Save the Pandas.

I texted the dog walker today to ask if he could take our pup home with him for a weekend over Spring break. He responded that my 8 year old daughter had already confirmed the arrangements…a month ago. 

She is amazing. So on top of her world, and ours. So concerned about the order of things and the wellbeing of all those things and people. So believing in her own ability to make a difference and set things right. 

Last night she asked that I make copies of a flyer she’s drafted. She wants people to know what they can do to protect giant (and red) pandas. She believes that people only need the right information to make the right choice. 

Mama, if they know what to do then they will do it.

If only it was that simple. 

I knew a month ago that I needed to find a home for the dog for the weekend. But it took me until now, the very last minute, to act. 

She wants to talk about who’s running for President and she tells me about the things she hears on the news and on the playground. She’s heard things that scare her. She’s heard things that run contrary to all she’s been told about what’s right and how people, all people, should be treated.  

I’m worried.

I’m worried about her apparent belief that she needs to take care of things like the dog’s vacation accommodations. I’m worried that a part of her already understands that adults–including her father and me–don’t always take care of things, at least not with the urgency that she believes is needed. I’m worried about the possibility that we adults could elect a President who shits all over the values she holds. I’m worried that she’ll distribute her flyers only to learn that most people will not care about the pandas.

On the other hand, her trust that people will eventually do the right thing when provided the right information is evidence that all hope, all faith in the decency of people, is not lost. 

And my eventual efforts to find a weekend home for the dog are a good sign too. I can tell her that I talked with the dog walker today and thank her for being so on top of it. I will assure her that we are on top of it all too and that she doesn’t need to worry. I will give her the copies I made of her flyer and she’ll have them to distribute tomorrow. And I will dish out some ice cream and we’ll dance to Miley Cyrus’s joyous ode to America, Party in the USA, because that’s the best way I know to ensure that the day ends on a high note. 

I won’t be a chisel to the edifice of her faith in mankind…and her parents. At least not today. 

  
 

Being a Mom without a Mom.

You can’t compare the grief of two people.  You can’t measure sorrow.  The list of ways it could be worse is endless.  There is war and famine, there are parents holding dying children as I type this digital missive and others alone, lost in a world without love.  These are the tragedies that flood my thoughts when I suddenly realize that I’ve spent the whole day with a catch in my throat.  All day with eyes aching to unleash tears because, for some reason or other, this day of all days, I can’t shake the sadness of missing my mom.

My mind seems to jump to this parade of horribles in an effort to put my feelings in check–as if to ask, “how dare you be sad when there are so many others who are really sad right now?”  It never helps.  It only loosens the levee.

I lost my mom a few years ago.  Her absence is palpable and touches virtually every aspect of my life–though none more than my experience as a parent.   She was here for the first couple years of my oldest daughter’s life.  She saw two more granddaughters arrive after that, then left us as those girls were about to turn 1. She imparted tremendous parenting wisdom to my sister and me in those short years she was here as a grandparent, and even more in the years before.  But it wasn’t enough.  The parenting questions I still have to ask and mommy confessions I have to make…to her, only her, are innumerable.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’ve got plenty of people in my parenting village. People who love me and my kids and whose advice and help I rely upon.  It does, in fact, take a village and my village rocks…it’s just that sometimes it feels like I’ve got a DJ and not the live band at this party.  [No offense to DJs.]  I can listen to the records and maybe even dance to the covers played by other talented musicians, but my favorite, original artist is gone.

I’m sorry to be a downer. I’m afraid I just don’t have a quippy, feel good conclusion to this post in me.  There’s only a rankled refrain on my soundtrack today:  Being a mom without a mom sucks.

[I’ll be right back.  I need some ice cream…]

[Ok. I’m back.]

Yes, I know it could be worse.  But I don’t have to measure my sorrow to give myself permission to feel it.  She told me this once a long time ago.

For those of you reading this, and thinking that your grief, your situation, is worse. You are absolutely right–because it is yours.  Go ahead, cry about it.  I’ll cry with you.  And then we can count the reasons we have to be happy together.  Those are the things worth measuring.

[This mint-chip coated conclusion is brought to you by Häagen-Dazs…and my mommy’s wisdom.]