Big Trouble Mister

Paige & Jared

Growing up, my brother Jared was probably closest to my mother. Not necessarily closest to her emotionally (she loved us all equally, right?) but closest in proximity. For Jared was always grounded. Always making some goofy decision. Always in trouble. And thus always by Mom's side. Perpetually her slave due to some recent malfeasance for which he got caught and then inevitably folded like a cheap tent when confronted by her laser-like interrogation. The rest of us siblings used to watch in horror from the sidelines as Jared would immediately confess to everything. Even those things Mom did not, could not, know. And we would whisper, "Jared! Shut up! Save yourself!" He never heard us.


And so throughout his most formative years, Jared found himself pulling weeds, scrubbing toilets, and vacuuming stairs. Mom was unyielding. If she grounded you, she meant it. When she said something, she stuck to it. She was nothing if not consistent, even when it would've been so much easier for her to relent, back off,  and give in to our whining and complaining and begging to be released from our servitude and able to go to that dance. C'mon. Just this once.  Sorrrrrry.  I won't do it again. Promise. (Okay. Maybe Jared wasn't the only one of us that ever got grounded).


Sometimes we didn't like her so much. Her and her steel fortitude. Her impenetrable tough exterior of commitment. Her immunity to our various attempts to manipulate the consequences could be maddening. And we told her so. I tried the "I hate you" mantra more than once when sent to my room. She would just smile and say, "Fine. You can hate me all you want. From right there in your room." Dang it.


So we may not have liked her. But we knew she loved us.  For that was the genesis of her dedication to our discipline. And we always loved her. Always.


That's what taught me Mom's life lesson #12:

Sometimes big trouble is just big love. 

Stick to it. 

Your kids will thank you for it.

Somehow we all survived. We all managed to get off restriction. Even Jared. And not a single day of those extra chores, those missed parties, those hours spent in our room thinking about what we did, could diminish the affection we felt for her. As full-fledged grown-ups we can now recognize the big love in our big trouble. We can fully see the genius in keeping the consequences clear and simple and close to home. For the consequences of the world are so much worse. So much more cruel. And so devoid of the love with which her homemade ones were brimming. We learned our lessons in that safe place. And it made us better when we stepped out on our own.

Proof We All Survived.

Jared and I were the only ones with her when she died. He was literally by her side, one last time, at the very end. She laid her head on his shoulder and held my hand and slipped quietly away. It was a moment full of proximity, both actual and emotional. One that I would not trade for anything. One that only accentuated for me that her dedication to those childhood consequences never pushed us away but only drew us in. Forever.

Jared and Lia on the Big Day

Recently, Jared got married. It was glorious. And it was a long time comin'.  We were all there (save Erin who was a  little too knocked-up to fly). As was Mom. She was there because she wouldn't have missed it. She was there because that boy who spent all those days grounded and slaving away at her side, that boy who could have had every reason to hold a grudge, held her close to his heart instead. She was there because Jared's sweet bride took a photo of Mom and created a charm that hung from his boutonniere. Literally over his heart.  Evidence that trouble can turn into something beautiful.

Jared's Two Moms, close to his heart.

How to Grow. . .

It’s amazing that anyone would let me be a mother.  Judging from my complete and utter lack of skill in nurturing a plant, one would assume that any living thing in my care would wither and die.  I cannot keep anything green alive.  I want to.  I mean well.  But my good intentions are belied by the inevitable browning of leaves and wilting of flowers that hang like candy canes and mock me.  Truth is, I don’t know the first thing about growing a garden.  My eyes glaze over and I’m pretty sure I go at least partially deaf when the helpful nursery expert starts talking about what needs sun, when to prune (the definition of which, I will freely admit, I really do not know), and how to fertilize.   

“What grows best in ignorance?” I think to myself.  “You know, something that prefers complete inattention and ineptitude?” Funny I’ve never found a plant with those words written on a cute little tag dangling from its gorgeous blossoming buds. 

Which is why the shrubs in my back yard must grow in spite of my best efforts to murder them.  It’s also why things get a little out of control with ugly. 

So, just like the trooper that she was, Mom would come to see us in Oregon, dig out a pair of gardening shears from wherever she left them the last time she visited, and head to my back yard.  We would stand sipping lemonade in our air-conditioned kitchen and watch her slave away.  It was tradition.  And it was the only thing standing between me and a weed jungle. 

On one such occasion, she asked whether I wanted a particular bundle of stems and leaves to be a tree or a bush.  I was stunned that I even had such an option.  I thought decisions such as these were made long before someone like me ever got involved.  Further, it was just a small shrub.  And though I liked the idea of a tree standing where this little bush was, that simply seemed impossible given its stunted height and stubby shape.  But Mom and her shears went to work.  Together, they cut away the numerous lower stems and branches that hid what was eventually revealed to be something that looked very much like a trunk.  It was small, and slight, and certainly not too sturdy, but by the time she was finished, that hedge resembled a tree.

That was nearly 6 years ago.  Today, that little bush is a towering Cherry Tree that shades our backyard and provides hours of climbing enjoyment for Liz’s granddaughters.  See evidence here:

 Kelby Defies Gravity in Our Tree

And when I look at it, I am reminded of

 Mom’s life-lesson #11

Sometimes a little loss is required 

for a lot of growth.

Like that tree, we must sometimes lose part of ourselves in order to grow into what we were meant to be.  A little pain makes us stronger, sturdier, more impressive versions of ourselves.  A moment of adversity, can shape for us a future of beauty. 

I can’t help but think of my mom when I look at that tree.  I think of the many ways she shaded me throughout my life. I think of how she shaped me into who I am now and who I still hope I can grow to be. I think of her example of strength, and endurance and heart.  And I think about how I miss her. Still.

And I remember the end of her life, punctuated by pain and suffering but surrounded by love. And I know those fleeting moments were necessary for her growth, for her future of eternal beauty. And how they were necessary for mine.  And I’m grateful for my knowledge of those things.

So on this Mother’s Day, I will stand at the base of my tree.  The tree she shaped.  The tree that stands tall in spite of my inattention to it.  And I will think of her.  And know that I still have some growing to do. 

Confessions of a Smoker

I used to be a smoker.  When I was 10.  At least once a week, my bestie Suzanne and I would climb on our bikes and take the mile-long ride across busy streets, sans helmet and without adult supervision down to Ernie’s liquors (that’s right…a LIQUOR store) to buy a pack.  We could hardly wait to get our fix and we would’ve smoked ‘em right then and there if we weren’t so excited to scurry back home to choreograph our latest music video in my front yard.  We had things to do, and that sweet feeling of the sleek stick between our lips helped us power through our creative challenges and really freaked out the neighbors as we exhaled the smoke.

The CANDY smoke, of course.  They weren’t real.  They were the product of a misguided marketing scheme that somehow determined that giving faux cigarettes to small children was acceptable.  You could never find such a bad idea on the shelves today.  But we loved them then.  We got a real kick out of them.  And it wasn’t a secret.  We were open and notorious with our habit.  Mom saw us prancing around holding them daintily between our middle and forefingers and pressing them to our lips like a saucy, but irresistibly attractive protagonist in an edgy Hitchcock film.  She watched as we brazenly relaxed on the front steps with our smokes and puffed the afternoon away (before we would turn around and fully consume them).

And looking back on that, I can appreciate my mom's LIFE LESSON #11

LETTING YOUR KIDS HAVE CANDY CIGARETTES DOES NOT MEAN THEY WILL GROW UP TO BE SMOKERS.  (also known as Choose Your Battles Wisely)

I shudder to think how I might overreact should my kids saunter home with candy cigarettes.  I would probably swipe them from their little misguided mouths and launch into a tirade about the dangers of nicotine, the gateway effects of smoking, and next thing we know, they will be cooking meth in our basement should they keep marching down this perilous path to perdition (you see where I’m going with this). 

But I remember how mom would just laugh at us (though I am quite certain that had those been actual Marlboros, there would’ve been nothing to laugh at for a very long time).  She was secure in her righteous example.  Sure that the lessons she lived everyday would act as my guiding principles. 

And so I have never been a smoker.  Never has actual nicotine passed my virgin lips.  I’ve never ventured down a dark alley looking for a fix or headed to anybody’s mobile meth-lab to help mix up a batch.  I turned out pretty all right despite my brief foray into candy-fueled rebellion.  {I should add here that Suzanne could say the same…she turned out pretty stellar herself}.  

Most things are not worth freaking out over.  You have to pick the important stuff.  I try to keep that in the back of my head when I am convinced that my lack of parental oversight is ruining my children.  I think of my mother laughing at our poor, albeit fake, smoking decisions when I let my four year-old stay up way past midnight to play the Wii with her crazy cousins.  I try to envision how she might have even encouraged the fact that my sister and I trek to the convenience store at 10PM for fountain sodas in order fuel our kids for their late-night ‘Just Dance’ parties.  See evidence of sugar crash HERE: 

Caris & Chloe at 2 AM-ish.

We must choose our battles wisely (Mom said this to me more times than I can remember).  With our kids.  With our friends.  With ourselves.  We must pick the big things to really lose our minds over.  How is anyone to discern what matters to us most if we can’t help them out with a little restraint and a little laughter in lieu of loud voices? 

I must work on this. I must strive to follow her example today, just like I did back then when I chose health over cigs.  So I try to let the little things go.  Freak out less.  See the humor more.  That's what Mom would do.

But so help me if my daughter comes home pretending to smoke a cigarette…