Pollyanna Rides Shotgun

Apparently I am now the Official Driver of Summer.

School is almost out, the evenings stay light until practically bedtime, and suddenly my calendar is full of soccer pickups, middle school drop offs, entrepreneurial ventures, and emergency snack runs.

And honestly? I love it.

Each grandchild has their own style. Their own rhythm. Their own agenda for our “special time” together. I know this because they actually wrote it in my birthday cards this year — they like our one-on-one time in the car.

Which melted me into a small grandmother puddle.

One grandson is an entrepreneur. I recently drove him to a friend’s house so they could hold a yard sale of clothes. Ninth graders now apparently run resale businesses with more confidence than most adults I know.

Another spends an astonishing amount of time making his hair look like he just rolled out of bed after sleeping under a bridge. This apparently requires products, careful fluffing, and deep concentration.

One asked to borrow earrings.

Another wanted mascara for his “almost mustache.”

I said no to sharing mascara but admired the commitment to personal grooming.

The youngest — now somehow in middle school, which seems biologically impossible — is wonderfully nostalgic. He likes to go through my jewelry box and ask where each piece came from. Not because it’s valuable. Because it has a story.

“That was Grandma’s.”
“I bought that on a trip.”
“Your grandfather liked those earrings.”
“I wore that to your mother’s graduation.”

I only wear earrings these days, but apparently I have become a tiny traveling museum of family history.

And every morning on the drive to school, I learn something new:

middle school politics,
new slang,
sports drama,
who likes whom,
teacher opinions,
strange YouTube trends,
and the endlessly evolving rules of teenage existence.

It keeps me connected to becoming instead of just remembering.

Maybe that’s one reason I’ve become so protective of optimism as I get older.

Not fake optimism. Not “good vibes only.” Real optimism. The kind that notices delight when it appears:

a funny conversation,
a shared iced coffee,
a kid who trusts you enough to ramble,
a summer evening drive with the windows cracked.

At this stage of life, I find myself drawn toward people who leave me feeling lighter instead of heavier. More curious instead of more exhausted.

Maybe that makes me a Pollyanna.

Honestly? I’ll take it.

Because there are worse things than finding joy in mascara mustaches, chaotic hair, yard sales, and middle school carpool confessions.

THE AMAZING SECOND ACT

My first Mother’s Day was two weeks before Kate was born.

Technically, I suppose I was already a mother. It was a perfect pregnancy, craving only oranges which my hubby dutifully peeled for me. Wondering if I would ever sleep comfortably again. But it didn’t feel real yet.  

Motherhood still seemed like a shiny Hallmark concept involving brushed hair, smiling babies, and women who somehow folded tiny socks without crying.

Then Kate arrived.  And just like that, Mother’s Day changed forever.  We went to the hospital at 8:00am and she was born at 5:17pm

Mother's Day isn't because of gifts or flowers or breakfast trays balanced precariously over sleeping mothers.  It's because suddenly, there was this little person wandering through my life leaving behind tiny moments that would somehow become permanent fixtures in my heart.

Like the preschool open house when she was about two-and-a-half.  The teachers had made litle hand cut outs for all the mothers to each write their name. Construction paper. Glue. Probably glitter — because preschool classrooms operate under the assumption that everything improves with glitter.

On my tag Kate carefully wrote across it in crooked preschool letters:

“MOM”

That was it. One word. Three letters. And honestly? I think it’s still one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever received.

Then there was the preschool play where she dressed as a witch.  Her big line was supposed to be:

“Come here, my little pretty.”

We practiced. And practiced. And practiced.

But when the moment came ... standing there in her little costume in front of all those parents ... she threw her tiny arms wide open and proudly declared:

“Come to me, fweetheart!”

The audience laughed. I nearly levitated from love.

Some children are mischievous. Some are wild. Some test every boundary known to mankind.  Mine once accidentally got a crayon mark on the sofa… and put herself in time out.

No lecture required. No dramatic parental speech. Just a devastated little girl silently marching herself away to reflect upon her crimes against upholstery.

Honestly, I should’ve bottled whatever personality trait caused that.

Mother’s Day itself has became its own collection of family stories over the years.

My sister once bought SIX identical Mother’s Day cards — one for each sibling to send to our mother.

Inside we all wrote a tiny note:

“I know you like me best.”

Frankly, that may still be the funniest and most efficient holiday shopping strategy in family history.

And then there was my mother-in-law.

She adored getting a Mother’s Day card from me because I married her only child. There was something especially tender about that relationship as the years went on. I wasn’t just celebrating my own motherhood anymore ... I was honoring the women who came before me, too.

That’s one thing nobody tells you when you’re younger.  Mother’s Day keeps changing.  At first it’s about your own mother.  Then suddenly it’s about sticky fingerprints, school projects, and tiny voices calling “Mommmmm!” from another room every six minutes.

Then one day ... almost impossibly ... you become the grandmother.  And oh my goodness.

I always thought being a mama on Mother’s Day was special, but there’s nothin’ quite like being a grandmother.

Because now I get to relive it all.

The wonder. The chaos. The tiny sneakers by the door. The funny mispronunciations. The impossible amount of food growing boys can consume in under seven minutes.

Each grandson arrived carrying his own little sack of joy straight into my heart.  And the beautiful thing about grandmotherhood is this:

You realize the ordinary moments were never ordinary at all.

The crayon marks.

The preschool performances.

The handmade cards.

The crooked little “MOM.”

Those are the things that stay.

Not the spotless house.
Not the perfect holidays.
Not whether dinner was organic.

Just love.

Messy, funny, exhausting, unforgettable love.

And if I’m lucky, someday one of those boys will be writing about us too.  (Although hopefully not about the time I let them eat tortilla chips and guacamole for dinner).

Happy Mother’s Day to the mamas, grandmas, stepmoms, chosen moms, grieving moms, hopeful moms, and every woman who has ever loved a child with her whole heart.

Even when they drew on the sofa.

Braeden, October 2010

     

Deacon, March 2014

The Wonderful (and Slightly Exhausting) Month of May

May is a beautiful mix of memories, milestones… and a surprising number of things I’m apparently expected to attend.

The weather improves, native plants bloom, and suddenly everyone is outdoors pretending they’ve always loved fresh air. There are May Day rallies, community events, and—today—the Lake Oswego Lake Run, where people voluntarily run distances I wouldn’t drive without snacks.
   

my coping strategy

It all begins with my birthday on May 1—shared with two delightful “birthday twins.” I also hear from my insurance company, dentist, and financial planner, which feels less like celebration and more like a gentle reminder to stay alive and solvent.

May 2 is what I call my Heavenly Memory Day. It marks the anniversary of my husband’s passing after a long fight with prostate cancer. And in a move that was both thoughtful and just a little inconvenient timing-wise, he waited until the day after my birthday so as not to overshadow the festivities.
  

Heavenly Memory Day

In his final three days, we had Mr. Ralph at home in a hospital bed, facing the fabulous back oasis he created. Four dear friends (we were in Maui ... because he didn't want to die in the rain) gathered with us. We tied balloons to his bed rail, shared a Scotch toast, and the next morning, we released those balloons into the sky. It was simple, meaningful… and exactly the kind of send-off he would have appreciated.

And because May believes in balance, it continues with:

• the Kentucky Derby (big hats, tiny horses, questionable betting decisions),
• Cinco de Mayo (my annual excuse to eat my weight in chips and guacamole),
• multiple family birthdays (clearly August was a busy month decades ago), including my daughter on May 22,
• Mother’s Day (where expectations vary wildly),
• and Memorial Day, when we pause to remember what really matters… and also argue about whether it’s too early to put out the patio furniture.   

May holds everything—joy, grief, laughter, remembrance… and a calendar that suddenly requires a spreadsheet.

It’s a lot.

But somehow… it’s also just right.

Well ... except for the allergies ...

Be kind. I'm suffering!