This is Me in Grade Nine, Baby!

I am entering my twenty-first year as an educator, most years in high school, specifically in grade nine. Freshmen are my favorite group to teach. They have the perfect combination of silliness, dedication, and naivety. At the beginning of the year, they are overwhelmed by the size of the school and their classmates. By the end of the year, they have established themselves as hard-working, confident students. I love being a piece of this transformation, knowing that all of the blood, sweat, and tears I pour into these young adults is always worth it.

Michael and I on our first days of ninth grade.

Each year, as I hand out schedules and attempt to quiet nerves, I have always assured my freshmen that “by the end of next week, you will feel like you have been here forever.”

However, I need to offer a full apology and retract those statements. As a ninth-grade English teacher raising her ninth-grade son, I am becoming beyond aware of how hard the transition from middle to high school truly is on students.

I assumed there was no considerable difference between middle and high school. While students were no longer part of a middle school team, they were accustomed to changing classes and keeping track of assignments for various teachers. However, that is far from the case.

My son is well-adjusted and athletic, has great friends, and makes the honor roll. At the end of eighth grade, his teachers nominated him for a “Distinguished Student” award. My husband and I joke about this, wondering how two huge nerds produced effortlessly cool offspring. (I was editor of the school newspaper and performed in the Rocky Horror Picture Show. He played Dungeons and Dragons. The fact that the title of this post is a reference to a Barenaked Ladies song is a testament to my nerddome.) I naively assumed Michael would breeze into high school like it was no big deal. He has excellent academic and social skills and a mom who’s taught freshmen for over twenty years!

The night before the first day of school, Michael was fine. A few days prior, we had cleaned and filled his backpack with fresh school supplies. We’d attended the Chromebook swap, so he had a new computer. Most importantly, he had brand-new sneakers. He was ready!

When we arrived home after our first days, he insisted the day had been “fine” but didn’t elaborate. Little by little, tidbits came out: “When we were walking in, there were a lot of upperclassmen hanging around, kind of watching us with a ‘Get a load of these guys’ vibe. I’m lucky I’m tall. They assumed I was just a new kid.” The observations became more profound over the next few hours, revealing Michael’s overwhelming reaction to the first day. “Mom, my first period, I went to art. The teacher sat me next to a grown-ass man. Mom, this kid had a beard. They sat me next to a grown-ass man!” Even though I’d told him he’d have upperclassmen in his electives, it didn’t hit him until he shared a table with a student old enough to participate in the upcoming presidential election.

The observations came out in small bursts:

“I’m so tired, and we haven’t even started doing work yet.”

“I feel like I’m always forgetting something.”

“Now I know why Napoleon Dynamite wanted to go home.”

“I’m just trying not to look like a tourist walking around with my map.”

Over the next few weeks, Michael settled into the high school routine. We are halfway through quarter one. His lowest grade is 89 (in math). He loves his teachers, and they all told us how much they enjoyed having him in class at the open house. He has a routine for setting out clothes and ensuring his materials are ready so we can leave the house on time. He’s doing this while playing baseball three to five times a week.

After spending the last few weeks helping my child get acclimated to high school, I now know that I will be much gentler with my freshmen students, assuring them that the transition is challenging but they will come out just fine. My experiences at home helped me at school. Weeks into the school year, I check in with my freshmen. Many admit to still feeling overwhelmed and ill-prepared. Today, I commented to my students that they seem much more confident about the work than they did a few weeks ago. When I got home from school, Michael told me that he finally felt like he had high school figured out. Never again will I promise that “By the end of next week, you will feel like you’ve been here forever.:

The Best Week of the MLB Season

There are a few days that incite happiness for baseball fans. For some, it’s opening day. For others, it’s truck day or when pitchers and catchers report to spring training. This is my favorite week of baseball for two reasons: the Home-Run Derby and the MLB Draft.

To most, the MLB Draft is not newsworthy. For people who closely follow collegiate baseball, it’s huge! Every year, players we’ve watched grow during their college years get the call that will change their lives. Last year, Kolton Ledbetter, who coached Michael during camp sessions at the Newport Gulls, was drafted by the Rays. This week, the Oriels drafted Ethan Anderson, a player we watched during his first year of college. Collegiate players have changed Michael’s view of baseball. He interacts with and watches them intently, observing how they interact with each other and handle errors- their own and their teammates. He watches them eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the dugout, cheers for them as they play in holey baseball pants, and talks to them about their experiences, taking in any advice they offer him applicable to his journey. He brings them packages of cookies so they have treats before the game. Watching players we’ve known get the call that will change their lives forever is beyond exciting. The draft represents the opportunity to make your wildest dreams come true. It’s the reward for the years of practice, dedication, and sacrifice.

Honestly, the All-Star Game doesn’t matter to me. I’ll watch it, but I don’t follow it closely. For me, the magic happens the night before the All-Star Game in the Home Run Derby. Watching the Home Run Derby while the draft is still in progress makes it even better. These players swinging for the rafters were, not too long ago, players getting the call explaining they had the opportunity to achieve their wildest dreams. Being selected for the home run derby signifies reaching the highest performance level of the few people provided the opportunity to play in the MLB.

As much as I enjoy the first spring training games and the playoffs, this is my favorite week of the baseball season. I love hearing news of collegiate players earning an opportunity to make it to the show and watching our favorite MLB players show the height of their talents. This week represents everything we try to teach Michael about life: work hard, learn from mistakes, and strive to improve.

Peroneal Repair Surgery: Week Three

Observations:

This surgery was much easier than my Achilles. It was not nearly as painful. I had one rough day, but that was it.
However, this surgery, like the injury itself, delays the pain from too much movement until after the fact. I joked with my PT that it was like tequila, letting you know you’ve done too many hours later. I pay for it later if I move too much and jostle my foot in my cast.
Michael is a huge help. The surgery was on a Friday. On Tuesday, after helping with laundry, cooking, and vacuuming, Michael commented, “Mom does a lot.” He asks if I need help several times each day. I hate asking for help, but I’m getting better at it.
My kid is the most understanding teenager I’ve ever met. He didn’t complain when we canceled our vacation and gave up tickets to two new MLB stadiums and Green Day tickets. The kid is remarkably kind.
The timing of my last surgery was much easier for Michael. It was performed a week and a half before he went back to school. This time, surgery occurred the day after he got out for the summer. He’s stuck home with me.
Thank goodness I can drive this time.
The location of this surgery is different. The incision is on the outside of my foot. When it gets warm, which it has been, my foot sweats. When sweat hits the incision, it’s excruciating.
Mike has been a fucking rock star. He works an hour away from home. After working all day, he’s been taking Michael to the fields to practice baseball. Today, he got to work before 6:30 to leave early and take Michael to practice.
Getting outside each day is huge for my mental health.
Getting dressed in real clothes is also huge for my mental health.
There’s a lot of screen time, but I’m consciously staying on Apple News as much as possible rather than scrolling social media. I still manage to go days without opening Instagram.
Telling as few people as possible has been better for my mental health. I’m not concerned about who is or isn’t checking in. The people I know are in my closest circle, and they’re checking on me perfectly. I posted a story about my cast foot at the beach and deleted it twenty minutes later. I like being in my recovery bubble.
Kindles and Libby have made it overwhelming to select which book to read next.
We have almost every streaming service, but the TV stays on TBS most of the time. It’s easier than trying to pick out movies we will both want to watch. (While recovering from Achilles surgery, I watched every cheesy Rom-Com on Netflix.)
My backyard is beautiful. I’m so thankful that the previous owner created flowerbeds that we just need to maintain. And I’m sorry for anything we accidentally killed trying to figure out which plants were weeds and which were supposed to be there.
There’s a bone spur on the back of my left foot, almost as big as the one removed from my right (after it dug into and tore my Achilles). I know others have much worse problems, but I don’t want to do this a third time.
Despite my best efforts, I’ve gained five pounds since surgery. Add that to the five I’ve gained since my injury, and I’ve got my work ahead of me when I can start moving. I’m aware that the extra weight puts more stress on my body.
The AeroGarden I found at Savers for $6 last year has given me so much entertainment. I give poor Mike daily updates on my tomato babies. He’s the best and humors me with matched excitement.
I want to live my dog’s life. Banjo has it made and is always happy.
At this point, I’ve become an emotional houseplant; I move into and out of the sun and drink plenty of water.

Random Thoughts as I Prepare for (Another) Tendon Repair Surgery

Am I really postponing surgery for two weeks to take Michael to Fenway in hopes of meeting Bryce Harper? Hell, yeah, I am! And I hope it’s worth it!
Poor Mike will have to take care of everything for an entire summer (again).
Poor Michael will not have the summer we planned, even though we can have a few of our planned adventures.
How the hell did I get back here? I already recovered from this surgery, did all the PT, and worked to get back to normal. (insert pout here)
It’s my ankle. I will have pain for a few months, work through it, and move on with my life. It could be much worse. Remember how lucky I am.
After a few callbacks and biopsies, I’ve had three clear breast scans. Needing surgery on my ankle is the least scary outcome of this week’s doctor’s appointments and tests. I have no right to complain about having to have a tendon surgically repaired.
I’m going to watch so much television!
This time, while I’m recovering, I will read more books.
Even two and a half years post-surgery, my right leg is still skinnier than the left. At least the left will shrink while in a cast for six weeks.
I don’t want to start over again… I already did this work.
I’m almost positive this injury happened during a long run while training for NYC. Five miles into one of my best runs, I felt a pop and had to call Mike to get me. It was sore afterward, cramping if I pushed too far, making me scared to do more than a fast walk or slow jog so I could ensure I made it through the marathon.
My pain is real. Whenever I have such injuries, there is the fear of surgery and complications, but there is also the fear that there is nothing there and that this pain is something I’m exaggerating or imagining.
At least I already have the boot, so I don’t have to pay for another one.
Since I won’t be able to for the rest of the summer, I’m going to the beach as much as I can over the next three weeks.
Should I give up running? Do I want to go through surgery and rehabilitation and start over only to get hurt again?

How Much Lotion Does a Woman Need?

Alternatively: Wear the Damn Lipstick

First of all, I’m hoping people see the play of Tolstoy’s “How Much Land Does a Man.

Need?”

I recently discovered the term “de-influencing,” the idea of people encouraging others to live with less. In our materialistic society, this stuck with me. As much as I try not to get bogged down by “stuff,” especially in our tiny house, we are bogged down by stuff. Every few months, I sort through various sections of my house, looking for things we no longer use that I can donate. I love the feeling of dropping off bags of clothes or other various items at our local resale shops and donation centers.

De-influencing struck a chord. I buy things to try them, then refuse to get rid of them because I spent money on them. This is especially true with beauty products. Reels demonstrating the latest eye cream, wrinkle reducer, primer, or hair serum almost always convince me to purchase them eventually, especially if there’s a sale.

Over February break, I looked through the bathroom to inventory my stash. I had six different face lotions and five different eye creams. In the shower, I had four other face scrubs. Why do I need so many? The hoarding didn’t stop in the bathroom. I found a dozen water bottles in the pantry, demonstrating a time capsule of a decade of water bottle trends: Nalgene, Hydroflask, Yeti, and the Stanley Cup. (I am currently using the Owala and cannot oversell it!) We have squeeze-top water bottles that we bring to the gym or practice. We have water bottles designed to fit in the bike holder. I have dresses and skirts that I love but never wear because I’ve grown accustomed to wearing clothing with pockets and don’t want to wear these older pieces and worry all day that I’ve left my phone or my keys in a place where they will be misplaced. I sorted through my giant Caboodle, realizing that pairing down my products allows me to toss my beloved organizer.

While my house looks neat and orderly, we are full of stuff. I noticed this around Lent. So, even though I have not given up anything for Lent in four decades, I decided to give up superfluous spending for forty days just to see if I could. It started challenging- who knew how much your mind could focus on sales? I am a case study in marketing strategies. I unsubscribed from all promotional emails. When I went to CVS for a prescription, I skipped my usual detour up the cosmetics aisle to see if anything was on sale. I do not need to add to it when trying to lessen the abundance of lipsticks and eyeshadows cluttering my bathroom. I also went through my large Caboodle makeup organizer, discarding anything I hadn’t used in a year, even the expensive products I kept saving for a rare night out. I need to realize that, at this stage of life, I have no important events to save a fancy lipstick or perfume for; I just need to wear the four-year-old Urban Decay lipstick I just threw away.

I didn’t realize how much I was a marketer’s dream until I actively tried to reset my brain. One of my favorite old bands rereleased baseball t-shirts from their hit nineties album. I am a sucker for a baseball T-shirt! They were selling the shirts via Amazon, throwing free shipping into the deal! I quickly added a baseball shirt to my cart but caught myself while checking out. Did I need this? How much would I wear it? Was it different from the countless band T-shirts I try to rotate and wear enough to justify keeping?

Much like anything, the more you do it, the more it becomes a habit. I now delete and unsubscribe to marketing emails without opening them. As a result, I’m receiving fewer and fewer emails. On my last trip to Target, I did not spend extra time exploring the endcaps for clearance finds. When relaxing, I played word games on my phone rather than searching Amazon, Target, and other discount sites. It did seem weird not to have packages arrive almost daily, but I quickly adjusted.

This experience taught me that I am not only okay with less “stuff,” but the shift was more than I expected. I consider myself pretty good with money and was shocked by how much mindless spending I was guilty of. I appreciate not digging through my closet or drawers to get the items I love and wear most frequently. I like looking at our living room bookshelf, with fewer books and board games crammed into every space. These few weeks have helped me grow and understand the power “stuff” has over us. I’ve enjoyed the relief from removing items that no longer serve us.

How Our Favorite Musician Convinced Our Son to Aspire to Play Professional Baseball

A few weeks ago, we went to see Stephen Kellogg’s “Stand Up and Sit Down” show, in which he combines stand-up and musical performances. You are missing out if you have never attended a Stephen Kellogg show; his lyrics are profound, and he seems genuinely lovely. Michael put it best when he said, “He seems like someone you would invite to sit around the fire and drink White Claws with you and Dad.” (We are now White Claw people because our middle-aged stomachs no longer tolerate good craft beers.)
That night was our fifth Stephen Kellogg show. We made a night of it, visiting a local brewery for beer and BBQ before the show. When we arrived, we were overjoyed to see chairs; we would not need to stand all night! At the show’s beginning, SK assured us, “I’ll have you back on your couches, watching Netflix and scrolling your phones before you know it.” His shows begin with a montage of clips, one from a TED Talk he delivered years ago describing his desire to pursue music. During the talk, he quoted The Office: “It’s better to be at the bottom of a ladder you want to climb than at the top of a ladder you don’t.” I could see Michael, who referred to SK as the “lovesick guy with a guitar,” sitting up a little straighter and paying attention.

As always, the show was terrific. Mike and I noted that he played a few of our favorite songs, including “Thanksgiving,” harder than usual. On the ride home, we talked to Michael about the show. Michael, who had made fun of SK’s lyrics about love, is coming around. A few things have changed his mind, including an observation a few weeks earlier:
While driving home from Thanksgiving weekend in Maine, we stopped for gas. Two cars were clearly doing the split custody child hand-off in the corner of the parking lot. Michael has friends whose parents are divorced and is familiar with “at my dad’s” or “at my mom’s,” but this was the first time he witnessed the switch in real life. He sat, speechless. “Are you glad you have parents who still go to Smoochville?” I asked, referring to Michael’s teasing when Mike and I kissed. Michael was affected by witnessing this interaction, mentioning it a few times over the next few days.
This brings us back to the latest show we attended. SK talked about success and family at length. I could see Michael absorbing his words. SK’s words about success and following dreams struck a chord with Michael.
We’ve talked to Michael about high school for the past few months. His district offers several career paths. While Michael’s top dream is to replace Bryce Harper on the Phillies, he is also realistically interested in business. He’s currently taking a business elective and is enjoying every aspect of it. He talks about starting his own business or working in marketing or promotion for a company, preferably in a sports-related field.
I am a teacher. In seventh grade, I knew I wanted to spend my days surrounded by words. I (usually) love my job and cannot imagine doing anything else. I am also aware that if I did not marry an engineer, I would not have enough money to pay for the equipment and lessons that allow Michael to follow his aspirations. After twenty years of teaching, I know I make less money than an engineer fresh out of college.
Mike is an engineer. When he was unsure what he wanted to study, he spoke to a family friend, a bachelor who had all sorts of free time and “toys” (a plane, sports car, etc.). Mike decided on a major based on the projected earnings. He doesn’t dislike his job, but he is not always passionate about it.
While we chose our selected careers for different reasons, both offer stability and safety. We know what our days look like, when we will be working, what our days will look like, how much we will earn, etc. We have spreadsheets mapping out our retirement goals. We plan vacations based on visiting new baseball stadiums each summer. We selected fulfilling but safe pathways and are forever in awe of people who, like Stephen Kellogg, pursued his passions.
So here lies the dilemma as a parent: how much do we support an unrealistic dream? Yes, Michael is a talented player. He’s passionate, hardworking, and blessed with a build that supports hitting dingers. He studies stats and players, genuinely appreciating the art of playing baseball. He joined cross country to get faster, hoping he could progress from leading his team in doubles to leading his team in triples and home runs. At thirteen, he is hitting with the exit velocity of a sixteen-year-old. Do we encourage Michael to take the safe route and focus on business? Or do we encourage him to pursue his dream of being a homerun hitter for the Phillies, knowing the odds are not in his favor?
On the ride home from the show and throughout the rest of the evening, Michael continued to digest the words of the “lovesick guy with a guitar.”
“Did you hear what he said about the ladder?”
“Do you think I can play for a D1 school?”
“Do you think I could play for a collegiate team, even for a summer?”

He’s a talented player in a sea of gifted players. And right now, he’s a talented player who will give his all for the chance to make it to the show… while working on a degree in management or marketing. And, yes, Stephen Kellogg does appear to be someone we’d love to invite over to sit around the fire and drink White Claws; he’s also the person who convinced my son not to play it safe. He convinced Michael to pursue his dreams and climb the ladder he wants to climb. While we try to be realistic, we also entertain his conversations regarding selecting a walk-up song. He is completely confident about this, too. (His choice? Butter, by A Tribe Called Quest, a decision that also brings much pride.)

Apparently, Year Fourteen is the Year of the Fajita

Recently, Mike and I celebrated our fourteenth wedding anniversary. We often joke that we are romantic by doing the most unromantic things. For example, he unloads the dishwasher for me, and I often clean Banjo’s poop off the lawn in the backyard. While these seem like very unromantic gestures, the “romance” lies in that we find ways to show our love by making our partner’s life easier. We don’t just show our love by huge efforts a few times year; instead, we find smaller ways to show our affection throughout the year.
The night before our anniversary, Mike and I sat on our backyard swing.
“We’re not buying cards tomorrow, right?” he asked me as Banjo tried to convince us to throw a tennis ball for him.
“I’m not buying shit,” I assured him.
Because Mike’s company just switched to working four ten-hour days to allow employees to take three-day weekends, we decided to go to a local eatery for a quick dinner instead of our usual drive to the Ocean Mist, a restaurant almost an hour away from our house.
On the morning of our anniversary, our favorite local brewery announced the release of a new beer, appropriately titled “Make This Romance Last.” I had to pick this up!
At the brewery, I told the clerk why I was so excited for this beer. When he offered to enter our phone number for their rewards program, he offered to enter the purchase in a few hours.
“It’ll send your husband a text letting him know he earned points.”
I offered to skip the points, explaining that the “What the f**k, I thought we weren’t doing anything” dance was best enjoyed in person rather than over the phone.

Fourteen years of marriage requires the fanciest of celebrations (and complementary chips and salsa)! — We were babies when we went to a Paw Sox game for Mike’s 27th birthday!

That afternoon, Michael had his first Chili’s experience. We don’t often eat out, and when we do, we rarely go to chains, choosing instead to support local businesses. Somehow, Chilli’s chicken fingers had come up in conversation. On our way home from his baseball camp, we passed a Chilis. Being starving, Michael worked his magic. “You know, Mom, you did say that Chili’s has the best chicken fingers.” Being ravenous myself, I turned into the parking lot.
Chili’s is like a time capsule. While the mosaic-tiled tables I remembered were replaced by chairs with a chili cut out of the back, Chili’s hadn’t changed. Our hostess seated us in the bar area behind a very dusty display area. She asked us about the rewards program. Since I don’t think I had visited a Chili’s since Mike and I were dating, she had to walk me through signing up so we could receive free chips and salsa.
The menu had barely changed. Michael ordered a combo that included ribs and the infamous chicken fingers. Though he admitted that the ribs were not as good as the ones Mike made, the chicken fingers lived up to the hype. “You don’t even need ketchup.”
That night, we drove to the lovely little eatery near our house. Michael talked insistently about Chili’s. “The chicken fingers were so good… And, if you’re a member, the chips and salsa are free… Have you ever had the fajitas, Dad? We should go to Chilis. When was the last time you went to Chili’s, Dad?”
Finally, thoughts of chips, salsa, and fajitas won. We drove to the other side of the city to go to Chili’s… on our anniversary.
Our waiter, Nate, humored Michael as he requested chips and salsa, explaining, “We’re members here,” with pride usually reserved for professional all-star athletes and Mensa members. Nate graciously humored him with the “members only” chips as Michael proceeded to order the same meal he had for lunch. “Happy anniversary,” Mike and I said to each other too many times while we hovered warms chips and enjoyed draft beers.
On our way out, I insisted we snap a picture. We tried several times as we kept moving to allow cars to drive through. “It’s our anniversary!” I exclaimed to a passing minivan, whose driver waved and gave us a thumbs up.
I have to admit that Chili’s was as good as it was in the 90s. Michael loved the attention that came when Nate brought Mike his sizzling fajitas. On the way home, I showed him the video of Cody Rigsby’s pep talk involving Chili’s fajitas. “I’m going to watch this every single morning,” he promised.
While the local restaurant offers food similar to Chili’s, our priority is to support the local businesses benefiting our neighbors, sponsoring local baseball teams, and driving the local economy.
And here’s my takeaway about a wedding anniversary spent eating warm chips and salsa at Chili’s: I cannot think of a better way to celebrate fourteen years of marriage with Mike. We don’t prove our love through big gestures. Rather, we show our love via quick texts throughout the day, emptying the dishwasher because our partner hates to do it, and all of the little gestures that indicate we love each other enough to work as a team and want to make life kinder and more enjoyable for our partner and our child.

Broken Bones and Silver Linings

I have always been someone who tries to find the positive in situations. But it was hard to find the silver lining when Michael broke his foot and learned he would be off his foot for eight weeks.

“Why would this happen to me? Why am I being punished so long for one stupid decision?”
Not having an answer was brutal. Michael has questioned his faith, particularly regarding the church’s positions on homosexuality and divorce. Eight plus weeks of punishment for a split-second decision is a lot to process, especially when that split-second occurs two days before baseball tryouts.
Michael has done all the work to recover, mostly without being reminded. He’s done his stretching exercises, practiced pitching and hitting, worn his calf protector, and learned to use the TENS machine. He’s tracked his progress and pain on a graphic organizer I created and shared for him, making more meticulous notes than his orthopedic doctor requested. After she suggested barefoot running to awaken the tendons and muscles that have lay quiet while he was in a cast, he runs up and down our long driveway a few times a day. He wants to improve and is doing the work to get where he needs to be.
After tracking his progress for two weeks, he convinced his doctor to let him return to baseball early, with the promise to continue to follow his pain. His coaches put him on first base, where he could (mostly) stay in one place and not have players sliding into him. He preferred outfield but knew he could not chase line drives with his injury and, just happy to be playing, took the base. Little did we know then, but he would find his home. He excels at first base!
So as we try to find the positive in this challenging experience, this injury has led Michael to his calling. While we wish he had never broken his foot, his broken foot took him to a place where he shines. He’s learned critical lessons about perseverance and strength. He’s learned the importance of managing frustration. He’s also learned that people will try their best to support people when they see that he needs help. As a result of his hard work, he reached his goal of making an aau team.

Jingles and Signs

I admitted that these past few weeks have been challenging in terms of emotional well-being. Six weeks sitting on my butt is not helpful to someone who stays busy to keep mind and body from getting bored.

If you’re not following Awesomely Luuvie on social media, you need to stop everything and do so right now. She frequently discusses mental health. Her quote about keeping busy as an avoidance technique resonates with me. She understands why I feel like I cannot just sit, which is what I’ve done for the past six weeks.

I have been trying to keep my mind as occupied as possible, reading books and watching so much television. This week, I had the meltdown that has been brewing. While I’ve been watching mindless movies, The Starling came through after a rom-com finished. I got sucked in, resulting in sobs. Between these sobs, I realized that I had not yet received the sign from my mom I usually get whenever I’m having a rough time. This made me feel even more alone.

When Michael came home from school, he was doing something he never does. He was singing commercial jingles. All afternoon, he sang the jingles to Nestle Crunch and a few other products. When Mike asked him why he was doing it, Michael explained that he “just felt like it.” It hit me that my mom used to do this all the time. She’d often do so in public, which embarrassed me to no end. I called my sister, who agreed, “I can hear her saying ‘you wanted a sign. Here’s your sign, asshole.'”

I went to bed assuming that I had my small, passive-aggressive sign that my mom was not going to make me sit on the couch recovering for eight weeks by myself. The following morning, while scrolling Facebook, I noticed something in the background of a post by a local consignment shop. It was a ceramic Christmas tree like the one my mom had when I was growing up. I’ve looked for one for years, able to find one similar, but not exactly like the one of my youth. I immediately called the story, gushing about how much finding this means to me. The owner listened, explaining that she enjoyed this part of the job, and she would put the tree aside until my husband could pick it up that evening. When I called Mike to tell him, he offered to pick it up at lunch.

Eleven years after losing my mom, it does not get easier. I wonder what her relationship with Michael would be like. When I was pregnant, I called her every afternoon to update what he had been doing in my tummy during the day. When he was an infant, she would be perfectly content staying on the phone listening to Michael drink his bottles. Eleven years later, wondering remains between reminders that she will look out for me when I need her.

Yes, Son, Others Do Have it Much Worse, But You Can Mourn Your Summer (a Little Bit)

Dear Liam,

It is the first full week of summer, which is usually filled with all sorts of excitement and possibility. Boundless possibilities and talk of adventure often fill this week, discussion of new places to visit and promises to improve our running and maybe plant some vegetables. This year is so different.

Distance Learning was challenging, but it may have been one of the best things for you. While I jokingly call you Old Man Liam, distance learning afforded you opportunities to become much more independent and self-reliant. You had to check in to Google Classroom each morning, making a list of assignments before joining three Google Hangouts. You learned how to cook a bunch of meals, informing me at the end of some days that you made your own breakfast, lunch and dinner. You learned that you had to ask for help and find answers when things were confusing, relying on teacher emails and Google Hangout office hours, group class chats, and even YouTube for clarification.

While you were doing this, I was in the midst of my own distance learning experience. While parents applauded me, I realized how easy I had it, spending my days wearing sweats and talking to kids about The Outsiders, relating the problems of Johnny and PonyBoy to current events in attempts to make sense of both COVID and civil unrest affecting our country. I had it much more comfortable than most.

Although you excelled at distance learning, you also counted down to the last day of school. An hour after school ended, your eyes filled with tears. “This isn’t how I wanted my year to end! I love my teacher and I wish I had more time with her. It isn’t fair.” You wanted the hugs and high fives that usually accompany the last day of school.

We did this in our house that is small yet big enough to take breaks from each other. Sometimes, we did our distance learning in our backyard, enjoying the sunshine and warm spring air. Banjo thought this was the greatest thing to ever happen to him- his people were home all day!

Two days later, I suggested driving to Newport and walking the Cliff Walk. You asked if we could instead walk Thames Street and downtown. It was the first time we had to wear our masks for any length of time, which was horrible and leaves me so concerned for the fall when I will wear one all day at school. We bought cookies, watched the water, and browsed the stores a bit. It was time to go home, and as we drove over the Newport Bridge, talking about the time we ran over it and wondering if life will be normal enough to do so this October, you burst into tears, the feelings you had been suppressing coming up and out.

Too many times during this breakdown, I heard you apologize. “I’m so sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry. I know that other people have it so much worse than we do.” We talked about summer, how it usually means endless possibilities and new adventures. “But this summer will be different. I’m tired of walks and bike rides. And hikes are nothing more than walks in the woods.” (Dammit, you figured that out!)

During this past month, we’ve had other stuff going on. Banjo got hurt and required two surgeries. While we tried not to talk about it within your earshot, we whispered about how much pet insurance would cover and where that left us. You toured the new school you’ll be attending in the fall because your school eliminated morning care. You helped me honor my mom on the tenth anniversary of her passing, making you realize that you do not know this woman everyone says loved you so much. We’ve somehow managed to fit years of terrible events into a very short amount of time. And while you are the kindest, most compassionate kid I have ever met, you have not had to experience any real trauma, so this is new to you.

So here’s what you need to know:

It is okay to be sad about the summer. You’re right- it won’t be as much fun as it usually is for us.

You are learning about social justice, reading New Kid and They Called Us Enemy and learning about Pride and Black Lives Matter. We are teaching you that the world you have experienced is not the same world everyone experiences. You have been so open to learning about injustice, and discussing what we can do to be a part of the solution, which is a lot of new information. While it is tough to hear, you need to learn things that other mothers do have the luxury of deciding when and what life lessons they teach their children.

So while we keep teaching you that other people are affected by COVID by a much higher extent than you are, you are still allowed to be sad. We can play in our yard with our friends, take Banjo for walks, and feel safe and without fear of paying bills on time. We will not visit the Baseball Hall of Fame as we talked about after watching A League of Their Own. Nor will we take the train to New York City, visit the Peabody Essex Museum in Salem, or sing “Sweet Caroline” at Fenway. But we will read books and go for bike rides. We not take random trips to the zoo, but we will eat ice cream and Del’s lemonade. You and Dad will relearn how to play Magic the Gathering. We are going to master making friendship bracelets. We will complete socially distanced November Project workouts stay active at home.

It may not be the summer we usually have, but I promise it to be great as it safely and possibly can be, and we will count our blessings.