"And if I die before I wake..."

When I was a little girl a hand-embroidered copy of the "Now I lay me down to sleep" poem/prayer hung on my bedroom wall. The stitching was beautiful, but that line about dying before I woke up always unsettled me a bit. After a recent purging of my mother's attic, that framed poem returned to my now-bedroom. Granted, it's no longer displayed prominently on the wall, but rather tucked in my closet area back behind some boxes and a hamper, but the idea behind that line still haunts me..."if I die before I wake."

Exhumed from my closet, soon to be returned.

Last night Brynn and I went to Target. She was beside-herself-excited to buy some fancy clicky pencils with her money she's been saving up for something special. I, on the other hand, was shopping for something I was much more ambivalent about. Stationery. Don't get me wrong, I adore school/office supplies of all sorts, and stationery is no exception. In this case though, the purpose of the stationery gave me pause. I need pretty paper, with flowers or owls or sophisticated patterns, to write letters to people in case I die.

These are letters I've meant to write for a long time. Like most other parents, I've always had the occasional thought about what would happen to my child if I weren't around to take care of her. (At least, I *think* other parents do that too). Since I've been diagnosed, then rediagnosed, then rerediagnosed, I've spent a lot more time thinking about such things. One thing I decided for certain is that I wanted to leave things for Brynn, so I could continue to connect with her even if I can't be here to do it in person. Letters, presents, videos, that sort of thing. After the first rediagnosis I made 2 videos of me reading chapters from Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing. Nice, but not exactly emotionally engaging. When I tried to record a message for her to watch in the event that I died I broke down into a heaving, sobbing, gasping mess. And so I bought stationery.

Last night I wrote a letter for Brynn to read in case I die. I was still a sobbing heaving mess the whole time I was writing it, but that isn't what's captured in the letter. Brynn and I used to have a contest to say who loved each other the most and we finally tied when I introduced the concept of infinity. So in the letter I told her I love her times infinity. I explained that she shouldn't be scared because there are so many people who love her. I said how sad I was too, even just at the thought of having to leave her. I told her how very proud I am of her and I listed out some of the things I hope she'll always remember that I taught her. In fact, in the end the whole letter ended up being a reminder of things she already knows. Things I think every parent would tell their child throughout their lives and after. I love you, don't be scared, I'm proud of you, and I hope you remember all the things I've taught you.

Honestly, it was an incredibly hard letter to write. I hope the many others I want to write are easier, though I don't count on it. Yet, despite my personal struggle to write out those things, I believe everyone should write a few of these letters, especially if you have children but even if not. Death is hard for those facing it, but the real strength surrounding death comes afterward as people struggle to deal with it. There aren't many things I can do for Brynn if I die. I can't set up a big trust fund, I can't dry her tears, I can't watch her graduate. But I can leave her letters to help her deal with my death, were that to happen. I desperately hope that these letters gather dust for many many years and have to be rewritten as I watch Brynn grow older and mature. But just in case "I die before I wake" I know I'll have said I love her times infinity.

Addendum: The Elementary Dating Scale

While riding in the car today I revisited the subject of the levels of a relationship with Brynn (see the post prior to this one for the original story). This was a mistake in that I was driving and so had to remain facing forward (in other words, I couldn't look away and laugh). Honestly, try to imagine yourself hearing a 10 year old explain this to you in all seriousness, and try not to chuckle...

Level 1: "He asks you out."
Level 2: "You do stuff together. You know like hang out and go do things."
Level 3: "Kissing on the lips."
Level 4: "Getting married."
Level 5: "Having sex."
Level 6: "Having a family together."

So the next time you feel like you're in a relationship that's stalled out, just know it's probably because you've been trapped at a 3.5 for ages.

Here's a handy pocket guide I made up for you:

"He already tried to take it to a number three," or Lessons in Elementary Dating

Don't let the title fool you, I'm not taking a dating 101 class. I'm talking about dating at the elementary school level. Brynn has never not been into boys. To be fair, she might get that from me. Regardless, there's never been a moment in her life where boys were repulsive or had cooties.

Recently Brynn decided to finally accept the overtures of a certain boy who has been pursuing her for two years now. That's right folks, at 10 years old. He'll have long conversations on the phone with her. He's taken her to the movies (with his family of course). He even invited her to a fireworks extravaganza in his backyard (put on by Rozzis!). Brynn's been stubborn but he's been patient. She finally relented a couple weeks ago though.

Brynn prefers a several page manifesto when confessing crushes.

So tonight, when she announced to me that she thinks she's going to break up with this boy, my heart went out to him a little bit. He's tried SO hard. But I know it's Brynn's decision. I wanted to encourage her to be fair to him though and not hurt his feelings. I warned her to be careful not to lose a friend.

Her retort caught me off guard. By way of defending her decision she told me, "He's already tried to take it to number three." For a moment I got a lump in my throat and a wave of panic swept over me. What in the world was "number three"? I remembered my "bases" from late middle and early high school, but surely no. Not in elementary school. Thankfully when I asked, Brynn explained (in her most you're-so-out-of-touch tone) that three is kissing on the lips. And she (supposedly) told him no.

The whole episode has left me wondering...what's a one and a two? Hand-holding? Declaring yourselves boyfriend and girlfriend? Exchanging friendship bracelets? Also, how high does this numbering system go? By the end of high school my friends and I had imagined the baseball metaphor to its breaking point (not that we made use of all the imagined designations mind you). Is the elementary school system just a ladder with some undefined endpoint and uncertain number of levels? Or is there only, say, a four and a five (whatever those might be)? I'll have to find out more tomorrow, perhaps over an afternoon hot chocolate. In the meantime I'm going to leave Brynn to handle her love life as she sees fit...with a little motherly advice sprinkled here and there as we go.

We've Got the Beat, We've Got the Beat, We've...Forgotten Our Dance Moves

I am supposed to be at a conference. A national conference. The premier national conference in my academic field. In San Francisco. I am supposed to be networking, discussing, and engaging. And, of course, drinking, sight seeing, and spending time with friends. I am not supposed to be in Tallahassee. But I am.

Today was Brynn's hip-hop recital at the local gymnastics center. The dance classes there aren't a huge deal, but it was important to her. So important that when I told her I was going to miss it, she burst out in tears and cried for a solid five minutes. I've never missed one of her dance recitals (or music recitals for that matter). And where other kids have aunts and uncles, grandmas and grandpas, even dads; here in Tallahassee Brynn has me. Sure we have lots of amazing friends, but Brynn just couldn't fathom the thought of me missing her star performance.

So I stayed in town. We've had a friend over for dinner and a puzzle. Brynn made brownies. We watched a movie together. It's been nice.

Today was the big day, Brynn's hip-hop debut. She had skinny pants, funky shoes, and a high ponytail. Recital time.

Brynn, in an attempt to look "thug," throws peace signs rather than gang signs.

The girls started out strong. They've been rehearsing for weeks and the first three quarters of the song saw the class dancing almost in sync. I'm not sure exactly why things fell apart for the girls, but as you can see here, the entire class forgets the moves to the last quarter of the song.

You can see them all look helplessly at each other and then scurry off in a mix of relief and embarrassment when the song comes to a merciful end. Brynn told me that they were extra disappointed because they all thought they wouldn't get medals at the end (that everyone got for participating!) since they'd messed up.

All in all though, Brynn stood up in front of a couple hundred people and performed a dance that she's been practicing for weeks. She looked for me, and found me, supporting her in the crowd. Afterward we spent time together taking silly pictures and then she picked out the biggest, brightest bouquet of neon daisies a girl could want.

I miss my friends at the conference, but I wouldn't have missed something this important to Brynn for all the sights in San Francisco.

Fair Play

Today Brynn and I ventured to the North Florida Fair for fried dough, freak shows, and all you can ride collapsible whirling machines. The fair did not disappoint.

For $.50 a piece Brynn checked out "The World's Smallest Woman" and "The World's Smallest Horse." She pleaded for more change to take a gander at "The World's Largest Rat" and "Spider Woman with Eight Legs--Answers Your Questions!" but there are only so many quarters I'm willing to dole out for that sort of thing.

Before setting foot on any of the "unlimited" rides I'd paid $20 for Brynn to have access to, she asked for a $5 camel ride, a $5 surfing simulator attempt, a $5 giant hamster ball on water ride, and a $5 trampoline experience. Once I told her she could choose between any of the $5 diversions or her fried dough later, she promptly re-directed and found the regular fair rides.

Flight of the Fifth Graders

After a long day of riding everything from bumper cars to fun houses, it was finally time for fried dough. You can't eat too many fried foods too early in the day or else unlimited spinning rides turn into a really bad idea.

Going...

Elephant ears are our favorite fair-fried dough. You can't always find them, but they're infinitely better than funnel cake as far as we're concerned. Brynn went with powdered sugar AND cinnamon sugar (what could I say, it's only once [or twice] a year).

Going...

The timing was perfect. The night was beginning to cool down and our hands were a bit chilled. Giant, fresh, warm elephant ears warmed our hands and our insides.

Gone.

Brynn ended up covered in powdered sugar. I ended up feeling like maybe I should have worked up slowly to so much fried food (I also had a corn dog for dinner). Overall though, as long as fair food only works its way into my diet once (or twice) a year, I think it's an essential ingredient in personal happiness.

Many of you know how much I love fairs, my home town county fair especially, but all fairs everywhere as well. There's something magical about how time, responsibility, and calorie counting can be suspended for a few hours. I wasn't nestled at my computer working on a paper. She wasn't running around the house doing chores. Neither of us was eating a single tuft of broccoli. We could run, ride, play, and munch to our heart's content (or at least until we got a belly ache). And in the midst of so many people, all having a good time, we could walk around together and just enjoy each other's company. Sharing all those things, and just a general love for fairs, with Brynn is so special to me. Every year in my fair photos she looks exponentially more grown up than she did just one elephant ear ago. But at least I know that some part of both of us will always be a kid at heart.

The Bird, the Bees, and the Best Question Yet

It's not that I'm afraid to talk to Brynn about sex. I've always answered her questions and tried to provide just enough detail to satisfy her curiosity without scandalizing her ten year old innocence. That's a delicate balance though. So while I'm not scared or avoiding the subject, I do try to approach it with the utmost care.

Currently, Brynn's working definition of sex is when two people touch their private parts together. I'm not sure she's ready for a more mechanical definition than that, seeing as how she's mostly appalled at the idea people would voluntarily engage in such behavior.

At one point she confidently asserted that she is "never gonna have sex." I inadvertently chuckled. She took offense and restated her point more passionately. That's a fine plan to have, I assured her, but also cautioned that one day, when she's an adult, she might change her mind.

A few weeks later, out of the blue, Brynn came to me with the question "Can people have sex and not know about it?" With her limited understanding of how things work she was afraid that private parts might brush together accidentally. I explained how you would certainly know if you were having sex. Being the overcautious mother that I am though, I countered that with a simplistic explanation of date rape drugs. Basically I told her the only way someone wouldn't know they were having sex is if someone else gave them an illegal kind of drug that makes people forget things.

Fast forward to tonight. Brynn's brewed on all the information she has for about 3 weeks since the roofie conversation. She knows that people have to have sex to make a baby. She knows how sex works. And she knows people are cognizant of when they are having sex. So over dinner Brynn asks:

"Do you think daddy gave you one of those drugs that make you forget having sex?"

Me: "No sweetie."

Brynn: "Well how did I get born then?!?"

Only my child would think that there was a higher likelihood of her dad giving me an illegal drug than there was of me voluntarily sleeping with him. You should have seen the speechless look of utter disbelief when I told her I had slept with her dad (and remember it). I know no one likes to be reminded that their parents had sex, but roofies are a whole new way to try to explain it away!

A Simple Hug

Tweens are, biologically and emotionally, a hot mess. As someone who was once a tween (and then a teen) I can recognize the misery of being entirely overtaken by hormones, but not understanding what that overwhelming feeling is. Unfortunately for me, Brynn almost always channels those feelings into outbursts of anger directed at me.

Seriously. Two days ago she was furious at me because 7x8 did not equal 58.

The majority of our time together is spent in a delicate dance of managing or evading rampaging hormones. Without fail there's a minimum of one rage filled outburst every day, sometimes many more. Frequently it's a string of things, as if once she begins acting out she just can't reign it back in.

Years ago I read an article explaining that a child who could keep it together at school, but started unravelling at home, was actually rather well adjusted. So at least Brynn knows not to berate her teacher when the multiplication tables don't meet her creative mathematical interpretations. Still, it wears away at both of us at home.

All of this is to set the scene for Brynn walking silently into my bedroom two nights ago, walking up behind me, wrapping her arms around me, and laying her head on my back. No one said anything for a couple minutes. We just stood there with each other. Exhausted.

Eventually I turned around and wrapped my arms around her too. Not too soon. I didn't want to ruin that hug. It was spontaneous, honest, and increasingly rare. I couldn't risk ending it. But when I turned around Brynn didn't go anywhere. She just leaned on my chest and we rocked back and forth for a minute. All the stress and tension just melted away.

Then I tickled her and we fell onto the bed, laughing wildly.

In all, the scene lasted maybe 5 minutes. It made my whole night, maybe my week.

That hug will have to keep me going through the resistance to chores, demands to abandon our dog, Ke$ha, indignant complaints about having a bedtime, makeup, pleas for everything from a bigger room to strapless bras, the dreaded homework hurricane, and so much more. It will though.

The tween emotional roller coaster takes its toll on everyone who's drug along its ups and downs. But there are ups. I cherish those. The downs are intense and hurtful, but when you love each other you get each other through. Sometimes with a hug.

They Just Don't Make "First Days" Like They Used To

On the first day of kindergarten proud parents spring out of bed at the crack of dawn to prepare their munchkins for their very first encounter with elementary education. There are dresses and bows and enough pictures to fill an album. Children want their parents to drive them to school and walk them to their classrooms. These tiny pupils even tell their anxious parents everything about their day once they get home.

Brynn's first day of kindergarten was like that. Her first days of a few subsequent grades even resemble this fairy tale model. Fifth grade was not a fairy tale first day. In fact, it was kind of a bumbling mess.

The night before, Brynn couldn't fall asleep. One thing after another spun through her head and kept her up past 11pm, despite laying down at 8:30. No worries though, her outfit was chosen, lunch packed, and shoes located. Monday morning was set to run like clockwork.

Except I screwed up the clock. Like countless times before, I managed to set my phone alarms for pm instead of am. Two out of three alarms were accidentally set to sound close to dinner-time. When the third alarm went off at 7:35 I immediately knew it was too bright outside and that something was terribly wrong.

I sprung out of bed. Ran to Brynn's room. Threw on the light and yanked back the covers.

Good morning, welcome to fifth grade. You're about to be tardy.

In the end Brynn made it to school in plenty of time, but she'd missed the bus and her friends. I'd missed any chance to take photos. I did get to drive her to school, but I think we'd both have been mortified if I'd walked her to the classroom in my pajama pants.

To make up for the rocky start I walked to the bus stop, camera in hand, to meet her and take an action shot as she strode off the bus. As they turned the corner and I readied the camera I realized the memory stick was in my laptop. Foiled again.

I did snag a couple quick shots before Brynn made it inside the house, but she wasn't exactly ecstatic.

                                       Impatient is really more the emotion she's got going on this year.

I'd like to say that her second day ran smoother. It did not. Brynn and a friend bounded down to the bus stop ten minutes early. Forty five minutes later...<knock, knock knock>. I guess the bus driver overslept. So we're 2 for 2 on pajama clad last minute rides to school. Not an auspicious start.

On the bright side, Brynn got loads of compliments on her second day of school outfit.

                                                      One of these days these hightops are gonna walk all over you.

It's gonna be a long year folks. A long year.

Winning Isn't Everything, Except When You Won, A Tale of Two 5Ks

Running a 5K in July during a heat wave is probably not a brilliant idea. That's exactly what Brynn and I did yesterday morning though.

Physical challenges aren't my strong suit and this was the first 5K I've ever entered. Last year when Brynn was running cross country (she was awarded for being the most improved runner of the year) I promised her I'd try to walk and get in good enough shape to do a 5K with her. The transplant had lowered my blood counts and my physical endurance. If I was going to do a 5K, I had a lot of work ahead of me. Despite the stifling heat, I started walking at a local park this summer. I was slow and I wasn't walking very far, but I was out there giving it a go. When we saw there was going to be a 5K at the very same park we knew this had to be the one we "ran" together.

                            Me before the race. Yes before. I know I'm sweating. It was hot.

I certainly didn't run. Well, just for a few feet off the starting line because I signed up for the "run." The runners started 5 minutes before the walkers and I knew I was going to need that head start. Before the starting line was out of sight I was down to a walk and I walked the remainder of the race. My victorious last place finish was fine by me though. My goal was to finish the race without crawling or crying. I might have come in behind every runner in the race (and six of the walkers who passed me) but I completed a 5K and kept my promise to Brynn. It isn't all about winning anyways, right?

Actually, it is all about winning when you've won. In this race there were awards for three different age groups, with the youngest being 3-11 years old. Brynn knew 3 things: there weren't many kids, she was one of the oldest kids in that age range, and she'd run cross country in the past. She ran with her eyes on the prize and finished at around 40 minutes. Not her best time, but she was convinced she'd come in first for the elementary category. Imagine her disappointment when they only gave ribbons to the adult and the older youth (12-17)! As soon as the awards were finished and the raffle prizes had been given away her lip began to quiver. Act fast mom! "Brynn let's go to the car and talk about it there!" Too late. As the tears started rolling down her face she put her head down on the picnic table. She cried for several minutes before sulking and sniffling her way to the car. Ever heard of a sore winner?

As soon as we arrived back at my mom's house Brynn trudged up to her room, still sniffling with the occasional tear. Being the protective mom that I am, I headed straight for the computer and composed an email to the race director. Without being forceful or rude I explained how disappointed we were with the elimination of the kids awards. I mean, who does that? Especially to 3 to 11 year olds! In other words, I sent a politely worded guilt trip to her inbox. Within 15 minutes my phone was ringing.

Director: Hi, is this Shawntel?

Me: It is. How are you doing?

Director: Just awful actually. I feel completely terrible.

Good. That's not what I said of course, but you should feel terrible when you make kids cry, particularly when you make my kid cry. She was SO apologetic that I couldn't be upset for long. The ribbons had been left in her trunk and she'd forgotten all about them. Who knows if that's true, she might've just run to the store and bought three more ribbons. Didn't matter. To set things right she insisted on driving to the house and presenting Brynn her ribbon. You should have seen the magical transformation in Brynn's expression when I announced that her ribbon was on its way.

                           Can you believe this child was crying not 5 minutes before this?

So for me, a -7 last place finish was a huge personal victory. (Let's not talk about my time. When I told a runner friend how long it took me to finish she stopped and asked me again if it was a 5K). Brynn had a real victory, with a first place finish in her age group, but it didn't feel like it until someone recognized her achievement. "It isn't always about winning" is a good lesson, but I'm glad she was able to revel in her success this time around.