Unemployed Taxi Driver

It’s the end of an era.

I’ve been relieved of my duties.

I no longer have to live out of my car. The goldfish crumbs have been vacuumed out. No more finger-print-smiley-faces on the back windows. I no longer referee the continuous fight over “my turn” in the front seat. While there was never a meter, the miles I tick off are solo ones and my playlist blasts the speakers as I sing alone. The bones of my schedule are no longer kept by plans & whims of minors.

I’m free. (Violently sobs)

Yes, I know. You might want to remind me I’ve been dreaming of this day. The day I get to come straight home after work or go meet my friends for dinner without juggling carpool duties.

When my plans get top billing in my calendar, rather than fitting them in on an off day from my taxi responsibilities.

What I didn’t process or devote thought to was this all too familiar feeling of detachment. Oh yes, I recognize it…my first exposure was on the first day of preschool when my babies went running off into a stranger’s classroom with smiles on their faces while the office staff offered me tissues. I’ve also felt this feeling when I handed two sleeping bags to a very kind Girl Scout leader who assured me she would take care of these girls like her own (doubt it echoed in my mind even though she was as sweet and capable as can be). And again this hallowed gut took me for a ride the morning my girls stepped onto a bus to head to the far away land of Chicago for 3 days without me.

This is not new territory! Except now they are driving with the rest of the unconscious lunatics on the road without my voice reminding them to “BREAK”.

The conflict of this new land of equal parts terror and liberation is crippling. I’ve always enjoyed my alone time, however alone time usually occurred when my daughters were safely tucked away somewhere rather than rolling down the highway.

I haven’t even addressed the worst part. It has recently come to my attention that these children I’ve been driving around all over the city & country will be living an entire life all on their own in less than 2 years.

How the *%#k is that possible?!

Why did no one prepare me for this?

From the time you tell someone you are pregnant, the free, unsolicited advice faucet begins to flow with no shut-off valve. People were so focused on:

“you’ll never sleep again”

“breast-fed or bottle”

“co-sleeping or not”

“better find a good school”

“year-around sports or tutors”

Everyone forgot to mention “by the way, these babies who need you for everything are just on loan, they aren’t even really yours, they belong to themselves, so don’t get too attached because they will drive away from you one day and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Well too damn late!

A dear friend of mine recently told me she remembers who I was before being a mother better than I do. I could not argue. I’ve spent the last 16 and half years with the hat of motherhood on a majority of the time. This is not a martyr moment, just one of awareness and pride. Being a mom is my greatest accomplishment. I am proud of how hard I “mom” and how I manage this role. The work & dedication required to be the mom I wanted to be is my accomplishment. I did that. I set the table for them to be who they are. And I am so very proud of that. Who my daughters are, are not the accomplishment. That is their accomplishment, not mine.

I am starting to remember who I was too. I remember I am a woman who enjoys her own company. I am a reader. A writer. An advocate. I love going to the movies and being outdoors. I am a wife who enjoys hanging with her husband. I am a good friend to have who loves being around the ones I love. I have a lot of hats that have been waiting for me to put back on or to try on for the first time. I remember I have a lot left to accomplish all on my own.

So I find myself at yet another transition. I am an unemployed taxi driver. I have a set of skills and a service that is no longer employable. When we are faced with change, we have a choice on how to manage:

  1. Fight it. Wish for what used to be. Shutdown.
  2. Accept it. Find gratitude for the process and experiences you were privileged to have. Open your mind to the new possibilities.

After the shock of being fired from my driving responsibilities has worn off, I’ve found new ways to spend my time. I’ve found new ways to connect with daughters since windshield time is few and far between. I continue to stalk Life360, but not as much as I did week one of living with 2 new drivers.

As I look toward the next 2 years and wonder how in the world I am going to handle when these girls drive away to a new home where I do not live, I am reminded of what my friend told me about stages in parenting. She said that I am not ready for this, because it is not time yet. She gave me the gift of patience when anxiety tries to take control. When we aren’t ready for something, it usually means it’s not time yet. And…if it IS time, trust yourself because you are ready for it.

I take a deep breath and practice mindfulness today because tonight they will sleep under the same roof as me and we get many more moments together before any of us are ready for that transition. Maybe now that I’ve experienced this loss, I can let myself collect the experiences and time necessary for my next job loss and embrace the possibilities that may bring too.

Imposture Syndrome

“Who do you think you are?”

“You are not smart enough.”

“Stay in your lane.”

“You are not good enough.”

“No you cannot.”

“You are NOT a writer.”

An actual recreation of the dialogue in my head during a battle of the dreaded imposture syndrome.

            As a therapist, many may think I am immune to some struggles. Maybe you think since I “know better” I do not wrestle with the questioning voice in my head as the rest of the human race. I am here today to bust that myth. I too suffer from imposture syndrome.

            If you are unfamiliar with this expression, let me give you a lesson because I bet your lack of experience with the phrase is less about not suffering from the symptoms and more about not having a term to describe it.

Imposture syndrome begins with a whisper of doubt. Many times this symptom presents itself when one is trying something new or going out on a limb with an innovative idea. The whisper may be easy to shake off at first, however the slightest acknowledgement provides the necessary energy for the whisper of doubt to grow into declarations of uncertainty. Before you know it, one can then find themselves engaged with an internal battle of constant destructive and discouraging narratives that gain enough momentum to have the power to shut down the novel innovation so that the individual remains stuck in their safe comfort zone of the same.

Strike a nerve yet?

I began writing my novel ten years ago. I wrote it because I love to write and I had a story to share. As recent as October 2024, when my novel was published on Amazon, I still struggled to claim the identity of being a writer. I continue to fight imposture syndrome.

I am a therapist (I have no problem letting that roll of my tongue or allowing my fingers to type). I have a degree in social work. I hold a license to practice therapy with multiple states. I have held jobs with title of “therapist”. Therapist is not a self-proclamation. The fact still remains, I am a therapist because I practice therapy. However, it has taken me years to accept that I am also a writer simply because I write.

When I worked nights in the emergency psychiatric unit at University Hospital, I would use downtime to work on my novel. I actually took that job so I would have more time to juggle being a mother, a wife and a social worker so I could write. I remember when one of the nurses, who happens to be the very first person to finish the very first version of my novel and remains a good friend to me today, caught me writing one night when our census was low. She asked what I was working on and I stuttered all over myself trying to come up with a feasible answer other than “I am writing a book.”

Once I professed this secret, there were no imposture police ready at the helm to call me out and no buzzer sounding off alerting everyone that I was not a “real” writer. My friend appeared genuinely excited to learn this about me and wanted to read what I had written. When I was vulnerable, the imposture syndrome symptoms were kept at bay.

Imposture Syndrome is rooted in fear. That fear can stem from fear of judgement from others to fear of failure. Unfortunately, we are all guilty of acting out of fear and the results rarely work out as we intended. Fear is no place to function from.

So what do we do? How do we begin to recover from this sinister syndrome? What is our weapon against this infectious self-doubt?

Radical self-acceptance.

That’s it.

A simple but not easy practice of fully accepting who you are in this moment. The willingness to be vulnerable and the practice of acceptance is the remedy for imposture syndrome.

Acceptance is not reserved for only the good stuff. Acceptance also allows us to acknowledge the flawed parts of us along with the shiny parts we are proud of. We are not required to like something or someone to accept them in their true form. This rule also reigns true for ourselves. 

The act of being vulnerable allows us to show up as our rawest selves. No filters. No explanations. We are fully present and fully us. Though, this does not protect us from criticism or struggle to claim who we are. This does not guarantee we will be fully accepted by anyone other than us. Vulnerability does not require validation from anyone else. (That doesn’t mean it isn’t nice to receive though).

There is no absolute cure for all the symptoms of imposture syndrome. Some may lie dormant for years, but given the right circumstances they can kick into high gear and return to wreak havoc on your thoughts. The maintenance plan of acceptance and vulnerability are the best defense to keeping your thoughts free from doubting yourself. Let’s all take a look at chatter going on in our minds and the words we use especially about ourselves.

I am who I am because I say I am (period).

The Switch Has Flipped

I’ve been robbed!

I’m under attack!

I’m taking on water!

My walls have been breached!

The world I carefully constructed for my babies has been destroyed.

My precious cherubs have moved outside my reach. They were in public without parental supervision (pause for dramatic effect).

Go ahead & roll your eyes, teenage parents. Tell me “welcome to the club”.

I do not want to be in your club. Your club is scary AF.

Yes they are equipped with cell phones.

Yes they are VERY aware of stranger danger (I’m a social worker for the love of all that is holy).

Yes I trust them-it’s the rest of this jacked-up world I struggle to trust with my most prized possessions.

(And yes they are mine!)

I grew these humans inside my body. Mother Nature said “hey lady, here are two humans. Keep them safe from everything & teach them how to be decent. Okay, cool? love ya, good luck!”

Okay, Mother Nature…WTAF?!?

Before motherhood, the world was all mine-wide open and ready for me to explore.

I knew the dangers.

I knew the costs.

And I ran and pushed the boundaries as long and far as I could without suffering too many consequences.

I stepped over the line and got my hand smacked a few times.

I said “why not” and later found out the answer.

I did things that would have made my mom clutch her pearls and gasp (hope she skipped this post).

I have a few good stories and scars to prove it. And yes-I lived to tell the tale.

Then Mother Nature gave me these babies…my world shrunk into a circle big enough for my huge pregnant body and I was the omnipotent ruler.

Everything I did directly impacted my girls.

(*side note these babies were after I lost two, so trauma and grief has a major role to play here.)

When they came into this world, my circle was forced open just enough…like when you park too close to car next to you and you hold your breath to squeeze out of your car-just enough.

I controlled what they ate. When they ate. What they wore. Where they went.

I even manipulated their first steps (can’t have one twin out do the other before the age of 1).

I was terrified to do the “wrong thing.”

I remember in the hospital someone told me, “they will never be as safe as they were inside of you.”

I cocked my head with complete panic and rage…seriously?!? You tell me this now!

This illustration is to show for 12.5 years we lived in the same world. Sure I traveled to different places from time to time. Whether it was work, out with my girlfriend or even a vacation with my husband (aka their father) I expanded my world to meet my needs from time to time. I preserved my sanity.

However, now is different.

These babies want to expand their world.

They have friends.

They have places they want to go without me.

They do not require me tucking them in to go to sleep.

They have inside jokes I don’t get.

And they even get embarrassed by my singing in the car.

I am not okay!!

These girls are growing up.

They are running far and pushing hard against boundaries at every turn.

They don’t subscribe to what society tells them to wear.

They don’t make themselves small and accept what is given to them – they take what they want and make things happen.

They ask questions and make up their own rules – sometimes even making the consequences worth it.

So I will be over grieving the knowledge that my babies are no longer babies. That is my right and that is okay.

I earned the right to miss the smell of their sweet heads, the sound of their precious laughter and their tight hugs gripping my soul. That is what no one told me.

About the light switch from babies to badasses.

Watching this instant shift and hearing the lessons I’ve preached roll off their tongues is exciting. It takes just a twinge of the sting away because I realize they are setting the boundaries in their new world and I’m just lucky enough to help.

So send me your sympathy or laugh and shake your head at me. Either way, I’m swimming in the deep end of my new world so allow me some grace while I figure out how to float.

I’m sure you can remember what this push and pull feels like and if not, let me be the first to warn you – You will be filled with terrifying pride.

It is a strange combination.

This is the part no one prepared me for. Watching these girls jump out of the world I created for them and building their own. I’m not okay…but I will be and so will they.

Haunted by Approval

Next week, I will turn 42 (the good Lord willing)!

This is the age my father was when he died. To act as if that has not been weighing on me would be inauthentic.

I love my birthday. I really LOVE my birthday. It may be due to the fact I was born in the armpit of winter and celebrating my birthday gives me something to look forward to. Or, maybe I am a self-centered, egotistical asshole. Either way, I celebrate all month long and I have no intention of stopping.

Turning 42 has haunted me from the day my dad died. I wanted to achieve so much with my life – do so many things that he would never have the chance to do. My unwritten, unrealistic expectation was to turn 42 with the knowledge that my dad was proud of me. The problem with this plan – it’s impossible!

I would never get that validation, because he would not be here to witness my life.

So instead, I sought out approval from every other corner of my life. From grades, to sports, to career choices, outside validation became the measuring stick of my worth.

Am I good enough? Says who…always you, never me.

My desires, my reasons were never enough.

I required the co-signing of other people’s opinions.

I spent so much time worrying about what everyone thought of everything I did, I forgot that the first person I need to be accountable to and approve of is ME!

If you disagreed with how I did things, my first inclination was to question myself. I couldn’t possibly be right, if someone questioned me.

I feel so much empathy for that girl, today.

So rigid. Functioning out of fear. And judging herself constantly.

The girl who never felt secure – in her thoughts, her actions, her dreams and even her own skin. I didn’t want to be liked as much as I wanted to be right, validated for being me.

Along with my birthday celebration, February also brings the anniversary of my dad’s death. I remember every detail of that morning, to my mother’s voice telling me he’s gone to the emptiness that filled our home with the absence of his presence. I remember feeling helpless and a strong desire to do something, anything that made sense because the realization that my father, the strongest person I knew, was not coming home was inconceivable. Not only my brain, but my soul refused to accept it.

I did not want to be a cautionary tale, a girl with daddy issues who sought comfort in all the wrong ways. I channeled my fear into action and the race to perfection began. It was a game of whack-a-mole.

School struggles?? Nope-fixed it!

Typical teenage antics?? Not me!

Grieving correctly?? Sure am!

“Nothing to see here! I’m fine.”

So at the ripe ole age of 14, I set the expectation of perfection. All the while, managing overwhelming grief from the loss of my parent and not processing this with anyone.

The real achievement is that I am alive to tell this tale.

And my career choice…helping people, of course. Because what better way to hide from my troubles than to dive head-first into someone else’s?

For the next 25 years, I spent my life chasing approval from a ghost, setting a bar of achievement to an unreachable level and berating myself along the way for not being what I was “supposed” to be. I did not do this without many failures and much self-inflicted pain.

The theme of not feeling “good enough” has been heavy on my mind recently.

The pressures from work. The failures at home. The lack of peace of mind. These are common struggles I hear during therapy sessions as well as in my own thoughts.

We all are hurting.

We all have failures.

We all need more peace.

Right before COVID hit, I promised myself I would not have a ‘mid-life’ crisis when I turned 40. I would cross that threshold with grace and embrace aging.

Though it may have looked more like a brace-for-landing situation rather than a graceful entrance into my forties, here I am nonetheless.

What I did have was an awakening.

I realized what I had been doing to myself my entire adult life. I looked around and saw no one was keeping score, but me.

No one (that mattered) judged me for my pain or my faults.

I was my own worst enemy standing right in my way.

With no plan, other than change I promised myself I would learn to love and be proud of me. That became my guiding manta – I would trust myself above all else.

Since that birthday, I have made huge strides in that change.

I am more comfortable in my own skin, but there are days I still cover up and fight that shaming voice.

I am confident in my accomplishments, but there are moments I suffer from imposture syndrome.

I find purpose and peace in my day, but I fight storm of chaos to gain perspective.

What I’ve learned is, struggling does not define my life, I do. I write this narrative. I validate my experience.

I have hard days. I cry often because it heals me. I soak in my bathtub to let go of the day. I talk to my therapist to unpack my baggage. I still have hard days, the difference is I don’t live there all the time.

This is not a how-to-post. I do not know a secret. I have not found an “answer”, I found options. When letting go of expectations, some of my rigid ways went also. The more I let go of, the more my mind opened up to opportunities for a more peaceful existence. I blew up the walls that confined the narrow path I traveled for so long, to uncover unlimited choices for where I want to go next. Empathy and intentionality became more comfortable to me. I started to give myself grace and felt lighter. Grace and options are a beautiful combo.

I have rough times, not a rough life. I define my own narrative. Change promises change. My job is to navigate my journey and be accountable to myself.

My life is beautiful chaos, simply because I say so.

So 42, I am ready for you! I embrace this birthday full of gratitude and a ton of grace to give myself as I mess-up, succeed and enjoy all the moments (even the ugly ones because that is part of my story). I miss my dad all the time. There are still moments I pause to look for his nod of approval. However, I no longer chase that impossible expectation. I am learning to be proud of myself, because I am enough.

I am not finished. More to come.

When Today is Tough

Within a tick of the clock, this became a day of dread instead of celebration in my family.

A day to remind me of my father-less status. A day to miss him even more than the rest of the 364 days on the calendar.

A day to miss all the times I never got with a man I thought would live forever.

It’s a devastatingly lonely place to be.

Father’s Day became a day of celebration minus the man of honor. It was status quo for my family, while everyone around us had a holiday.

Then I got tired of being sad and missing out on celebrating. I found some gratitude and decided to celebrate while we honored my dad even without him present.

We celebrated my mother, who had to be both mom and dad after he was gone. There are never enough days to celebrate her and her amazingness, so we started by adding Father’s Day to the list.

Then, we met my step-father who deserves our celebration and gratitude for his wonderful part in our family. A man who honors the void that was left in our hearts, never trying to fill it.

Eventually, I got to celebrate the father of my daughters who gives selflessly to our family and loves us with all that he is. I found a new level of gratitude for a man I share my life with and raise children with.

Father’s Day, for me, has changed a lot over the years. It still holds a void in my heart. There is a section of cards at Target which I do not get to shop from anymore. However, I always have something to be grateful for and someone to celebrate with. On Father’s Day, I honor the man I lost and I celebrate with people who make my life better.

You never know what someone is struggling with, so always start with kindness. If today is a struggle for you, know you are not alone. I understand and I honor your story.

The Default Parent

When in doubt ask mom. If you are lucky enough to have a mother in your life, she is most likely the person you ask for when shit hits the fan. She kisses boo-boos away, gives money away, calls the principal to explain your latest shenanigans and to rip someone’s ass when you have been wronged. She makes sure you have dinner, clean socks, signed permission slips, and your favorite color of chewable vitamins. Moms are the one. Good or bad, but the one who you get to answer to and who answers for you. The default parent available on-call for all levels of emergencies or for random questions and glasses of water at bedtime.

Where I come from in the Commonwealth of Kentucky, the family court system also views mothers as the default. Family court cases are listed by the name of the biological mother, whether she is alive, deceased, present, involved, incarcerated or not. If a child has been found to be abused or neglected, the court case is listed under the name of the child’s mother. The default parent again.

Granted, I wear my motherhood as a badge of honor, as my Queen of Chaos crown sits crooked on my messy unwashed hair. I am proud of how much ass I kick as a mom. I enjoy sharing war stories and battle scars from the frontlines of parenting while keeping these little people alive and decent human beings. I love the snuggles and laughter that go along with being the one they come to first. What comes along with being the mom.

You know what else I enjoy? Time by myself! I would love to go to the bathroom without hearing one of my many names called or being joined by my entire family including the dog. I would love if I didn’t have to set reminders for snack day, crazy hair day, picture day and write-a-check-for-something-else-day. It would be amazing if for one day I wasn’t the first call for “room mom” volunteers or to pick-up a puking kid. And my all-time favorite text to receive, “what’s the plan for dinner?”

WHO THE HELL KNOWS WHATS FOR DINNER I DIDN’T EVEN EAT LUNCH!

I am the go-to. The first line of defense. The cook. The nursemaid. The scheduler. The knower of all things. The default parent. And I am partially to blame.

At some point early on in my journey of motherhood, I got in the way of my husband being a parent. “I got this” was easier then letting him do things his way, instead of mine. When school days began, I listed my name first. When it was time to volunteer for activities, I raised my hand without asking if he wanted to raise his. I slowly kept hopping on the default button until our roles were dug in and defined.

Funny thing is, when I finally figured out how to get out of his way, he didn’t kill the kids. He sure didn’t do it my way, but his way wasn’t life-altering. He is quite capable of picking up children from school and delivering them to scheduled locations. He can figure out how to get them fed and can even run a sleepover in emergency situations. However, he isn’t able to do this with me in the way directing all the traffic.

We are constantly shown images of a “family” with women, mothers as the first point of contact. Commercials are directed at us for everything from laundry detergent to quick and easy meals to feed the whole family. Reinforcing the idea that feeding and clothing the family is solely our responsibility. For some families that is the truth. I had the privilege of being raised by a single mother for part of my childhood. She was the default parent by no fault of her own.  

There are plenty of families with no woman present at all. Maybe it’s dad, grandfather or uncle carrying the load and require no help from mom. If this is your circumstance, this is not a statement toward you. You are the exception to the rule and you are amazing. I wonder though, if your child is lost or alone the first question inevitably asked, “where’s your mom?” Even if she doesn’t exist, they default to mom.

We play a role in defaulting to mom. You may not raise your hand in agreement, but I bet you passively co-sign to the belief. For the most part, mothers just do. Someone is hungry. We feed them. Someone is sick. Take them to the doctor. Someone needs their butt wiped. Bend over. I am unaware of Daddy’s-Day-Out Programs. It’s Mother’s-Day-Out because that is who needs a few minutes of peace to gather their sanity. Mothers take care of business twenty-four hours a day. We don’t wait for someone else to step up. We are elbow deep in shit before the back-up arrives.

I have a great partner. Not a perfect one (he still asks me the plan for dinner), but a pretty amazing one and it’s still not 50/50. It will never be and that’s okay. I am learning to get out of his way. I am learning to find peace with my default status and to defer to the other responsible adult (aka: Dad) when I need to.

My red flag alert system signals me when I feel like Bitter Betty and thoughts of me carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders are on repeat in my head. I’m working on the trigger to kick in and get me to step back far enough to let someone else step up. I’m working on removing the Crown of Chaos and passing it off.

The expectations we hold ourselves to are unrealistic. If we keep measuring against them, we plant a garden for resentments to flourish. It’s one thing if dad refuses to step in and partner up (that’s an entirely different post). It’s quite another if I refuses to let him because I want it my way. The good news is I am the default parent – I am the one they go to first. The good news also is, I have a choice to defer and for that I am grateful.

Photo Credit: Photography by Angela Gross

Ruby Dives In

Sitting upright with my legs crossed, attempting to watch the next episode of Grey’s Anatomy Season 2, which I have seen 15,000 times, because I can’t focus on any new information right now. This may be my favorite season because they are all so young. Meredith and McDreamy are still flirty and new. There lives are not laid out in front of them. They may be cardio gods, or neuro geniuses or pedis heroes, the opportunities are endless. They are only responsible for themselves and only answer to the “Nazi” (AKA Dr. Bailey). They get to walk around and say “seriously” all the time without anyone blinking an eye.

Well, I am no brain surgeon, though I’m sure I could play one of TV. This parenting gig, has me up all hours of the day and night, I’m in pajamas which could double as scrubs, walking around screaming “seriously” constantly and I may turn into Dr. Bailey by the time I get my hands on my first born. In the most uncomfortable chair in our home, I watch season 2 episode 17, which has the infamous “code black”, and I think to myself, this is the only excuse she has right now. There must be a bomb in a body cavity at the hospital she was brought to tonight because she was attacked by a pack of werewolves or vampires and she is cannot use her phone or any phone in sight to call me because the bomb squad forbid it. That must be the explanation.

While Izzy and Cristina wash the blood off Meredith after the bomb explodes in bomb-squad-guys hands, I decide now is the time to begin to call hospitals. I hit my home button to request Siri’s assistance with searching phone numbers, when there is a thump at the front door. I hop to my feet like I am ready to receive a trauma case coming in and I think to myself, oh good she is alive, now I can kill her myself. The front door falls open to reveal my baby girl stumbling around like a stampede of buffalo, believing she is scurrying like a tiny undetected mouse. She is drunk. Paging Dr. Bailey!

“Miranda. Rae. Errore.” I spit out each syllable of her given name.

She freezes. I watch her mind turn as the internal debate ensues. She can’t decide if she should begin spilling the ridiculous explanation she concocted to fight with me or retreat to her room and flee the situation. Though, it appears she is choosing door number three while she remains frozen in this moment waiting for further action from me.

I too am still. Inside I feel this red rage of emotions flowing through my veins. I have the urge to scream out, but I cannot find the words to express all the feelings running through my mind. I struggle to pinpoint where to begin my motherly assault. Do I commence with my anger at her lack of respect for me by rolling in at this hour? Or should I start by telling her how disappointed I am with her choices? I could list the possible outcomes of this evening ending with her on the operating table with Chief Webber calling her time of death.

However, I remain frozen. We look at each other, speechless. Then my mouth involuntarily moves and releases, “go to bed, Andi. We will talk in the morning.” Without a word she quietly withdraws to her room.

I fall onto the couch and lay my head in my hands. I softly release the emotional tidal wave that has ravaged through my body waiting until I laid my eyes on her again.

Yes, I am angry!

Yes, I am disappointed!

Yes, I am relieved. However, as the flood of emotions roll from my mind, fear is strongest of all. I am afraid of what I saw tonight. I was afraid of what could have happened to my child. I actually thought she could have been dead. That is unthinkable, but I invited the thought in like a vampire and let it attack my mind. The tears washed me clean of these infectious thoughts. Andi is home and she is alive. I can exhale.

I sit on the back porch and watch the sunrise. I thank the higher power I bargained with earlier this morning for delivering her home to me.

I ask that power for one more favor – the words to say to her. I hear the back door open behind me. I do not move. I stay wrapped in my blanket on the swing. She quietly approaches, head down, and sits next to me on the swing. I want to shake the shit out of her and squeeze her at the same time, but instead I offer her part of my blanket. I feel the space between us shrink and I take her hand the collapse the rest.

“Mom, I am so sorry.” Miranda almost whispers in my direction.

I hope that higher power starts speaking through me and I chose my words carefully. “What exactly are you sorry for, Andi?”

She turns my way and I see the shameful pain in her face. “All of it.”

I have a choice. I can just say okay and move on without diving into this sea of uncomfortableness leaving so much unspoken and closing the door on my daughter letting me in. Instead, I suit-up and take a running start. I dive in head-first.

“Andi, I was afraid. I couldn’t get you on the phone and I was so scared at what could have happened to you.” I am turned and looking at the side of her face. “And I am sorry too.” She looks up from the floor for the first time. “I should have done a better job of talking to you about this already, so we are going to do it now.”

Miranda nods her head with acceptance.

I tell her about my deepest, darkest fears of her being sexually assaulted, not because she asked for it or deserved it but because there are bad people in this world that I cannot protect her from. With tears falling down my face, I express the pain I had already imagined if she were killed in drunk driving accident. I decided to share with her stories of my mistakes as young girl who’s mother never said anything accept “do as I say not as I do.”

Miranda shares with me the stress of being seventeen. And a girl. And an honor roll student. And a swimmer. And the oldest of four. Her tears shared a story of the pressure she had bottled up and stuffed down so deep she thought a little alcohol couldn’t hurt in the fight to keep it all together. I watched her pour out her soul to me and I saw my baby girl image of Andi fade away and the young woman, Miranda take form. She was no longer a child who’s hand I could smack to stop her from touching the electric sockets. Right before my eyes, she had turned into a woman and my job had transformed into consultant instead of manager. That morning we talked. I didn’t preach (much). She didn’t roll her eyes (except twice).

We had a discussion and we both listened. Instead of holding on to the illusion of control with both hands on the reins, I loosened my grip and let go just a little and Miranda showed me how great of a mom I am. I (with the help of her dad) raised this miraculous female sitting in front of me. I am transitioning into a new roll with her, and I am going to try to show a little freaking grace as I do it.

We stand up and I squeeze this girl who stole my heart, seventeen years ago. The first person to call me “Mommy” and the first one who will send out into the world as an adult, theoretically.

“I love you more than you know, Miranda Rae.”

“I love you too, Momma.”

“But if you ever come in this house like that again I will beat the hell out of you like a grown woman. Got it?”

Ruby -vs- Elsa

Photo Credit Photography by Angela Gross

“I need some wipes over here, please!” I yell from the couch covered in explosive diarrhea. “I’m on the ladder hanging the banner.” Corey yells from stairs. “Where is Miranda?” I ask. “I thought she was with you?” He replies. I want to scream, but my newborn-poop-covered-angel has fallen asleep in a milk drunk stupor, so to avoid the cardinal sin of waking a sleeping baby, I slide off the couch and stretch as far as I can to get the wipes that lay just out of reach for me in a pile of toys on the floor. My middle finger, ironically enough, touches the wipes just as I hear a bang from Corey’s direction followed by a screech from the birthday girl. Before I can react, James’ eyes pop open and I watch him realize he is covered in crap as his sweet smile forms into a fully flipped lip with baby tears falling down his face. With two babies under two, Corey and I have developed a man-to-man defensive strategy. It’s more of a survival method because we haven’t scored yet. Epic failure is a daily occurrence. This morning we are simply trying to prepare for Miranda’s 2nd birthday party, while juggling the needs of a newborn. “I didn’t see her behind me climbing on the ladder. She’s like a tiny ninja.” Corey defends himself. Miranda sniffles the snot right out of her nose onto Corey’s Frozen-themed shirt that I ordered for the party. Miranda lifts her sweet head up to reveal a bloody lip with tear-soaked face. “Oh no, sweet girl!” But I can’t get to her because I am currently covered in James’ poop. And so it goes. Fast forward two hours with a house full of people. Children everywhere. Miranda in her Elsa dress casting icy spells on everyone she greets. James in his Sven onesie and antler headband asleep in whoever’s arms will hold him. Me in my Anna shirt and braided pigtails sweat pooling in all the wrong places. And Corey with his bloodstained Kristof shirt which makes him look like he had just buried a body. It is party time! My mother surveys the food laid out in the kitchen, “well, this is fun. Ruby, where’s the wine?” “It’s a two-year-old’s birthday, Mom, there is no wine.” Kate comes up behind me and pulls my braids, “Ain’t we cute! What are you supposed to be?” I turn and squeeze her. “Hey! How are you? I’ve misses you so much! And are you serious? I’m Anna.” Kate looks dumbfounded. “Anna. Elsa’s sister from Frozen.” I prompt. “I have no idea what is happening here. When I walk in the doorAndi is yelling at me to let something go, I’m not sure what. Your baby has antlers. Corey looks like he just left fight club and you are some kind of Swedish school girl? I’m so confused.” “It’s Frozen, Kate.” “What is? Margaritas?” “Don’t mention margaritas to me!” Claire warns as she waddles up six months pregnant. I hug Claire and place my hand on her bulging belly. “Beware Ruby. The belly has been off limits as of this week.” Claire’s husband, Marcus cautions from behind Claire. I slowly remove my hand and brace for her wrath. “You would do well to keep it moving, mister. I’m barely tolerating you at this point.” Claire spits out in Marcus’ direction. “Yes, Ma’am. Is Corey out back, Ruby? I think I’ll hide out there.” Marcus is threading on thin ice and retreats out the back door. “I can’t stand him.” Claire lets out a sigh of frustration. “I’m swollen, starving and can barely move around at this point and three months to go! I’m going to sit down. When are we doing cake?” I’m a little frightened of her at this point. Claire has always been the one not to mess with in our group, even intimidating many men who mistakenly got in her path. “We will do presents in a few minutes then cake. You want anything right now, Claire?” “Do you have pickles and applesauce? I can’t get away from that combo. And a bag of chips would be great.” Claire begins to waddle into the living room. “Sure thing, sweetie.” I yell behind her. “She is miserable. Just miserable. She makes it terrifying to even entertain the thought of being pregnant.” Kate shakes her head whispering as she watches Claire leave the room. “But you forget this part, Kate.” Annalise has arrived with her matching-outfit family of three. I try to hide my involuntary eye-roll and give Annalise’s one-year-old son, Hayden a hug before leaning over to Annalise also. “It’s been too long for us all to be together.” I keep making Claire’s plate to take to her in the living room. “Come on, I got to get this to Claire before she loses it.” The three of wade through the crowd into the living room to find Claire perched up on the couch with Miranda sitting with her. Claire appears happy chatting with my birthday girl and I smile as I approach with her snacks. Miranda is smiling and telling Claire all about Frozen when I hand Claire the plate of pickles with one of Miranda’s applesauce and a bag of BBQ chips. Miranda watches me hand her the plate and looks at me with betrayal in her eyes. “No Mommy!” she yells at me. “Andi, what’s the problem?” Claire asks and I realize Miranda is pissed I gave Claire HER applesauce. “Now Andi, we are going to share our applesauce with Claire. Her baby in her belly wants some too.” I offer in my best negotiator voice. “No Mommy! It’s mine!” Miranda snatches the applesauce with attention being drawn at this point. Since the arrival of her baby brother, Miranda has struggled with adjusting to sharing everything, especially me. James can’t eat her food yet, so she has been holding on to that as “hers”. And now Claire has infiltrated her territory and with another baby nonetheless. It’s been a long day and Miranda was at her breaking point. Apparently so is Claire. “Andi, that’s enough! Give that back to Claire right now!” I announce in full mom-voice. Then with full defiant toddler voice Miranda replies, “No! It’s mine!” Now the entire party is watching this interaction, and if anyone is keeping score it’s Elsa-1, Anna-0. I need to make a statement and flex my mom muscle. My mother is shaking her head full of judgement. Claire looks like she would eat my arm right now. Kate’s eyes are the size of snowballs, looking on in disbelief. Corey is nowhere to be found and I feel as though a spotlight is on me with the clock counting down to see if I can in fact crack the code and make this toddler do as I ask. If not, the floor may fall out from under me because I have epically failed at parenting and will be sent to the land of loser parents. What I want to do is scream YES right back at my two-year-old daughter and stomp my feet until she listens to me. However, I may earn a trip to the psychiatric hospital if I do, which is not looking like a terrible option at this stage of the game. I harness everything I have and call on all the angels within earshot to please let this miniature mutineer bend to my request and give me the damn applesauce. “Andi, it’s time to give me the applesauce right now.” I annunciate each syllable and speak in the most stern and steady voice I can muster up. Miranda assess the seriousness of my tone. The rest of the hostages, or party guests, wait to see her reaction. She knows she has an audience which could play in my favor, but it is unclear what she will do. Then her eyes meet mine and I recognize that defiant gaze. It’s like looking into a mirror. “FINE” she screams and hurdles the applesauce like a wild pitch and a collective gasp is released from the crowd. The applesauce lands in the middle of the Anna’s head on the Frozen cake (of course it did). Miranda immediately bursts into tears. Claire is quick to follow. My mother in typical fashion is of no help, “well, I’ve never seen such out of a two-year-old and on her birthday no doubt.” Corey, aka Johnny-Come-Lately comes running in, “what happen?” “You never disappoint, Ruby.” Kate snickers from behind me. I guess it depends on how you look at this scenario. Miranda did give-up the applesauce. She negotiated. The results weren’t as hoped but all in all I’ll take this as a tie. “Cake anyone?”