My Sons, My Moon, My Stars...

As a lover of words and the feel of them as we speak, the weight they carry in a sentence, the efficiency with which they can build or destroy--by extension--I’ve always felt a name carries it’s own meaning.  We are each given one at birth but does it define us or do we define it?

It was shared with me that a southern tradition of surname hyphenation was a way to show someone’s link to power and wealth.  It spoke about someone before they even entered a room.

For my Great-Grandfather--Anton Martinus Andersen--it means BRAVERY.  Setting out from Copenhagen in 1903, leaving his Danish homeland for his American Dream.  No guarantees, no safety net, he aimed his sights to an unknown land and sought not a fortune, but a future.

Stories I have been told of my great-grandfather are often of a barrel-chested man, laughing and playful.  While short in stature, his physical strength and endurance was unmatched.  He was a farmer, a worker, a husband, a father, he built a simple life full of family and love.  Life wasn’t perfect, but it belonged to him.

My Grammy was his daughter.  Trailblazer was her middle name.  Never one to bend to the will of others, she had a giver’s heart with a rebel spirit.  Martha Charlena Andersen was INTREPID.  When life handed her cards that would have folded--she played them.  Through life’s hardships--and there were plenty--she was no one’s victim.  She was as glittery and sassy as she was devout and faithful.  As my Wyatt said at her funeral “She was a darn good woman.”  I could almost hear her laugh with pride.

Through the years, the Andersen name has meant different things to different people.  To me, it’s symbolic of hard work, determination, tenacity, and INTEGRITY.  It’s the name of a Danish dreamer who worked his fingers to the bone for his family, a man who loved and laughed and dared to dream dreams bigger than any I could imagine.

As I reflect on my Grammy and her father, I see myself.  Tragedy and triumph, failure and success, accountability and getting back up.  I am keenly aware my love of showmanship is a direct line that can be drawn through my dad, my Grammy, all the way back to her father; I hope as clear a line can be drawn to their integrity and determination. 

All of these things are in a name--Andersen.  I am embarking on my chosen career path, I am preparing for the last bits of college, and I am looking back on the path I’ve traveled to arrive at this destination I could have never imagined.  With all of this said, I have decided to honor my Grammy and her father, my Danish heritage, and my metamorphosis.  I have filed the requisite paperwork to legally change my first name to Andersen--Anders if you like.  Those who have known me as Lisa for 42 years, will likely still call me Lisa and I will not object, that name is part of me too.

Jimmy Kimmel’s monologue earlier this week stirred feelings in me that I haven’t felt in almost seven years.  It did in Tim too, he texted this morning to ask if I’d “heard Jimmy tell the story about his son” It reminded him and he needed to reach out to the only other person who had been as terrified as him. It’s easy to forget, in fact - it’s the easiest thing I have ever done to erase those days from my mind and instead concentrate on the vibrant, loveable, amazing child who runs through my house.  The first month of his life ceases to fully live in my memory in favor of savoring life with this child with the gentle soul.  I never wanted to be in that space, so I refused to live there.

I delivered Wyatt on June 10, 2010.  He was almost a month early.  My OB is a very clever man with a devilishly dry sense of humor.  With my epidural in place, he told me two great jokes, I laughed each time and Wyatt made his entrance into the world at high noon; fitting for a boy named after a cowboy who was about to begin a gun-fight for his life.

There are only a couple pictures that exist of these moments.  Like Jimmy, I didn’t notice the bluish-purple color he had become, I was too enamored of him.  I watch the video Tim took of the birth and the few minutes after, knowing what I do now--I see myself in a fog of ignorant bliss, cleaning his little eyes, touching his little hand, talking to him, holding him to me, admiring him.  What I didn’t notice then, but is painfully obvious now-- the wave of urgency that slowly overtook the room.  The growing cluster of medical professionals observing him.  I was told he needed “a little supplemental oxygen” and he might have to stay in the RNICU overnight.  I remember thinking “How on Earth will I survive the night without holding him?”  

Just like that -- the boy born on a laugh with the name of a cowboy was gone.

The next time I would see him would be in the RNICU, in that isolette, under the orange blanket.  I was later told every piece of equipment they had available to them had been used to save our boy.  He came incredibly close to being airlifted to U of M.  Not only would I figure out how to go 24 hours without holding him, in the end, I would go 360 hours without holding him--15 days.  The little piece of paper on the orange blanket said: “NO STIM” which meant he was not to receive any stimulation. I couldn’t touch him, I couldn’t talk to him.  The only way I could help him was to pretend I wasn’t there.  He was in a morphine induced coma for much of that time while it appeared to my untrained eye; the doctors tried valiantly to recreate my womb.  At 7lbs 1oz and 21 inches long, he was not able to escape the myriad of health issues premies experience.

Our only concern was our boy, THANK GOD.  Tim and I profiled a few parents who did not appear to have health insurance and whispered something like “I can’t imagine having to worry about that too.”  For a short period after that I tried to make the “Cha-CHING” sound in my head when I heard “We need to perform a procedure...” or “We need to try a new medication...” or even as I listened to the constant hum of the High Frequency Oscillator (the machine in the far right of the photo) that kept our baby breathing.  All of this kept Wyatt alive.  I became too distracted with the other issues that demanded my attention, authorization forms for blood transfusions, to insert a broviac tube, for x-rays, a chest tube.  I had the luxury of being preoccupied with my baby because “Cha-Ching” was a game I played in my head while I couldn’t sing to my son.

As time went on, our boy grew stronger.  I knew he would be alright when the NICU nurses gave him a nickname “The million dollar baby.” Watching him withdraw from Morphine was heartbreaking but it had served a greater purpose.  In the end, he spent 24 days (CHA-F-ING-CHING) in the RNICU and in dramatic fashion was released on the 4th of July, his original due date.  Shortly after his release, we received an explanation of benefits from Blue Care Network -- the nurses were almost correct -- it totaled a little over a half million dollars.  $524 thousand and change, if memory serves; my eyes strolled to the patient balance and saw a sight I will never, in all my life forget... “$0.00″

Just over a year later, my little boy who had already survived so much, contracted a severe case of the croup.  I remember sitting on the back deck the night before Halloween in the cool, night air trying to shock his lungs into calm as the nurse in urgent care had instructed me.  Without speaking, Wyatt looked me in the eye and I knew immediately he needed help.  I ran to the nearest emergency room, he was too sick for their small hospital so he was quickly transported by ambulance to the hospital in which he was born.  He was admitted and we spent the next 24 hours trying to keep him hydrated, cooled, and alive.  Cha-ching, cha-ching, cha-ching.  I never worried if we could afford any of it.  I worried about my boy.

Erica.  She was brought home to the house across the street 360 days after I was born -- I don’t remember a life without her in it, my memory doesn’t go back that far.  My mom helped name her, she was almost Karen; a name that would never have suited her.  What I know to be true is that 360 days after our mothers welcomed me into the world, they welcomed Erica.  When our birthdays arrive this June, we will be celebrating 39 years of friendship and mourn together the loss of one of the mothers who brought us together.

Erica has always been a free spirit with her own gravitational pull.  To be in her orbit was to be in a universe of hijinx, shenanigans, and laughter.  Erica still is joy and delight even if the weight and responsibility of adulthood sometimes force us to forget.

No matter what life has brought us, pain, heartache, children, triumph, it felt like it brought it to both of us.  Connected through years or family, through Divine intervention or cosmic forces; we have been undeniably and inextricably linked.  Erica is a constant presence in my life and my heart, even if she is one thousand, two hundred, sixty-six miles away.   

We share the magic of childhood spent on the lake, the delights of sugar cereal and hostess cakes, boat rides and “jumping the wake.”  While our adulthoods have proved challenging, we’ve always had the memories we created together to find strength in.  

Our mothers gave us a touchstone and they insured it with the bonds of their friendship.  Typically, friends serve a season in our lives, people come and go.  Through the turmoil of the last decade, it would have been easy to allow our friendship to wane, but it was the strength of our mothers’ friendship that always threw us back together.  Their friendship was strong enough for all of us.  Maybe they knew we would need each other, although we could never have imagined it would be this soon.

My Terry, My Aunt who I write about, who’s loss has left me numb -- she belongs to Erica.  Terry seemed to bring us back to each other this summer. My mind transports me to July 13, 2016.   After playing with my boys all day, Erica and I asked if I could spend the night, just like we had done a thousand times before in another life.  When I put my boys to bed, when children no longer needed tending, we became little girls again.  Terry collected blankets and pillows and tucked us in to watch a movie like she had done a thousand times before in another life.  There we were, two grown women, being allowed to vacation in our childhood, harkened back by Terry. Erica and I laughed like we hadn’t laughed in decades.  We laughed until our stomachs hurt, we laughed until we could no longer force out audible words, we laughed until we couldn’t breathe anymore.

This pain I feel is not unlike any other I have ever felt.  A part of myself emptying; becoming hallow.  

This strangely familiar feeling of a piece of your soul draining from your body is maddening.  It never fails to raise the question, “Is love worth the pain?”

A part of me retreats; A part of my heart reserved for one of the loves of my life, never to be filled again.  While I am very conscious there are many in this world who have lost substantially more than me, my self-pity creeps in.  I begin to count the losses; the “thefts.”  The Lord taking home the people I was supposed to grow old with.  While I never doubt His power or His motives, I often wonder about the lesson.

If the cost of a lesson is a human life, I must ABSOLUTELY learn it, but I feel like I’m failing.  My Aunt Mary Beth, strong and faithful in her own right, once asked my grandmother “Why us?  Why our family?”  My grandmother’s response? “Why NOT us?” While my sober mind knows my grandmother is wise and I should allow her wisdom and God’s will to guide me; like a petulant child, with three glasses of red wine under my belt; I find myself moments from tantrum.

As December 10th came and went, it marked 17 years without my beloved brother.  It reminded me that I am inching closer and closer to having spent more of my life without him than with him.  As December 10th came and went this year, I am also facing the loss of a woman who I have loved equally to my parents and only less than my children.  

By virtue of being my mother’s best friend, Terry has known me since my birth.  Terry has been my guide, my strength, and the push to move forward.  Because of her love and the care she has shown me in my darkest hours, I know when the time comes for hard truth; it is not born of ugliness, instead, it is a desperately needed push back to life.  A master of timing; she has always known when to hug me and hold me as clearly as when she should challenge me and call me on my bullshit.

Since her illness, I have struggled with what I call her.  I have settled on “My Aunt” although she is not.  To call her my Aunt is to cheapen what she is.  I have been beyond blessed to have two mothers. Two women who met me at the same time.  Two women who have fought for my best interest.  Two women who have loved me and whom I have loved my entire life.  

I have come to realize it doesn’t matter her title.  Terry has been steadfast in her love for me; that’s who she is.  The “title” is for the rest of the world; maybe more for those who have not experienced a bond forged over a lifetime that defies definition. Without exaggeration or hyperbole, Terry saved my life.  We created a sacred bond in the summer of 1998, we became “mermaids.”  It was her way of pulling me from a depression and desperation that very nearly ended my life.  While she saved me, it was my deepest desire to save her.  This summer, I kissed her goodbye as she left for Duke University, with a lego mermaid clipped to her purse, a reminder I was with her and a hope that our mermaid was truly a good luck charm.  

I wanted so desperately to save her as she had saved me, but I couldn’t.  I would be lying if I said the “red wine” part of me didn’t think I had failed her; even if my sober mind knows I possess neither the knowledge nor the power to have done that.  

Terry has children who are by her side who love and admire her.  My "cousins" who I've grown up with, are losing their matriarch; It is not my intent to take from the impending loss of their mother, their loss is far deeper and greater than mine.  Instead, it is to offer a reminder of how she touched every life she entered.  Terry is a PHENOMENAL woman; the difference she has made in the life of others, and the pure, genuine, all-encompassing love I feel for her.  She isn’t my aunt; she is something more than that.  Terry is a divine woman I can not imagine living without, but a woman who would not abide by my retreating.  Terry would never condone my giving up on love, be it family, friends, or a life partner.  Because of her example as well as her expectation, I will not.  

My son.  God blessed this creature with the passion of a thousand men and blessed me by making him mine.  I am unsure what I have done in my life that would lead an all-knowing God to gift me with a brilliant, passionate soul like my Anthony.  In faith, I have to believe I will be able to forge an intelligent, compassionate, kind, man from this already amazing human being, but often the task is daunting.

What if I am unable to guide this immense bundle of potential to be all that he is capable of?  How do I harness the fury of an inferno without dousing the flame?  Will I succeed in teaching him to stand up for what he believes in while understanding the right of others to hold opposing views?  As with most things in my life; cue music: “How do you solve a problem like Maria?  How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand?”

Never have I met a child who knows their mind and heart as clearly as he does.  He concerns himself with fair trade chocolates after learning of child labor in the Ivory Coast.  He worries about the environment and the preservation of ecosystems, he hurts for the underdog. His allegiance to America, The Spartans, The Lions, and The Tigers is unflinching and unapologetic.  

My boy.  My dear, sweet, beautiful, boy laid six sparkly dollars on the kitchen counter this weekend, to help with bills he said.  The crumpled dollars sparkled with the dust of the Tooth Fairy.  Without prompting, he handed his fortune to me.  My Son; trying to help me as a man, while limited as a child.

I fear he is like his mother.  Regardless of my guidance, he will carry the weight of others’ burdens.  His heart will ache when it’s not understood, it will shatter when it’s abundant love is not returned.  He will champion hopeless causes and blame himself when they don’t succeed.  I fear, like me, he will live in a constant state of penitence.

Over the course of the last few years, I have been forced to take a long, hard, look at the definition of family.  Is family strictly defined as those whose blood and lineage match my own?  While I have amazing family brought to me divinely through blood, there are many whose blood I share who have betrayed me and abandoned me when I needed them most.

As I look back on the darkest, most trying times in my life, the faces beside me most often, did not look like mine.  Family is there to dry your tears from your cheeks, to hold you up when your legs aren’t able.  Family tells you when you’re wrong and supports you while you make it right.  Family loves you when you have wandered away and they are there to love you again without question or judgement when you find your way back.  

There were a series of events in my life that were the darkest days I have known.  I don’t talk about them much and I won’t here, but there was a woman who helped mend my soul with her strength and laughter.  We were mermaids together.  A time of forgetting the world existed beyond the light that she brought to my life.  She stepped in for my mother when I was too stubborn to let my mother love me, because she loved us both.  She helped me stand when I couldn’t.

When Jason died, I wanted her to see I was strong, that I would not break even though the pieces she carefully glued together hadn’t quite dried yet.  I wanted her to support my mother and she did, but each time she hugged me, it was as if a transfer of strength took place, she helped me stand when I was not exactly sure I could.  Her confidence in me gave me the courage to keep moving.

While she celebrated my wedding and the births of my children, our Mermaid times became less and less.  Part of it was the shame I felt for allowing anyone to come between me and the love and admiration I had for her.  Over time I saw her, she never mentioned that she had noticed.  

She still supported me when I was down, and made me feel like I was protected in her little nest she kept sheltering all of us from the world for a time.  While she may not have known it, the pieces she glued so many years ago, dried solidly.  Her example and confidence in who I am gave me the courage to believe in myself enough for three people, the boys and I.  Stepping into the unknown world of a single-mother, of a divorcee, but knowing this time, I could stand.

This woman, She has earned a “hood” that resembles the “cape” she truly wears.  She does not see the joy she brings to others, it’s just part of her soul.  She does not count the times she saves you, it’s just her nature.  She need not try to be a hero to her daughter or any other little girl with a dream, she just lives her life, phenomenally.  She leads without words, her example tells you all you need.

Almost 2 years ago, I was at the lowest point in my life. I knew I would get through, that is what I do.  a New Jersey accent “Don’t worry, I got you.”  and she did.  Tamara showed me how to live an action driven life.  If something goes wrong, the next question, “So how did you fix it?” Her faith that I could get it done and her assumption I had already formulated a plan, inspired me to match her enthusiasm and passion for accomplishment.

With intellect beyond my comprehension, drive and will beyond what had been tested in me, she has always astounded me.  She is a firecracker, a loose cannon, a wild card.  She is steadfast, loyal, and fierce.  She is all things wonderful in one little woman.  She is formidable.  She is my friend.  She is my mentor.  She is my hero.

Last week, a dear, dear, friend lost his mother - his single mother. The bond between a single mother and her son is a remarkable one, perhaps no more remarkable than any other, but one I feel qualified to speak on. I compliment myself by saying, I like to think she and I are of similar ilk, with that in mind, I am left to wonder what I would want my boys to know when they find themselves in his shoes.

It’s a complex beast, to be a woman raising a man. We strive to raise someone strong, self-sufficient, respectful, and masculine, without ever having been masculine ourselves. We struggle with adding just the right amount of sensitivity, understanding, and nurturing. Instilling a respect for women, that we haven’t always been shown; promising ourselves and our sons, they will be better.

Certainly, you need not be a single mother to raise a wonderful man, however, I often think, being the day-to-day constant, we need to be more intentional in the examples we set. We teach you not only how to treat a woman, but how you should be treated too. We show you that you can and should expect strength and courage in a partner. We show you that a woman does not require being cared for because she is helpless, but because she has earned it. That your value is great and a strong woman adds to that, not detracts. We try to teach you that hard work, dedication, and perseverance pay off ten fold and any woman worth your time will admire that in you.

The love for our sons is fierce. It is without boundaries or limitations, it is without condition or expectation. It is quite simply, the filling of our entire heart with the purest love we have ever felt.

The joys of our sons are the greatest high we have ever experienced and their pain is the deepest sorrow. You are the embodiment of our hearts, wandering around in the big, cruel, world, but that’s what we raised you for. We raised you to know how deeply you are loved, to know where your roots are planted, but we raised you to live. We raised you to go out and do good, give love and compassion, show strength and fortitude, we raised you to make a difference in the world, no matter how great or small. Most importantly, we raised you to find happiness in the simplest parts of life. You won’t be handed a holiday or a parade everyday, but that doesn’t mean you can’t create your own.

Whether I have succeeded in my endeavor to raise men, only time will tell. Ms. Gray succeeded. She raised a man who is all of these things and more. She raised a man who spread his wings, but never forgot who had loved him the longest without condition or hesitation. Steven, your pride in each other was palpable. She was a success in many aspects of life, but her truest mark on the world was to leave behind a man who exemplifies every, single, day what we as single mothers hope to mold our sons into.

Through the trials and tribulations of the last few years, I have wondered “What would Jason think?” What advice would he give me?  Could he have talked me out of some of my more damaging decisions?  I know he would have been there to comfort me, but how would my life be different had his firm and skillfully persuasive influence been around?

I used to dream about him a lot.  A dream of him comforted me within a few days of his passing.  Another dream of him reminded me, no matter how hard it was, his son needed a family and I needed to suck it up.  Yet another dream was simply seeing his face when I was at a particularly low point and missing him.  Seeing his face made me feel like I could go on.  Then they stopped as abruptly as they had begun.  

For a decade I don’t remember dreaming of him.  For 10 years I only saw his face in the same handful of photos keeping me company for the past 16 years. That's not to say I didn't feel his presence or see reminders.  I remember when Tim flew to Oregon to bring Gabe home for the final time.  A hummingbird flew up and landed on his shoulder as we were leaving for the airport.  

I had only once before seen a hummingbird rest like that, it was on Jason’s finger.  Jason had sat so quietly and still, it landed on him.  My dad still tells that story of Jason’s patience and gentleness.  Now this little bird landed on Tim’s shoulder as Tim left to fly cross country to bring Jason’s son home.  There was no quiet or stillness as before, only hustle, and bustle as we said our goodbyes and packed up our bags and readied ourselves for the excitement of bringing Gabe home.  Still, it found Tim and landed. Others may view it as a coincidence, I saw it as a sign.  Sometimes, when we miss someone a sign makes us feel, for a moment, close to the person we lost.

My nephew, Gabe was presented with a golden opportunity to advance his art skills, but had grown so comfortable with his spectacular pencil drawings and the technique he uses, he was reluctant to venture out.

My mother asked me to have a talk with him.  I told him when we’re young, we can often make the mistake of thinking that opportunities will always be there.  We sometimes believe an endless supply of people will be interested in what we are doing and eager to help us advance.  I told him the only opportunities that will haunt him will be the ones he didn’t take, because they do slow to a trickle.  Even if we dip our toe in the water and HATE whatever new thing we have tried, we have learned, but above all, we tried.

It was at this point I regaled him with one of my life lessons (he LOVES it when I do that!  Trust me!)  I told him my first passion had been photography.  Until recently, even my best friend didn’t know that the bulk of my Associates Degree is in Photography.  

When I started classes and really shooting, it was like a love affair.  There was no feeling like the weight and the shape of the camera in my hands.  There was no sound as sweet to my ears as the snap of the shutter and the advance of the film.  Even now, with a digital camera, when there is really no “snap and advance” I have my camera programmed to make the sounds.  There is no other place or time in my life I have found the peace and absolute serenity I did under the red-tinged lights of the dark room in L.C.C.’s dark room.  I have since been told that the wet lab and dark room have been dismantled to give way for digital teaching, my heart broke a little.

I take pride in being able to crack open a tin of film, and properly wind it in a film tumbler for chemical processing, while in complete darkness.  I feel special that I know how to set up a piece of film and create an image on photo paper with nothing more than a wire hanger to assist me in “burning and dodging” the light; a way to control the photo paper’s exposure to the light without the use of photo shop.  Sometimes I get a little snobby that I know the real art of creating images, but I’m reminded that digital tools are used to make a different type of art, a slightly different product.

For a time, some of my photos were used as project samples.  To show how to manipulate perspective, how to create light where there was little.  I will NEVER forget my instructor choking up at the sight of one photo.  A self-portrait.  I had gauged the light, I had manually set the aperture and shutter speed of my camera, I set the timer, then I laid my head on Jason’s headstone.  A rose in one hand, touching the word “brother” with the other.  One frame, one moment, was able to move another person.  Without my explanation, she felt my pain.  Photography is a very powerful thing.  She just said “Well, you certainly have an eye and a knack for telling a story.”

It was shortly thereafter that she set up an internship with a photographer at the State Journal.  I’m not sure how it works now, but at the time, they were mostly free-lance, my instructor and this working photographer were interested in my work, in my talent.  They were excited by my enthusiasm, and my promise.  Then.  I didn’t go.  I told myself at the time I was too busy, but in retrospect, I was scared.  I told Gabe, I think I was scared I would be a failure at this thing I loved so much.  Instead, here I am, 15 years later, still lamenting an opportunity squandered.  

An Excerpt:

Sixteen years is an awfully long time to carry a 6′5″ hole in my heart.  It seems there are a million things I want to say, but as the years move on and I mature beyond the time we had together, I have come to terms with the fact, there are no words.

Words come easy for everything else, but not for this.  After sixteen years, I have given up trying to describe the emptiness I feel when I look at a future without my brother.

Sixteen years have come and gone so quickly.  Maybe the words don’t come any longer because after December 10, 1999; there has been nothing new.  There have been no new memories created for me to re-tell with exaggeration, no new conversations to have, no new experiences to share.

All these years have not made easier, the question “How many siblings do you have?”  nor has the impulse to share excitement, dulled.  I have no contact for “Jason Boyer” in my Iphone, he never saw a smart phone.  He isn’t a friend on Facebook, he never saw the internet blossom.  

Both of my boys have the big, round, brown eyes Jason and I inherited as a hybrid of our parents.  The older my boys get, the more boyish they become, the more I am reminded of the face of Jason as a little boy.  The mischief in their eyes transport me to a time in my life when I was someone’s sister, when there was unbridled joy and limitless adventures.  I miss those times.

To Jason’s friends who have loved me in his place,  to my friends who have loved me in spite of myself, I thank you from the deepest places in my heart. In my sadness and emptiness, you remind me that life moves along and there are still people who care enough to stand by me even if our genetics aren’t the same.  To those who left me at the darkest time in my life, you taught me something too.

As I look back on this week and each of the boys becoming a year older, I find myself nostalgic and reflecting on our journey.

The last year of all of our lives I chalk up to a long, hard, battle that we won.  We won it together.  I never dreamed I would be raising two strong-willed, dramatic, passionate, boys, by myself.  I never dreamed I would be teaching them to ride bikes and scooters, cheering for their ball games, encouraging their learning, or facilitating little friendships.  I’m not entirely sure what I dreamed, it was so long ago.

They may never know that for months, the only reason I woke up and put one foot in front of the other, was because they needed me to.  Sometimes, singing “Three Little Birds,” was as much a reassurance to me as it was to them “Don’t worry, about a thing, ‘cause every little thing’s going to be alright.”  They needed me to put a smile on my face and steer this ship, for them, I did.  

I never dreamed I could feel such pride.  Their kindness, their innocence, the goodness in their hearts, inspire me.  This weekend I realized they aren’t just my babies anymore, they are becoming BOYS.  I can feel them allowing me to hold them a little longer than they think is necessary, they are enduring one extra snuggle, they are tolerating me kissing their heads, lingering just a bit to smell their heads like I have done a million times before, as I try to remember everything about their littleness before they are too old for all my nonsense.   I was recently reassured that “Boys will always need their Mamas.”  I hope that’s true.

I never dreamed my life could be so full, that a dandelion could smell so sweet, or seeing my boy take a base for the first time could fill my heart with more pride than it’s ever known.  I never dreamed I could love this deeply, fiercely, or protectively.  I never dreamed of the dichotomy of parenthood, the ups and downs of single motherhood, or the sheer contentment my soul feels when I hold my babies close.

As I began to write a note to one of my dearest friends for her birthday, I couldn't help but think of how incredibly blessed I am by all of my friends.  

The last few years have been hard.  Hard for me, but I also know they have been hard for you.  I know that it has been hard to see me struggle, hard to see me hurt.  I know that it has been hard to support me when I decided to stay and I know you worked EXTRA HARD to support me when I left.  

You have given of yourselves, your time, your energy, your love, your concern.  You have made me laugh when all I have wanted to do was cry and even when I've cried, a few of you have held my hand or dried my tears.  

In recent months, things have begun to look up.  In lightening my load, I know that I have lightened yours too.  I have been told so many times that I am strong, courageous, inspiring, but it has been my friends who have been in my corner between rounds.  I come to you weary after a particularly rough bout, you help me assess the situation, form a strategy for the next round, patch me up, dust me off, and send me back in.  Always sending me back in.  Thank you.    

No one has done as much “patching” as Abbe.  Today is your birthday my dear, sweet, wonderful, friend.  You remind me that you see more joy in me on my worst days now, than you ever saw in me before.  You live your friendship, it’s not just pretty words on an easy day.  You have been steadfast and in the trenches. I do not even want to imagine what the last 8 months would have been without you.  I always find the little notes you have left at the house at EXACTLY the right time. Thanking me for being a friend to you when I feel like all I do is take, or giving me a word of encouragement to keep me going. I love you, Abbe.    Although you are not often given to sentiment, I know, deep down, you are.  You are a riddle, my dear, and I feel smart because I get it. :)  

Ainsley, You remind me that the world is full of promise and you have made me believe again, in the inherent goodness of (most) people.  Your faith is inspiring and you feed my whimsy while tempering it with just the right amount of practicality. :)

Michelle, I believe you when you say “This too shall pass” you reach down to pull me up, because you had been where I was, you have been where I am, and I hope to one day find myself where you are.  On the other side, with the one who was worth getting to. :)

My beautiful friend Melanie.  You sent me the picture above the FIRST time I left.  You know my heart, you know how to make me smile.  There was no judgement when I went back and that was a gift I needed.  I was so isolated, had I lost your friendship to judgement, I may have resigned myself to the life I was living.  We crafted our way back to a happiness together and now we have found new paths, but whatever the path I take, I hope yours will always run parallel.

I have friends who have blessed me with their friendship for the better part of 20 years.  Who have seen me through some of the hardest times of my life.  Who I have shut out, but never should have.  Steven, you were there with a stern talking to, but arms wide open when I needed you.  You remind me of my potential, you never doubt my value.  Looking back, I remember you and B sitting with me at Jason’s funeral, I think you became the closest I would have to a brother.  You give me unadulterated truth, you always inject common sense into my dreamy whimsy, you can be a pain in my butt when you refuse to accept me for less than I am capable of :), but above and beyond all else, you are always there for me.  Thank you.

Scott, You are priceless.  I know you aren't given to public sentiment, but I would be remiss to not mention you.  I wish you all of life’s happiness, my friend.  I am lucky to know you.

Then there is Holly.  You are not my best friend. You are my sister.  You have seen me through all of my ups and downs.  I tried to put it into words, but I can’t, I start to cry.   There are no words.  Only love.   You are my other half.  Thank you for always loving me.