70

When my dad turned 50 my mom threw him a big surprise party.  Our backyard was filled with all the people who loved him: United coworkers, neighborhood friends, family.  My sister and I had been the decoy.  My mom sent us to Target with him and told us to stall as long as we could.  It turns out this is an easy task for two tweens.  We puttered around, going up and down every aisle, eventually hanging out in the bathroom for an insanely long time while my poor dad waited outside, his blood pressure slowly rising.  By the time we left he was seething but it was the only time I was not phased by his anger.  We were doing this for the greater good.

And it was all worth it when he rounded the corner behind our house and saw all the people who’d gathered to celebrate this milestone.  They had a funny tee-shirt for him and all sorts of “over the hill” paraphernalia.  He made his way around our backyard, in his element, laughing and greeting all his people.  Later they would all pass around a basket collecting cash for the parking ticket my mom had incurred in the chaos of trying to get everything done for the party.  The party, as all my parents’ parties did, lasted well into the summer night.

Celebrating birthdays wasn’t a thing we did very well for my dad, so that’s probably why the 50th stands out.  I have no idea what we did for his 60th.  I was wrapping up my time in New York, a month away from getting married.  Did his birthday get lost that year, wrapped up as we were in wedding planning?  I’m sure my mom and siblings had a dinner at home for him like always, but that was probably it.  

The only other birthday I remember for my dad wasn’t an actual birthday, but the acknowledgement of one.  Shortly after my dad’s 63rd birthday he was gathered in our kitchen with his older brothers.  I watched them quietly raise a glass of whisky, toasting their father, who had died at 62.  As the youngest, my dad was now the last one to make it past that cursed age.  Now all three men had celebrated the birthday their father never got to see and there was a murmured recognition of this birthday’s significance for my dad and for them all.  

Sometimes I wonder if one day my siblings and I will gather in the weeks or months after my youngest brother turns 67 to acknowledge that we made it, that we all passed that milestone my dad never did.

Today would have been my dad’s 70th birthday.  As I type those words, tears flood my eyes.  I'm heavy today, anxious and burdened.  Seventy seems particularly significant and, for the first time in a while, I find myself grieving a little more bitterly than usual over this missed milestone. It makes me sad that he never got to see this age, that I will never know what my dad was like in his seventies.  For whatever reason that number, 70, feels more significant than the other three birthdays we’ve marked without him.  

I wonder what we would have done today.  It’s easy to say now, on this side of knowing how quickly and without warning a life can end, that we would have planned a big celebration, another backyard blowout, a cake with 70 candles, and “really over the hill” decorations everywhere.  In all likelihood though, we would have done what we always did: dinner at my mom’s, a simple toast to my dad, and a few gifts.  Either way this longing, this longing to be able to mark in some large or small way my dad entering into a new decade, making it of another year older, this longing is crushing today.

I hate that I don’t know what my dad would be like in his seventies.  I hate that I can’t throw him a big party today, or at least share a pint of Guinness with him.  I hate that he is forever stuck at age 66 while time keeps moving.  The sun will rise and set on June 9, 2017 but this day won’t be the day we want it to be.  Instead it’s a “would have been” day.  The day my dad would have turned 70 if he’d made it that far.  The day we would have celebrated him wildly.

I haven’t had a day like this in a while.  A day of bitter, hot tears and sharp pangs of longing.  I don’t know why this particular milestone feels so hard today but it does.  I’m sad.  And kinda pissed.  Much of the past three and a half years of grieving my dad has involved deep sadness over the loss of all the good he encompassed, sadness over the people who won’t know him, over the ways we no longer get to experience his love and care.  Today, if I’m being really honest, I’m mostly just mad that he didn’t get to be 70.  That we don’t get to celebrate this passage of time with him.  It’s shitty and it sucks.

And I know days like this give me a choice.  I can let my heart stay hard and bitter in it.  I can stay mad and shake my fist at God for not letting my dad at least make it to 70.  Or I can let it teach me and grow me.  I can use it as a reminder that we are not promised milestones forever so we should celebrate the ones that come with abandon.  

I have chosen the latter as often as I can, and I know I will continue to do so today.  But I will also let myself sit in the anger too.  I will let myself long for what “would have been”, even if I know that longing can never be met.  The only healthy way around days like these are through them, through the truth of what is hard to the hope of the good that can be found in hard things.

I will get my dad’s favorite burgers for lunch and maybe even down the fries with a Guinness.  I’ll be with my mom and my sister tonight.  We’ll imagine what celebrating my dad’s 70th birthday would have looked like and we’ll be sad that this particular story will never be told.  And tomorrow will be a new day.

Happy Birthday, Dad.  70 would have looked good on you.

Happy Birthday Sister

My beautiful sister turned 30 on Sunday.  When some of my friends turned 30 I paid tribute with words as best I could.  Today I braved the snow to sit at Panera and try to do the same for my first and best friend.

I’ve known my sister all of her 30 years.  In fact, my very first memory is of meeting her.  I remember being in the hospital room with my mom and dad and brother.  They wheeled her in the room inside one of those clear, plastic basinets.  I could see her little head, topped with a fine layer of bright red hair.  She was tiny and pink and impossibly new looking.  She was magical.  Then my aunt’s friend took me to the vending machine and let me pick out whatever I wanted and that was magical too.  

Growing up my sister was a shadow I wanted to shake.  I hated when she was allowed to do the things I was doing.  I wanted her to earn it, as I had, to wait the appropriate amount of years to partake in whatever privilege I had.  We were a little less than three years apart and she was always right behind me, wanting to do all the things I did.  I may have been unnecessarily territorial.  

It wasn’t until high school that I began to really appreciate my sister.  Of course it didn’t start that way.  I remember being so pissed that I had to share my dad for the daddy/daughter dance the fall of my senior year.  I’d had him to myself all the other years and suddenly my freshman sister was there once again honing in on my territory.  But by the end of the night, after dancing and laughing and genuinely enjoying my sisters company she became a real, relatable person.  After that I liked seeing her at school, knowing her friends, sharing the peripherals of each other’s world. 

When I went to college I missed her.  She continued to grow into this interesting, unique, funny person that I wanted to be around.  After college I moved to New York.  She came to visit me one weekend and after I dropped her off at Grand Central to catch the bus to the airport I had the sudden realization that I was ready to move home.  Why the heck was I living a plane ride away from all my people?  I wanted to be flying back on that plane with her, seeing her more than just holidays and occasional weekends.

When I think about my sister all I can think of is “there.”  She is my ultimate go to gal.  She’s been there for me in every sense of the word.  When Tommy and I would get in fights during our dating years she was the one I’d call because I knew she loved him and me and she’d sort me out.  When I eventually married him she was right there next to me.  When Liam was born and everything was harder than I’d ever expected it would be my sister was there.  She lay in bed with me, Liam sleeping on one of our chests watching iCarly or some equally terrible show for hours on end.  Anyone who knows my sister will tell you, she shows up for her people big time.  She’s there.

My sister is funny.  And smart.  She has the biggest heart.  She’s devoted and loyal.  She knows how to connect with everyone.  In our family she is the lynch pin, mostly because she prioritizes us.  Being with family is important.  She’s everyone’s favorite sister (and I’m not even bitter because she deserves it.)  She’s used her tremendous talents to work for non-profits because she believes in the work.  Her friends will tell you she’s the one you want in your corner.  She’s loyal and loving and fierce.

It is my kids that are the luckiest when it comes to my sister.  She has loved them deeply and greatly from the moments they were born.  Finding a unique way to bond with each of them has given them all individual relationships with her.  She is playful and patient, loving and helpful and they love Aunt Ry.  

When I was younger I hated how much my sister wanted to imitate me.  Matching outfits made me grumpy and her treading into any of my supposed territories sent me into a rage.  Now though, I want to be just like my sister.  Truly.  When I grow up I hope I’m more like her.  

I’m not usually at a loss for words.  But when it comes to my sister all I can come up with falls short.  I will reread this essay a thousand times with a angsty feeling because it just doesn’t quite do her justice.  I don’t know if all the perfect words in the world with encapsulate all the things I love about her.  So I will end with this:  I love my sister so much I named my first daughter after her.  There is really no one else I would rather she emulates.  If she can inherit a fraction of my sister’s character, along with her name, she will be lucky.

Happy birthday Ryann.  I love you too much.

Red is One!

Well friends we survived.  Last month my littlest little turned one.  Red made it through her first year of life.  Which is always the most perilous for as all.  As my kids get older I realize more and more how little we really know them at one.  Parts of their personalities are emerging, but there is so much more there waiting to be revealed.  It gets harder to pin down who exactly Red is, because I’ve realized that after twelve months what I know is just the tip of the iceberg.  But I’ll try anyway.

She is funny and feisty.  She thinks fart noises are hysterical and watch out when she’s mad.  That temper doesn’t appear to be going anywhere.  But then she smiles and the whole world melts.

Until recently Daddy was pretty much only a second thought.  But in February and March I found myself traveling quite a lot, which gave her quite a lot of time with Tommy.  Once she realized he also provided food, and the stuff he gave her was pretty tasty (and usually forbidden) she jumped right on that train.  Now she shakes her whole body with excitement when he comes home and scrambles to be the first in his arms.  They’ve become quite the duo, those two.

She remains desperate to be a part of the mix with her two older siblings.  She wants to keep up, do what they do, play where they play.  I’ve long felt her whole life would improve once she started walking and I’m starting to see hints of it.  After a quick bout in the “drunken sailor” stage, (where she wove and stumbled, falling after a handful of steps) she’s now a full on walker.  The look of pride on her face is priceless.  She’s been watching this two-legged movement her whole life and finally, she’s in the club. 

In the last few months Tommy has started including her in the family wrestling matches.  He and the kids roll around on the floor like puppies, each of the kids desperately trying to “attack” Daddy.  I love watching Red in the mix.  From her thrilled expression, to her enthusiastic head bumps, to her relentlessness in the ring, this girl loves her life when she’s rolling around with the big kids.  She’s taken to trying to get me to wrestle, bumping her head against mine and pushing me when we find ourselves down on the floor together. 

If I had to predict I’d say Lou will be determined and easy going, a difficult combination.  She knows what she wants, wants it with intensity and does not give up until she gets it.  But there is a relaxed quality about her the rest of the time. 

And her smile man.  It’s the best.  She doesn’t turn on the charm like her sister, but she charms without intention.  It’s a subtle difference, but it’s there. 

All, particularly Monster, adore her.  Toots has taken to her recently too, the two of them playing more games and giggling together more often.  I love the way she fits right into our chaos and I am so curious to see who she continues to become.  She’s going to surprise us, this one. 

Happy (belated) first birthday Red!!


again, these beautiful photos are courtesy of the ever talented Mary at Where's the zoom.  She rocks.

Monster Turns Five!

Last month my little monster turned five.  I’ve written about how this age is rapidly becoming my most favorite.  Monster is proving to be the greatest kid ever.  We really love him a lot.

He requested a pirate birthday party this year and for the first time we invited friends from school.  He was so very excited to stuff his invitations into envelopes and deliver them to his friends.  The party was great, filled with pirate games and a pirate ship piñata, ice cream sundaes and running around with a gaggle of 5 year olds.  Later that night, after the party had ended we ate tacos with his grandparents and cupcakes with orange frosting, all per his request.  The kid knows how to do birthdays already.

 

At age five he remains sweet as pie.  Seriously, this kid.  He loves his baby sister and (usually) plays well with his middle one.  The very first sentence he learned to write all on his own was “I love you mom” and I am the very happy recipient of that note on a regular basis. 

showing off his tie of course 

In the last few months he has taken an extreme interest in “being handsome.”  After baths he stands in the bathroom painstakingly combing his hair as neat as he can manage, and for his birthday he asked my mom to buy him ties and bow ties so he “could be handsome” and he wears them all the time.  It’s kind of the cutest.  Earlier this week we rode our bikes.  On one of our pit stops at the library he bemoaned the fact that earlier that morning he had combed his hair “handsome” and his bike helmet had messed it all up.  Life, man.

He’s starting to read and write which is so great.   I love, love, love watching him make sense of letters and words and fall in love with books.  It takes very little persuading to let him stay up later and read just one more of his Superman primary readers.

We’re finding him extremely interested in God.  He asks us to read to him from the Jesus Story Book Bible each night and he brings it with him to church on Sunday.  He comes home from school with little notes he’s written about loving God and he tells us he has dreams about being in heaven and seeing Jesus and Granda.  In his dreams heaven has mountains and he’s excited to go there.  This little faith is emerging and I’m so protective of it, knowing I’ve done nothing to create it, but have all sorts of power to add baggage to it.

Recently he started asking if he could work out with me at the gym.  After dropping his sisters off in childcare I let him run a few laps with me on the track.  He ran with his arms at tight ninety-degree angles, hands stiff just like The Flash.  Every so often he would break out of it, turning back to look at me with sweet eyes and a mischievous grin, daring me to race him.  My heart welled more than a little as I ran with my boy.  We raced and giggled and I fell just a little more in love with this kid.  In a million years I couldn’t have dreamed him up and he is more than I ever could have hoped for in a first born.  He’s sweet and funny, charming and thoughtful. 

Happy fifth birthday, Monster.  We love you so!

Pictures are courtesy of my friend Mary, who is, obviously, so so talented!

Toots turns three!

We're working on holding up three fingers...

My girl is three today!  How can this be??  This exact time three years ago Toots had only been in the world for all of twenty minutes.  Now, I can't even imagine what we did without her.

What do I say about Toots at age three?  She is absolutely, positively a "personality."  A personality that continues to grow each year.  She is tiny body and big hair.  Little voice with big words.  Easy and complicated all in one.

She is funny.  Hilarious even.  Her facial expressions and comedic timing are spot on, reinforcing my belief that these things tend to come more naturally than not.  I certainly didn't teach her any of it.  She uses grown up phases and expressions, complete with very grown up mannerisms.  She is watching and repeating everything, something I need to remember when I speak.

We're big on purses these days.  And heels of course.

We are currently in a "beautiful" phase.  Every day she asks to wear a "twirly dress."  Her criteria for what constitutes as a twirly dress is strict.  Unless it flairs when she spins it will not be worn.  My sister, thankfully got her five more twirly dresses for her birthday so we have some new options.  Then she puts on her "beautiful shoes" (pink sparkly shoes with bows, of course).  Because of her desire to wear her beautiful shoes every waking minute we had to make the rule that beautiful shoes could only be worn indoors, like slippers, so that she could wear them, but not track mud all through our house.  But don't worry. She now carries them with her in her hot pink purse whenever we go out.  All she requested for her birthday was another pink phone and a pink tutu.  My mom had purple tulle on hand to make the tutu and we tried to convince her that she really wanted purple instead of pink.  But she would. not. be. swayed.  And of course, her beloved Noni obliged.

A girl, her tutu, some music and a microphone.  All she needs in life.

This girl is a natural performer.  Every day she asks to play "Let It Go" and then performs the whole song, singing every word and even including the part where Elsa pulls down her hair and lets loose.  Toots makes sure to put her hair in a pony tail or headband before she begins her song so she can whip it off in dramatic fashion.  For her birthday she received a CD player, some Disney CD's and the piece d'resistance, a Frozen microphone.  In the 15 hours she's owned these items we've watched approximately one thousand performances of "Let It Go" and "Part of Your World", while wearing her pink tutu, of course.

She continues to be unafraid of herself, a prayer I've had for her since she grew in my womb.  She may be sassy and quick to putting on an extreme attitude, but she is just as quickly able to swing to silly, and happy and sweet.  She loves her siblings and knows how to push their buttons- as only a middle child can.  She is utterly charming and knows how to work a room.

I love her more fiercely and completely than I rationally understand.  She is like me in so many ways.  In this I understand her more clearly and also clash with her more strongly.  In an instant I can go from infuriated to completely melted with love.  She fascinates me and softens me.  She is just so stinkin' great.

Our family works with her.  Every day I feel more and more honored to be her mom.  I can't wait to see what she does with this big, brutiful life.

Happy third birthday Toots!  We love you so much.

Monster turns 4

so excited to be 4.

Monster turned four yesterday.  I anticipated this day with an equal amount of excitement as the birthday boy.  For weeks Monster has asked for a countdown until the big day and yesterday morning he woke up early squealing with excitement, commanding his sister to “sing Happy Birthday to me!”  I love this age, love his joy and excitement, love that the years of setting up traditions are finally paying off.  He knows the birthday drill, looks forward to the little things we do to celebrate him.  And I love that.

What can I say about Monster at age 4? 

He is sweet.  He’s always been sweet, but it continues to be a defining quality to him.  He just has a sweet demeanor.  He is (generally) very kind to those around him, particularly smaller kids.  He loves his little sister and protects her in a way that I, as the oldest child, always craved an older brother would.  (The exception of course is when he is pretending his sister is the “bad guy” to his batman.  Then all protection bets are off and it usually results in a time out for head butting.)  He will often spontaneously blurt out, “Mommy, I wub you” (Mommy, I love you) for absolutely no reason at all.  And when he comes home from school each day we spend about 15 minutes sitting together on Noni’s brown leather recliner snuggling before Toots wakes up from her nap.  Often he hugs by belly and says “Baby, I wub you.”

worst picture taker ever.

He is a rule follower.  We are working on trying to encourage his own good behavior while also discourage his tendency to try to enforce the rules on everyone else (because while I want him to do the right thing, I don’t want him to be that annoying kid.)  But I am thankful for his natural tendency to stay in line (particularly on days I have my hands full with his slightly more rebellious sister).

wears capes everywhere.  in case he needs to save the day.

 He is obsessed with super heroes.  Batman reigns supreme around here but all masked and cape-wearing do-gooders are endeared.  At the park last month he introduced himself to a little girl as “Batman” and did the same for a group of parents on a tour at his school.  He asked for batman cake pops instead of cupcakes for his birthday breakfast treat and for his birthday party all he requested was a batman piñata.  We indulge this obsession because, well, it’s fun when your kids are excited about something.  Secret #84,568 about parenting: you will take as much joy as your children do in the things that interest them.

 

In his four years on earth my best boy has had to overcome more challenges than most and endure more transition than his change-adverse personality would have preferred.  But, especially this year, he has astounded me with his resilience.  In four years he has been diagnosedwith a hearing loss, learned, a year late to the game, how to listen and speak, moved, started attending full time school, received a cochlear implant that completely changed his entire way of hearing, re-learned how to listen andspeak with this new device and lost his beloved Granda.  My boy has not been known for an ability to go with the flow.  He is routine oriented and does not like change.  And yet this year, more than ever, he has seriously amazed me with his ability to tackle big hurdles.  We had our moments, to be sure, but overall each challenge has served to make him stronger, more capable and better able to handle change. 

I couldn’t be prouder of my Monster.  Four years ago he made me a mom and each year I fall more and more in love with him and the unique ways in which God made him.

Happy Birthday Monster.  We love you so!

That Girl

At least once I day I find myself shaking my head, smiling bemusedly and thinking, that girl.

Sometimes there is a bit of exasperation in this statement.  When we were in the throws of potty training earlier this month and I realized that she was very intentionally peeing on me, for example. 

Potty training essentials: batman underwear, 7 necklaces and princess slippers.

But there is always a chuckle or full belly laugh accompanying this thought too.

Toots turns two today.  She continues to take my breath away with her very “her-ness.”

She is a character.  A personality.  An entertainer.  A light.

She is feisty and spirited, silly and unencumbered.  She loves music, Katy Perry is her favorite.  She can sing along with “Let It Go” and “The Wheels on the Bus” and “Happy Birthday.”  She chatters constantly, carrying on conversations with whoever will entertain her and herself when no one will.  She knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to ask for it.

Typical behavior- everyone else is engrossed in the movie and she is hamming it up for the camera.

Oh, and she is joy personified.  One of her favorite songs is “You are my Sunshine” and I sing it to her wholeheartedly, truth in every word.  There is just something about her that lights up a room and makes you laugh.  You can’t help but smile in her presence.  After my dad died for weeks she was the only one who could bring any amount of light into my mom’s face.

taking time out very seriously, obviously

She takes up space.  And makes no apologies for it.  It’s one of my favorite things about her.  Physically she sprawls out wherever she is.  On your lap, on the floor, in the brown leather chair that is her favorite TV watching spot.  Instead of sitting up contained and defined she spreads her whole body out covering every square inch she’s been given.  And it’s not just with her body that she takes up space.  In a nebulous way I can’t quite describe I watch my daughter fill a room with her presence, naturally and unaware that there is any other way of being.

As a woman I’ve often felt like life has taught me to stay contained.  Don’t ask for too much, stay within defined boundaries, take less than you need, deny yourself always for the sake of others.  There are valuable things about living with selfless regard to others to be sure.  But when I watch my daughter take up all the space she’s been given I have an overwhelming urge to preserve that in her.  To protect this natural instinct from the barrage of voices that will tell her to stay small.  I want her to continue to fill her space, and learn to respect others’ at the same time.  To live fully into whom God created her to be while also giving room for others to do the same.  Mostly though I don't want her to ever lose her unapologetic way of being fully Toots.

Somehow I can’t believe that my baby is two and also can’t believe that she’s only been in our lives for two years.  And on this, her second birthday my prayer for her remains largely the same.  I pray that her identity would be rooted in the truth that she is loved so deeply by the God who perfectly made her.  And I pray that she would appreciate that everyone else is loved that way too.  I pray that she would have the quiet strength of knowing who she is without needing to please anyone or prove it either.  And I pray that our relationship would grow stronger each year, that I would love her exactly as she is and give her all the space to be just that.

Happy Birthday Toots.  We love you so much!

For Whit

The Thirtieth Birthday Tour continues!  As my friends and I turn thirty I'm trying to honor some of them with words.  You can read a few others here, here and here.  Today, on the eve of Whit's birthday I toast her with love.  Happy Birthday friend.

Unlike my other college roommate, Sarah, I remember exactly when and where I first laid eyes on Whit.  Bid day, freshmen year of college.  I was on cloud nine because I’d been invited to join my first choice sorority.  It was the only one I hoped to claim membership to; the reason I continued on to each next stage of the rush process was because they kept asking me back.  I saw Whit across the big ballroom of the Union where we picked up our bids and waited to be picked up by our new sisters.  She was wearing a long red cardigan sweater, the thick cozy kind I always envisioned myself wearing.  She had really smart looking glasses (long before every hipster wore glasses as part of "their look") and Keri Russell curly hair.  It should be noted that for all of high school the television show Felicity encapsulated everything I dreamed of becoming in college.  There was Whit, looking exactly like the cool, independent college girl I dreamed of becoming.  She looked like someone who read high literature for fun, discussed feminism and justice while drinking beer and smoking cigarettes.  She looked like she belonged in college.  I was still wearing overalls and pigtails and couldn't wait for the next Harry Potter book to come out.  I did not belong in college.

I watched her for a little while that day because she intrigued me so much.  She was crying.  Not uncommon as many people ended up in houses they did not want to be in.  At one point I got close enough to see her nametag with her future sorority on it.  Chi Omega.  My house.  I had two thoughts in that moment.  Why is she crying, doesn’t everybody want to be a Chi O? and Man, we’ll never be friends.  She is too cool for me.

Oh how thankful I am to have been partly wrong about that last one.

Whit was too cool for me, but somehow in the course of that first semester of college we became fast friends.  We lived in the same dorm, in instant unifier when you are a college freshman.  Said dorm was an incredibly long trek from our sorority house, so there were many opportunities to get to know one another walking back and forth from various sorority functions.  Whit fascinated me.  She was funny and smart.  She had unique tastes all her own.  She was deep and thoughtful and sensitive, but would still throw herself up against the coffee shop window, startling the poor soul trying to study on the other side just to make me laugh.  She was in so many ways the kind of person I wanted to be, but knew I could never quite pull off.   

In Whit I found a friend so completely different than me in so many ways, but yet also so beautifully similar.  On the surface we couldn't have been more opposite, but there was something in her core that felt like family to mine.  I couldn’t understand why she would want to be friends with me, but I was always so, so thankful she did.

Over the years Whit has been the kind of friend who shows up time and again.  Half the time I can’t even remember my anniversary but I always, always get some sort of a card or gift from her on July 7^th.  One year she found out where Tommy and I were going to celebrate and ordered a bottle of champagne for us ahead of time.  Monster was born at 5pm on a Sunday.  By 8pm, Whit was at the hospital.  With balloons.  She's been to first birthday parties and baptisms and all the other important moments in between.    

Whit has always had a tender, compassionate heart.  As her roommates we had to safely capture the bugs in our apartment and let them out into the wild.   Now she is a vegetarian, dog rescuing, composting, green thinking lady.  She speaks for the trees and the animals and anyone else that need a voice.

Whit creates fun wherever she goes.  Last month in Nashville she showed up with coordinating fringe tops and cowboy hats for us to wear.  In college she had a bin of weird, crazy costumes and we wore those things out more times than I’d like to admit.  We were both English majors at U of I and our advisor gave us the (poor) advice take Entomology 105, the study of bugs, as our “easy” science credit.  The class was intensely hard; I pulled my only all-nighter for the last exam.  Whit wore a spider costume to the final.  When you are friends with Whit some sort of hilarious adventure is always just around the corner.

My sweet friend has been a “go-to” for me for 12 years now.  I can always count on her for a solid conversation that makes me think, lets me vent, spurs me on or joins in joy.  She is thoughtful and wise, witty and silly.  For 30 years this girl has been bringing joy and love into the world.  She was everything I instinctually knew she would be when I first spotted her all those years ago.  And also so much more.  She has continued to grow and change, soften and learn over the years.  Her friendship is a time capsule for some of my most favorite memories and deepest secrets.  I am so thankful to have been wrong that day in the Union.  Her friendship and the things it has taught me have profoundly changed my life.  There is no one quite like Whit.  And I don’t think there ever will be.

Happy 30^th my love.  You are treasured.   

What Happened in Nashville

I had been praying for weeks that the time would be both sacred and irreverent.  The Thirtieth Birthday Tour was born in book club over a year ago.  A trip to celebrate the big 3-0.  A trip to celebrate the 12 years of friendship between us.  A trip to make memories for the years ahead. 

In our early dreaming stages it was to be an epic adventure, eight women and an RV from Chicago to Nashville with cowboy boots and coordinating fringe.  In reality it became six women in a rented mini van and two more joining via Southwest Airlines.  Playlists were made and old mix CD’s dug up from the early 2000’s in preparation.  Cowboy boots were packed and the coordinating fringe became a realized dream (thank you Whit).

These eight women were my people in college. Miraculously we have maintained connection throughout the years since we parted ways after graduation.  While some have moved away and some I still see every month at book club, I always look forward to any amount of time with all of them.  These days that only seems to happen when someone gets married.

In Nashville we enjoyed extended quality time together.  We enjoyed staying out late and sleeping in.  We ate weird food at weird times and drank beer out of plastic cups in dive bars.  We hopped in and out of every Honky-Tonk on Broadway, accumulating more stamps on our hands than a twenty one year old on her birthday.  We resurrected our college selves.  Shedding our wife and mother skins, our career and “grown up” coats, we lived, for just a few days, like we were back in the responsibility free days of our youth.

And it felt good to resurrect my college self.  In the eight years since graduation I’ve moved so far from the rhythms and modes of that world.   At its core college was, for me, about my friendships.  I’d forgotten just how much fun it is to have inside jokes created out of the random moments of simply being together.  Or to get ready for a night out in a room full of other girls, sharing jewelry and shoes and curling irons.  Or to poke random guys’ butts in bars and feign ignorance when they look around confused.  (What?!  As a married, thirty-year-old youth pastor and mother of two I certainly would never do that, but I can imagine that it would be a lot of fun.)  It felt good to organize my life around my comrades, even for just a weekend.

These days life contains responsibilities and work schedules.  We’ve married new best friends that don’t want to share clothes with us and wouldn’t look good in them anyway.  Peers are still an incredibly important part of the picture but they’ve shifted away from that center spot they once held during our years dedicated to higher learning.  This is a necessary part of moving on in life but that doesn’t make it any less of a bummer when you realize the adjustment has happened.

By far my favorite, favorite part of the weekend (aside from the 18 year old kid giving me a high five for being hot) was the time we spent on Saturday night celebrating and loving each other with words.  Whit had created a lovely way for us to do this with a writing prompt for each girl.    There were a few simple prompts: five words to describe so and so, when I first met so and so I thought, I’m so proud of so and so because, etc.  We spent six hours on Saturday taking turns sharing these prompts for each person.  For someone like Tommy that is an uncomfortable amount of feelings time, but I loved every minute.  I loved being able to look these women in the eyes and tell them who I’ve seen them become, what they mean to me, and why they make me proud.  I loved hearing what others treasured about each person.  I loved honoring that unique and precious point in time where our paths intersected and we changed each other.

My best-loved prompt was “_________ has taught me so much about…”  It stirred something in me to hear what we’ve all taught each other.  Some lessons were all encompassing, taught by one’s character.  Some stemmed from specific, defining moments in the friendship.  They all reminded me that friends are life’s most important teachers.  This truth is evident in my life.  My people shaped and continue to transform who I am as a person.  I learn from them everyday.  It is what I celebrate most in women.  At our best, in our most vulnerable and profound moments, we are the very best teachers for each other. 

What happened in Nashville was that, for a few days, we lived as though we were eighteen again.  Our independence was high, our responsibility low and our friends were the most important part of our day.  We remembered who we were before we became who we are.  As the eight of us enter into this new decade it felt good to pay a little homage to the twenties.  The twenties are hard and strange and sometimes very awkward.  While I’m excited for my thirties, for the freedom I feel in my own skin, I know I wouldn’t have gotten here without enduring my twenties.  And I know that surviving the past twelve years wouldn’t have been possible without my friends.

coordinating fringe ya'll