the only way to do this

*Author’s Note: For the sake of privacy, I refer to our foster daughter with the pronouns she/her throughout this essay rather than with her name.

One of the things they neglected to tell us in foster care training was that a lot of times you don’t get picked. A phone call comes in from our agency. I pause for a moment taking a quick inventory of the current chaos in our home to determine whether or not this is a good time to add another child but then remember there is never a convenient time to foster so I answer the phone. A Youth Specialist from our agency tells me about the referral—the age and sex, and anything they know about the child’s development and home situation. Sometimes they read paragraphs of information; sometimes it’s three sentences. And then they need an answer. I remember the first time we said yes. It was in regards to a three-day-old boy, and my mind was already in a flurry of all things newborn before I was even off the phone. What I didn’t realize was at the exact moment I was saying yes, agencies all over the city were also calling their foster parents with the same referral. Anyone willing to take this three-day-old had their profile submitted to the county, and the county made a decision from there. We did not get picked for the three-day-old. 

We said yes to a four-year-old girl who had been found wandering the streets. They didn’t pick us. 

We said yes to a three-week-old boy who had been brought to the hospital for a procedure and the parents were nowhere to be found. They didn’t pick us. 

I lost count of the times we said yes. There were even phone calls I didn’t tell Stephen about because I was so sure we wouldn’t get picked. 

One Friday morning in January, I got a call about a two-year-old girl. I said yes, but a couple hours later found out we hadn't been picked. That same Friday afternoon, the same Youth Specialist from our agency called with another referral for an 11-month-old girl. She laughed and said something like “well, let’s try again.”  With an edge of silliness in my voice I said, “Sure, put our name in.” It was at least an hour later that I peeked into Stephen’s office. He was on a call so I mouthed the words “I said yes to a 1 year-old girl.” We both gave the same look of been there done that before, confident we knew how this would end. 

I took the kids to the zoo earlier that day to see the March of the Penguins, the winter event where the emperor penguins literally march around the zoo, and for a moment you think all is right in the world because a penguin on leash just waved to you. I was back home making hot chocolate when I saw the agency’s number pop up on my phone again. 

No. There’s no way. It must be another referral. 

“Hi Joy. Guess what? They finally picked you guys.” 

*****

Our darling foster daughter arrived later that night with a single small bag. She was with us for a month when I received a text message from the county caseworker telling me they found a relative to take over her care; she would be leaving the next day, her first birthday. I felt gutted, even a hint of anger creeping in. I immediately reigned in those feelings. This was the gig. Temporary. Filling the gap. Probably best to learn this quickly before we all got too attached. 

As we told our children the news, Stephen and I reminded them this was a good thing. It is wonderful when a relative can step in. It will be better for her to see family more and be somewhere familiar. Right? I started gathering her things to repack that same small bag when Charlotte ran into the room—the room she had rearranged to make space for a crib and a new roommate—and she sat on her bed crying big tears, the kind of tears that only come from loss. 

“I thought she was going to be here for at least three months!” she managed between sobs. Note to self: never let your children overhear the caseworker give his best guess as to how long a foster child will be with you. 

We laid on her bed and cried together, and I fought every voice in my head telling me foster care might be a mistake. Isn’t there enough hard stuff in the world? Did I really just sign our family up for more hard, more loss, more tears? Yes. That’s exactly what I did. 

“The reason this is so hard is because you love her. And even though it feels really hard and really yucky right now, it’s a good thing to love the kids that come into our home.” 

*****

It was Tuesday morning, a few weeks later, and I was side-by-side with Andrew finishing up school. My phone vibrated on the table, and I saw our agency’s number come through. Oh boy. Here we go again. Am I ready to do this again?

“Hi Joy. Well, the kinship placement hasn’t worked out, and she needs to leave there today. Would you guys be willing to have her come back to you?”

Stephen was in the kitchen refilling his coffee. I moved the phone away from my mouth and whispered her name. “She needs to come back.” 

The kids quickly figured out what was going on and erupted in praise, jumping and screaming with excitement. “She’s coming back! She’s coming back!” Stephen and I exchanged a look heavy with thoughts and questions. 

“It’s ok to be excited to see her again, but we need to remember that she is coming back because something didn't work out at her family’s home, and that is really sad.”

*****

Everyday we grow more committed, working with doctors and therapists and caseworkers to make the best decisions for this little girl. Everyday we grow more invested, connecting with her mom and praying for that relationship to develop. Everyday we grow more attached, smitten with this darling’s little grin and silly laugh. She’s joining right in, exploring parks with us and being strapped onto my back for family hikes. She traveled with us to Chicago for Easter, and she celebrated Milo’s 3rd birthday with us, easily winning the award for eating the most birthday pancakes. She sits on my lap during swim lessons and soccer games. She pulls all the Tupperware out of the drawer and knows which button to press to start the record player. But there is a constant tug of war inside of me—I want to be all in, but maybe I need to be careful. She starts to feel like family, but maybe I need to back off. I pour myself out in that beautiful and exhausting way mothers do all the time, but maybe I need to watch out. Hasn’t life shown me that the hard things I pour into tend to burrow deep into my heart in a way that sticks? Maybe I need to love with caution.

How do I do that? And how do I help my children do that? 

Is it possible to love with caution knowing from day 1 this relationship will end with me—and my children—in tears? Love with caution. Is that what we should be doing?

“Mom, I hope we can bring her to the pool with us this summer!” Andrew says. A spark of excitement jolts me. Oh, that would be so fun. Stop. Be careful.

“I bet she’d love the pool, but remember, she might be back with her mom by summer time,” I remind him—and myself. There. Another attempt to guard our hearts and ground us in reality.

“Once she leaves, do you think her mom will ever let her come back and visit us?” Charlotte asks. Oh, I wonder if she would. Stop. Back off.

“No hun. Once she goes back to her mom, we won't get to see her again.”

A blunt answer. I want no false hope, no misunderstanding. We are here to fill a gap. We are not the ones who get to see how her story unfolds. 

But love with caution? No. That can’t be it. That doesn’t feel right. It seems like a ridiculous way to love a child. Instead, I will trust that because God chose us for this task, he equips us to do the totally-in-over-our-heads-work of foster care right now, and He will not abandon us when the sting of her absence leaves us crying big tears. I guess that means I’m all in. Connected. Attached. Head-over-heels for this little girl. 

It seems like the only way to do this. 

she made it

I waddle across the sterile room and lower my eight-month pregnant self onto the edge of my dad’s hospital bed. Four days earlier, my mom found him on their bedroom floor, paralyzed and speechless from a massive stroke. He has made no progress since.

I lift his hand and tuck it between mine. “Stephen and I are going to drive back to Ohio tonight, Dad.” He nods in agreement.

“It’s probably best if I have this baby there rather than here in Chicago, yes?” It’s a weak attempt at a joke, anything to bring air into a room that was otherwise holding its breath as we waited for the next doctor’s opinion. Dad smiles with half his face while the other half folds and droops.

“It certainly isn’t going to go the way we planned,” I say to him. “But I’ll bring your grandbaby to Chicago as soon as I can. You get better so you can hold this baby.” It is a ridiculous thing to say. You get better. As though it were up to him.

As Stephen and I make the five-hour drive back from Chicago that night, I try to imagine how the next month will play out. Our first baby is due in three weeks, and the vision I have spent years creating is crumbling. I imagined my mom and dad sitting in the waiting room, nervously anticipating the news. I imagined Stephen dressed in hospital coveralls, just like in the movies, bursting into that waiting room to announce the arrival of a healthy baby. I imagined them cradling their new grandbaby, and then sticking around for the next week to help wash clothes, cook meals, and hold a baby when I needed to sleep.

It is clear to me now that none of this will happen.

I don’t know where Dad will be in a month. In the hospital? In rehab? Maybe home? But I am certain he will not be in my hospital recovery room holding his grandbaby.

And as for my mom, I don’t worry much about where she will be when I have this baby. Surely she will be there with me. Moms don’t miss that kind of thing.

*****

As my due date approaches, my mom says we will play it by ear. She will do her best to get to Ohio, but it will be hard to leave Dad as long as he is in a full-time rehabilitation facility; it will be impossible if he is released to come home.

The week passes.

My due date passes.

Six more days pass.

The next morning, my mom calls as we are getting ready for church; she says she will not be coming to Ohio. Dad has been cleared to come home in a few days.

“I have so much to do to get the house ready for him,” Mom explains. Her voice breaks like she is struggling to get out each word. “Some men from church are coming over tomorrow to move the furniture. I need to find someone to install more railings, and the physical therapist needs to teach me how to help Dad bathe and climb stairs. Oh Joy, I cannot imagine how he is going to climb these stairs.” I hear the panic in her voice.

I say I understand. I say it is the best decision, and I will be ok.

It isn’t exactly a lie. I do understand. It is probably the best decision. And I will be ok. But I still hate the whole mess. Our first baby is about to be born, and we will have no family at the hospital. No family.

I finish getting ready and quietly cry as we drive to church. This damn stroke messed it all up. How did this happen? Doesn’t everyone have family come to the hospital when a baby is born?

*****

Twenty-four hours later, my water breaks. As Stephen tosses bags into the car, I call my mom hoping she might change her mind and come. She doesn’t say either way, but on the drive to the hospital when I call again, she is packing her bag.

I imagine her, alone in her room with two Vera Bradly weekender bags open on her bed. No doubt she is talking out loud, volleying between her packing checklist and prayer. Nothing about this is easy; anxiety and unknowns are stacked against her. Dad has always been the driver, not because Mom couldn’t or wouldn’t, but because when the family goes somewhere, Dad drives. Driving five hours in a car by yourself when your husband is in rehab and your daughter is in labor is bound to rattle anyone. But she is coming anyways.

Mom arrives at the hospital just after 4:00 that afternoon. Charlotte is born just after 4:35.

She made it. Our family was there.

*****

Mom sits in the delivery room as I nurse Charlotte for the first time, and she calls Dad so I can tell him about his granddaughter. She follows behind me as the nurse rolls me to the recovery room, and she takes my picture as I bite into a glorious Jimmy John’s Turkey Tom sub.

In true mom fashion, she comes bearing gifts. She pulls a dozen baby girl ensembles from a bag and even comes with gifts for me: books, lip gloss, a killer orange leather purse, and a hair dryer she claims will change my life. She listens to the fresh details of the day as she holds Charlotte, and she meets our friends as they invade the hospital room with all things pink.

Mom leaves the next day, arriving back to their home of 28 years which has now been transformed to be handicap accessible. Dad is released from rehab two days later and comes home to relearn his life. Mom is now a full-time caregiver for her husband, a man who talked her ear off for the past forty years but can now only utter strange sounds. Her life is a constant whirlwind of physical therapy, speech therapy, doctor appointments, and administering prescription medicine at just the right hour of day and night.

I think about my mom often during those early weeks of motherhood. Our day-to-day motions bear such a tiny resemblance to the lives we knew a month ago. We both care for someone at all hours of the day and night, stepping up when everything in us wants to sleep or cry or quit. Our love is pushed to its limits as someone else’s needs soar above our own. We both question God, “Am I really the best one for this job? I don’t think I can do it much longer.” Meals show up at both our doorsteps each day around 5:00. Cards flood both our mailboxes, and we both know people all over the country are praying for us as we adjust to a new normal.

But I can’t shake the guilt that even when I want to kick, scream, and whine about my new normal, I am also flooded with joy. I asked for this child, prayed for this child, and for every moment I am exhausted, there are two other moments I am smiling. I think about the future with excitement. What is in store for this child and our life together?

But not Mom. When she wants to kick, scream, and whine about her new normal, she is flooded with fear. She never asked for this stroke to paralyze dad’s body and steal his speech. She is exhausted and scared, and although she never says it, she must be mad. What about her future? What is in store for dad and their life together?

*****

I waddle across Charlotte’s bedroom floor and lower my three-weeks postpartum self into the La-Z Boy recliner. A suitcase lies open on the floor, overflowing with enough outfits for a month-long getaway even though we’ll only be gone for a weekend. I pull Charlotte close and position the Boppy as she begins to nurse.

“Well, girl. You up for your first road trip?” I whisper. “This isn’t how we planned it, but I promised your Pop Pop I’d bring you to Chicago so he can hold you."

The next morning, we make the five-hour drive; Dad is waiting in his wheelchair. We carefully place his swaddled up granddaughter in the crook of his left elbow and snap pictures as he smiles with only half his face. The day is beautiful and heartbreaking, and by 8:00 that night, we’re sitting silently in the living, too tired to speak. 

“Well, I need to get Dad ready for bed,” Mom says as she unlocks his wheelchair and lifts his feet onto the footplates. She turns him toward the hallway. “That was a big day for you, wasn’t it hun? I bet you’re exhausted.”

I catch myself before echoing her exact words to Charlotte. Instead, I lift Charlotte from the blanket on the floor and walk behind Dad’s wheelchair as we all head toward the stairs.

“You go first,” Mom says to me. “It still takes us awhile to do this.”

“Do you need help?” I ask.

“Nah. We’re getting the hang of it.”

I walk up the fifteen steps to the second floor. I know it is fifteen steps because I’ve counted them, dozens of times. When you’re a kid, strange things like how many steps are in your house matter, so you count and recount and ask your parents questions like if the last step up to the landing counts as an actual step. My old blue bedroom is now the guest room, still with my Kristen and Molly American Girl dolls displayed on a shelf.

Everything about this home is familiar, but nothing feels the same. I now have a daughter lying on the bed in front of me, and I can hear my mom’s voice coaching Dad with each shaky step. She reminds him which foot to lift first and where to place his hand on the railing. She counts down the stairs as they approach the landing. “Only four more to go. Three...two...one. We did it.” I hear them exhale in unison, a sound of both exhaustion and triumph.

Mom pokes her head into my room as she walks by. “Goodnight, sweet Charlotte. Thanks for coming all this way to visit your Grammy and Pop Pop. And goodnight, Joy. I hope you can get some sleep tonight.” She lifts her gaze away from her granddaughter to meet my eyes. Grief and joy hang heavy in the air between us, and we both know this isn’t how we thought it would be.

“Thanks, Mom. You too.”

---

This essay was originally published by Kindred Mom.

Our Life Saving Road Trip Game

Earlier this week I shared with you the nightmare of our worst road trip ever. And although I cannot guarantee foolproof results, I have learned a few ways to save our sanity and even created some good-old-family-fun on those endless highway stretches. 

Living hundreds of miles away from family has forced us to pull out all the creative stops in order to survive hours in the car with our darlings. Motherhood is filled with bright ideas that often flop, more often than I care to admit. But this one - this one is gold. Your holiday travel plans will thank me. 

The Envelope Game:

Saving The Sanity of Road Tripping Parents One Hour at a Time

Before a long road trip, I come up with simple - let me strongly emphasis simple - games and activities. I write each one down and put that slip of paper in an envelope. 

Once we’re in the car, I grab a pencil and write down a time to open each envelope based on the time we’ve left and when we hope to arrive at our destination. I usually plan to open one every thirty minutes(ish), but I will often make the times random like 9:33 or 11:17, just because that seems more fun, right?

It is important to use pencil for two reasons. (1) You can adjust the time as needed. Maybe lunch takes longer than expected or there’s an extra potty stop. Maybe the kids fall asleep (!!!) or one game takes up more time. (2) I reuse the same envelopes each road trip. No sense in making extra trash, yes?

And that’s it. The anticipation of opening each envelope helps quiet the constant stream of questions and neediness that often come from the backseat. Here are some ideas that go in our envelopes, and yes, I often use the same ideas trip after trip after trip. I mean, come one, does Would You Rather ever get old? 

• Would You Rather?

• If You Could? (See picture below.)

• Madlibs

• Everyone pick a favorite song and let’s have a dance party

• Twenty Questions

• Create a holiday or summer bucket list

• Drawing Challenges: Draw a water park, a tree house, a pretend animal, a treasure hunt map, a robot, a silly monster, etc.

• Scavenger Hunts

• ABC Hunt - Work through the alphabet and find each letter out the window (For older kids, find something that starts with each letter.)

• Number Hunt - Same as above, but we look for each number out the window, usually 1-10.

• Audio Books - Give me all the audio books!

• Podcasts - I wrote a blog post about podcasts for kids here.

• Book Time

• Tell Jokes - I check out joke books from the library.

• Where’s Waldo or I Spy books - Again, I check these out from the library but don’t show them until the car ride.

• Child’s Choice - Example: “Andrew gets to pick what we do for the next ten minutes!” Or parent choice!

• Map of the USA - I print out maps of the USA, and we play lots of games with this. We map out our route, color the states we’ve been to (see picture below), find states where our family and friends live, or just color for fun. Older kids might like a license plate game, but our kids aren’t old enough for that yet. 

• My Mommy Sent Me To The Store/Zoo - A classic. “My mommy sent me to the store to buy something that starts with the letter….” For younger kids you can say the color or give any description to help in this simple guessing game. 

• Snacks - This card is the best! The kids quickly learn that SNACK TIME is written in one of the envelopes, so they can’t bug us for snacks every 5 minutes. I will usually write something like “Have a snack and then 30 minutes of quiet time/book baskets.” We use these containers and make hefty snack platters that will keep them happy (quiet) for awhile.

• Road trip bin - This is a plastic bin we bring in the car filled with activities. This bin only comes out on road trips, so none of these games/toys get played with at home. I’m always adding things, and it is a good place to throw cheap, random toys that will excite them for a short time (Happy Meal toys, prize box junk). Here are some favorites activities that have held up and entertained through the years:

Water Wow

Etch A Sketch

Magna Doodle

Melissa and Doug Memory Game

Wikki Stix Playset and Alphabet Cards

Tic-Tac-Toe

Cheap cookie sheets for magnetic letters/numbers or coloring

Highlight Magazine

Notepads and Stickers

Coloring Books/Word Searches

Change times as needed! You can see I used marker my first go-around. Live and learn.

We did NOT play the license plate game as suggested on this map. We just colored states we’ve each been to.

These cheap cookie sheets are great for magnets but also for coloring.

---

Well, there you go. The Envelope Game. My greatest offering to the parents of the world. May your holiday travel be a bit more peaceful and dare I say, fun.

chick-fil-a and speedy rewards save the day

The early morning air was already sticky as Stephen loaded the last few bags into the back of the Jeep. I sat inside with Charlotte and Andrew as they finished their breakfast of dried cereal and bananas, mourning the end of another Fourth of July weekend in Atlanta and dreading the eight hour trip home looming in front of us. 

We said the final goodbyes to our dear hosts, Lindsay and Kendall, and waved out the car windows as we pulled away from their townhome. The first leg of our trip was worse than expected. Post holiday traffic was brutal, locking us between cars and campers like a game of Tetris. One-and-a-half year old Andrew was not having it, and every desperate attempt to keep him entertained was met with screams. Four painful hours later, we exited Highway 75 with a Chick-fil-A in sight. Waffle fries were our only hope. 

Stephen and I unfolded ourselves from the car. Stiff legs and restless booties were nothing compared to the emotional exhaustion of being trapped in the car with toddlers. We opened the back doors of the Jeep, unleashing the remains of the past 200 miles. Granola bar wrappers, emptied applesauce pouches, and smashed Goldfish spilled into the parking lot. Stephen began the search for tiny shoes as I unearthed the diaper bag from a pile of books, fire trucks, and blankets. I reached up to the front seat, grabbed our phones, and tucked them into the side pocket of the diaper bag. I again reached up to the front seat for our wallets.

The next few seconds moved in slow motion and double speed all at once. A reel of images raced through my mind, beginning with the unmistakable picture of our wallets - sitting on the small table next to the front door of our friends’ home. I rewatched the entire scene play out in my mind: Me, placing the wallets on the table next to the front door and making a mental note to grab them on the way out. And then me, walking out the front door empty handed. This realization emptied me of breath and froze my stomach in terror. Our wallets were four hours away on a small table in Atlanta. And we were here - in some no name town, too hungry and exhausted to even attempt reasonable problem solving strategies. 

“Our wallets are in Atlanta,” I said to Stephen. 

And as the words came out of my mouth, terror turned to panic. Money. We had no money. No cash. No credit cards. How would we eat? I raced through hideouts where I might have stashed some cash  - pockets, cupholders, glove compartment, diaper bag. All came up empty. Maybe we could make it without food. We still had snacks and four more hours in the car. It would be rough, verging on deadly, but survivable. 

And then the second wave hit harder than the first. Gas. We didn’t have enough gas to get home. 

In crisis situations, particularly ones brought on by my own stupidity, it takes my body and mind a solid twenty minutes to move past the paralyzing anxiety and self-loathing to finally enter a state of problem-solving. So on this particular occasion, my mind was utterly useless as I began rattling off what I deemed our only options.

“I’m going to have to ask someone.”

“You’re gonna do what?” Stephen asked.

“Ask someone. Beg. I’ll find a nice looking family, explain the situation and ask for some money. That should get us enough to share a meal and have some left for gas. Or we need to call Lindsay and Kendall. They’ll get our wallets and meet us somewhere. We probably have enough gas to go back an hour or two.”

“You can’t ask them to do that.” Stephen’s ability to stay calm in crisis situations is annoyingly frustrating. 

“It’s a desperate situation. And we’ll just pay them. We‘ll give them like $100 to bring our wallets. Or…” I began, shooting off other ideas before the previous one even had a chance to settle. “We can just start driving. We’ll run out of gas eventually and call AAA. They can probably just bill us for the gas. Or I’ll call Kendall and get our credit card number. Hopefully the cashier can just type that in to pay for lunch.” 

“That one is worth a try,” Stephen said, still searching for a missing shoe. 

I marched up to the Chick-fil-A counter not exactly sure what words were about to pour from my mouth. It wasn’t until the cashier told me to take a deep breath and calm down that I realized my hands were trembling and my voice was shaking as I explained the situation.

“We’ll get this worked out,” she said. “Let me go talk to my manager.”

I stood at the counter waiting, my eyes darting back and forth from my itching palms to the kitchen where the cashier had disappeared. I felt the eyes of every customer behind me staring as if the back of my skirt were tucked into my underwear. Had they heard my pathetic plea? Were they waiting and wondering how this would end or were they just irritated because I was holding up the line? I wished one of them would just slip me a twenty and end this anxiety. 

The cashier emerged from behind the ice cream machine, and my mind began searching for a plan B. What was my plan B if she said they couldn’t manually enter a credit card number? 

“Lunch is on us today.”

And that’s when I became the weeping woman at the Chick-fil-A counter. And I mean weeping. Like ugly cry, could barely speak, weeping. I whispered the words “thank you,” over and over again, until she finally had to cut me off and ask for my order. 

Five minutes later the kids were settled into their Chick-fil-A routine: dunk a nugget into Chick-fil-A sauce, lick off the sauce, repeat. (It’s disgusting, but you can’t blame them.) At this point, Stephen was already knee deep into a solution for our quarter tank of gas. I was impressed with his creative problem solving, but his plan had a lot of moving parts, and it seemed unlikely they would all fall into place. 

Exactly ten years ago, Stephen and I spent a summer day at Six Flags. We stopped at a Speedway on our way home for gas and slushies. As the Speedway cashier rang up our slushies, he asked if I had a Speedy Rewards card. I did not, and I wasn’t interested until he told me that for every five slushies I bought, I got one free. Sold. One form later, and I was out of there with my Speedy Reward card and 40% of the way to a free slushie. Stephen and I have continued to use that card whenever we pump gas at a Speedway and collect “reward points.” Years ago we looked online to see what our reward points could buy and laughed as we learned that even after years of using the card, we only had enough points for a free two-liter. “Maybe by retirement, we’ll have earned enough that I can take you on a date for Speedway hot dogs and two liters,” Stephen joked.

And here we were, nowhere near retirement, eating a free lunch at a Chick-fil-A somewhere in Tennessee and Stephen was downloading the Speedway app, hoping we had enough points for more than just hot dogs and two liters. He was hoping we’d earned enough for some free gas.

“Babe, there is no way,” I told him, stepping seamlessly into my role of dream crusher. 

“Probably not. But I don’t have any other ideas.” He spent the next five minutes attempting various usernames and passwords because apparently back in 2006, we had set up an account. The kids were in the playland, and I sat staring at Stephen’s face as his finger scrolled the screen, watching for any sign in his eyes that this might work. 

“Say something. What are you finding?”

“Wait….wait.….” He looked up at me. “We have enough points for a $25 gas card.”

I nearly jumped out of my seat before the next moving part of this plan sunk in. “There’s no way we can just walk into a Speedway and claim that. We probably have to send away for it.” 

Stephen’s attention was back to his phone, and I knew he was only half listening to me. “There’s a Speedway two exits from here.”

“But did you hear what I said?” 

“Yeah, but you’ll just have to explain the situation. Be charming and desperate and convince them to let us use it now. Start weeping again. It worked here,” he said with a smile. I opened my mouth to defend my weeping, but he cut me off before I could start. “I’m serious. You got us free lunch. You can get us this gas card. Customer service people love you.”

This is true. I have a long, successful track record with customer service, and have mastered the art of getting what I need with a balance of irritating persistence and genuine kindness. (Remind me to tell you about the time I returned a six-year-old blender and walked out of the store with a brand new one, never having even opened my wallet.) Stephen, on the other hand, loses his patience too quickly with customer service and always ending up asking to talk to a manager. I knew we were doomed if he walked into that Speedway. 

“Pray for me. And don’t stop praying until I come back,” I told Stephen as I closed the car door and walked toward the Speedway entrance, armed with reward points, a desperate plea, and a good ugly cry should the need arise. 

“Hi there,” I said to the lady behind the counter. “Well, I’m in a bit of a problematic situation, and I’m really hoping you’ll be able to help me.” My sob story came pouring out. No one else was in the store, so unlike at Chick-fil-A, I felt no rush to condense any details. I unleashed it all: Fourth of July in Atlanta, the miserable car ride, free lunch at Chick-fil-A, Six Flags, slushies, the Speedy Reward points. And then, my plea. “Is there any way I can claim this gas card right now and use it today so we can get home?”

“Yep,” she said. “Can I have your phone?”

Before I could process what was happening, she grabbed a gas card from the turnstyle on the counter, scanned it, and then scanned Stephen’s phone. I watched the neon green numbers appear on the cash register screen, and a $25.00 total canceled out to $0.00. She handed me the card, and I wondered if it would be appropriate to walk behind the counter to hug her. 

Walking out of that gas station with the gift card in hand was one of the prouder moments of my life. Just between you and me, I doubt my long-winded tale of woe had anything to do with the successful ending, but I’d like to think my performance sealed the deal. We still felt it wise to drive home in the far right lane, cruise control set to just 5 miles per hour faster than the speed limit. 

I didn’t know how well my tearful story would go over with a highway patrolman. 

P.S. The free lunch and free gas didn’t seem so free when we had to pay $80 to overnight our wallets from Atlanta the next day. 

summer was here

I washed all the bathing suits and beach towels for the last time today. I folded the towels and put them up high in the hallway closet. I rotated the too-snug swimsuits out of the drawers and into boxes to be packed away and passed on. Then I came downstairs, lit an apple spice candle, and chopped vegetables for one of my favorite fall meals. This is all part of my grieving process, a necessary routine for me as I say good-bye to summer and begin to embrace fall goodness. 

It was a good summer - a perfect blend of nothing and everything. We anticipated these months as Milo’s first true exposure to the wonder of sunshine and water. He was too tiny to soak in all of summer last year, but this, this was different. Experiencing summer alongside my children is one of my favorite parts of motherhood. Life is better when we’re outside - wet, dirty, or stained with red Popsicle. Older siblings get along better when they have an entire park to roam, and they need fewer reminders to keep their hands to themselves when there are diving boards and water slides. Add chubby baby thighs toddling around that park or pool, and you know it’s going to be a good season. 

We kicked off our summer with a weekend in Red River Gorge. I have strict rules about camping with babies. Actually, I have one strict rule: I don’t tent camp with babies. Instead, we opted for a lovely little cabin, well off the beaten path and just uphill from a small pond. This quiet pond came alive at night as the sun slipped from yellow to pink and hundreds of frogs sang out their mating calls, each boastful male trying to out-sing the other. In the mornings, we ate our breakfast around the campfire and then headed out for days filled with hiking, exploring, and trying to be cool parents by jumping off giant boulders.

June was filled with lazy days mostly spent at the pool. Long gone were my days of relaxing on the pool’s edge while the big kids swam and baby Milo slept in the stroller. I became a physical helicopter mom as Milo fearlessly toddled around the pool with no regard for the water’s depth. He was drawn to water in any form he could find: water tables, sprinklers, fountains, baby pools. He was also partial to naps in the sun.

Summer evenings in our front yard give me all the happy feels.  We affectionately (and somewhat sarcastically) call our home Camp Blue Ash due to its wilderness-like qualities. We have no shorten of dirt, bugs, wild animals, or unusual plant life. But we have learned to take advantage of all Camp Blue Ash has to offer; we watch woodpeckers destroy our trees, we compete with neighbors in mole trapping competitions, and we save baby birds who fall out of their nests. (Unsuccessfully, I might add.) 

July and August were packed with travels. We loaded the van for a week-long beach vacation in North Carolina, and days later we repacked the van for a week-long lake house vacation in northern Wisconsin.

Vacationing with a one-year-old is a different kind of vacation, and there were many times I felt like I was missing out. 

I stayed back while the others went to the beach so he could take his morning nap.

I stayed back while others went out past bedtime to watch the baby sea turtles emerge from the sand and scurry to the ocean.

I went to the drug store to get cough medicine for a sick baby while the others were at the pool. 

I walked around outside entertaining a baby who’d rather move than sit in a high chair while the others sat down for dinner in a restaurant. 

All the missing out prompted self-pity, and I began to think: If I didn’t have a one-year-old on this vacation, I could do all the other things everyone else was doing. But then again, if I didn’t have a one-year-old on this vacation, then I wouldn’t have Milo on this vacation. And that’s when all the self-pity seemed kind of foolish. 

Our summer ended with our annual trip to Coney Island. No, not the boardwalk in Brooklyn. Our Coney Island is a rickety little amusement park with carnival-like rides that spin you, twirl you, whirl you, rotate you, revolve you, and then pause for a moment before doing it all over again in the opposite direction. There is a single outdated roller coaster that cannot possibly meet current safety regulations, and a ramshackle Ferris wheel that requires Dramamine for all riders over the age of 30. But our children adore this place, and my blessed husband has a stomach of steel, so while they’re screaming their heads off on rides like The Scrambler and Tilt-a-Whirl, I’m listening to a local show choir sing Taylor Swift’s Shake It Off and watching Milo sit in a train that moves in a circle at about 2 miles per hour. And then he sat in a boat that moved in a circle. Then a rocketship. Then a plane. Then a helicopter. You get the idea. 

We spent months telling Milo all about this dreamy time of year called summer, and it did not disappoint. 

I’m pretty sure he liked it.

Til next time, summer.