To a Grey Hair Named Lucy,

You have been hard earned, dear friend. And as the first of many more dear friends to come, I think it is only right that I pay honor to the reason for your existence and name your accordingly: Lucy.

For the night she learned to crawl out of her crib and somehow was as stealthy as a night ninja, creeping to my room, curling her fingers around my bedroom door, slowly opening it, and refusing to answer who it was.

For the night she crawled out of her bed and hid in her closet so we couldn’t find her.

For the afternoon she crawled out of bed and spread diaper cream all over herself, her walls, and her furniture.

For the night she crawled out of bed and tiptoed down to just sit on the stairs and stare at us without us noticing. She’s super creepy.

For the nights she kept crawling out of bed to sneak to the basement to get dog food to lure the dog to her room. We’re still not sure how much food is still in her bed.

For the day we found her in the church parking lot because she took us seriously when we said it was time to go and an unsuspecting adult let her out.

For the day we found her across the street running to the beach unattended because she took us seriously when we said we were going for a beach walk but neglected to mention that we needed to clean up dinner before we could go (good grief – we really do need to be more careful explaining what we are doing and when it is happening).

For the day she escaped daycare and convinced another child to join her on her tour of liberation.

For the day she came home from daycare green because her sister brought a non-washable marker to play with.

For the day we found her shut up in her room feeding the dog Zicam. (Who knew those lids weren’t childproof?)

For the day she excitedly claimed she found something in her room and I wasn’t sure if it is was her poop or the dog’s puke. (It was the dog’s puke. Turns out she was feeding the dog wood chips earlier in they day and those don’t sit well with dogs)

For the day she snuck dog food into the bag she takes to daycare and fed all of the other  daycare children dog food. The parents were super excited about that one.

For the day she chugged the last few sips of wine of my unattended glass to the horrors of my book club friends. (She’s much quicker than one would expect.)

That’s right, Grey Hair Named Lucy, as this incomplete list suggests, it’s been quite the run with that two year old.  And as Mike carefully examined you in our chimp-like ritual in the light of the Costco parking lot on our hot Friday night date, flashbacks of your conception were running through my mind.

You, dear friend, have earned your place.

If this election has proved anything, it has proved that America needs a mom.

Really, it needs an army of moms.

There is something about moms that they always want to make sure that everyone feels loved and is getting along. To be fair, making sure everyone is getting along can be an annoying trait at times. Seriously. Sometimes a person just has to fight. And if you’re in a family that is more aggressive than passive-aggressive, that can get pretty entertaining at times. But you know that whatever happens, you’ll have mom to fall back on. She’ll pick up the pieces. That’s what moms do.

My mom is a pretty great example of this. She has exhibited these traits for the past thirty-two years.

To give you a bit of background, my brother is pretty amazing. He does, after all, share most of my genes, and I’m sure if you ever have the chance of meeting him, you’ll adore him as much as I do. Now I know I’m a bit biased, but I have a lot of life experience to be able to come to this conclusion. We grew up in the same house, went to the same K-12, had most of the same teachers, and even went to the same university and shared the same group of friends. So if anyone would know he was great, it would be me (and of course his amazing wife and beautiful children, but you get the point).

On the other hand, because we have so much shared experience with each other, we know how to get under each other’s skin pretty easily. Something that mom has witnessed a time or two.

This past summer my whole family went on a vacation in northern Michigan and spent a glorious week on a beautiful lake. We had five kids three and under in one house. It. Was. Chaos. We knew that we had to be on our best behavior to make sure that this would run smoothly. I remember specifically telling my husband (who dislikes any sort of conflict) that I would be on my best behavior and not bring up any controversial subjects.

That lasted less than twelve hours.

By the end of the first night, my brother and I had “discussed” the election, gun control, abortion, gay rights, Black Lives Matter, religious freedom, and I’m sure a few other slightly charged topics.

Well, shoot.

We still had six days of vacationing together. In a crowded house. With a lot of people who whined and cried a lot. And only some of those were of the child variety.

But guess what? We had a wonderful time. And while my dad is quite the delightful person, it wasn’t him who pulled the group together (I’m fairly sure he slid off with my husband into another room that was not debating the day’s hottest topics ). No, it was my mom who constantly tried to find a common ground between us (even when there was a chasm of thought to jump over).

Mom was in the thick of the discussion (and if I’m remembering correctly, she might have started the topic of conversation, so we should really tell my husband it was her fault), and every time there was a breath of air to insert a word of compromise, my mom was there. Because she was doing what moms do – finding any means possible to pull back together the ones that she loves the most. She wasn’t going to let the debate get in between how our family cared for each other. (To give us a little credit, I’m pretty sure my brother and I wouldn’t let differing opinions get between us either, but it was good to have mom there to reel us in when needed).

When I think about that conversation and the rest of the vacation, I think about what our country is going through right now. I will be honest. I have a very strong view of who I want to win this election. I have a very strong view of who I want to be a role model for my daughters. I have a very strong view of who I think will be the best person to lead our country in affairs both domestic and international. It is a no-brainer for me. And I get feisty whenever the subject of the election comes up because I believe whole heartedly in one candidate and against another candidate.

Here’s the thing, though. I have people who I love dearly who do not think the way that I do. And all of those people will be in one house on Thanksgiving day. Yep, we’re having both my mom’s and dad’s side of the family coming to mom’s house. And those people have views on both of the extremes and the somewhere in between when it comes to politics.

This should be fun… Who’s idea was this anyway? That’s right. Mom’s. She loves to be surround by her family. As most moms do.

For the record, I’m really hoping that nothing political will come up on Thanksgiving day, and I can’t foresee anyone bringing it up purposely, but stranger things have happened and promises to not bring up controversial subjects have been broken in less than twelve hours before, so this I will not count on.

What I can count on is that my mom will be there to reign us all in if need be. I have a wonderful image of my vertically challenged mother shaking a wooden spoon and letting everyone know in no uncertain terms that we will have a lovely family dinner and enjoy each other’s presence whether we like it or not, gosh darn it! (She can get pretty feisty, too, and people know not to mess with her when she changes her tone of voice and starts gesticulating wildly – especially when wielding mash potato crusted spoons).

This is what I’m hoping for America. A mom with a kind heart and a wooden spoon to call us to order. I love this country. And whoever wins the election, we have to come to the table with everyone else, even the ones we vehemently disagree with, and find some sort of compromise. This will be a hard one for me – especially if my candidate doesn’t win. There’s a lot of emotion flowing throughout the country. I’m hoping that somewhere, sometime, somehow, there will be a mom that forces us to get along again.

Clearly this can’t be just one person. Like the saying that it takes a village to raise a child, I think it is going to take an army of moms to bring us together. So here is my plea to my fellow moms out there: Let’s be better than what this election has shown us to be. Let’s bring everyone back to the table so we can start talking again. Let’s think of issues that we can at least agree are things we care about, like protecting our children and giving them a world where they can live a healthy and happy life. Now I am not naive enough to think that those topics won’t bring dissension, but let’s at least start with topics that we can agree we want similar outcomes if not similar paths. We want our kids to have and be better than us, and to get along while doing so.

So moms, let’s join together and form an army of women who love and care about each other and their families. Let’s pick up the pieces (and maybe a wooden spoon) and sit at the table together to bring our country back together again. If we don’t do it, who will?

When I started this blog, I promised myself that I would never write about anything that could be embarrassing or humiliating in the public eye (I mean seriously, it is not okay to have toilet information about our future president of the United States, right?) However, your Nana informed me that I would not remember this stage of your life, only that you do, in fact, use the toilet appropriately and did not wear diapers long after it was okay.

I didn’t believe her, but after only a few weeks into you using the toilet on a consistent basis, I find that I am starting to forget the order of events. (Please let the record reflect that I am stating that I was wrong, and your Nana was right). Therefore, you can thank her for this very public record of your potty training escapades. 🙂

Let’s be clear. You knew what was going on with the potty LONG before you were willing to try it out. In fact, right around when you were two you started to show quite a bit of interest in using the potty. So we bought you your very own potty. (Note – this is a disgusting thing, and I don’t know why we bought it or thought it was a good idea. Who wants to clean out a plastic potty that doesn’t flush when you have a perfectly good potty hooked up to a modern plumbing system? Luckily for us, you had absolutely no interest in it.) Turns out – you had absolutely no interest in your own potty, and it sat collecting dust for over a year in our bathroom. At this point I was very patient with you because all the people who know what they are talking about all say that you shouldn’t push kids to use the toilet, only give them the opportunity.

So we dabbled in talking about the potty for a good half year. But by the time I was 5 months pregnant with your sister, I decided that I did not want to have two kids in diapers. And we started to push. But then I was on semi-bed rest, and finishing school, and completely exhausted, and you still had no interest in using the potty or wearing pull-ups and we let it go. Alas, I would have two kids in diapers. Ugh.

So then L came around and you can just count out the first three months of her life for doing anything productive besides keeping the family alive, so potty training was DEFINITELY not happening at that time. And then low and behold we were a whole year into contemplating potty training you.

This is where my patience begins to wear thin, mostly because your bladder was so big that the biggest diaper could no longer contain your bathroom habits and you were having accidents regularly. I remember one week particularly where you, the baby, and the dog all had accidents on beds as well as bloody noses. That week your father and I were questioning our life choices.

At this point even your daycare provider was starting to become exasperated with you. We all would try to see if you wanted to go on the big potty, and all you said was “Not quite yet.” Seriously? You use elevated word choice but won’t use the toilet. It got to the point that in daycare, while your diaper was being changed – yet again – , you were admonishing your peers for not using the toilet. Even for a toddler that is ridiculous.

At some point in here I lost it and just forced you to sit on the toilet. You were screaming. I was yelling. Your dad accused me of setting you back months in the potty training process. It was here that we decided that in the future I should not be the parent that tries to convince you to do anything. From here on out, that solely rests on your father to prevent any other setbacks in important milestones in your life.

And so we came to Thanksgiving break. I had just started working after my maternity leave and was determined that you would use the bathroom. (Read – I had JUST started back to work after maternity leave and my patience was at an all time low and sleep depravation was a real thing.)

Day One: Epic battle of wills. After copious amounts of discussion, we finally convince you that you should at least sit on the toilet (I think at this point we had to bribe you with multiple food choices since nothing would work at this time). You sat on the toilet for no less that forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes! Of course your father and I couldn’t complain about this because it took us one year and one month to get to this point. We tagged in and out of the bathroom every so often to give the other person a break. BUT, it had seemed that your fear of the toilet was over.

Day Two: We go to use the toilet and you lose it. You don’t want to do it. I can’t believe that we are here again since we just spent a significant amount of time on the toilet yesterday. So I decide we are just going to throw on underwear. Screw the pull up. Your dad put me on a budget and I was tired of paying for things that just ended up in the landfill and prolonged our misery. If we were going to do this, we were going to do this gosh darnit. So instead of taking lots of time convincing you to put on the pull up, I just put on underwear. Accidents be damned.

Rightly so, you were very upset about the concept of an accident. I spent an inordinate amount of time convincing you that it’s okay if you have an accident as long as you tried to use the potty. All seemed well with the world. I knew there would be accidents, but I figured “throwing you in the deep end”, if you will, would speed up the process. This was finally going to happen.

Turns out I did too good of a job convincing you that having accidents was okay and you peed all over the house. And didn’t care. A lot. I thought after one time you would get it. After the second time, well – it was a learning process. After the third, fourth, fifth, etc time and you just shrugged your shoulders and said “It’s okay, accidents happen,” I started to think I was in a loosing battle and you were going to spend an inordinate amount of time in diapers. So we gave up.

Then you went back to daycare and you refused to go the bathroom at all. In the toilet. In your diaper. No where would you go the bathroom. Now we’re worried about you getting bladder infections. So I commence to have another long discussion with you about going the bathroom. Great.

One day on our way home you see a bus and get excited about going to school. I light popped on in my brain, and I said “E, diapers aren’t allowed at school.”

“They aren’t?”

“Nope. They aren’t.”

“Okay, mom. I’ll use to potty when we get home.”

What??!?! Is this really happening? Did I finally find the bribe that would work for this kid? We go home, you use the potty like a pro and ask for underwear. We’ve done it. Seriously. We’ve done it! Seriously? Yay!!!!!!!

And then you go downstairs and start insisting that you pack your lunch for school because you are going, right now.

We spent the rest of the night talking you off the edge and trying to convince you that school isn’t going to happen for awhile. (Try for another nine months at least. What have I done?)

We’re still trying to convince you that school isn’t happening for awhile, BUT you are finally wearing underwear and using the toilet on a consistent basis (thanks to peer pressure at daycare – who knew that would turn out to be a positive thing) and will even use it out in public.

I’m not sure I can actually put this as a parenting win after almost a year and a half, but shoot. More than half of the people in our house are correctly using the toilet and not peeing in their beds. I think that’s a win in anybody’s book.

I go back to work next week.

Take a minute. Let the weight of that sentence hit you.

I had thought that going back to work after the second child would not be as hard as it was after the first child. After the first, I remember calling my husband every day for two weeks crying and asking why I was doing this. I spent the whole two weeks trying to convince myself that I was the person who could go back on my obligations and quit unexpectedly even though everyone was counting on my coming back. I was working on completely embracing the idea that every employee is replaceable – that I was not unique in that category. I talked to my mom and my dad and anyone who would listen. And for the record, everyone was okay with me deciding that I couldn’t go back and quitting last minute. Apparently everyone but me. I went back, and it was tough (maybe one of the biggest understatements of my life), but we survived. I had to get used to the idea that someone else was taking care of my child while I helped to raise over one hundred other children as a high school teacher, but I loved my daycare and the people I met there. Our family got into a routine. It worked.

I thought that it would be easier to go back after the second because I have already done this before. I know my work. I know my daycare. I know how the life would look.

There’s the kicker. I know how life is going to work.

I know that I’m only ever going to feel adequate at both my jobs – teacher and mom. That sucks.

Before kid I put everything I had into work. Everything. I loved it. I loved connecting with the kids. I loved the challenge of figuring out curriculum. I loved the critical thought that came with the job. I was pretty darn good at it.

While I’ve been home these past few months I’ve been able to be a kick-ass mom. And when I say kick-ass I mean not monitoring how much screen time my kids have, the house is usually at least presentable, and take-out isn’t the worst thing that can happen in a week. Clearly there is room for improvement. But I got to be present in my kids life. Most of my energy was devoted to my babies. Very rarely would I say “Sorry honey, mommy is tired right now. Why don’t you play by yourself for a bit?” I’d take the time to dance and sing with my biggest. I could take the time to sit and cuddle with my littlest. I didn’t have to worry about anything other than the home front. There was never the nagging obligations in the back of my mind.

But now, now I know that I am going to be adequate. I know that I’m not going to have the energy that I have now.

Besides being just adequate, I feel the pull of separating from my baby because of the job. Part of going back to work meant that I had to wean my baby. I know. I know. Breast is best, and I could pump at work. Lots of women do. I cannot imagine doing that with my job. Women do, but I know it’s not for me. So that meant weaning my baby. And even though I was never the woman who loved breast-feeding, I loved the connection I had with my baby. I loved that it was me who she had to turn to to get what she needed. I know that weaning her means that now other people are going to be meeting her needs. It breaks my heart.

I feel the separation so strongly this time around. I’ve seen the energy that I can have when I don’t work and what I can give to my girls. I’ve seen what that does for our relationships. I know what it’s like to give up most of the care and have to share the love with someone else. And it’s breaking my heart. I know that I’m going to feel like I’m never giving enough.

People keep asking me “do you have to go back?” And the honest answer is no. Then I’m asked, “why are you going back?” And honestly, at this exact moment, I don’t know why other than I can’t make up my mind early enough, and I just don’t have it in me to go back on my word. I do remember thinking that I love working, and that I wanted to give my daughters a good example of a working mother so they know they can do it too, and that my daughter loves daycare and her friends, and the socialization is good for her. I remember thinking all of these things at one point in time. But for the life of me, I don’t feel these things anymore. All I feel is the separation.

I’m sure that once I’m back and people are excited to see me that I will remember why I made this decision. Right now I can’t. I know that it will be okay. I know that my husband will support me and help me keep the house together (really he will probably do more than his share – he’s awesome that way). I know it will be okay. I’m just not sure how long it will take me to feel that way, too. There’s got to be an expiration date on separation anxiety, right?

Good grief, I’m a hot mess.

When you look back in the news for the fall of 2015 (which I’m sure you will do religiously so that you can be up-to-date on all aspects of your historical life), you will see that there has been considerable controversy over dress codes and how they tend to skew to controlling young women’s attire more than young men’s. By now you know your mother well enough to know that if there is undue or unequal negative attention towards girls, she is going to have an opinion about it. Well, much like Hamlet, she is waffling on the correct approach here. Here’s a smattering of my thoughts:

• You are not your body; however, you do live in your body, and it is the reason you can do so many amazing things, and you need to respect it.
• You are not your clothes; however, you will be judged by them whether it’s right or wrong.
• Your most important features are your smarts and kindness, but I want you to feel beautiful, too.
• I want you to dress so that people notice your brain first, but I also want you to enjoy fashion and clothes and feel the power that a really great dress can give you.
• Rules are important and should be followed, unless they are inherently wrong and sexist (or any other -ist).
• It’s a parent’s job to teach certain lessons; however, shouldn’t a school pick up the slack when parents don’t teach lessons that are important for a student’s future success?
• I want you to be modest, but I sure as hell don’t want someone to tell you your outfit is more important than your education.

Clearly your mom is dwelling in Shakespearean indecision. I am wavering between the mother who wants her daughters to be treated fairly and the educator who realizes that some rules are necessary. However, I feel the need to come across strong on this issue. Anytime I try to write anything that resembles a moderate opinion that takes both sides into account, there is a pit in my stomach. So here I go.

Daughters, you are intelligent. You are strong. You are brave. You are kind. You are beautiful. And you will not be reduced to your body parts.

That last part is a lie, unfortunately. However, I will fight for you so that you are not reduced to your body parts.

When you make a girl leave a classroom because of what she is wearing, you are perpetuating the idea that there is something wrong with her body. That it is her fault that others cannot control what they do because of her looks. That she is the problem in the room and not the years of institutionalized misogyny. This leads to the idea that if she dresses a certain way, then she gets what she has coming. Like losing out on education or unwanted advances on her body. Let’s cut the crap. How people react to what girls wear has a whole lot more to do with those people and their issues and not the girl; it shows that we have a long ways to go to viewing women in the same light as we do men. We need to fight this.

Girls, you are going to have to fight for things in your life. And if you have to fight for things in your school, I hope you use what they teach you and make the most intelligent argument you can. The girls at Charleston County School of the Arts in North Charleston, South Carolina did just that with their #notAdistraction campaign. They used ideas from The Scarlet Letter to highlight the injustices in the dress code in their school. As a teacher, I well up with pride for how smart and sophisticated their protest is. How cool is it that they use what they learn in school to point out the injustices happening in that same space? As a mother, I can only hope that your learn to fight your own fights in a similar fashion: with strength, intelligence, and dignity.

Dress codes do not have to be sexist. They do not have to be disbanded, either. They can be written in a way that each rule addresses girls and boys equally. I think in this case, ironically, less is actually more.

And girls, just to be clear. I’m not advocating that you wear whatever you want to in school or in public. We will be having lots of discussions on the importance of audience, occasions, and appropriateness – not because there is anything to be ashamed of with your body – but because in this world you will be judged, and I want to give you every word of advice that I can to put you ahead. I want you to find your power in your mind and in your heart, and I want that to show clearly from first glance. It is my job as a parent to instill these beliefs inside of you. That, and when to not back down from a fight.