she will fall and fly

For eight years I stood at the classroom door eagerly greeting my darling first graders as they approached our room. I imagine my smile was over-the-top, but I can assure you, it was genuine. Like so many teachers, I'd spent weeks preparing every nook and cranny of my room - mailboxes were labeled, bulletin boards were decorated, books were organized. This kind of extreme devotion was easy because I had no other responsibilities at home; a kid-free home meant all the time in the world to give to my first graders, and I was happy to do it.

"Hi there! I'm Mrs. Becker!" I'd say as I bent down to meet their nervous eyes. "I'm so glad you're here!"

Most of them came with their parents, but to tell you the truth, I don't remember the parents. I didn't notice if a parent was nervous or hesitant or fighting back tears. I never considered that dropping their child off at my door for a new school year was anything more than an item on the to-do list for that day. It didn't occur to me that these moms and dads would be worried about their child being picked on or left out or sitting alone in the lunchroom. Were they nervous their child would learn something on the playground they were "too young to know about?" I didn't realize they were entrusting me with such a precious gift, assuming I would teach their child to read and write, but mostly hoping I'd teach them to be kind and brave and confident.

Parents surrounded me, bombarding me with questions and information regarding their child's allergies and bathroom schedule and who they should or shouldn't sit near.

“He can't eat mangoes. Are you planning any activities with mangoes?"

"Will you help her find the afternoon bus? She's never been on the bus before."

"Sometimes her stomach hurts when she's nervous."

"He's been doing puzzles since he was 9 months. I think he might be gifted." 

"Every other Tuesday his Nana will pick him up. That's Nana - not Grandma. Grandma should never pick him up. If she tries to, you need to call me right away. Oh, and on the third Friday of the month, our neighbor will pick him up."

"Please let her go to the bathroom whenever she asks."

"He is pretty shy. Who will he sit by?"

"Will you call me if he cries?"

"What's the first math unit? Will there be homework?"

I'd chuckle at the parent who needed one more hug, and I'd roll my eyes at the one who needed to tell me again to let her daughter go to the bathroom whenever she asked. And eventually, I grew frustrated with the ones who just wouldn't leave. I was relieved when our principal came on the intercom, inviting parents to say their final good-byes and head to the library for a PTO sponsored coffee break.

We would be fine, and I was excited to get started. I had been at this long enough to know we'd all find the bus and the lunchroom and that our room full of strangers would soon become friends. I knew the nervous butterflies would be gone by the time we gathered on the rug to vote for a class mascot. I knew that bumps along the way would build character and problem-solving skills in my little six-year-olds. I wasn't worried; they'd all be great. In fact, I thought I had the hard job. I was the one about to be left alone with 24 children. All mom and dad had to do was wave good-bye. Weren't they celebrating the freedom? Perhaps heading out to brunch and clinking mimosa glasses?

I was such a fool.

*****

Tomorrow morning, Stephen and I will walk Charlotte to her classroom. She's been there three times already and knows exactly where to go; she'll probably lead the way. We will watch as her sweet smiling teacher greets her and tells her it is going to be a great year. I know her teacher will have a hundred things on her mind so I'll fight the urge to tell her that Charlotte loves to draw and will want to know where the blank paper is right away. I know this isn't the time for questions, so I'll hold my tongue instead of asking if they have snack time. Wait, was I supposed to pack a snack? Charlotte ate breakfast at 7, and lunch isn't until 12:30. That's a really long time. Charlotte will probably get cranky. I didn't read anything about snack time. Did I miss it?

I wonder if her sweet teacher will notice I'm fighting back tears. Does she know that for years we've been able to get up and go to the zoo any morning we want to? What if we want to eat pancakes in our pjs and read books all morning? Surely there's a park we still need to explore or a play date we might miss. The thought of life now dictated by a school schedule makes me want to grab Charlotte's little hand and run out of there. School? Sorry, maybe next year. We have a story time at the library to get to.

I know Charlotte will love it. In fact, I'm confident she won't even look back. She won't need one more hug, and she won't have any interest in taking another picture. She'll adore her teacher, make friends quickly, and soak in knowledge like a thirsty little sponge. But school is a long time. Did you know that after kindergarten they go to first grade? And then second grade? And they keep going. FOREVER. There really is no way to back up and do it again.

I am such a fan of school. I loved it as a child and even more as a teacher. But I know kids can and will be brutal, and there are times when she'll be left out and put down. Even worse, she will do her own share of leaving out and putting down. School will likely be where she learns her first cuss word, and I'm practicing my "stay calm" face for the day she comes home asking about sex. School is her first glimpse into a broken world - a world ready to lie to her, saying she isn't good enough, or thin enough, or pretty enough. School will expose weaknesses, causing her to doubt herself and her abilities. But school will also reveal her strengths, not just academically, but also in character. She will be constantly presented with opportunities to love fiercely in word and in deed. To be brave enough to speak truth when it is easier to stay silent. To care more what God thinks than what others think.

School will become her life, and in my rational grown-up moments I know that life is a mix of cruelty and beauty. I know she will fall and fly just like my students did, and I don't actually want her to stay little forever. I want her to follow her curiosity and find her passions. I want her to struggle through the challenges of school because it will teach her to do hard things. I want her to be face-to-face with hatred and choose kindness instead. I want her to discovery the thrill of following Jesus. 

But I also want to go to the zoo on Tuesdays and eat pancakes in our pjs til 10 in the morning.

could i have grace instead?

I paced around our small bedroom, bouncing a swaddled infant and singing Jesus Loves Me. We were interrupted by a knock on the door, again. Andrew was only a few weeks old, and his two-year-old big sister had not yet mastered the art of playing quietly in the other room while I put him down for a morning nap. I whipped open the door and knelt down to Charlotte's level. "If you knock on this door again, you will have a time out."

The knocking did not stop, but it did change to a soft tapping, allowing me just enough peace for Andrew to doze off. I laid him in the pack 'n play and moved toward the door, committed to following through with my threat. I didn't care how many times I put her in time out over the next few days, that little girl would learn to be quiet when her brother was napping.

I opened the bedroom door to see her sitting in the hallway surrounded by pretend food. She smiled. So big. So genuine.

Shoot. Stick to your guns, Joy.

"I made you soup," she said, holding out a small plastic pot filled with wooden carrots and peppers.

Oof. Don't cave. Don't you dare be a parent who spits out empty threats. 

"Charlotte, thank you for the soup, but you kept knocking on the door when I said to stop. You have a time out." As expected, the tears began, but it wasn't temper tantrum tears; she was sad, disappointed. She finally had my attention, and I was barreling in with a consequence.

I was flooded with compassion. She'd been a big sister for sixteen days, and I expected her to play quietly in the living room while I snuggled and smooched her brother. I was being unreasonable, and I knew it. She didn't need a lesson in obedience right now; she needed grace.

My next sentences were a jumbled mess. There was something about how she'd made a mistake by not obeying. Something else about not getting what she deserved, and I probably threw in something about Jesus for good measure. It wasn't eloquent and possibly not theologically sound. But if I want my children to grasp the grace of Jesus, I need to fill our home with tiny snippets of grace. This was a first, mediocre attempt.

"So," I concluded,  "Mommy is going to give you grace instead."

I exhaled a sigh of relief, hoping to move past the moment, but Charlotte wasn't done. She looked at me with expectation and held out her hand.

"Grace," she demanded. "I want grace."

Oh rats. My holy moment was coming to an abrupt ending as I realized Charlotte wanted something put in her hand. I told her I was giving her grace, and she was ready to receive. No doubt she imagined grace to resemble a chocolate chip cookie.

"I want grace," she demanded again, now stretching out both hands.

"Well honey," I began, knowing I was already sunk, "grace isn't something I can put in your hand. It's kind of like..." Oh, this ought to be good. "Like...a hug."

A hug? Really, Joy? Grace is like a hug?

It seemed appropriate to lean in for a hug, but she pushed me away in frustration. With her hands outstretched and head flung backwards, she began screaming, "Grace! Grace! I want grace! Give me grace!"

Preach it, sister. We all do.

Would you think less of me if I told you I went and got her the cookie?

*****

A few months ago, the kids and I met some friends at an indoor play place. We played, ate lunch, and played some more. I intentionally held off on dessert knowing it might be just the motivator I would need to gather the darlings when it was time to go. There were a dozen candy machines next to the escalator, and I'd be happy to trade a quarter for a handful of Skittles if it meant a smooth exit to the car.

It was nearing 1:00. I gave the five minute warning.

The one minute warning.

Then the casual, "Time to go," as I swung the diaper bag over my shoulder and turned toward the exit.

No one followed. Shocking.

Eye contact was made, and I mouthed the words, "Let's go," from across the room, complete with a forceful hand gesture and deathly mama glare.

No response.

I walked toward them as they ran even further from me, a sure trigger for my blood to start boiling. I knew it wouldn't be easy to collect the darlings, but I had to keep my composure. After all, there were other moms watching me. I couldn't go all crazy mom, yet.

They began climbing a giant pig structure and I moved in, ready to pull a good, old-fashioned dessert threat out of my back pocket.

"You need to come now, or you will not be able to get a treat." I stood silently and watched them disregard my instructions with glee.

The next ten minutes were a blur, and I can't remember how I wrangled them in, zipped their coats, and tied their shoes. I was frustrated, tired, and ready to enforce my threat. Today I would teach them a lesson, even if it meant screams and tears because by golly, when I say it is time to go, it is time. To. Go.

We approached the escalator and the colorful candy machines locked eyes with my children.

"Can we get a treat, mom? Please, can we get a treat?"

Deep breath. Here we go.

"No. I told you it was time to leave, and you didn't come. Your consequence is no treat today." Boom. Done. Consequence enforced. Lesson learned. Well done, mom.

"But please, can we just get one treat?"

"No. I told you it was time to leave, and you didn't come. Your consequence is no treat today."

Charlotte stopped walking, and I braced myself for the inevitable wailing. She buried her face in her hands and let out a loud frustrated exhale. A moment later she looked up and said, "I'm sorry. Could I have grace instead?"

Insert pin drop.

What just happened?

Did she ask for grace?

Is she allowed to do that?

Am I allowed to do that?

I've made stupid choices recently, some toeing the line of foolish and others that are downright sinful. Either way, they are mistakes deserving of a consequence. I never considered just asking for grace. I've opted for guilt instead, fearfully waiting for a smack down that might finally teach me a lesson.

Guilt is a poisonous beast I rarely see in my children. They mess up all the time but are never slowed down, dragged down, or consumed with guilt. I, on the other hand, talk with the Lord about the same foolish choices for months, continue to apologize, and then dwell some more in the sorrow of my stupidity.

Could it really be that simple? Am I allowed to just ask for grace instead of a deserving consequence? Grace instead of guilt?

In Matthew 18:2, Jesus says that we must "become as little children" in order to enter the kingdom of God. It is from this verse that the church coined the term "childlike faith," a phrase tossed around when Jesus stops making sense in our grown-up lives. Jesus is pretty confusing to me most days, and I am not crazy about this "childlike faith" phrase. Mostly because I don't understand what it means or how it plays out in my day to day.

I suppose on my worst days, when the weight of my decisions and the filth of my sin are overwhelming, childlike faith looks something like a crying toddler, hands outstretched, head flung backwards, screaming, "I want grace! Give me grace!" And on my more dignified yet weary days, it might look more like a girl who just lost 25 cents worth of Mike-N-Ikes but is bold enough to ask for grace instead.

*****

I let her have the candy that afternoon, and on the drive home I started to doubt my decision. Was that a good parenting move? What about obedience? What's my plan if she starts asking for grace all the time?

Asking for grace all the time.

I like that.

So, I followed Charlotte's lead that day and decided to ask.

Lord, discipline is hard, and I don't know what I'm doing. I'm not sure what just happened in that mall and if I made a wise decision. Would you cover this one in your grace? Would you take my feeble efforts, weakest moments, greatest mistakes, and give me grace instead?

Asking for grace all the time. I think I'll start doing that.

This essay was first published by Mothers Always Write

that damn stroke

A nurse stood at the foot of Dad's bed and held up a pen in one hand, a banana in the other.

"Mike, point to the pen."

His left hand carelessly pointed to the banana.

The nurse set down the banana and held up a water bottle instead.

"Mike, point to the water bottle."

He pointed to the pen.

I thought he was kidding. I thought he was annoyed at the nurse for insulting his intelligence. This was a man who lived for Trivial Pursuit and participated in Jeopardy every afternoon at 3:30 - a grammar nerd, literary guru, and Cubs' stats fanatic. He was being asked questions suited for a nine-month old, and I thought he was playing her. The nurse repeated this exam several times throughout the morning, each time with similar results.

I couldn't stand it anymore.

"Dad. Stop it. Be serious. Point to the pen."

He looked back at me confused. The nurse wrote something on her clipboard and left.

*****

We had been waiting all day for information, an answer, a suggestion, a next step. A new doctor came into the room and stood at the foot of Dad's bed as we circled around. But there was no information, no answers. Instead, the doctor kept a safe distance from optimism, swimming around in a vague territory of "more tests," and "just have to wait and see." If we were looking for hope that Dad might speak again or walk out of this hospital, we wouldn't find it from this doctor. 

Exhausted and defeated, it was clear we all needed a break. 

My brother and I, along with our spouses, ended up at Starbucks. I was thirty-six weeks pregnant and ordered an iced passion tea lemonade; it didn't seem appropriate.

Thirty hours ago Mom had found Dad on their bedroom floor, crippled and silenced by a massive stroke. Right now he was sleeping in a hospital room. He couldn't move the right side of his body and made weird noises when he tried to talk. His face was droopy, and he needed someone to wipe drool off his chin. While he laid in bed scared, confused, and unable to distinguish a pen from a banana, I was sitting outside a coffee shop on an 80 degree day drinking a fuchsia colored iced tea. Something didn't feel right, but it was also a relief to be out of that hospital, away from doctors who had no answers and offered little hope. There was freedom from the stale conversation that hangs in hospital rooms because no one knows what to say but silence seems worse. The familiarity of a coffee shop brought relief. I don't know how to navigate hospitals, awkwardly lingering around my dad as he lay motionless in bed, but I do know coffee shops. I know how to order a drink and idle by the counter. I know how to set up camp around a table, sip, talk, people watch, repeat. It was comforting to know what I was doing for an hour. 

We sat around the table, and I told them I didn't feel bad for my brother or for my myself. We had Dad, at his best, when we needed him most. He was there - baseball games, dance recitals, Six Flags, AWANA Dad's Night. He'd taught us to drive and took us to Cubs games. He'd moved us into college and walked me down the aisle. I didn't even feel that bad for my mom. I probably should have, but she was Mom; Mom can always handle it. 

Instead, I told them, my heart was aching for this baby in me who would only know a grandpa who sits in a wheelchair as a quiet spectator rather than one who gives piggyback rides and reads stories in a Donald Duck voice. 

My heart also ached for my brother's three-year-old twin boys. They were too young and wouldn't remember that just nine days ago their Grandpa was splashing them in a hotel pool and building a sand castle on the shore of Lake Michigan. 

That's when my brother cried. 

My brother is a man of action; he always has a plan, a next step. There was something about seeing him, elbow on the table, leaning into his hand to wipe away tears that told me this was bad. This was our great divide - the event that just split our lives into a before and after. 

I stopped talking and drank my tea. 

*****

It was just after 4:00 in the afternoon on Monday, three days after Dad's stoke. I was sitting on the small plastic couch near the window when Dad waved his left hand, motioning me to come closer. He pointed to the clock and then back at me; his face was concerned and looked to me for an answer. I knew that look, and I knew what he was thinking. 

"You're wondering why I'm still here," I said. 

He nodded.

"You want to know when I am leaving."

More nodding. 

"You know it's 4:00, and you know we have a five hour drive back to Ohio. You are worried about us driving home in the dark." I said it as more of a question, not really sure if he understood details like time. 

But he nodded again and even smiled. He motioned at the clock and then at the door.

"We'll leave soon, okay?" I sounded like a teenager, irritated at my overly protective father. But I wasn't really annoyed; I was relieved and knew he also wanted to ask if I'd rotated my tires recently. 

He reached over and put his left hand on my giant belly. My throat tightened up, and I felt tears burning the back of my eyes. But I didn't want to cry, again. I didn't want to tell him my heart was crumbling with fear and that he had to get better so he could play with his grandbaby. 

"You think I should leave now so I don't have the baby right here?"

He laughed and looked at my mom as if to say, "Would you help me out here and get her to leave already?"  

That was the first time I saw a hint of Dad. Visitors with good intentions told us he was still in there; he was the same old Mike. But I wasn't so sure until he pointed to that clock.

*****

The months after dad's stroke were confusing. I had lost the dad I'd known for 29 years and weeks later gave birth to my first child. I didn't know how to let the joy of motherhood exist alongside the sadness of dad's stroke, and even now, five years later, I cannot separate the grief and joy. I loved those early weeks of motherhood, but it felt selfish to be so happy when I knew my mom was miles away drowning in decisions and sorrow while my dad was barely moving or speaking. 

I was grieving the loss of my dad. I still am. But that seems strange - grieving the loss of a dad who is alive. 

He has come a long way from the man I saw in the hospital bed five years ago. I am thankful for that. But in my desire to be thankful, I haven't given my sadness the room it deserves. I haven't said aloud how much I hate that damn stroke. I haven't thought much about how I'm sad, and how I miss my dad, and how unfair it is that my children were robbed of their grandpa. 

If I give my sadness an inch, I am convinced it will take the mile. And then another mile after that, probably picking up anger and fear and bitterness along the way. Before long, I might be too far gone. 

But today I will say it. 

I hate that damn stroke. 

I hate that it took the life we expected for my mom and dad. I hate that it took the grandpa who wants to wrestle and swim and play hide-and-seek. I hate that my brother's twin boys had three years with that grandpa, but my children never met him. And I hate that I'm starting to forget. 

I have to try, really try, when I want to remember him. I have to sit in a quiet room and close my eyes if I want to hear his voice and remember the distinctive Italian gestures he'd use when telling a story. Sometimes I try to remember him sitting in the driver's seat of the car or mowing the lawn, but I can't, not anymore. It's strange how you can see something or hear something for decades, but then forget so quickly. 

I do not take Dad's recovery lightly. He took on years of therapy like a champ, relearning to speak and walk and manage with just his left hand. We are still adjusting to a new normal, but Dad is alive, and he knows his grandchildren. They build puzzles, play CandyLand, and sit on his lap to watch Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. They have an inside joke about quesadillas, and Dad can bust out a pretty mean tickle monster with his left hand. They adore him, and I am thankful. 

But I still hate that damn stroke.

because one day you won't

Two years ago, I walked into my bathroom to find this.

Charlotte's Croc filled with acorns.

There is no story behind this photo, no explanation other than this is what happens when children live in your home. I laughed when I saw it, which is a blessing because had it been a different day or different hour I might have thrown those acorns away and chucked the shoe into her room, annoyed with how her stuff invades every corner. But on that day, at that moment, I loved it. It was quirky, confusing, and so childlike, so perfect. I took a picture because one day she won't leave a shoe filled with acorns in my bathroom.

Every so often, I've thought of that picture and try to mentally dogear other moments that ooze with childhood. But now I can't remember most of them. I wish I had written some down. I wish I had taken a picture.

Some have been ridiculous scenes, announcing to the world that children have been busy living in this home.

Some have been irritating moments, reminding me I laid down my preferences when I chose to be a mom.

And some moments have been so precious they steal my breath to whisper,  "Yes, you really are a mom."

I want to notice those moments. I want to remember those snippet of life.

Because one day she won't lay on the floor doing puzzles in her rain boots and underwear; she won't decorate every dresser knob in her room with a sock, and she won't ask if we can buy matching dresses.

Because one day he won't spread out blankets and pretend to be a pig rolling in the mud; he won't insist on sleeping with trucks in his bed, and he won't ask "You go oomba?" each time he sees me grab my neon yellow Zumba shoes.

Today I will notice those moments.

#becauseonedayyouwont

getting her number

The three of us walked through the gate as I flashed our shiny new family membership card at the teenage boy behind the desk. My daughter was decked out in her swim gear, and my son sat in the stroller, content, a toy car clutched in each chubby hand.

I was ready for this.

I'd decided on cut-off jean shorts, a navy blue tank, flip flops, and pony tail, a casual but clean ensemble that said I was easy-going but actually did laundry every once in awhile. My mom bag hung over my shoulder bursting with towels, Goldfish crackers, and three baby dolls my daughter insisted join her at the pool. I eased over to the picnic tables, the scent of sunscreen and chlorine heavy in the air. My eyes darted back and forth behind sunglasses, scoping out the field.

This was it - the first day of swim lessons in our new town - the ultimate pick up scene. This place was crawling with moms, and I was on the prowl.

It was pretty new territory for me. In our previous town, all my girlfriends and I started having babies at the same time. My friends became my mom friends; no mom dating required. This worked for me. I was never very good at the witty banter and thoughtful questioning that first dates require. Today had to be different; I brought my A game.

I unloaded at an empty table and attended to my children, careful to present myself as available but not overly desperate. I knelt down to give my daughter the obligatory pep talk about obeying her teacher and being a kind friend. My speech faded off as I noticed a mom at the next table smothering her child in Banana Boat. We exchanged a quick glance and brief smile before our moment was cut short by a whistle and a lady with a clipboard. 

I walked my daughter over to the pool fence and casually hung around to check out the kids (read: moms) in her class. It was a small class, only five children, and one was dropped off by her dad. Useless.

I sat on a bench and began gauging the compatibility potential of each mom. Did she look friendly? Did she look funny? Was she too put together? Too frantic? Was she a high-strung mom or an I-don't-put-sunscreen-on-my-kids mom? Did she have other children? Did it look like she already had enough friends? Was she out of my league, or did I stand a fair chance?

First impression: everyone seemed taken. Moms were already paired up or huddled in small groups chatting about swim meets and The Bachelorette. Should I move closer? Maybe I looked unapproachable or uninterested sitting on this bench alone. I was just about to walk a lap with my son when I spotted her.

She was walking toward the fence, just a few feet from my bench with a baby on her hip, a toddler at her side, and waving to a boy in my daughter’s class. I gave her the quick once over. 

Nice smile. Must be friendly, maybe even funny. Bonus.

Sporty outfit. Hmmm. Might be one of those moms who exercises. We can work on that.

Alone. Perfect. She could be as desperate as I am.

This might be it. This could be my next mom friend.

I debated some of my best pick up lines —

"Do you live around here?"

"Cute yoga pants!"

"There's actually gin and tonic in this water bottle if you want some."

But instead of wooing her over with my wit and charm, I froze and spent the remainder of the swim lesson with a creepy smile and awkward stare.

Oof. It's a wonder I ever made any mom friends.

I came back the next day with gumption. To my dismay, my target dropped off her son and proceeded to leave.

Leave? Are moms allowed to leave during swim lessons? I'm not required to sit by the fence giving a thumbs up every time my daughter puts her whole head under water? Interesting. She was a bit of risk-taker. I liked her even more. 

Day three. I had to make it happen. I spotted her in the kiddie pool, sitting in the shallow end with a baby in her lap. A few days a week, the kiddie pool opens up during swim lessons, which is perfect for entertaining younger siblings. That's it. That's my line. I had to move quickly. I picked up my son, walked around the pool with confidence, and sat down next to her in the water, shamelessly invading her personal space.

"It is so nice that some days they open up the kiddie pool during swim lessons. Sure makes it easier than trying to entertain him myself for a half hour."

Hook, line, and sinker. She totally bought it, and we launched into first date chitchat.

Over the course of the next two weeks, the small talk continued. Conversation stayed within the recommended boundaries for early dates — summer vacation plans, preschool, and best local restaurants. Neither of us mentioned gender-neutral toy aisles, immunizations, organic food, or Donald Trump. Our children played together nicely with minimal toy snatching, and all signs pointed to compatibility. With the last day of swim lessons approaching, I knew what I needed to do. If this was going to continue, I had to get her number. 

Driving to the pool on the last day, I was determined to not let cold feet get the best of me. I tried rehearsing a few lines for casually exchanging numbers, but all I could hear was Carly Rae Jepsen's voice singing in my head. (Insert head bopping to chorus of Call Me Maybe.)

We met at our usual spot in the kiddie pool, chatting until swim lessons were over. Ring Pops and certificates were handed out as moms dried off their children and began packing up to head home.  Not us. We had plans. That's right. Plans. We had decided to pack picnic lunches for the kids and spend the afternoon at the pool. That's kinda like second base, yes?

The kids were all gathered around the table with pruney fingers grabbing at each other's food. This is a good sign; when your children are making serious trades like my pretzel for your BBQ chip, you know you're knee deep in this friendship thing.  No turning back now. My moment was here. 

Uh oh. Carly Rae's voice was back.

Hey, I just met you

And this is crazy

Come on, Joy. Speak. 

But here's my number. 

Do it. Get her number.

So call me maybe.

And then, something I never saw coming. She did it. She totally blindsided me. 

"Hey," she said, "Before you go, we have to be sure to exchange numbers."

Genius. So simple. So well-played.

She just swept right in there and stole my moment. She must really like me.

I bet she practiced in the car.

This essay was first published by Coffee + Crumbs, my favorite site for all things motherhood.