The First Year

You don’t have the ability to read (unless you’re not telling me something) but in a couple of years, my sweetheart, you will understand. You’ll know how much this day means to not only me but also to you. We’ve done something amazing, Daughter. We’ve survived the first year. You didn’t have any clue that you should have been frightened by the prospect of being mothered by me. I’ve never done this before. I know, I know–Mommy makes it look so easy.

The truth is that it is easy but it’s not because I am so amazing. It’s because you are. At one year old I am giving you permission to keep being just that. Don’t lose the special joy you share with me everyday. Don’t lose the light in your brilliant eyes, don’t let the shadows remove the heat of the sun from your face. You, my dear, are amazing. I’m telling you this now, at one, so that you’ll remember at 5, 13, 18, and beyond (when you really need to know it). You are amazing because you were born with God’s Grace and Love, and to be amazing and feel amazing requires only that. I’m giving you permission to be you. To grow your teeth slowly, and walk when you feel confident enough to walk. Don’t listen to the judgments. You’re not in competition with anyone except for you. I’m allowing you to let your hair grow at it’s own pace, suck your thumb if you like. Be exactly who you were born to be.

You’re one. The world will impose on you soon enough so enjoy this time of innocence. I didn’t know how special innocence was until I saw it glowing on your radiant face. At one, it’s a treasure; by eighteen, a liability. You have my permission to treasure the innocent time you inhabit now. You are a glorious child on whose face I see God daily. I won’t have to tell you how much I love and cherish you because it’s my plan to show you loudly everyday. You are my special, kind, bright, brilliant genius-in-the-making and I love every glorious cell in your glorious body. Thank you for being an amazing child to mother.

Lucky for you, Mommy’s a writer and she has to express herself or she’ll burst. This will embarrass you in the future but for now and a couple years, I hope it warms your chubby cheeks and huge heart.

Happy Birthday Poopy Monster

Thoughts On My First Mother’s Day


“In a child’s eyes, a mother is a goddess. She can be glorious or terrible, benevolent or filled with wrath, but she commands love either way. I am convinced that this is the greatest power in the universe.”
― N.K. JemisinThe Hundred Thousand Kingdoms

Bear with me for a moment. I’m going to open the seams on motherhood on this, my first Mother’s Day as a mother. Dream’s mother, or Ma-ma–she calls me this in the midst of a tear-filled adorable tirade against Mr. Sandman, and when in her quest to discover the parameters outside my lap, her head meets the hard surface of the floor or a table. The mother in me bears that fall, swallows the fear that I don’t want to share with her and coaxes her back to her own two feet.

This is something that happened very naturally. Mothering. Instinctively. I feel uncertain ten thousand ways everyday about myself but I never question myself as a mother. Ever. I actually wish I had the same certainty for myself in my own life. There must be some biological trigger once your child is born. I have no other way to explain why I push forward when I’m tired and empty. No way to define the feeling that comes over me when Dream rolls over with a genuine smile every morning. Her eyes say, “I knew you would be here.” Her chattering, though unintelligible, says, “I trust you.” Her taking a breath every morning is God saying, “I love you.”

In all the essential ways Dream was a planned child. I very much wanted her, even when I was unaware of this. I knew her in the places that recognized her once she was here. I saw her in secret dreams and translated those secret languages. I spoke her into possibility, into existence. That’s why it feels as if she’s always been here–because she has. I only had to open up to receive the gift that she is.

A great deal of my teenage years and twenties were wasted thinking had I had a different childhood things would be different. You know things, right? I’d be happier, healthier, wealthier, prettier, and such. If I had different parents I’d be Mrs. so-and-so and live at such-and-such lane, driving a blah blah. It’s true that having different parents would have meant a completely different life. But I have mine; and they have me. Perfection is unattainable most especially in parenting.

I’m learning.

The transformation from child to child who becomes a parent is astoundingly invisible. I now understand the words: I did my best. I still hold adults accountable for their actions, but I am willing to extend compassion where before I had none. You would give everything plus your life to make your child’s world beautiful. I mean so in an artistic way, but also in a practical way. There was a small part of me that always felt unmothered; that felt very ugly to me. It’s ugly feeling as though you didn’t receive something that rightfully belonged to you. It’s sad, sometimes oppressive. But the beautiful part of becoming a mother is that you can heal the little girl who didn’t get all that she deserved by mothering your child–imperfectly, of course.

I don’t search for replacement (better) mothers anymore (I used to do that and had really beautiful women be mother-like in the moments that I needed them). That part of myself is healed. Now I build relationships with women to cushion this journey instead of leaning on them to be pulled along.

I am my own best thing.

I do hope that I instill all the courage and love that will help Dream along in life but if I fail a little, I hope there are women who will be mother-like to her when and if she needs it.

I won’t need any Mother’s Day cards or gifts, Dream is everything. She is enough.



Neon Nails


Your mother is the kind of mom who wears neon polish on her nails. I’m writing with them now. A color called Barbie Pink. They’re a little chipped, but radiant like steaming antifreeze. Why am I telling you this? Well, because when I was a little girl I wasn’t brave enough to wear polish that others might find offensive. You’ll learn soon that many people feel confident, even justified, in sharing the things that they deem offensive, things that you unknowingly do to offend them.

In our family, there are rules. (Don’t worry about these rules.) Women did not wear red polish or lipstick. Only women with questionable morals wore this color. Soon you’ll realize that there will be conversations going on around you; these might be about you, but you are not always required to participate in them. I realized this as a little girl. It’s when I started to listen. It was where I overheard the outdated wisdom of the color red. What I did was internalize this rule as one that I should follow. I knew women who wore red nail polish. In church, they didn’t sit with other women—even those wearing the same polish or lipstick. They were off to the side, usually in the back pew with their eyes circling the room. Daring anyone to sit beside them or speak to them. They didn’t have husbands or children. Their legs were thrown over each other revealing the fleshier parts of their thighs. What did they have to lose?


You lose nothing in being yourself. There is no dignity that anyone can take away from you. If I had known that at ten, I would have left the comforts of the acceptable women pew in my church and gone to sit with those daring red women. I would have risked the whispers and the looks. I would have taken the hand of the scorned and squeezed it. We had reduced the worth of these women because of the hue of a bold color.

I didn’t know it was wrong to look at another with scorn and judgment for simply being. That judgment turned so easily inward. When you can look at someone else and find fault in who they are, and what they do without reason, you can do so to yourself just as easily. Be careful with judgment. Be careful with following rules you didn’t set for yourself. If it’s at all possible be who you want to be; in fact, make that your only option.

You’re six months now. You have no idea how the world is all ready throwing judgment at you. I’m guilty of it, too. Except, I’m only guilty of wanting you to be as radical and uncompromising as I wished I had been. You are gorgeous and smart. You haven’t learned to walk or sit completely on your own yet. You still need help holding your bottle and keeping your behind dry but people have expectations for you. They say, “She’s your daughter. She’ll like reading just the way you do. She’ll be a nerd, too.” I smile as politely as I can. You might not know it but those words are meant to be a compliment. Even while you were inside of my belly swimming around in the dark, they were saying how you were destined to be as studious and artistic as your mother. All of this piled onto a little baby who hadn’t even breathed a fresh water-free breath.

You don’t have to worry. You can grow up and become whatever you were meant to be. I can’t protect you from judgments but I can cushion their impact. You have to learn to stand up in your own humanity, to own it and be unafraid to face down those who try to destroy it. It’s important to understand that you own everything inside of you. Your feelings, emotions, reactions—everything. And you can’t be afraid of them. You have to be comfortable being uncomfortable at times because Pumpkin Pie not everything you do in your life will be acceptable, not even with me, the unbelievable hip mom that I am. You can’t be afraid to wear red polish. You can’t be afraid to take the hand of a scorned person and squeeze it until they understand that you are standing with them. You have to be yourself. As a matter of fact, I insist that you wear red polish.