My Indomitable Grandma

Last Tuesday 

I could tell by the look on my mom's face

that something was wrong.

"Grandma's in the ER.

She was there last night

and they released her,

but she had to go back.

I'm driving up tomorrow."

She had felt like she couldn't breathe

and had called her brother for help.

By the time he'd arrived at her house

the paramedics were loading her

into the ambulance.

The 15 minutes it took him

to get to her house had seemed too long,

so she'd called 911.

I was sitting on the couch

when my phone buzzed.

"They're intubating Grandma.

I'm leaving now."

Paul works nights in the ER

and there are days when I have to be at work

by 6am,

so a few times a week we spend the night

at Nana's house.

Luckily it was one of those nights

and I was able to jump in the car with my mom.

******

We had done this drive 10 years ago

almost to the day.

My uncle had called with the same news.

She had had trouble breathing and called the ambulance.

They had her in the ER but everything was going to be ok.

By the time we got there

it was bad.

Really, 

really,

really 

bad.

Congestive heart failure

and fluid in her lungs.

I was 5 months pregnant with Lucas

when they told me that she was probably

going to die.

Her heart and lungs were failing

and they were doing everything they could

but she had a 10% chance of surviving.

We slept on the floor of the ICU,

watched her vitals dip and rise,

and searched the eyes and words

of the doctors and nurses for help and hope.

Machines were breathing for her,

medications were keeping her heart

from stopping.

On the 2nd day they told us to call for  a priest

if we were so inclined.

We went to her home and tore apart

closets and desks

for any guidance she may have had in place

for a situation like this,

there wasn't any.

We met the priest at the hospital

with the rest of the family in tow.

We stood around her bed,

holding her hand,

tears streaming down our faces,

but as he began to read,

my grandmother,

with paralytics and painkillers

coursing through her body,

began to shake her head 

as if to say "No!"

to the holy water being sprinkled on her.

And we began to cry harder

and to laugh.

No one was giving her

her last rites 

if she had anything

to say about it.

She began to improve after that.

It was a long road,

but she eventually got out of the ICU,

the hospital,

the rehab.

Her cardiologist told my mom,

"Your mother is the kind of woman

you can't even kill with a rusty nail."

Back home she went

to her life,

to her homes and car,

to her plants and dog.

Forever 4'11" 

(although she'll say 5')

of vim and vigor.

My great-aunt's 90th birthday

My grandmother

is one of 3 girls

in a family of 9.

She is not the oldest,

but my great-aunt had polio

as a child

and so my Grandma

became the leader.

She came to the States

in her 20s.

Worked as a nanny 

and housekeeper,

then a seamstress.

She would make bathing suits

and sell them out of the back

of her car.

She taught herself how to

speak English,

invest in the stock market,

navigate a city and a world

that is not always friendly

to young, immigrant women.

Some of my first memories are of being

at my Grandma's house.

Of her fruit trees.

Of novelas

(Mexican soap operas).

Of my Popeye record player.

Of her picking me up from school

in her blue station wagon.

Of standing on a foot stool

at her kitchen island

baking Christmas cookies.

Of watching her make chile rellenos

for my Grandpa Dwight

and delivering them to his office.

She did that even

after they were divorced

because they were his favorite,

and that is where I learned

that sometimes when words fail,

food and kind actions

will suffice.

She is the one

who taught me to bake,

to garden,

to sew.

I am the oldest grandchild

and those early years

of just the two of us 

are so precious to me.

Twenty years later

I called to tell my Grandma

that I was pregnant again.

I apologized

for being unmarried 

and I told her I felt ashamed,

that I knew I had not been

raised this way.

And then she told me her story.

Of her mistakes,

her heartbreaks,

the night she sobbed 

on the floor

over a betrayal.

This woman I had always loved

told me about her humaness

and in turn gifted me

with the secrets to her

strength and grace.

"Mijita (my little girl)

you are beautiful

and strong

and there is nothing you can't do.

You bring me nothing but pride

every single day,

even in your mistakes.

We all must fall,

but it is in the getting up

that we see what someone is really made of.

I love you.

And I'll always love you.

No matter what."

That phone conversation

changed my life.

And where I knew I couldn't love

my grandmother any more than I already did,

I fell in love with the woman.

******

When we arrived at the hospital

she was still in the ER.

There were no beds available in the ICU,

so we pulled up 2 chairs

and spent the night next to her.

At one point she regained consciousness

and panicked momentarily.

I stood up and put my face

next to her wide open eyes.

I stroked her hand

and kept telling her in Spanish,

"Grandma you're ok.

We're here.

You're in the hospital

but you're going to be ok.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you."

And then

she squeezed our hands

and smiled.

She began showing improvement

the next day,

and the nurses were telling us

how even intubated,

she would try and help them

as they adjusted her position.

Because if there were ever a time

to just lay back and let someone help you,

it would be when you're in the ICU.

Unless of course,

you are my grandmother.

And to that I say,

I never stood a chance

to not be the way I am.

Self-sufficiency runs deep in my veins.

She was released from the ICU

this past week

and will be home Monday

in time for Christmas.

She'll be staying with my mom

I hope forever,

but probably just a few weeks.

Because she's stubborn

and feisty

and that's why she's lived 10 years

passed a 10% chance of survival.

My Grandma,

my Queen,

she is a force

whose wake I will

gratefully stand in 

for as long as I can.

Mother's Day 2013

5

10 and a half years ago I tried to kill myself.

I had a number of chemicals

coursing through my body

and I was

 sad and scared

and I meant it.

The details of that night are some

of the scariest skeletons

in my closet.

My most shameful.

Because I am a mother now

and I still haven't forgiven myself

for what I did

to mine

that night.

I spent three days

in a mental hospital

after that.

I know what it is like

to have your shoelaces taken away.

All plastic mirrors

and group therapy.

What it is to feel

utterly shell-shocked,

confused,

wholly regretful,

defiant,

angry,

and vulnerable.

Those days

were some of the darkest of my life.

And they were also the beginning.

The beginning of my journey

with a bunch of strangers

who knew exactly who I was

and what I needed.

I left the hospital and landed in

coffee-filled rooms

and smoke-filled hallways,

listened to

speakers of a language I didn't know

but fully understood.

Men and women

from completely

different walks of life

that have led me

and followed me.

Have watched

as I continually fell to pieces

and never tired of

collecting the jagged shards of me

or glueing them back together.

They saved my life.

And then they helped me grow up.

I am not ashamed of my past,

who I was and what I did,

because we all have a story

and this one is mine.

That girl still lives within me

but her demons are quiet now.

10 and a half years ago

I put my head down and

put one foot in front of the other

and it has not been perfect

and I have made so many mistakes,

but today marks 5 years.

5 years

of a totally present

and sober mind.

5 years

of ups and downs

and lessons and life

and I didn't have to check out

not even for 1 second.

The disease of alcoholism and drug addiction

runs rampant through my family.

It affects people from all walks of life and

it tore through mine

when I was just 19 years old.

10 and a half years later,

5 years under my belt,

2 beautiful boys,

a man I adore,

parents that are proud of me,

the best of friends,

a career

and a home

and most importantly

a quiet head

and a joyful heart.

Dear 19 year old Christina

sitting in the mental ward
crying into her pillow,

It's gonna be so good one day sweetheart.

It's gonna be so good you won't even believe it.

Be gentle with yourself.

Love,

30 year old Christina

Real Life

A few weeks ago

Paul and I packed up the boys

and hit the highway

for a family road trip

through Arizona.

1,500 miles.

6 days.

Magical.

Dreamy.

We floated through days;

laughing, hiking, catching fish.

The boys swam in a creek,

played in a summer storm

and fed their great-grandfather's horses.

We sat on a country backporch

and watched lightening fill the night sky.

We saw miles and miles

of desert and forest,

red rock and sunsets,

with a Grand Canyon

exclamation point.

Total sighheartburstmagicpeacejoyfest.

I fell in love with my children

and Paul

all over again

and floated home

on a game of ABC Band Names

(I still hold strong to the belief that

Ziggy Stardust counts for Z).

That was Monday.

The high lasted

about 2 days

and then like a plane

whose engines suddenly seized;

I plummeted to earth.

By Thursday I found myself irritated

by laundry and dishes

and work
and just the god damn

drudgery.

I know living with me

can be a nightmare.

I'm a neat freak

and

I'm controlling

and

I'm pretty sure

if everyone cooperated,

our home would possibly

look like a museum,

but instead it looks

like people actually live there

and sometimes that makes me crazy.

When James was a baby

I'd have to literally pep talk myself

into leaving the dinner dishes in the sink

until after the boys were in bed.

I still struggle with this.

Busy, busy, busy...always doing

nonstop...go, go, go.

And since I am like this

I unintentionally expect my partner

to be the same,

and because he is not,

bing! Bang! BOOM!

HELP ME!!!!!!

So that's a point of contention for us.

Which please don't even think

for a moment that I am alone

in the managment of our home.

This is the guy who goes grocery shopping

every week,

makes marinara and hummus from scratch

because he knows I love it,

cooks dinner half of the time,

schleps our boys around,

works overtime hours

and then spends his days off

designing furniture for our home

that he then builds.

Great man?

Yeah I'd say so.

Perfect?
No.

Me neither.

In addition to my neurosis

in all things housework,

I also battle my head.

30 plus years of rolling stages

of depression, anxiety.

A life lived sober now

but not in the past

and the work

that goes with that.

The struggle that still exists

behind that.

Sometimes things are very...

intense.

Angry.

Sad.

Difficult.

It's been shocking to me

how much work is involved

in the care and maintenance

and survival of a partnership.

With kids and a home to spare.

I spoke with one of my best friends

Sunday morning as I cried into my coffee.

I was super angry with my beloved

and

"I know relationships are full of highs and lows 

but the lows suck."

sobsobsniffsniff

And she let me cry

and she heard me out

and then she delivered

some hard earned gems of marriage advice:

"It's just one day.
It'll get better.
It always does."

and 

"Yes the lows suck,
but they'll make you

into a better, healthier person
if you stick it out."

And it wasn't better right away.

But it's better now.

And we spent last night watching

a documentary with Lucas

and then snuggled on the couch

eating blueberry pie.

And every day I learn more

about what it is to love someone

and keep a relationship alive.

To decide every day,

yes I want to be here

with you,

doing this.

Because I don't know

what everyone else's partnership is like

but I can tell you mine is 

full of love
and joy
and laughter
and WORK.

It takes work.

Wayyyyy more work

than I had ever imagined.

Work that is worth it to me

because these boys

and this man

are my greatest loves.

Push and Pull

The weather's been so weird

lately.

Blazing hot

turned to

gloom

turned to

rain

turned to

mug.

The air feels

still and heavy.

Paul's been working a lot

and so have I.

And we kind of just pass one another

in the halls of our home

and the halls of our life

and we're working to pay bills

from the past

and build dreams

for the future;
working to keep the train moving,
all housekeeping
and play dates,
basketball schedules
and school applications.

And everything is safe

and calm

and very sane.

It's all

same.

I meant sane.

I meant same.

I'm not used to either.

What do you do

when you've

spent your whole life

telling yourself

you're a seeker

and a wild child

and everything you've sought

is here in your hand

and all the wild

is anchored,

tethered,

to dreams

that have actually come true?

That question

flaps its wings inside of me

and

I don't know the answer.

Probably because

the neurosis in me
can't comprehend

the simplicity of

enjoy it.

My friends are all having babies.

Instagram feeds

a mile long

filled to the brim

with wrinkly newborn skin

and soft downy hair.

My babies are 9 and 5.

I don't have babies,

I have boys.

I can't remember
the weight of them in my arms,

and I so long to.

Presently I exist

with an ever lingering
sentimental craving

for another baby.

This desire to remember,

and be,

to plan and make

to soak it all in

because I didn't do that with

my other pregnancies.

I was propelled through the experience;

holding onto my sanity as best I could,

pretending to not be afraid,

just trying to survive man

and now they sleep through the night

and they smell like sweat

and they dress themselves

and

I want back into Babyland.

Ticket please.

I had a meltdown yesterday.

There was traffic

and

I was hot

and 

I was tired

and

James had basketball in an hour

and

I couldn't find Lucas' basketball shorts

and

my job is exhausting and unfulfilling

and

we struggle to make ends meet

and

I kept thinking about all of this

and

then Paul found me in the boys' room

wrestling with the hamper

and

the dam burst.

Because I'm still

just trying to survive man.

But also trying to hang onto

every morsel of this life

because it's flying by.

Days and weeks and months

and grades

and please don't let go of my hand

and please let me be here

without being concerned with there

and tomorrow

and shopping lists

and laundry

and food menus.

This is my mom's life.

I have my mom's life.

And I feel like an imposter sometimes.

And then I feel trapped.

And then I feel guilty for feeling trapped

because this is all I ever wanted.

"And you want another one",

Paul will say

as he holds my tear-streaked face

and keeps kissing my nose while I sob.

And I do not undervalue

the man who loves me in such a way

that I can fall apart like that,

he who keeps a straight face

while I cry over my perceived ineptitude.

Holds me silently

as I stand in the middle of the chaos

that is every day living

for a family of four,

because this is some real shit you guys,

no Instagram filter here.

I've fallen from Neverland.

I used to be a Lost Boy

but now I am a pirate.

Plus side:

I get to ride the coattails

of my two Pans.

Marry Who You Love

James' expression =

how I feel about the Supreme Court today

Four and half years ago

Prop. 8 passed

and I was

angry

and

sad

and

disappointed.

How could this happen?

Why don't people understand?

I knew we had

to head to

West Hollywood.

Onward to the safe house,

to Santa Monica Blvd.,

to light candles

and

hold hands

and make noise

because that's all

you can really do

when you feel

like you're not being listened to.

I stood there 

lit candles in hand

with my baby brother.

The 18 year old young man

who had come out officially

just months before.

The one who broke my heart

when he told me that

he had endured

being bullied in high school.

Had been teased,

mistreated,

called a faggot.

He had just voted
in his first election
and the election
did not go his way.

How could this happen?

Why don't people understand?

I have cried
over knowing
that some of my best friends
have faced
the same battle.

I have cried over
the taunts
and
looks
and
not holding the hands
or kissing the lips
of their partner
in public
because they're afraid.

I have cried
over every story
of every kid
bullied to the point
where they have
taken their own life.

How could this happen?
Why don't people understand?

Today's Supreme Court ruling

lifted my soul.

The existing wedding rings

(and the ones to come!)

on the fingers

of my friends

meant more today.

They always meant everything,

but today they meant more.

Because these marriages

and families

always existed

to the people in them,

but now they exist

in a way that says,

you are real!

Even to the people

that haven't wanted

to acknowledge that.

You are real!

And safe!

And we're not going to let this happen!

We understand!

I have never been raised

to see sexuality,

or color,

or gender.

Thanks to my mama

we love everyone.

All are welcome.

Please come in,

there is room at the table

for all of us.

Always.

Endless thank yous
to the Human Rights Campaign
and Equality Now
for their tireless efforts
in rectifying a wrong,
to the plaintiffs
who fought for their love
and for the love of those who couldn't,
and to the Justices
that voted yes to the strike down.

My two little boys
and their mother
are eternally grateful.

We have hope today Harvey.

They gave us a whole lotta hope.

#loveislove

Instinctually

My intent was to write about

our weekend camping trip.

The fishing and sunshine

and stolen moments

with my guys.

Our first trip

as a foursome.

And while it is

something to be shared,
if you follow me on Instagram
you pretty much saw it,

and what's really on my mind

is this:

I want to talk about fear culture

and how it can dominate

us moms.

Heavy huh?

Sorry.

But I think it's important,

because by the end of 2013

10 women I know

in varying degrees of closeness

will have become moms.

Some for the first time,

some for the second

and some for the 4th.

And I want to talk about it,

ok?

Ok.

As a mom of two boys

and a woman feverish for a third,

I can tell you that after 9 years

of being a mom

the only thing I know for certain

is that mothering is not by the book.

Like ever.

Like you can
eat all of your veggies

and take all of your prenatals

and exercise every day

and do EVERYTHING

they say to do

and still end up
gaining 65 lbs.

with a kid with asthma

(Hi James!)

or 85 lbs.
with a kid with epilepsy

(Hi Lucas!).

Because one kid will
refuse to be potty trained
and poop his pants
until he's three
and the other
will climb onto the toilet
at two years old
and pretty much train himself.

One will walk at 8 months
and the other at 1 year
and they will
speak, sleep and lose their teeth
whenever the hell they want.

When I was pregnant with Lucas

I spent hours in Barnes & Noble

trying to find the directions

on how to be an unwed and single

20 year old new mom.

There weren't any.

And hey someone please write a book

that isn't filled with advice and suggestions

for the "husband" or "dad-to-be"

because FYI publishers,

sometimes there isn't one.

I'm a bit rant-y today.

No sleep.

Sorry.
Again.

But I digress.

I read new books

and classics

Happiest Baby on the Block,

What to Expect When Your Expecting,

and whatever was the most well-rated text

(in 2004 and then 2008)

on Amazon and BabyCenter and Google.

I read and

I searched

and

I message boarded

for hours.

Because in today's digital age

the information is so accesible.

Accessible

and

helpful

and

empowering

and
terrifying
and

overwhelming.

I read breastfeeding

would be a nightmare.

Chapter upon chapter
dedicated to how impossible it would be

and what to do with the impossibility.

"How will I feed my babyyyyyy?!?!?!"

"No formula everrrrrrrr or you're a terrible mom!!!!"

"Don't introduce the bottle!  Nipple confusion!

Ahhhhhrkjthertgbweirut?!?!?!?"

And while I do not doubt

that women everywhere

have a difficult time,

I made a decision for myself 

that humans had been nursing their young

for centuries,

and

I'll figure it out god dammit.

And yes

Lucas was improperly latched

for the first few days.

And yes it hurt like hell.

And yes

he lost a few ounces by his first check up,

BUT WE FIGURED IT OUT.

The books said
not to let the baby
sleep on its stomach,
but mine wouldn't sleep otherwise
so I guiltily allowed
for that rule to be broken.

They said no blankets,
but one night at 3am
while I sobbed and changed
my pee soaked newborn
for the 3rd time,
my mom
made the executive decision
to cover the baby
and guess what?

He was finally warm enough
to sleep and not pee.

Whew!

Going against the expert opinions
is such a pitfall
for moms new and old
because there are far greater forms
of fear and guilt
than the fear and guilt
of a new mother.

We want to do it right
and that desire
puts us up against ourselves
and often,
our fellow mamas.

For me
and for better
and for worse,
I've done it all.

Lucas
ate Gerber
but I steamed and pureed
for James.

Lucas
was nursed for 8 months,
my milk never really came in
for James.

Both were supplemented with formula.

Lucas
loved the pacifier,
James
hated it,
and for the record,
the non-pacifier kid
is the one with
the crooked bottom teeth.

Lucas
was in the Baby Bjorn,
James
I wore in a wrap,
both of them co-slept.

I staggered immunizations
even though some of the autism links
had been convincingly refuted
by the time James was born.

Last night whilst perusing Facebook

I came across a year old article

about our preferred brand
of baby/kid bath products.

Both of my boys have sensitive skin
to the point of forming scaly patches
on their arms and trunk.

A few years ago I worked
as the personal assistant
of one of the green
"mommy bloggers".

She was (and still is)
a lawyer and writer
and master of
detoxifying and greening
your home, life and self.

She is very active on Twitter,
calls out companies
for their shameful green washing,
and was responsible for a MASSIVE
recall on a glassware giveaway
from McDonalds.

This woman means business
and I trust her opinions.

So when Lucas' ped
suggested steroids for the eczema
I asked her what she thought,
and she told me to try the natural route,
which I gladly did,
and she also suggested
a line of bath products she stood behind,
a product I have trusted for years,
a product I recently gifted
to a new mom-to-be friend of mine.

A product that has
all but cured
the boys of any skin ailments,
and a product that has
apparently been under fire.

It appears that as they grew
(once online only, they are now at Target)
they may have begun
to compromise some of their values.

It sucks and I'm bummed
but I'm also going to do some research
before I turn my back on them completely.

Because nothing is cut and dry
in a straightforward forever sense
and all the articles and research
just can't compete with my instinct.

The information
becomes a mire
if you let it
so I try not to let it.

I try to sail by my instinct first
and always.

Because that's what mothering
has come down to for me.

Instincts.

And they've led me right and astray
and every dizzying direction.

But they're mine and I trust them.

And if there is any shard of advice
I'm willing to pass on
it's that.

Trust. Your. Instincts.

And let other women trust theirs.

Mom on ladies!

Mom. On.

Oh and here's a picture

of our preschool graduate:

Dream Makers

A few weeks ago

Lucas and I were driving home

when fun.'s "Carry On"

started playing on the radio.

He loves that song

so I turned it up

and we began to sing it

at the top of our lungs

"...If you're lost and alone.."

Suddenly
like a ghost from the past,

I remembered.

New Year's Eve night

2007.

6 months pregnant with James

5 days after I'd asked his father to leave.

"...Or you're sinking like a stone..."

I had gone to bed early

wanting to sleep through midnight.

I was so sad

and felt I had nothing to celebrate.

2008 was already breaking my heart.

At midnight
the cheers and fireworks

and welcoming of a new year

pulled me from my dreamless sleep.

I laid there,

one arm around Lucas

while the other held my belly

and I began to sob.

A deep, smothering sadness

pulled tears from my eyes

and forced my shoulders to shake.

When my mom came into to kiss us

she found me crying,

threw her arms around me

and whispered,

"It's going to be ok honey,

you're going to be ok."

But I didn't believe her.

"...Carry on..."

Every Mother's Day

since Lucas was born

has been bittersweet.

I've made it about my mom

and tried to enjoy my children,

but I'd be a liar

if I didn't admit that celebrating

without the boys' fathers

always hurt.

Holidays always made me feel

like I'd failed

at making a family.

"...May your past be the sound..."

As Lucas and I sang

down the 605 freeway

I began to cry.

Not out of sadness

but out of joy.

Because I remember

that New Years Eve

like it was yesterday.

I remember feeling

helpless

and hopeless

and

like I'd never get it right.

"...Of your feet upon the ground..."

Saturday night

as we kissed the boys goodnight,

me to Lucas,
Paul to James

and then a switch,

I heard Paul whispering to them about

Mother's Day.

I didn't know what they had planned,

but knew there was nothing I could want

that I don't already have.

"...carry on..."

I awoke yesterday

to bright faces

and breakfast in bed.

Opened crayon decorated packages

to paintings and drawings and handprints.

I got to sit in bed

with coffee and the paper

while Paul manned the kids

and the house.

We went to Ports O'Call

and ate seafood

and snowcones

and I'm just so love in love

with these guys
I could just melt

into a puddle.

We spent the rest of the day

with family

and ended at home

where I discovered

the newly erected planter

and freshly tilled soil

Paul gifted me.

Because I've been talking about

vegetables and snapdragons

and a zillion hopes
for that little corner on our patio

and he made it happen.

Nothing could make my life sweeter.

This life with my three guys

is beyond

my dreams.

"Not me," I thought for so many years.

Girls like me
don't get the happy ending.

But sometimes,
we do.

You Are Nine

You are tall and lanky.

Eyes the color of chocolate

and permanently tousled hair.

You still crawl into my lap

to watch America's Funniest Home Videos

and your belly laugh

has a domino effect on me.

On Monday you asked if I had heard

about the tragedy in Boston

and then we talked about it.

You said it made you feel confused

and interested and scared

and I didn't know what to say

because it made me feel

all of those things too.

And I didn't have an answer to why

but I wanted you to know that

when terrible things happen

you will always see some good.

There will always be people

who run toward the madness

just so they can help.

There will always be light

and humanity

and for your gentle heart

as with mine

this will offer some peace.

It was our first conversation

about a worldly event

and I found your maturing insight

fascinating and a little sad

because my ability to shield you

lessens more every day.

You lie in bed reading chapter books

and lecture me on the perils of smoking

and I'm mourning the ticking clock

of the little boy years.

Where is my tree climbing

mud slinging rascal?

He's there in your lanky limbs

and broadening shoulders.

He's in your silly jokes

and comforting squeeze

on your little brother's

tantrum throwing shrug.

We have the life I've always wanted for us.

We share a home with your dad and brother

and I tell you all of the time

that I feel happiest

when we are all together.

Feel luckiest

piled on the couch

with my best guys.

The two boys

who handed me the map to joy

and the man

who loves us best.

It is a great life.

A magical life.

And it is all because of you.

I couldn't be me without you.

We couldn't be us.

The story began with you Lucas.

It started with you,

my first mate

and copilot.

You are my north star.

 In the rockiest of waters

you steered us

into the safe harbor.

And before anything else

there was you.

Grandma always said

her wishes

for Uncle Gregory and I

were to have strong roots in who we are

and the wings to fly.

Roots and wings.

Those are my wishes for you too.

My sweet Pan,

This life is frightening and exhilarating

frustrating and joyful.

You will feel and know

all of these things

and because

you are so much like me,

you will feel them deeply.

It is a blessing and curse,

this empathetic spirit of ours,

but it makes

for astounding love and beauty.

Kindred spirits you and I,

forever and ever.

Love that smile baby bird.

Happy nine.

Love,

Mom