up was a set of three shirts, one for each of the days surrounding Ella’s birthday.

The first:

“TOMORROW IS MY BIRTHDAY!”
If you look reeeeally closely, you might see the “Can’t wait!” written in neon yellow on the side…

Next up:

“TODAY IS MY B-DAY!” on the front…
and, “I’m 1 year more AWESOME!” on the back.
(Photos “darkened” so the text was more visible.)

And finally:

“Yesterday was my birthday” with – my favorite – “Waiting for next year!” in orange on the side. HA.

Ella was tremendously tickled and wore them proudly. Then, there was also Annie’s card to Ella, the middle of which looks like this and might be one of the greatest things of all time:

In perfectly disconnected beginner cursive, the heart-meltingly sweet: “I couldn’t ask for a better sister…”
And beneath it, in print, the heart-stoppingly hilarious: “Well, I guess I could, but I think mom’s a little to[o] old now.” Maybe 40 is older than I’d thought…

Unfortunately, Ella’s birthday fell on a weekday so she couldn’t choose how to spend her day. She did, however, revel in her Great Hall, open presents in the afternoon, wander the mall with Nick (her birthday request; so help me, she is already pining to WANDER THE MALL), eat a dinner of her choosing (loaded baked potatoes and wedge salads), and for dessert – knowing she’s not particularly fond of cake – we surprised her with one of her favorites: cannolis.

Or, more specifically, cannoli “dippers” from Wegmans — a cup with cannoli pastry chips at the bottom and a container of filling at the top. Ella was in heaven (as always, Wegmans is my spirit animal and saved the day).

When the night was nearly at an end, Nick and I called the girls into the living room to give them their final, joint birthday present. In a recent conversation with both girls, they told us that, of all the people in the world, the one they’d most want to meet was J.K. Rowling – they so admire her, they think she’s amazing, there’s no one cooler – but if they couldn’t meet her, at least they’d like her autograph. Nick and I told them such things are impossible; authors don’t do that.

So, yes, we lied to the children. Point blank.

Then I scoured the internet researching such a possibility. After learning far more than I ever wanted to know about autograph authenticating, reputable dealers, pricing, etc., I happened upon an Ebay auction of a signed copy of Quidditch Through The Ages. Long story short, the stars aligned and a few days later, I was – literally – chasing after our mail carrier to pick up the book.

I cried when I opened it.

JO ROWLING TOUCHED THIS PAGE OMG OMG OMG

After calling the girls into the living room and informing them we had one last gift, we made them wash their hands and promise not to spit or cough or in any other way defile the item they were about to receive… and then handed over the book. At first, they were perplexed (“Oh, wow. A paperback copy of a book we already have… How neat… Oh? It’s the UK version? That’s… cool?”). Then, they figured it out and, well…

It was, in the vernacular of the Brits, brilliant.

Although we may be muggles, this book feels positively magical. So does having our E-Bean for a daughter. She is a tween for sure – with everything that you would imagine comes along with such a moniker – and we are just smitten with her. As she grows older, she grows more into and sure of herself, more empathetic, more sensitive, more intuitive and insightful, wittier, kinder, bolder, and oh so much fun. She is positively slaying the French Horn and remains a joy to watch come alive in the pool.

In short, she is incredible.

Happiest eleventh birthday, Eleanor Elizabeth. Although your owl may have been poppable and your Great Hall “floating” candles may have been suspended by fishing wire, our love for your is oh so real. You are magic to us and we will stay with you – to quote Harry’s mom, Lily, Until the very end.

We adore you. Always.

Speed

Posted on October 30, 2015 by missemtoo

I had a moment on the playground today.

I volunteer as a helper a couple of times a month and this morning, as I watched the second graders run by in their half-constructed Halloween costumes (their parade was this afternoon), it was as though I was actually seeing one of those uber-fast time-lapse sequences that are shown in movies whenever the director wants to particularly toy with your emotions.

And I saw Ella in her costume in second grade – and kindergarten and first and third and fourth – but, like, actually SAW her in my mind’s eye, tromping confidently in the Halloween parade. Glowing Skeleton! * change scene * Maleficent! * change scene * Snow Queen! * Ice Witch! * Bellatrix! *

They flew by in an instant, melding into one another in a faded blur. And then, in my head, I heard the voice of our neighbor – one of Ella’s closest friends – telling me how excited she is for Halloween but how bummed she is, now that she’s in sixth grade, that her school no longer has a costume parade.

The realization hit me with actual force. I felt it, somewhere deep in my stomach and my chest: This is Ella’s last Halloween parade. This is the last year that I’ll see her stroll by with her friends, laughing with her teachers. The last year I’ll hug her each month as she runs across the playground to join her friends. The last time I’ll be able to volunteer in her classroom, get to know her teachers, drop by just to see how things are doing.

She will be in a new school, middle school, navigating it on her own. We’ll know what she wants us to know and will see what she brings home, but beyond that, we will be largely in the dark; the window I now have into her days at school will become a door, maybe even a wall. Which is exactly how it’s supposed to go, this Growing Up and Maturing thing.

But somehow, in that moment on the playground, watching the little ones squeal and climb, remembering how Ella used to do the same but now would rather just talk with her friends than play, these past five years came barreling into me so hard and fast, I had to collect myself before I could resume my responsibilities.

—————

Last week, we flew to Las Vegas for my brother’s wedding. It was a wonderful trip but unfortunately, Annie wound up not feeling well in the middle of it. She and Nick headed back to the hotel to rest up before the rehearsal dinner, leaving Ella and me with a few hours to explore part of The Strip. I’d been talking for weeks about bringing the girls to see some of the hotels – the roller coaster at New York New York, the tigers at The Mirage, the Bellagio fountains, the decor of Paris or Caesar’s or The Venetian – and they had responded with mild enthusiasm. Now that my words had become reality, Ella was unconvinced that she would enjoy herself; perhaps it would be more fun back at the pool.

Seeing as how I didn’t want to drag her from hotel to hotel if she wasn’t into it, leaving both of us miserable, I searched for the right way to phrase it so that maybe she’d acquiesce. It didn’t take long for me to find the perfect olive branch: “How about we go shopping?”

My girl loooooves to shop. Not necessarily to buy things (although she likes that, too), but just to look, to see, to hold trinkets up close and examine how they work, to pick up clothes and feel how the fabric falls between her fingers. And so we window shopped, marveling at the French-inspired “streets” in Paris, devouring a banana and Nutella crepe, looking with awe and horror at the absurdly high-end shops at Caesar’s.

I’d asked an employee when the fountains at the Bellagio would be going off, so I positioned us at the water’s edge just moments before the show began. I commented to Ella that everyone had their cameras out; she, in turn, asked for her iPod and began videoing the performance. The fountains were set to Andrea Bocelli and Sarah Brightman’s “Con te Partiro” and they followed the melody accordingly – lightly swaying, gently rising. Ella seemed to be paying attention but not really thinking too much of it.

Then, the voices came together and the music rose and crested and the fountains soared into the air. I looked over just in time to see Ella’s jaw literally drop. It was comical, really, the absolute stereotype of shock and absolute awe. Her joy and astonishment were practically tangible. I didn’t know what to do for the rest of the show – watch the fountains or watch my girl watch the fountains.

I know it’s blurry but I don’t care – I was too busy trying to capture her glee to bother to refocus.

I loved every bit of the (less than) five minutes of the show. I loved walking with Ella through the hotels, contemplating which souvenirs were worthwhile, imagining what the rooms were like. I loved strolling The Strip with her, giggling at the ridiculous outfits, admiring the architecture, stopping to take in street performances. We took a cab to the restaurant for the rehearsal dinner, sharing sideways glances about our driver’s cringe-worthy braking. Together, after talking with several employees of the large mall, we figured out where the dinner was being held… and then she was off, visiting with her grandparents, talking with her uncles, checking in on Annie.

But for those few glorious hours, we two took on Vegas. That Ella is old enough now to be a genuine shopping and tourist partner (albeit a short one who thinks heavily bejeweled iPod cases are to die for) is… incredible. I cannot wait to see what her future – and my future with her – holds.

—————

I know this is all going just as it’s supposed to. She is growing up and I am enjoying it, really and truly. Each age is better than the last; I don’t miss her being little, don’t yearn for the days when shoe-tying was a major affair and there were tantrums thrown because the lunchtime cup wasn’t the right one. I love being able to reason with her, to share a joke, to use sarcasm, to have fascinating and interesting conversations.

It’s just that every now and again something comes along to remind me of the lightning speed at which her Growing Up is happening and I have to deep breathe on the playground and stop the tears so the second graders don’t think something catastrophic has happened near the monkey bars. My friends who’ve done this – whose children are older than mine – tell me it will all be okay. Yes, there will be hard times, times when maybe I will, in fact, long for lunchtime cup tantrums… but it will be good. She’ll just be an older version of the Ella she is now, and our relationship will grow and change to match.

I know this.
But still.

Today was Ella’s last Halloween parade. It was chilly but there was no rain; she was psyched to don her Luna Lovegood (of course) costume, the one that she designed herself, and walk with her friends and teachers, past the hordes of parents. I watched her go and didn’t cry, not even a little.

But tonight, I’m going to watch her video of the Bellagio fountains just so I can hear her catch her breath in the background. Maybe I’ll even watch it in slo-mo… just to take it in a little bit longer.

It goes by so. damn. fast.

One Day

Posted on June 25, 2015 by missemtoo

It’s officially day two of summer vacation and I’ve already taken a break from the kids.

This was a scheduled trip, though, not a desperate attempt to flee – a trip out west with friends to visit another friend who we just need to see. It’s been far too long; I’m so looking forward to being with them, to sharing hugs in person, to laughing and crying and just being together.
And also the eating. I love me some eating.

With just one day between school getting out and my leaving, I wanted to make the most of it with Ella and Annie. I wanted summer to start off right, not with me running around like a maniac or everyone scattered in different directions or me losing my temper only three hours in and yelling at them for disagreeing over Legos (not that that’s ever happened, but I’ve heard it’s a possibility).

So, by gosh, we made the most of it.

The first thing the girls wanted to do was a craft off of this year’s Summer Fun List – using bleeding tissue paper to dye a canvas and then adhering additional tissue paper to the colorful canvases with Mod Podge.

This was totally not my idea; Annie completed the very same project at a friend’s party a few weeks ago and her family was kind enough to share the instructions – and tissue paper – with us.

Photo by Ella of her final creation.

Photo by Annie of her final masterpiece.

While the canvases dried, we got to do the rarest of things: shop for something silly with no timeframe or schedule, just for the hell of it, because we wanted to. To be more precise, we searched high and low for specific names on Coke bottles as part of the Share a Coke With ~~marketing scam~~ genius promotion that has drawn in ~~suckers~~ sentimental consumers like me. We’ve been on the lookout for certain names for weeks, but we’re always frantically rummaging through bins and coolers while grocery shopping or picking up prescriptions at Target, so there’s never any time to just browse in a leisurely fashion. Annie and Ella were in heaven.

This may look like chaos, but we have got a system, you guys.

We might have pushed it a little by going to eight different establishments in search of our elusive bottles, but it was a lovely, frivolous diversion — a delightful way to pass part of a summer afternoon. And we found three more names we were looking for; holla!

Fenwick was remarkably patient, but by the fourth or fifth store, he was starting to get more than a little tired of hopping in and out of the car.

After a brief swim next door, the girls asked if they could borrow my good camera to take photos of their projects (see their first attempts, above). While I prepped dinner, they then decided – for the first time ever – to try to take “real” photos of one another posing with their canvases on the lawn, in the tree in our front yard, on the back of Nick’s scooter… and, inexplicably, Ella’s bike (artistic vision. Respect).

The results were simultaneously awesome, cringeworthy, and hilarious; once I return and have their full permission, I can’t wait to share them.

I love the intensity of their examination.

Following dinner, we participated in the most classic of all summer rituals: the procuring of ice cream.

And the making of butter in a jar.
What? That’s not one of your summer rituals? Lame!

In all seriousness, butter in a jar is both easy and fabulous.
YOU’RE WELCOME.

I didn’t take pictures of me running or weeding the garden, the girls’ Lego and cardboard creations, the fort that they set up in the playroom, or the dog peeing on the rug… but it all happened, my friends. It was a jam-packed, relaxing day (yep, totally possible to be both) and just the way I’d hoped our summer would begin.

As I’ve talked about several times before, summer is hard for me. The lack of routine, the absence of structure, how nothing gets accomplished, my inability to relax; it’s just complicated. I guess milestones are complicated for me, period, even small ones like the end of school. Every year, I find myself wrestling with such intense and conflicting emotions, I feel like I’m being consulted for Inside Out (which is fabulous, BTW; do see it).

I’m elated that the girls loved their teachers and are sad to leave them and I’m bummed for them that they feel so heart-worn. I’m rejoicing not having to pack lunches for ten weeks and lamenting that now I’ll have to drag the girls with me when I buy groceries. I’m thrilled that the kids are older and we’re able to enjoy so much more together and I’m shocked and dismayed, as always, that the years are flying by so freakin’ fast. I’m delighted at the thought of all the fun we’ll have between now and Labor Day and I’m anxious because I’m already afraid that we won’t get to everything and I’ll be disappointed.

Thankfully, by now, I know what to expect. I know that summer will not be this perfectly idyllic experience, nor will it be a total disaster. It will be somewhere in between – dirty and messy and yummy and tear-filled and joyful and laid-back and exhausting and crazy and good – which, when you think about it, is just as it should be.

At least I can confidently say that Ella and Annie and I got one day of summer wonderfully, deliciously right.

Save for the mosquitoes. They’re like hummingbirds this year, y’all. Evil, buzzing, bloodthirsty hummingbirds.

Tucking into bed last night.
These girls, y’all. These girls.

Bee’s Knees

Posted on June 22, 2015 by missemtoo

When the house phone rings at 8:20 on a weekday morning, there are really only two possibilities as to who will be on the line: Nick or my dad. If Nick is out of town, there’s a good chance it’s him, calling to say hello to the girls before they get on with their day. If Nick is home, it’s definitely my father.

Prior to his retirement last year, my dad did not call us on weekday mornings. In fact, I’m not sure that I can recall a single time when he phoned me while he was at work, ever, unless he needed an immediate answer to a particularly pressing question. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to speak with me, but rather that, when he was at work, he was working – hard – period, the end. Once I graduated college, we chatted fairly regularly, but always after 5 p.m., save for the pressing question times.

Together on his birthday this year, one of few we’ve been able to celebrate together since moving to Rochester nearly eight years ago.

When my dad phoned us that first Monday after he retired – just because he could, because he wasn’t at the office, didn’t have any meetings to attend, didn’t have an agenda that had to be considered – it was a fun novelty, but I assumed it was a one-off. Lo and behold, however, the calls kept coming; not daily or even weekly, but every couple of weeks, the phone rings at 8-something in the morning and my dad is on the other end.

He doesn’t want to speak with me, though. No, he’s calling to talk to Ella and Annie, and they know it. “Oh – it’s Papa calling again!” they’ll say as they scramble to pick up the phone.

Occasionally, if they’re in a particular rush to get out the door or are moving at a snail’s pace and are behind in their routine, they’ll hear the familiar ringing and whine, “Mom, we’re too busy! Do we have to answer?”

And every single time, my response is, “Yes, you absolutely do.”
And every single time, they do. And, when they hang up, they are glad that they did.

Kiawah, spring 2015

Because they know why their Papa is calling; I’ve confirmed this, just to be sure.

“Mom, why does Papa call us so much?”

Why do you think he does?

“I don’t know. Because he wants to say hi?”

That’s part of it.

“Because he wants to hear our voices before we go to school?”

That’s another part of it.

“Because he’s retired now so he likes to call just because he can?”

Yep, that’s another…

“Oh! And because he’s thinking about us and he wants us to know!”

Yes, there’s that, too. But you’re forgetting the biggest reason why Papa calls you in the morning.

“What?”

I bet if you really think about it you can figure it…

“Do you mean because he loves us?”

NAILED IT!

“Well, duh. We knew that.”

So, to recap, their Papa calls them on school days because he is thinking about them, so that he can hear their voices, and so that he can tell them he loves them. Those are pretty damned good reasons to pick up the phone.

This past year since my dad’s retirement has been, hands down, my favorite of our relationship. Seeing him more often, being able to truly enjoy him and vice versa, has been an incredible gift. I’ve always known that my dad thinks I’m awesome; seeing him pass the same message to my own children is one of the greatest things I know.

At the girls’ final swim meet of the year, which was in February. Given that my dad and GrandMeg had just come to visit us over Christmas and had – unexpectedly – been able to attend a swim meet, I’d told him that they didn’t have to come all the way back in February to repeat the adventure. My dad’s response: “Are you kidding? We wouldn’t miss it!”

Because that’s what we all want, isn’t it? To know that someone thinks you’re awesome? That you’re the bee’s knees? To believe their feelings down to your core?

Annie and Ella are fortunate enough to have dozens of family members who think that they’re the bee’s knees. Their own daddy is no exception. Nick was away this weekend participating in his annual guys’ day tournament; we’re used to him being out of town, but being gone on a Saturday or Sunday is unfamiliar. When the tournament was first scheduled and I knew that he’d be flying back on Father’s Day, I assumed that he’d sleep in, hang with the guys, take a flight that best suited him, and return later in the day. After all, on Father’s Day, he should spend his time exactly how he wants.

Instead, he booked a 6:30 a.m. flight, landing in Rochester before I’d even awakened… because it was Father’s Day, and what he wanted most of all was to spend it with his kids.

He thinks they’re that awesome. And they know it.

I don’t know much about actual bee’s knees, but I do know that being the bee’s knees feels pretty damned fantastic.

Father’s Day surf and turf!
I love the way Ella is looking at her daddy in this photo.

————————-

Because I have been thinking of it all day, I would be terribly remiss in not giving a shout-out to another man who thought that Ella, Annie, Nick, his sisters (Nelle and Em) and their families and I were the bee’s knees: my father-in-law, Bill. Today* would have been Bill’s 72nd birthday. A double-whammy: Father’s Day and a birthday. I so wish he were here to celebrate with us – to see his oldest grandson turn five yesterday, to see his middle grandson sing Frozen songs, to meet his youngest grandson, who is just six weeks old.

We love and miss you, Grandpa Bill, and think you’re the bee’s knees, too.
(Which is probably a good thing, because you had bad knees.)
Happy Father’s (Birth)Day!

* This was written on 6/21 but, due to a scheduling snafu (i.e. time for bed!), won’t be published until 6/22…

Mud Creek

Posted on June 20, 2015 by missemtoo

It is not yet officially summer here in Western New York – both because the calendar says summer hasn’t started yet and because our schools’ summer breaks don’t begin for approximately a bazillion years. (Okay, they only have two days left, but this past month has been particularly long.)

Still, it’s not so bad, because it feels like summer in so many ways. The kids are outside playing, every single day (well, every day that it isn’t raining to the point of flooding). It’s lighter, longer. We’ve officially left our winter gear behind for t-shirts and shorts and sundresses and flip-flops. There is little, if any, homework. After-school activities are finished. Peaches are in season. Our garden is growing like crazy. The house already smells like sunscreen and chlorine.

Now that I think about it, our kiddos may be the among the luckiest in the country: they essentially receive an additional month of summer before summer even begins.
I LOVE NEW YORK!

Despite the laissez-faire attitude, though, until last week, one critical component of our summer days was missing: our trips to Mud Creek Farm, where we participate in a CSA program. Last year was our first CSA summer, borne of a whim on my part – a thought that it would be nice to have fresh, homegrown produce every week; a wish that we would come to enjoy visiting the farm to pick our own herbs and veggies.

I’d hoped we would find it fun, that the 15-minute drive would be worth it, that we might even appreciate our food a little bit more having participated in collecting it (the veggies from our own garden always taste better than anything we get at the store!). I hadn’t anticipated that we would come to adore it as much as we did.

Every week, we would count and weigh our allotted assortment of goodies, discussing which peppers looked to be the sweetest and which zucchini would make the best soup. We marveled at foods we’d never seen before – orange-hued watermelon?! (hint: it tastes the same as the pink kind) – and foods we’d seen but had never tried before (bok choy, I’m looking at you; turns out, it’s one of Ella’s favorites).

To her delight, bok choy was available at our first pick-up this year; score!

We carefully weighed our two pounds of kale or three pounds of beets, watching as the hand on the scale wavered until it nestled on just the right amount.

Choosing just the right lettuce to bring home.

And when we’d collected our “official” share, we’d head out into the fields to take advantage of the you-pick options — beans, tomatoes, loads of herbs, peppers, gorgeous flowers — our bags growing fat and our arms weighted down (truly; one week, we picked more than five pounds of green, purple, and yellow beans). As the girls would walk gingerly between the rows, I would stop, every time, and watch the sun behind them, breathing in the very smell of happiness and freshness and freedom and summer.

July 2014

The farmers and employees are super friendly and helpful, and the fellow shareholders are genuinely happy to see us – it feels like a community. I’d hoped we’d enjoy the fresh produce, but I’ve been most excited by how much the girls and I just adore being there. It’s so serene and warm and lovely, truly a highlight of each week.

When our season ended last October, I missed it… but, quite frankly, life was so busy between sports and travel and work that it was almost a relief to not have to drive to the farm. As June approached and the days — and our attitudes — lightened, I found myself longing to be back at Mud Creek. When at last the first pick-up day arrived last week, Ella and Annie and I could hardly wait to be back again.

On the (very, very muddy) hunt for snap peas…

Summer.
We can literally taste it.

As our attitudes have lightened, however, our hearts have been heavy; first, my beloved grandma. Then, the massacre in Charleston (which felt strangely close to home because it is a place that is very special to us). I’ve struggled to make sense of things, to explain them to the girls, to help them find meaning and answers when I don’t even know what they are, myself. (As an addendum, this post by my wonderful friend, Liza, is an amazing guide to how to be a white ally to the black community.)

In absence of answers and in an effort to not become completely overwhelmed, I’ve been clinging to the little things, the ones that bring me hope and ground me; the way the dogs lie at my feet, sleeping contentedly; the sound of my daughter’s voice, bursting with confidence and joy, as she sings in the shower; the shy satisfaction of my other daughter as she shares a secret with me; the gleeful recognition of Nick’s number on the caller ID, meaning he’s checking in with us even when he’s not in town; watching So You Think You Can Dance and marveling at how ridiculously handsome Jason Derulo is (come on now, it’s not just me…).

Yep, a few more in-the-fields, sun-behind-us photos…

And our weekly visits to Mud Creek, which allow the girls and me some glorious downtime, an opportunity to laugh and talk and share, with the sun at our backs and fresh food in our hands. I know we are very fortunate to even have such an opportunity, and even more fortunate to love it as much as we do.

Sometimes, it’s the little things that wind up being not so little at all.

After receiving an absurd amount of rain recently, the fields last week made the Mud in Mud Creek particularly true.

To Say Hello

Posted on June 9, 2015 by missemtoo

My grandma (Phoofsy to Ella and Annie and many others) – always said that life was worth living so long as you were having fun. A little less than two weeks ago, unexpectedly and suddenly and to our stunned shock and heartbreak, Phoofsy stopped having fun.

You guys. I just… It’s simply not okay.

Living so near her these past eight years was one of the reasons that moving to Rochester was such a fantastic decision. My grandma was our guidepost, our touchstone, our sounding board and cheerleader, our adventure buddy, and our constant partner for dinner, games, and talking. We have never lived here without her and, honestly, I feel as though we’ve been cut adrift; Nick and I hadn’t realized how much she grounded us and made us whole.

I miss her so much, I cannot begin to put it into words.

We have spent every Easter with Phoofsy since we moved here.
This year was no different.

Losing Phoofsy has been difficult for Ella and Annie as well. Sadly, they are quite familiar with loss (most importantly, their Grandpa Bill, and to a much lesser extent – although fresh on their minds – our Madison), but never before have they had to say goodbye to someone who was an integral part of our daily lives, someone whose presence would be noticeably absent at soccer games, swim meets, birthdays, evenings beside the fireplace, Sunday brunch, Wednesday nights, and every day in between.

This is an active, different kind of grieving, for all of us.
Not better. Not worse. Not harder or easier. Just different.

My mom and stepdad drove up to the lake the day after my grandma passed away and immediately got to the business of sorting through Phoofsy’s affairs (and providing lots of hugs and memories and laughs); we loved getting the chance to see them, even under these circumstances. As our little family foursome was driving back from the lake last weekend – the first-ever we’d spent there without my grandma – the conversation naturally turned toward Phoofsy.

Playing The Lake Game on Memorial Day, my grandma was absolutely tickled that she managed to successfully flip her cup. We were absolutely tickled, too.

Things began simply enough, sharing stories and memories, but soon moved onto more metaphysical, abstract thinking. It started with Nick telling them that he was comforted by the idea that, one minute, Phoofsy was here and healthy, the next there was some brief confusion, and the very next, she was seeing Great‘s face as he said to her, “What took you so long?”

Annie and Ella were intrigued by this and wanted to hash things out, so we kept talking. “Where do you think Phoofsy is right now?” “If there’s heaven, do you stay the same age as you are when you die?” “Can people who have already died leave ‘messages’ for those of us who are still here?”

As they discussed their conceptions of heaven, Nick and I grew more and more entranced. The girls’ ideas were absolutely fascinating and far more interesting and nuanced than anything I’ve imagined in my nearly-forty years. In fact, their thoughts were so lovely, so simultaneously comforting and thought-provoking, I asked if I could share them with you.
They graciously agreed.

Chuckling that her poker hand was better than Ella’s.
Even when you’re 84 years older than your great-granddaughter, victory is sweet.

—————-

“In heaven, you can be any age you want, and you can change that age whenever you like. So, if you had a really great time when you were twelve, you get to be twelve. Then, if you want to feel what it was like to be fifty again, you can be fifty for a while. Oh! And the person you’re with – like, if Phoofsy is with Great – can be another age, too. ‘Cause you know how Great was 86 when he died but Phoofsy was almost 95? That might not be fair, for her to be older, just ’cause she got to live longer. They might want to be the same age again – so they can be, together.”

(I don’t know what age I want to be yet, but that sounds pretty much like the best idea ever.)

“I think, in heaven, you can live out a dream while you’re awake. Like, you know how when you wake up after you’ve had an awesome dream and you suddenly realize it was just a dream and you’re so sad? Well, in heaven, you actually get to do the dream while you’re awake – you never have to miss anything! So Phoofsy and Great and Grandpa Bill can live out all of their dreams, for real – not just dreaming – every single day.”

(OMG THAT IS AWESOME.)

“But it’s okay to sometimes miss things. I think people in heaven might sometimes be sad. I mean, they’re mostly happy – it’s heaven after all, and they can see their friends and they can travel all around the world and have those dreams – but I think there’s a little sadness… Because life has sadness. We have to have some sadness to appreciate the happiness. Without a little, tiny bit of sadness, heaven wouldn’t be real.”

(Appreciation and perspective, even in heaven. Very cool.)

“When you’re in heaven, if you get to travel all around the world and be any age you want, I want to be a baby for a little while.”

(Interject our incredulity. A baby?? But wouldn’t that be… boring?)

“Well, that’s the thing. We think it would be boring right now because we can’t see inside a baby’s mind and we don’t remember what it was like to be a baby. But if I could be a baby, but have my regular mind, I could see what life was like when I was a baby and actually remember it.”

(Scratch what I said before. THAT may be the best idea ever.)

“And I know that, once people are dead, they’re gone and all that. But I think they’re still with us, too — not just in our hearts, though, like people say. I think – and I know this is kind of weird – but I think that people can come and visit for a while. You can’t see them, you can’t feel them, you don’t even know they’re there… But they are. Maybe they walk with you to school. Maybe they sit next to you at dinner. Maybe they ride beside you in the car. Then, suddenly, you have a good memory of that person and it makes you feel better… and it’s because they were right there with you for just a little bit, visiting. Not all creepy like a ghost! Just a good feeling, because they came to say hello.”

—————

Mother’s Day 2015

Ella and Annie don’t talk too much about being sad, but I know that Phoofsy is on their minds. Every day since she died, both girls, of their own accord, have made absolutely certain to keep something of hers with them; Ella now carries her books in one of Phoofsy’s old purses; Annie wears her hats around the house. Hardly a day has gone by when they haven’t worn one of her necklaces to school even though, normally, necklaces aren’t their thing.

Every time I see them toting her bags, donning her jewelry, adorned in her hats… a fleeting, glowing smile crosses my heart.

And I have no doubt Phoofsy has come to say hello.

What Love Looks Like

Posted on May 15, 2015 by missemtoo

It’s been a busy week. You know the kind – husband out of town, subbing, kids’ extra-curriculars, errands, sick kiddo. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing insurmountable, but just plain busy.

I had really been looking forward to going to church on Thursday night. Ella and Annie know how important this is to me; they’ve even accompanied me before when Nick’s been away so that I didn’t have to miss out. (Getting to consume Panera baked goods, use their iPads, and play with the toys that pastor Nancy brings may also have something to do with their agreement, but whatever.)

This week, though, was different. If I went to church – and by default, took them with me – they’d be gone (swimming, soccer, homework, babysitter, driving, move, move, move!) from the moment that school got out until bedtime. No playing with friends, no relaxing at home. It was a lot to ask, especially considering the busyness of the week, the sick kiddo (who had just returned to school and, I assumed, would be tired), and the toad they’d found in the back yard the day before, taken into captivity, and desperately wanted to ~~torture~~ play with.

So, I told them the decision was in their hands. If they were game to be away from home for the entire afternoon and evening, to bring our dinner with us and then eat it at Panera, to wait while I did my church thing, then we’d go. But if they weren’t – if they were too tired, if they really wanted to go home, if they needed some downtime, if they just didn’t want to do it, then we wouldn’t. I told them that I was good with either decision; I meant it.

They decided they wanted to go. That, despite the crazy long day, the running around, the eating out of a cooler and not playing with their friends, we would go… so that I could get my church on. They did it for me. (And Nancy’s toys and the brownie I bought them, but hey. For me.)

On the way home, we chatted – as we do – and I thanked them. For coming with me, for giving up their free time, for being so patient, for enabling me to go to church, which I so deeply love. I told them I adore being with these women, and I feel good whenever I do so, and that I was really grateful they’d allowed me to attend.

“Um, you’re welcome. But mom,” they protested, “You didn’t get to go last week. And it means so much to you. And we love you. So we said yes.”

I started to thank them again when they added, “We also really like Miss Nancy’s toys.”
Fair enough.

This is what love looks like.

It’s not the flashy signs or the expensive gifts or the dramatic proclamations of adoration (although it can be those things too; I wouldn’t complain). It’s the littler things, the ones that you don’t even think about, the ones that are so basic and mundane, they are all but unnoticed – but they are the love foundation that holds everything else up.

Love looks like your husband setting his alarm in the mornings on business trips, even when he’s in another time zone, so that he can be sure he has enough time to call your daughters before they go to school.

Love looks like your camp friend, whom you haven’t seen in 20 years, posting a message to your Facebook wall of long-forgotten camp songs and rhymes.

Love looks like your grandma saving packets of oyster crackers from her dinnertime soup and giving them to your daughters the next time she sees them, just because she knows they enjoy them.

It looks like your babysitter taking time out of her college graduation party to sit and talk with your kiddos, even though she has dozens of other guests to attend to. It looks like your other babysitter sending a thank-you note for the goodbye sign your daughters made her because she will miss them over the summer.

It is your father sending you links to stories from The New York Times because he thinks you might like them – stories that you would never have checked out on your own but you’re darned glad you did. It is doggie poop bags showing up at your door in an Amazon box after your mother reads on Facebook about how you never seem to have enough bags to pick up after your dogs.

Love looks like remembering that one child prefers the tops of asparagus while the other prefers the bottoms. It looks like the Valentine’s Day cards that show up in the mail from grandparents and uncles. It looks like taking a friend’s call even though you only have five minutes to talk because you know she had important news to share; it also looks like understanding when a friend doesn’t take your call because, hey, sometimes you just can’t talk right now and that’s okay.

Love looks like setting out sneakers for your daughter on gym day but also not bringing them to her at school if she forgets; love looks like allowing her to make mistakes and learn from them, then offering her a hug when she does.

It looks like friends inviting you over for a drink and some catching-up. It looks like your neighbors offering to watch your kids while you run an errand. It looks like the person at the gas station holding the door open for you.

Sometimes, love looks like opulence and flattery and vacations. Other times, it looks like remembering how you like your coffee. It looks like, “I’ll be right over.” It looks like your husband and daughters remembering that what one of the things you’d like most for Mother’s Day is time to write messages to your friends, and giving you time to do so.

Love looks like doing your spelling homework in the car and your science studying beside the soccer field and not returning home until bedtime so that your mama can get to church.

And for me, love looks like these folks.
Amen.

That this was taken inside the hotel where we spent Mother’s Day eve certainly doesn’t hurt… Love does come in all shapes and sizes, after all.

My favorite Mother’s Day tradition

Posted on May 8, 2015 by missemtoo

Like many moms, I have certain Mother’s Day requests: time with my girls. Time to myself. Something delicious (Starbucks is dandy, thanks). No cooking required. A few nice words. Nick, Ella, and Annie are really good about making sure these things happen; every year, I appreciate their consideration.

In addition to the above, I also ask for something a little unusual: computer time. More specifically, computer time to spend on Facebook, writing messages to every mother on my friends list. This may seem like an odd Mother’s Day request, but it’s actually one of my favorite parts of the day.

Over the years, people have commented on this annual rite of passage. Most are cordial or appreciative. A few are skeptical (“You spend all that time online when you could be outside or reading or laughing with your kids? Isn’t that the opposite of what Mother’s Day is supposed to be about?”). More than a few comment that the messages are “so thoughtful” or something along those lines.

While I appreciate the sentiment, I’m not comfortable with the praise ’cause here’s the truth: I didn’t start this tradition from a thoughtful place. I started it because I felt obligated.

I have a group of mom friends who I “met” through an online message board when I was pregnant with Ella; we all had babies due in December 2004. Eventually, we moved our communications to Facebook, where we continue to “see” one another today (we have also met in real life, but those are crazy stories for another day…). When I first joined Facebook, I was tickled to discover several of my former message board mama friends. Being able to easily keep up with them again was a terrific treat. Hence, in 2009 – my first Facebook Mother’s Day – I decided that I wanted to reach out to these lovely and inspirational gals.

Mother’s Day seemed perfect. After all, in addition to being pretty excellent friends, the very reason that these ladies and I had met one another was through our shared motherhood. Our friendship was made even stronger because we all had children the same age; we’d gone through leaky boobs, sleepless nights, potty training, and the first day of kindergarten – together. As much as anyone on the planet, these women shaped me into the mother I am today through their advice, their friendship, and through how they parented their own children. I wanted to tell them that they were doing a fabulous job as moms and, although it’s sappy and clichéd, I wanted to tell them on Mother’s Day.

That was all: tell a small group of friends I thought they were great. Easy peasy, over and done. When I sat down and began to type, however, I found myself scrolling through my entire list of friends, many of whom are also mothers. Some I didn’t know very well, but with others, I’d see their names and think, “She makes those crazy bento lunches!” or “She’s always at her son’s football games!” or “When her daughter was sick last year, she did a helluva job holding it together.”

So I thought, I guess I’ll write to those moms, too. And I did. And at first, I felt pretty good, writing messages to the friends whose mother-ing I knew well enough to talk about. But here’s the thing: all of the messages were written on my friends’ walls, which meant that any of their friends could see them… Meaning that the rest of my Facebook mom friends – the ones I didn’t know very well, the ones who don’t post often – could see them, too… Meaning that it would be pretty obvious that I’d picked and chosen to whom I was writing.

So then I thought, Well damn. The whole point of this was to say nice things, not to make anyone feel left out or crappy. I guess I’d better write to every mom on my friends list. Or, in other words, I felt… obligated… to write to everyone.

So I did.
And it was… incredible.

I know that whenever anyone reaches out to me and says something nice, it feels good, so I definitely hoped that my doing so would make people feel good. It did. But there was so much more than that.

Most of the time, I received an acknowledgement – maybe a “thank you.” While that wasn’t why I was writing – I wasn’t looking for recognition at all; I just wanted to make people smile – it was lovely nevertheless.

But then there were friends who were just floored. Some had had a rough Mother’s Day. Others were in a difficult place. Still others had been feeling gross about themselves for whatever reason. The vast majority of the time, I had no idea that any of this was going on; it’s not as much fun to talk about bad stuff as it is to post selfies, you know? When these ladies heard from someone randomly telling them that they were damn fine moms, it caught them off guard – in the best way. They said they felt they could go on. They said they felt good about themselves for the first time in ages.

I’d had no idea; I was stunned.

And then there was the most unexpectedly exciting thing of all: the joining in. I don’t remember why I posted on Friends’ walls instead of sending private messages, but I was immediately glad I did because other friends started adding on. Sometimes, they’d simply “like” my post. Others, they’d write comments telling the friend why she was, indeed, a kickass mother. Either way, these women suddenly had dozens of friends confirming their awesomeness.

It was stupendous.

Women do a really good job of tearing one another down, either overtly (“How can you feed your kids Teddy Grahams? They’re basically toxic” or “You allow PG-13 movies? How… interesting…”) or more quietly (“No, Raphael’s not doing soccer; we refuse to schedule any after school activities because we believe in letting kids be kids”). We whisper behind one another’s backs about everything from eye wrinkles to how often we allow our kids to buy school lunch.

This is nothing new – the whole “Mommy Wars” thing and all. It’s not just moms either, of course; women, in general, can be pretty damned nasty to one another. Yes, we are good friends; we can call on our pals when we need advice or support. We compliment one another on our outfits or our haircuts. We thank people for their help. But in my experience, it’s pretty rare for a woman to say to another woman, “You’re fantastic. You inspire me. Here’s why.”

I include myself in this statement. I’m not proud of it, but it’s true: I don’t often tell my friends that they’re wonderful just for the hell of it. Being so vocal feels… strange. Uncomfortable. Plus, when I’m telling someone that I love how patient they are with their children, the unspoken sentiment (in my own head) is that I’m not as patient. There’s a comparison (again, in my own head) that, frankly, doesn’t always feel so good.

Basically, I avoid saying nice things to other people because it makes me feel bad about myself. Which is pretty neat and not at all embarrassing.

Somehow, on that Mother’s Day in 2009, I was able to break out of my selfish, self-protective bubble, and the response was beyond anything I could have imagined. Turns out, when you say kind things to people (and really mean what you’re saying), people appreciate it. Go figure.

Writing Facebook messages to my mama friends has become a treasured tradition; there is no obligation about it. I wish them a Happy Mother’s Day and, when I know them well enough (otherwise it sounds forced or canned), tell them why I think they’re magnificent moms. Yeah, it takes hours and during that time, I’m not outside or hanging out with my daughters or reading magazines, but the happiness that connecting with these women brings – considering why they’re making a difference, why their kids are lucky to have them, how they inspire me – is incalculable.

It’s pretty hard not to feel awesome while you’re pondering someone else’s awesomeness.

So, if you’re looking for something to do this Mother’s Day, I’d encourage you to tell some moms that you think they’re doing a bang-up job. You don’t have to go through your entire Facebook friends list or your entire neighborhood or even your entire family tree; just pick a mom or two or ten and tell them that they’re fabulous. Be genuine. Mean what you say. Then sit back and revel in the delicious feeling that accompanies celebrating other moms.

I mean, that’s what Mother’s Day is about, is it not?
Although I’m sure as heck not going to turn down any Starbucks or handmade cards or You just sit here and we’ll do the dishes. Life is all about balance, after all. My mother says so.

You can bet, come Sunday, I’ll be telling my own mama why she rocks.

All Together in a Scattered Sort of Way

Finding humor in even the most inappropriate places

Tag Archives: Ella