Always on my Mind

About 8 months ago, a friend of mine died from breast cancer.  She was about my age and had 2 daughters, the youngest the same age as my oldest.  We were not the greatest of friends.  We kept in touch via Facebook, but she wasn't the friend I picked up the phone to call (text, actually) to see about getting a cup of coffee.  If I ran into her in Target, we hogged the aisle talking, until we realized we would be late getting our kids from school.

She wasn't someone who was always in the front of my mind. . . until she died.  I find myself thinking of her all the time.  I think of her when I see her daughter at school, I think of her when I drive past the high school.  I think of her at the most random times of the day, when I least expect it.

Whenever I hear "Fight Song" I think of her;  that was her theme through her very courageous fight with cancer.

Today, I went to Tijuana Flat's for lunch with another friend and saw a poster hanging in their window.  "Add Fire to the Fight: Make it Pink for $1"  The very first thing I thought was, "Oh, Lisa". I was not planning on getting a taco, but I ended up getting 2.

There is a part of me that wishes I had been a closer friend.  When our daughters were in dance together, my favorite part was sitting in the lobby chatting with her; I always felt like I was hanging with the cool kids.  When B stopped dancing, our friendship sort of stopped too.  Had it not been for Facebook, I might have only kept in contact during our random meetings at Target.

In thinking about her constantly, I find myself feeling guilty.  Who am I to be allowed to feel so sad for someone I wasn't that close too?

I think Lisa will always be in my mind, reminding me to value every friendship I have and to get annual mammograms.

Thank you, Lisa, for the friendship we had and the thoughts of you that live in my head every day.

#LiveLoveLisa

Is This the Little Girl I Carried?

Sitting at dinner tonight, I looked at B and was amazed at this beautiful creature sitting in front of me.  We are slowly entering the dreaded "Teen Years" (cue threatening music "Bum-bum-bum!!") and more often than not I find I am nitpicking or nagging her for one thing or another.  It's not fun for me and based on the looks and attitude I get, I think it's safe to say it's not fun for her either.

Looking at her tonight, though, I was catapulted back almost 13 years to when she was born.  Suddenly my almost 13 year old was a newborn again.  While I was staring at her, I wasn't seeing her as she is today instead I saw her as the tiny baby snuggled in my arms.  I saw her as the yellow baby, wearing shades and a diaper lounging under the bilirubin lights.  I saw her inch worming on her back instead of crawling and I saw her smiling at me with her huge, gummy smile.

Almost 13 years ago, I never imagined I would ever I would ever feel annoyance at her.

"Just you wait," friends with daughters have told me. "The teenage years are worse than the toddler ones.  And you have 3!!"

"Maybe for you," I'd think to myself, while nodding my head politely. "That will never happen to us."

Ha!  

Don't get me wrong, B truly is an amazing kid.  She does well in school, she's friendly and polite (to people other than her sisters), she is loving and silly, but she's also a teenager (almost- we're nearly 2 months away, is it close enough for me to call her that?).  As such, I am no longer the one who knows everything, but rather the one who knows nothing.  My "sage" advice actually isn't (even though I think it is) and my ideas on how she can do things to make it easier for herself are met with blank stares. 

Lecturing her a few weeks ago I told her (again), "I was just like you when I was your age and I don't want you to make the same mistakes I did.  If you just listen to me, it will be so much easier for you."

She was silent.

"B, don't you think so?," I asked.

Silence.

"Are you giving me the silent treatment?," I asked, a little bemused since she's never done that before.

Silence.

"I guess you are giving me the silent treatment, but in this family we don't do the silent treatment, we tell people how we feel."

"Really??," she exclaimed.  "You really want to know how I feel?"

"Yes.  Yes, I do," I replied, bracing myself.

"Maybe, just maybe I need to make my own mistakes!  Maybe, just maybe, I need to fall down so that I can learn how to pick myself up!  Maybe I'll learn if you'd just let me make my own mistakes!," she shouted.

"Ok," I said, calmly.  "Thank you so much for telling me that.  See now, had you continued the silent treatment I'd never have known all that, but now that I do I'll do my best not to tell you what I think will work best, but rather allow you to discover what works best for you."

"Are you mad at me?," she asked in a small voice.

"Not at all," I told her.  "You need to know that you can always tell me anything, even if you are afraid it might hurt my feelings."

"You're not mad I yelled at you?," she asked incredulously.

"Well, you were angry and while it's not a good idea to yell at me or Daddy for everyday things, I pushed you to a point where you needed to express yourself, so no, I'm not mad."

B is most definitely her own person.  When she was a baby it truly felt as though she were still part of me, but now?  She's clearly not.  Thinking about her not accomplishing the goals she has set for herself makes my heart hurt but I can't tell her what she needs to do to meet those goals.  Oh, how I wish I could, though.

She's right.  In order for her to learn, I have to allow her to make mistakes, but sometimes it's just too hard to let go.