Reason Number 11: Stupid Games

I dreamed last night that I received a diagnosis of terminal brain cancer.  I woke up gasping and in tears, my heart pounding as I realized it was only a nightmare, not real life.  My subconscious was already hard at work reassuring me that there are worse things than the loss of a big game.  It can always be worse.

But short of a terminal diagnosis or the loss of a loved one, I think losing the biggest game of your young life ranks right up there.  My golden girl, who has spent her whole life preparing for volleyball glory in her senior season, had her dreams cut short in the regional semi-finals last night.  She had a taste of the triumph last year, when she played for a team that went the distance and took home the gold in a Cinderella season we were all dreaming of repeating.  We did not.  Not crying.

This was supposed to be her year.  She has always been a starter and a go-to player, but last year she still lingered in the shadows of some spectacular seniors.  This was meant to be her time.  She finished last night’s match with 14 kills (for the non-volleyballers among you—that’s a lot) and told me through sobs after the game that she had been selected first team all-conference.  She’ll take home some post season glory thanks to her hard work, but she won’t bring home the biggest prize of all—a state championship.  Her goal was to make the state tournament team.  She won’t now.  Not crying.

The team has been in a slump, and the unforced errors and miscommunication that has plagued them the last few weeks weighed them down from the first point yesterday.  Even our all-American looked flat, and my own superstar made errors that I fear may haunt her for life.  I am not, of course, viscerally recalling the wide open layup I missed in a post season basketball game 25 years ago, when my team lost to an opponent we’d defeated twice in the regular season.  These things do not linger in a young athlete’s heart over decades, regardless of later triumphs and defeats.  Not crying.

There’s a quote in a favorite book of mine about the folly of giving one’s heart to a little dog to tear apart.  It kept coming to my mind last night—only I changed the word “dog” to “sports”—as I thought about the wrenching ways our games—for they are only games after all—can tear at our hearts.   It is a terrible and wonderful thing to give your heart and your dreams over to such a fickle master.  I deeply wanted my children, especially my girls, to share my passion for sports, and now I wish I had steered this beautiful girl towards something more sedate and safe like Library Club or gardening.  I should have protected her heart better and cautioned her in the dreaming of such big dreams.  Not crying.

As the night wore on, I kept thinking there was more I should have done to prevent the terrible outcome that was becoming all too apparent.  Sports’ mom superstition besieged me.  Had I worn the wrong shirt?  Sat in the wrong seat?  Fed her the wrong pre-game dinner?  Was the fact that my son kept moving her button from it’s designated place on my bathroom hand-towel—where I could pray over her beautiful face every morning when I woke up and every night before I went to bed—to blame?  I didn’t even wear my red lipstick last night because the opposing team’s color was red.  I wore my volleyball earrings and the button with Grace’s face on it.  I tried to do everything I could think of—sensical and non-sensical—to achieve the desired outcome.  And it wasn’t enough.  The team wasn’t enough.  She wasn’t enough.  Not crying.

I’m not crying about the tears in my husband’s and my littles’ eyes, in my parents’ eyes, in her friends’ eyes, in my friend’s eyes as we tried to comfort one another after the shocking loss.  I’m not crying that Grace’s two beautiful friends made a beeline for me after the game and cried with me and hugged me while Grace holed up with the team in the locker room.  I’m not crying about the deluge of lovely, consoling messages I’ve received from friends and acquaintances since the defeat, or how the love and support of an entire school community has engulfed us from all sides.  I’m not crying about the compliments I’ve received about our girl—“she’s so athletic and strong, she’s such a good leader, she’s such a hard worker.  My kids look up to her, adore her, appreciate her.”  I’m not crying that they seem to think I have anything to do with what makes her so wonderful—as though she didn’t come to us so brilliant and strong and all I had to do was stay out of her way and keep her safe.  So many tears not being shed last night. 

I tried to get my girl to eat something last night, but she refused, and afterwards we didn’t lie in her bed sobbing together, and I didn’t wish desperately that I could pull her onto my lap and nestle her head to my heart, soothing her with it’s beat as I was once soothed by the sweet scent of her baby shampoo and the steady rhythm of her breathing.  I didn’t worry over who would hold her next year in these terrible moments of disappointment and defeat.  It didn’t hurt to see she had erased all the encouraging phrases she had penned on her reminder board along with her goals for the remainder of the season.  I didn’t cry to see the vicious streaks where she had wiped away the words “STATE CHAMP” from her mirror.  It wasn’t hard to see the letter her little sister wrote her—assuring her of her ongoing admiration and encouraging her to stay strong--or to watch her tears drop onto the sweet belly of the puppy that seems best able to provide the comfort she needs.  It’s just a game—it’s nothing to cry about.  It’s just a stupid game.

I didn’t  cry tonight when I walked in the door and she was home, not practicing with her team as she should have been for many weeks yet.  I won’t cry when her eyes fill with tears over any mention of anything sport related.  I didn’t cry at parent teacher conferences tonight when everyone wanted to relive the pain of the awful game and tell me again how amazing she is.  I already know; I named her Amazing Grace.  It’s just a stupid game. I’m not crying, you’re crying. 

Reason Number 10: Boat Rides

The 10^th reason for not crying during your daughter’s senior year of high school is boat rides.  Boat rides are fun and relaxing (or exciting, depending on who is driving and who is being pulled).  Boat rides are not a cause for tears, especially when your precious oldest child isn’t even with you.

The reason I narrowly avoided choking up in the first place began with the following exchange: 

Chad:  “This is the last boat ride of the season.”  (Note:  This is always a bit of a sad statement to me, even in years less momentous than this one).

Me:  “Yep.  It’s officially the end of our summer.  And this is a big one.  It’s the last one with all five of our babies under one roof.”  And then I didn’t choke up because I immediately realized that this wasn’t even true.  Grace will still live under our roof next summer, and that will be the last one.  I won’t cry much next summer, of that I’m pretty certain.  But as for the end of this second to last lake season with all five kids living at home, I’m not crying.

And she wasn’t even with us.  As the years have passed, we see less and less of Grace as it is.  She is gone a lot, and she has gradually begun missing more and more things on a fairly regular basis.  She only makes it home for family dinners about twice a week.  (This fall, there have really only been about two per week to miss). She worked a lot this summer—missing many weekends with us at the lake already.  Travel volleyball took her away from us countless weekends over the last two winters (though almost always Chad or I accompanied her).  She has always been a social and busy girl, spending many nights away at friends’ homes.  She can drive herself, of course—a fact I celebrated when it first happened.  She was so busy and in demand; finally being freed from the role of her chauffeur felt dreamily liberating.  Except now, when I’m not missing those days with her beside me in the front seat, or behind me giggling with girlfriends or siblings, or buckled securely and safely into a car seat shrieking indignantly about being separated from me for even a moment, or across from me on a boat for the last boat ride of the season.  Not crying.

Most times, I don’t even think much about Grace not being with us.  She joins us for holidays or major events, or when I (infrequently) insist.  Both Chad and I were raised by pragmatic parents who allowed our freedoms to stretch as high school progressed, and I want to extend this same gift of guilt-free growing up and away to my children.  I’m glad Grace has a busy and active social and extracurricular life, and though I miss her deeply at times, it’s the right course of things.  I think the transition next year will in fact be eased by the fact that we already see so little of her.  Not crying.  

It’s only every once in awhile that I stop short and feel in my gut the absence of her.  Raising teenagers has taught me to appreciate the family times that occur increasingly less regularly, but not to insist upon them too often.  Sometimes, though, I feel like the toddler with a new baby sister.  I just want to clutch Grace and kiss her and love on her and try and carry her almost-as-big-as-me self around until, unless there is intervention from my wiser grown-up self, I smother her with my hugs and bruise her with my kisses.  Not crying.

It was cold on the boat this weekend.  The sun was shining, but it is always colder on the water, so I had dressed warmly.  My youngest didn’t heed my warnings, however, and came down in just a t-shirt and pants.  He took his shoes off immediately upon boarding the boat, as is his habit.  He grew chilly once we started moving, however, and clamored eagerly onto the seat next to me and the puppy.  (Even though in dog years, she has already passed into the teen years, Penny still can’t get enough of me, especially, for some reason, at the lake.  Just one more reason why she will always be in contention for favorite child). It was impossible not to notice the longing Clay’s snuggles awoke in me.  In addition to the automatic dart of sweetness that accompanies a beloved child burrowing into your lap, I couldn’t help but wonder when the last time my sweet Gracie had curled up next to me with such unselfconscious affection. It has surely been years.  Not crying.

I snapped this picture of my newest teenager as we were getting ready to head out on the water.  She was always my most physically affectionate child, insisting upon lap sitting and hand holding well past what most of her peers and older siblings desired.  Even though by the time she hit these growing away years, I was already somewhat accustomed to the distance she would likely put between us, it still ached a little bit to know we would never return to that easy physicality of a mother and her young children.  Something about this one, so tall and strong and beautiful, made me miss Grace even more.  (And the butterfly metaphor is just too heavy handed, even for me).  Not crying.

Later, when Clay had swapped my lap for a chance to steer the boat from his dad’s lap, Lucy leapt to take his place at my side.  My littles have become so dear these last few years as my teens pull away and ready themselves to leave my nest.  The youngest two are still so innocent and receptive of my affection.  One morning recently they had a good natured argument about who could get the most goodbye kisses, following me out to the car to snatch just one more as I prepared to drive to work.  It’s all so poignant and prone to making me not cry.  It’s just boat rides and chilly fall day cuddles.  It’s just a big family with big kids and little kids and a mom wishing she could hold onto hot summer days just a little bit longer. It’s just a teenager who’d rather sleep in at home than hang out on a cold lake with her family for the last time in a second to last season.  I’m not crying, you’re crying.  

Reason Number 1: Senior Pictures

The first reason for not crying during your oldest child’s senior year is utterly trite and embarrassing:  senior pictures. 

Grace had her senior pictures taken several weeks ago as summer was drawing to an end.  Though I have seen it coming and have been (for me) decidedly matter of fact about the whole “my baby’s last year of high school is upon us”, it was perhaps no surprise that I found the whole thing to be a bit surreal.  I mean it is almost comical.  This gorgeous, nearly 6 foot tall super model is my plump, strawberry blond baby girl with the huge, cautious eyes and the adventurous heart?  In spite of every teenager’s deep desire to never stick out or be different in any way, our family just can’t ever quite do things normally.  Grace’s senior picture experience involved a rock throwing little brother, potential wild parsnip exposure, and a giant inflatable flamingo. Because, why wouldn’t it?  It was our usual mix of poignant and absurd—a perfect illustration of our weird and wonderful life.  And the photos turned out magnificent.  

Back in 1993 when we got our senior photos taken, it was, like everything these days, much less of a customized experience.  I think a few people maybe had photos taken with pets or featuring their sports or hobbies, but for the most part we all called the same photographer and went to the same location and had the same props (a barn and a wagon wheel I recall featuring prominently which... why?) for every shot.  I wore acid washed jeans and did my own hair and make up.  Two of my four outfits were hand me downs from either an aunt or an old babysitter (I can’t remember which).  I think the process took maybe 2 hours?  I don’t really recall, and I assume my mom has the portfolio we brought home buried among some photo albums somewhere.  She has each of our senior portraits hanging in the basement of her house, and every now and then I will pause and look at them.  I am always struck by how young we look—and how, regardless of gender or outfit, there is such a glint of optimism and hope in each of our eyes.  I saw the same in Grace.  Not crying.

We invited my old friend Gena whose work I have quietly admired on social media for several years to come to the lake take the photos, and it’s a method I highly recommend.  We figured out that it has been 23 years since we last saw each other which is weird since we are both just going on 30 and we met in college, but regardless.  We sat on my deck sipping sparkling water and filling one another in on 23 years of living—careers and travel and babies and weddings.  She laughed uproariously when I told her how I currently make my living, confirming what I’ve always suspected—those who knew me at 19 and lost touch could never in a million years have predicted my current career.  It made me wonder a bit what the future holds for my Gracie girl.  Will she land someplace wholly unpredictable from where we sit today?  Not crying.

Regardless, as evening fell, the focus of the visit shifted from reminiscing the past to photographing the future.  When Grace came down the stairs, her hair straightened and glowing, her eyes shining, we all did a collective double take.   “Grace!” I exclaimed.  “Your makeup looks fantastic!  Did you do that yourself?”  

“It’s just mascara,” she said.  Summer sun glow doesn’t hurt, of course, but sheesh.  She added lip smackers chapstick and a little face powder and nothing else.  Ah, youth.  She was—is—so heartbreakingly beautiful.  Not crying.

Because our life is what it is, Chad’s truck wouldn’t start so our original plan of heading out in my now blocked in mini-van for picturesque sites on and around the lake was briefly thwarted.  Instead, we started out near some pretty flowering bushes in front of our own cabin.  The previous night’s campfire still smoldered quietly nearby, and the wispy smoke filtering through the sunset light initially created quite a dreamy ambience, though my attempt to slide the fire pit to a more appropriate spot ended up increasing the smoke to a point where we had to shift locations.  (I learned through this that I most definitely did not miss a calling as a photographer’s assistant).  We opted not to purchase the shot we titled “pretty girl coughing in narrowly avoided death by house fire”.

In our second location, We decided to take some photos with our little Penny pup.  When we at first struggled to keep her attention, we sent Lucy inside for treats.  She came back out with a slab of rare roast beef fresh off the smoker and roughly the size of a car door.   She stood behind Gena waving it gently and even I could smell it’s smoky meatiness.  For a dog who doesn’t weigh 10 pounds soaking wet, a slab of meat that size was a brilliant way to maintain her attention.  Penny was a dream prop after that, and my friend added a new trick for photographing animals to her repertoire.  

 

During this first session, Chad successfully jumpstarted his truck so we packed extra outfits and hairspray and bug spray and a variety of photography paraphernalia into my mini-van.  Because we are who we are as a family, the two youngest kids jumped in as well.  It was, despite the momentous photo shoot in process, a lake weekend, so both children were only wearing swimsuits and crocs, though Lucy hastily added a cover up before clambering in.  Clay wore his usual summer uniform—swim trunks he wears 100% of the time at the lake (to sleep in, to church).

The beach session took awhile and the kids’ attention wandered a bit.  Luckily, the beach is designed for children’s entertainment (unlike the waterfall and the babbling brook which were a bit more harrowing), so their explorations and antics were more or less uneventful.  At one point, disturbances in the water made me realize that Clay was hurling rocks near (at?) the lovely subject which I hastily put a stop to.

 I was also enlisted to take a few more photographs of my youngest offspring. Not for the first time, I wondered how moms with fewer kids handle moments like these.  I couldn’t stare into the beautiful sunset ruminating on the fact that these photos represent the beginning of the end of my day to day life with this spectacular child, because I was actively trying to keep the youngest two from breaking their necks (or at least getting good photos on their way down—at their request).  

After the beach we headed back to our cabin for the wildflower meadow shots.  These were the ones I immediately knew I would love best.  The sun had just sunk below the level of the treetops and the light had reached what Gena called “the magic hour”.  Grace was just radiant.  Since we were right across from our cabin and the littles were deathly afraid that the flowers were actually the viciously poisonous wild parsnip, they refused to follow us into the meadow.  Grace had a moment of pause herself (our few exposures over the last several summers have left us all a bit terrified).  I was reasonably certain the flowers were clover and Queen Anne’s lace, so I assured her confidently.  “And anyway,” I further asserted, “Even if it is poisonous we should still be able to get a few good shots before the swelling sets in.”  (My assumption was correct—it was just harmless wildflowers).

Then we began, and I was no longer distracted by my other offspring (who were attempting to climb a giant hay bale wearing water skiing gloves at the edge of the meadow, as one does at all normal senior photo shoots).  

The full levity of the situation descended on me. There isn’t much left to be said on the subject—moms have been posting senior photos to Facebook for many weeks (years) now.  She is my baby.  My first.  The child I have poured so much of my life and love and, quite literally, blood, sweat and tears into and over for the last 17 years.  My whole heart.  My whole life.  “Can you...” I tried to say, as they started making the motions of wrapping up.  My voice was breaking and Grace had caught it and was looking quite alarmed.  I plowed forward.  “Can you take a few over her shoulder—sort of looking down.  It’s the angle I know—love—best.  Like when I was holding her and... it’s not usually photographed and...” I sort of trailed off, really not able to speak for the tears I wasn’t crying.  In spite of my struggle, Gena grasped my intent.   

What I was trying to say was this:

This is the angle that undoes me.  This is the “can we watch Nemo one more time, mommy, pweeeease??” Angle.  The campfire angle.  The lullaby angle.  The bedtime story angle (“blow a kiss, and let it go.  You never know how love will grow”—Grace’s favorite).  The braiding hair for school angle. The “I don’t understand this question on my homework” angle.   I will see this beautiful, smiling, serious, wonderful face straight on and in a dozen other angles 10 million more times in my life going forward, God willing.  But the sleepy baby girl angle, the tired toddler angle, the uncertain school girl angle, that particular angle of her precious nose and impossible eyelashes and curving cheeks is probably over forever.  This angle is burned forever into my heart from the hours she spent curled up in my arms.  The mommy magic—where all was right with the world for both of us just because she was in my arms—has necessarily faded quietly year after year, as it should.  But I can see it all so vividly and feel it in my arms and my breasts and my heart and my gut so viscerally from this angle that I, obviously, did not weep (or narrowly avoid ugly sobs).    Gena and Grace dutifully took the photos and pretended not to notice.   

   

We had one final shot to get, and it was one significantly less likely to invoke tears.  We headed down to the lake where Chad had spent the hour I was sobbing in a wildflower meadow borrowing a larger than life inflatable pink flamingo from our across the lake neighbors.  Though the light was almost gone, our up-for-anything photographer and her willing subject dutifully began the liveliest, most absurd segment of senior photos in all the class of 2020.  See below for a brief video of the process.  It was only later that I remembered that Grace actually used to have quite the affinity for flamingos.  She spent several years of her life insisting on only wearing pink, and during these years flamingoes were unquestionably her absolute favorite animal on the planet.  (I miss the years when we had regular conversations—indeed debates— about important matters such as our favorite animal and why.  Her other favorite was of course giraffes—because they start with a G.  Not crying).

We concluded the session with some very moody, artsy shots of Grace in the water.  Then we retired to the cabin for wine and the very smoked beef that had held Penny’s attention hours (days?) earlier.  Gena left shortly after, and my 6 Luekens settled in for the night.  Grace played music selections from Chad and I’s senior years and I insisted that they play “Gracie Girl” by Ben Folds and “Slipping Through My Fingers” by ABBA because I couldn’t quite resist the opportunity to lean into my nostalgia and not cry one more time.  We ended the night with a family dance party (“Pump up the Jam” has become an undisputed favorite).

The school year is already racing by, and I continue to walk the fine line between the impossibly tender and the absurd.  Our days are full of nonsense and magic—inflatable larger than life flamingos and precious wildflowers, campfires and dead batteries, sunsets and rock throwing little brothers.  It’s just life—everyone’s life is silly and sentimental and ridiculous and wonderful.  It’s not a reason to cry.  You don’t need to cry because a big part of your heart will walk out the door with that girl next year at this time.  We didn’t get wild parsnip poisoning, we didn’t start the cabin on fire, no one broke anything jumping off of lifeguard chairs, and nobody cried.  All in all, senior pictures were a brilliant success.  I’m not crying.  You’re crying.  

Reason #9: Ugly pictures

I promise that my post about senior pictures (reason number 1) is just a few days away.  I have been waiting for final edits from the photographer, and posts  with a lot of pictures take me awhile because of my technical ineptitude.  In the meantime, I submit to you reason number 9 for not crying during your daughter’s senior year: ugly pictures.

Being the mom of many kids has a number of advantages, not the least of which is the fact that I have lots of opportunities to try things.  I get more practice than most, just in sheer repetition.  People who meet me through my younger children sometimes have the mistaken impression that I know what I’m doing.  The reality is, however, that I am both naturally clueless, and have a tendency to be a bit unobservant.  My mom used to call me the absentminded professor, or, like a book I read once (touché), I am “so focused on the sky that I am in danger of walking off cliffs.”  Couple that with the fact that I spent a full decade of my life not sleeping through the night (every baby I had took almost 2 years—or the birth of a younger sibling—to learn how to sleep more than four consecutive hours) and am usually running at mock speed between raising kids and working a day job, and it’s possible that I miss some critical clues to what is coming next in the life of my beloved oldest child.

In my defense, I knew we had senior pictures.  A lot of the rituals of the final year of high school have been vastly embellished or added since 1993, but this senior picture thing I saw coming and prepared for.  What I didn’t realize, however, was that parents, especially moms, are often invited (or invite themselves) into a shot or two.  You might think I would have noticed this at the formal dance gatherings at local places where moms seem to get all Gap or Abercrombied up to go take selfies with their high schoolers (not me—as recently as prom last year I wore crocs, sweatpants, and a shirt that said “I just want to drink wine and hug my dog” to the photo shoot. Because—clueless).  Anyway, we did Grace’s pictures at the lake, and lake time for me is characterized by two things—no make-up and infrequent showers.  So while Grace was primping and polishing, I sat on the deck with a  vodka tonic and my dear old friend who was taking the pictures.  It never occurred to me to change out of my lake uniform—old tank top, hiking shorts, and crocs—or to put on make-up or attempt to rescue my unwashed for approximately 3 days hair from it’s signature messy bun.

Imagine my surprise when, near the end of the shoot, my friend asked me to stand next to my gorgeous teenager for a shot or two.  I made a rule for myself regarding matters like this a long time ago—don’t be a party pooper. This request must have struck us as hilarious because first my friend took this photo of the two of us laughing together.  I love this one.  My girl has the goofiest, loudest, silliest laugh that I’ve loved her whole life.  She’s too cautious and serious to let it fly too often or in too many places.  But she’ll laugh like this with me, sometimes. Not crying.

Eventually, I smiled and put my arm around my beautiful girl with no intention, ever, of sharing the photos.  This is obvious because you can see I did not bother to relinquish my vodka tonic or to remove the powder compact from my pocket that looks unfortunately similar to a tin of chewing tobacco.  It’s probably not a big deal that I hadn’t put on any make-up for these couple photos because I obviously wouldn’t have cried it off during the photos before anyway.  

We got the photos back from my friend a few days ago, and Grace noted that the shots of her and I were missing.  “Where are the ones with you?” she asked.  Not crying.

“Why do you want those?” I asked.  “I didn’t even dress up or wear make-up or anything,” I said.

“I don’t care,” she said.  “What difference does that make?”  

What difference indeed.  Of course, this girl has seen me a million times without makeup.  She first laid eyes on me in a similarly unadorned state— my face puffy and exhausted and full of exhilaration and fear, my hair a frizzy disaster.  My face was unmade and my hair was messy all those middle of the night encounters when I nursed her, then helped her to the bathroom, then soothed her nightmares, then kissed her coming in from a late night with friends.  I never wear make-up at the lake—all those gorgeous long days under the summer sun.  I pull my hair up every day on my way home from work—by the time she sees me I’m always wearing a messy bun.  This is who I am to her—more often than the put together, made up, fashion conscious woman I sometimes think I want to be.  This is morning me and late night me and relaxed weekend me.  In actuality, I’ve never been much interested in the trappings of fashion or beauty, and even if I had been, I’ve been way too busy and consumed with the raising of Grace and her siblings to devote much time to such pursuits, even if they had been a priority for me.  I’ve often lamented the feeling that my kids don’t really even see me.  I’m just mom.  Hands that braid and cook, feet that rush in late to everything, voice that nags and says “I love you, be awesome” twenty times a day, eyes that never fill over her belovedness.  Documenting this moment—when she is brilliant and beautiful and I’m sloppy and a bit frazzled—is probably representative of our lives to this point.  Had I looked all put together and hair-sprayed in this wildflower meadow, I might have looked prettier, but I would have looked less like me.

Did Grace realize this?  Did she put it altogether in such a metaphoric way and wipe away a tear at the thought of missing my signature messy bun next year?  I can say with one hundred percent and absolute certainty that she did not.  But she noticed the photos with me were missing and asked for them.  She laughed with me in a wildflower meadow under a setting sun.  She pressed her precious cheek to mine for this magic moment now captured forever in a couple of pictures that, on second thought, maybe aren't quite as ugly as I first thought.  I’m not crying.  You’re crying. 

Reason # 8: Bulletin Boards

Reason number 8 for not crying during your daughter’s senior year of high school is bulletin boards.  Kids and teenagers love to hang bulletin boards and white boards in their rooms.  They love to post pictures of things that matter to them—their dogs, for instance, or their friends.  They also like to scrawl reminders to themselves “composition due Thursday!”, “remember gym clothes!”  They might also post photos of favorite vacations or mementos like programs or team pictures.  

My youngest son, Clay (8), recently hung his own bulletin after asking several times and waiting several days for his dad or I to take care of it for him.  Taking matters into his own hands (as is the tendency of all three of my youngest children as my concierge mom tendencies drifted away long before they had the chance to truly experience them), he matter-of-factly removed all items from the bulletin board I had hung in my laundry room office, found a hammer, and hung the board himself.  The boy is nothing if not self-sufficient.  Clay has been on quite the room decorating kick for the last several weeks.  He and his sister found a kids’ room makeover show on YouTube and he’s been scheming and dreaming about what theme he might pursue.  Toucans, perhaps?  Or football?  Or football playing toucans?  But what about cars?  (The boy has always adored race cars).  In a nod to this recent interest, we finally bought him his own dresser and nightstand (he had been using a 25 year old hand-me-down from his dad’s first grown-up furniture purchase circa 1996).  Clay has also broken a recent habit of sleeping on the floor beside my bed.  He’s been there for about the last year, having watched something scary on YouTube (YouTube and Chad and I are co-partners in parenting), but thanks to some furniture and a bulletin board, he is now brave enough to sleep upstairs alone again.

My old rocking chair is also part of Clay’s current room decor.  He still likes me to sit there each evening while he falls asleep.  It’s a peaceful time when I read and sometimes (ok, most times) drink wine and watch my baby boy drift into dreamland.  I never let my thoughts slip into memories of nursing the same sweet baby in that same chair, because I’m not a sentimental mom who tends to cry over such things.  And also, this blog series isn’t about my baby boy, it’s about my great big almost-grown-up girl.  So back to the bulletin board.

The other night, when I finally made my way to my littlest’s room with my book and my wine in hand, I noticed that he had hung photos on his bulletin board.  I walked over to examine it more closely and immediately proceeded not to cry.  There was, of course, a picture of the dog, and a triumphant photo we snapped of him high up in the South Dakota Badlands last summer.  There were hand drawn sketches he had done of a dabbing rabbit and a toucan, and a postcard he received from his aunt and cousins in Texas.  What made me not cry, however, were the two items he placed in honor of his beloved oldest sister.  He had her beautiful school volleyball picture in the top left corner—clearly the first thing he hung, clearly a testament to his adoration of this beloved second mom.  Not crying.  And there was an index card drawing I knew Grace had done one summer (or winter?  I can’t remember exactly) afternoon when she was babysitting the kids while I was at work.  I will always cherish memories of walking into the kitchen after a long day to find the three of them—the two youngest and Grace—huddled together over some project at the table.  They all have these index card creations somewhere.  (Grace has one of my favorites taped to her bedroom mirror—“don’t be a pine in the apple”—next to a drawing of a smiling pineapple.  She also has one in a cheap drugstore frame that Clay made for her that long ago day).  I have one hung up in my office.  Mine says “Stay cool! Love, Grace” next to a striped, smiling popsicle.  Not crying.

My littles adore Grace.  She isn’t always the snuggly, advice wielding big sister of the memory I just described.  More often she is brusque and irritated—ordering them out of her room or rushing out the door with barely a glance in their direction.  But she is often loving and lively—a fun alternative to the mom who always seems worried about emptying the dishwasher and finishing homework.  Grace has been my right hand for most of her life, especially when it comes to caring for and entertaining the littles.  When all my kids were babies, my mom used to say, “There is nothing like a mom—except for a grandma!”  “Or a Grace,” I would insist.  Because my babies always loved their big sister, and she tirelessly cared for them when I couldn’t. “Every mom should have a Grace,” I used to say, when she saved and supported me yet again when the demands of my large brood overwhelmed me.  (Don’t misunderstand—Chad is a brilliant and helpful husband and dad—but he works a lot, and he has his hands full with the maintenance and care of two homes.  Most times the childcare efforts fall more heavily on me, and I regularly have to lean on smart and steady Grace to get through my days).  I started letting her babysit alone at eleven, because she had spent most of her life protecting and loving and tending to her little siblings.  All my kids rejoice when Grace is tapped to drive their carpool.  In return they worship and depend on her.  How will we ever get by next year?  Not crying.

I noticed this note on the white board in Grace’s room the same night I saw Clay’s bulletin board.  Under a couple of reminders in Grace’s own hand were giant messages in Lucy’s handwriting, “Grace is Awesome!” and “I’m going to miss you!”  Not crying.

Don’t get me wrong.  We have never been a super sweet and tender family.  In contrast to the evidence to the contrary above, I vividly recall another drawing taped to Grace’s door one afternoon that said something along the lines of “Grace is a poopy head” next to a drawing of a steaming pile of excrement, viciously crayoned dark brown. We are generally afraid to leave our windows open on nice days because of how much yelling and bickering goes on between us.  Seriously, what must the neighbors think?  Grace is not often a part of this, more because she is gone so much then because she is immune to our tendency to argue about everything (mostly housework and who borrowed/used/lost/ruined/ate someone else’s stuff).  But under all that noise and surface-level strife, burns a family love so fierce and vital that none of us quite know how we can possibly transition in a few months from a family of 7 under one roof, to one less.  Grace is at the heart of that love—beloved firstborn—who transformed Chad and I from ordinary people to extraordinary parents (because we made her!), and biggest sister—for whom the rest have never known a life without.  But bulletin boards are just cheap wall hangings, not a reason to get all sentimental.  Old drawings are just diversions leftover from a long ago rainy day.  I’m not crying, you’re crying.

Reason #7: Sleeping teenagers

Reason number 7 for not crying during your daughter's senior year of high school is sleeping teenagers. Teenagers love to sleep.  They are seriously Olympic athletes at sleeping.  They can sleep for hours.  For days.  To cry over the presence of sleeping teenagers would be absurd.  And time consuming.

This is a photo I had my daughter snap (when she rolled over and opened her eyes briefly) while we were driving to a volleyball tournament a few weekends ago.  I had obviously not awoken her by stroking her sweet, sleepy cheek and not tearing up about her belovedness.  

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I asked her to take the picture because I was also, obviously, not crying over the darling, innocent faces of her sleeping friends.

The blondie with her head down on the right has been Grace's best friend since kindergarten.  She was the fourth child we invited over to our house that tough year, when my quiet girl was struggling to make friends and I was desperate to help.   She was the only child in that string of playdates around whom Gracie acted like herself.  With all the others she vigorously played the part of someone else and it hurt my heart to watch.  With this one, though, she was her own silly, imaginative, quietly adventurous self.  Today, Grace is the most herself running out for Chinese food or midnight milkshakes, or snuggling in for a movie night, or trying on prom dresses with this girl.  This girl is grown and beautiful, now, just like my daughter.  Not crying.  I'm not crying over the mornings I awoke to hear them giggling over cartoons or the more recent late nights when I wake to hear them giggling over Snapchat.

The other two girls she met in high school, and they've grown quite dear to me as well.  These are her teammates and classmates and touchstones, and I love them for her sake and for their own.  No one told me how much one falls in love with the friends of your children.  How you watch them grow and mature and spread their wings over time.  No one told me it would hurt to think of losing them to college and the future, too, just as you're contemplating sending your own child off into the great unknown alone.  You're losing them, too, and are significantly less likely to see much of them  as the future unfolds.  This fact doesn't, for example, make one cry.

I'm also not crying over my younger daughters, snuggled together in the corner of the back seat.  I'm not crying over the speed with which it will be them heading off to these varsity tournaments and then into their own lives.  I'm not crying that they gave up their entire Saturday to spend with the big sister who will barely acknowledge them all day because they, too, sense that our time with their beloved big sister under our roof is getting short.  It doesn't make one cry.  It's just sleeping teenagers.  They're always sleeping.

I'm not crying.  You're crying.

Reason #6: Pink Dresses

The sixth reason I am not crying during Grace’s senior year is pink dresses.  I am not crying because when this girl was 3 years old she absolutely refused to wear any color but pink for an entire year.  And when I say only pink, I mean only pink.  Not pink flowers.  Not pink shirt with blue jeans.  I mean ONLY PINK.  Pink flowers on a pink background with pink stems and pink centers.  Pink jeans.  Pink ribbons.  Pink feathers.  Pink lace and pink velvet.  ONLY pink.  In those early years of parenting just a few littles, I used to lay out their clothes every night before daycare.  I went to work early—before they woke up—and it was just easier for Chad to have everything at his fingertips for that fraught hour between wake ups and drop offs.  One morning I laid out a sweet little sparkly blue ladybug sweatsuit (purchased by a grandma—I knew better).  Around 7:15 that morning I got a phone call from Chad.  In a tone he might have used to warn me of an impending natural disaster or tell me that he’d been stabbed by a serial killer and might not make it through the phone call he insisted in an apocalyptic voice, “NEVER.  EVER.  Layout blue clothes for that girl again.  EVER.”  

Everyone who attended her third birthday party was required to wear pink.  Even the boys.  If I were the kind of organized mom who had tidy scrapbooks tucked away somewhere, I’d show you a picture, but you will have to take my word for it.  Her favorite book back then was Pinkalicious (still one of my all time faves).

In the intervening years, her passion for pink abated quite a bit.  But, for her last ever high school homecoming, she chose a pink dress.  Not crying.

She actually bought this dress last year.  Because she is 5 foot 10 and has a body fat percentage in the single digits, she is able to buy most of her dresses at online discount stores where the dresses cost less than a couple of coffee dates and arrive tucked into padded envelopes covered in Chinese writing.  We’ve never been the kind of mom and daughter who delight in shopping together—neither of us have much patience or passion for such a thing.  It suits us both for her to order a few non-returnable dresses online and make one work (with a figure like hers, they always work).  About a week ago I asked Grace if she needed me to take her shopping as I realized the dance was coming quickly and one drawback to overseas online dress shopping is that overnight shipping can get a bit spotty.  

“Nah,” she said casually.  “I’ll just wear the pink one.”  Not crying.

I’m also not crying that pink appeared to be a hot color this year.  Last year, I can’t recall anyone wearing this shade, but this year it just so happened that two of her closest elementary school friends also wore pink.  These two girls happen to be the ones I’ve watched grow up the most closely.  These girls have spent countless hours at my house.   In my head these spectacular seniors are raucous little girls, seat belted into my backseat while belting out Hannah Montana tunes and giggling over fart jokes.  They are not stunning young ladies who all look like supermodels (what’s up with that?) in whom the brightest of futures is already written in their beautiful, shining eyes. The fact that the three of them all chose to wear Grace’s onetime signature color is not a reason for crying, so I didn’t.  

You’ll also note that Grace was wearing Birkenstock’s with her dress for the obligatory front step photo.  I am the kind of mom who is considerably more concerned with her athletic performance than her fashion prowess, so this nod to her recent ankle injury made me very pleased indeed.  She eventually changed into heels, but because she (and her younger brother) were so annoyed by my presence and interest in their evening, I opted not to attend the spectacle of the picture taking at a local convention center.  (Don’t ask me why—I just wasn’t feeling it.  I was able to lift these beauties from Facebook and my kids' phones for which I am exactly 0% sorry).  I don’t know if it is the fact that she is my oldest, or the fact that all high school seniors grow to a place where they want as much distance as possible from their parents, but Grace finds me quite embarrassing at events such as this, and she keeps her distance from Me.  Not crying.

When I was in high school, my volleyball coach deliberately took the team to an out of town tournament on the day of the Homecoming Dance every year.  His explanation was this, “Homecoming has nothing to do with you.  It is all about football, and you are more successful and work as hard as the football team does.  We are not going to shape our schedule around an event that refuses to recognize your abilities and accomplishments.”  So homecoming to me was about trying to put on makeup in a minivan and change as fast as I could in order to not be too late to the dance.  (Luckily, Grace’s coach is a bit more accommodating).   Also, in my day, people rarely went without a date.  Because I was not particularly popular with the boys, I didn’t go to many homecoming dances.  It is so much smarter now, when the kids go with their friends and their boyfriends (if they have them) and their girlfriends (if they have them) and their frenemies (if they have them) and have a joyful time altogether, but I can’t relate and so it doesn’t resonate deeply for me. Perhaps that is why this event felt less sentimental to me than some of the others.  And yet.  The fact that Grace chose a pink dress still tugged at my mama heart just a little.  But I’m not crying.  You’re crying.