Category: Emery

Mother’s Day, May 2025

Crested Butte, Colorado, my 60th birthday

I always think of you when I hear the Fleetwood Mac song Gypsy.  For years, that song has reminded me of you, and I always picture you in your Alaska days.  Tonight, during their show, for the first time, I felt myself reflecting on my pre-Arlo days, thinking like a gypsy in spirit.  I kept thinking about how cool it would have been if you and I had met when we were both in our twenties.  I think we would have been best friends.  Thank you for gifting me with a part of your spiritual gypsy soul.  Love you always!  Emery December 3, 2018

Emery sent this email to me after a Fleetwood Mac concert, when she was living in Fort Collins and I was still in Kansas City. I’d be moving to Boulder the following summer. I liked to think of Emery and me as friends—going to concerts together and wearing vintage clothing with braids in our hair.  I held her idea, knowing that someday we would go to a Fleetwood Mac concert and pretend to be in our early 20s, instead of a young mother and grandmother. Those words hold far more value for me today, as do the conversations, the photos, the experiences, and the plans that never came to fruition, because now they carry the weight of being finite entities.

My Mother’s Day essays for the past several years have been written with musings of Pop-Tarts on make-shift trays and kids fighting over who gets to sit next to mom. This Mother’s Day is different. I’ve been dreading this Mother’s Day.  Emery, who was the reason I moved to Boulder and the one who would make sure I was given a proper Mother’s Day celebration, is gone.  I don’t know what to do with the day or myself, knowing that her plans for us to celebrate our roles as mamas will be painfully absent.

Last year on Mother’s Day, Emery and I celebrated our motherhood by doing what we loved — we played in the dirt and planted three carloads of perennials in her front yard. Emery did what I never could on Mother’s Day. She asked for what she wanted. She told Miles she wanted to spend the day planting with me after our family brunch. It was her version of me wanting to go to the movies by myself for Mother’s Day. Miles took the children fishing, and Emery and I rolled up our sleeves and dug in the dirt.  We planted, we laughed, we told stories, and we cried, all with the beautiful music of Stephen Sanchez in the background.  Emery preferred the wild, untamed, and overgrown look of an English garden, whereas I preferred the orderly and tidy look of a French garden. I told her we would know exactly who planted what in three years, as her area would be a tangled mess.  She smiled at me and said, “I know, Mom…exactly like I like it.”  I told her it would be fun to see the results of our plantings on the following Mother’s Day, when much of what we planted would be beginning to show blooms.  She suggested we do the same thing the following Mother’s Day.  I agreed.  I loved the tradition we had set into motion.



We talked about travel plans — a trip, just the two of us, to New York, or perhaps Paris.  She said she would visit me when I returned to the house I had rented on the Oregon Coast the following year, cloudy days and all, and asked me where I wanted to celebrate my 70th birthday.  Emery had planned my 50th and 60th birthday celebrations, so I knew my 70th would be no exception.  The anticipation felt good.  We had a lot to look forward to. 

That ended on January 4th, at 11:38 am — a time on the clock and forever in my heart that marked my before and after.  It became my line of demarcation between when my life was whole and when a big part was gone. It is my before, when joy was present, and my heart full, and now the after,  when I can barely get out of bed in the morning, can’t sleep at night, and cry without explanation at inopportune times.  It marks the time when I knew who I was, to the time when I have no idea who I am, or who I will become in my grief of missing my darling girl.  It marks the time before, when I bought two Mother’s Day cards last year to be given on two consecutive Mother’s Days, because they were that good, to the time after,  where there will always be an unsigned Mother’s Day card in the top drawer of my desk, because I bought it for Emery, and no one else. 

Thomas and Grant, who I became a mother to before Emery was born, have mothered me since January 4th and the 48 hours that preceded that difficult day.  They held me up, gave me their shoulders to cry into, came to me from another room when they heard me sobbing, and never once told me it would be Ok, because we all knew it never would be. As we were leaving Emery’s hospital room the morning she died, Thomas said, “You can’t hold your sister’s hand while the machines that were keeping her alive are turned off and walk out of the room the same person.”  He was right. We are all changed, and our love of Emery and each other is holding us together. Through their love, I have found my bit of peace, and because they are a part of me, they are the ones who can help me carry the tremendous load of grief I have for the part of our lives that is missing.   They have been by my side as we navigate this unfamiliar journey that often feels like an icy precipice with limited visibility on a knife-edge cliff. They are my comfort.  They are my world. They carry stories that only we know, that are now safeguarded for Emery and Miles’ children, Arlo and Muna. To Thomas and Grant,  I’m honored that you call me Mom on this most difficult of Mother’s Days and every day after.  You hold my heart. 



Emery’s Dad, Charlie,  and I were with our girl for her first breath and also her last.  We linked the circle of Emery’s being in the hospital room, overcrowded with machinery, anticipation, and hope, while time slipped and stalled and ended with a painful loss, whose depth we are still grappling with. And just as Thomas would later confirm, we filed out of her room, different from the people who had entered.

I’ve been going through the files on my computer titled Emery.  In it are countless letters and essays I’ve written to or about Emery, along with her emails. I found the words I wrote for her Celebration of Life, and next to that, a copy of her death certificate.  That last entry makes it feel like the file was closed, but it wasn’t.  It can’t be closed just like I can’t tell people I have two children.  I have three, two of them living. In rereading the essays and letters, there is a common thread of my difficulties with letting go that began when she started kindergarten and continued through her marriage and eventual move to Colorado.  I didn’t want to let go.  I didn’t know how.  I learned the night after getting her settled in her dorm room at college, when she called and asked if I could return to college and be her roommate; she didn’t know how to let go, either.  I knew she was joking, but I also understood the sentiment behind her words.  We missed each other when we weren’t physically close.  One of the letters I found in the collection was one she wrote me for my 60th birthday.  I stopped and started it several times as it was painful to read, and decided to include part of it, given that it’s Mother’s Day.

August 30, 2015 (from Emery)
“You taught me to always listen to my intuition and follow my heart. I’m so glad I listened to you, because I wouldn’t be who I am today if it weren’t for you.
This is what I’ve learned about the heart and the mother and child’s bond:
When two people are near one another, their hearts’ electromagnetic fields synchronize.  This synchronization is like a support system, one heart learning to beat with the other.  The first begins in utero, when the mother’s and baby’s hearts synchronize. When you’re away from that person, your heart goes through a period where it has to focus on beating without the other heart, and it takes some time for your heart to get back to beating on its own in a normal fashion.  This is the feeling of heartache or of missing someone.  It is real.
As two people who have spent so much time together, our hearts sigh with relief when we are together, Mom,  because we are so familiar with each other.  So, when I say I love you from the bottom of my heart, I really, really mean it.  I love you so much, Mom. Emery”  

You were right, my darling girl; the feeling of heartache is real. I wonder how much time it will be before my broken heart goes back to beating in the way it beat before January 4th at 11:38, if that will ever happen.

I’ve often spoken of the umbilical cord when writing about mothering, or the metaphorical cord after the physical one has been cut.  I’ve referenced my umbilical cord stretching itself to three different parts of the country, where my three children live.  I don’t know how far Emery’s cord stretches now, but I know it’s still there. I can feel its tug when I see Muna’s big brown eyes and soft curls, so much like her Mama, or when Arlo leaned in at our birthday dinner, wanting me to tell him stories about his Mama.  I will tell him all the stories I can remember, and story by story, word by word, so he and Muna will have the tools to paint a picture of their Mama when she was their age.   I feel the cord wrapping itself around my own heart, which is no longer intact, yet the connections continue —a red-tailed hawk circling overhead, a quarter found on the floor next to my bed with 1990 on it, and a framed photo also near my bed that randomly fell over yesterday. Connections are different, but present. 

I used to tell my kids that I would stand before a moving train if I had to protect them.  I spoke metaphorically, but the deeper I got into motherhood, the less metaphorical that statement became.  I’m sorry I couldn’t stop that train on Jan 4th, Emery. I couldn’t even find the tracks, and as a mother, not being able to come to your rescue has been so painful that I sometimes struggle to find my breath. 

My Mother’s Day post in 2017 was dedicated to Emery as she had just given birth to her son, Arlo, four days earlier, ironically, on my firstborn, Thomas’s, birthday.
It feels timely to include an excerpt from that post.

Mother’s Day, May 4th, 2017


I will always be your mother, and you will always be my daughter, but now we’re entering into a new place, given that we both are mothers now, and that in and of itself is just about the most beautiful and perfect thing I can think of on this very first Mother’s Day for you. 

You will have days that you feel like you are swimming upstream in mud, and it will be hard to maneuver yourself out of the mire, but you’ll figure it out, and before you begin to slump into a human question mark, rest assured, dry land is never out of sight.  You’ll stumble, you’ll fumble, you’ll eat a bag of chips with a salsa chaser for breakfast, and you’ll call pajamas clothes for more days than you care to admit, and to that I say “do it.”  And do it repeatedly because you deserve every morsel of not-so-healthy and every hour of long past time to get out of your jammies.  You’re a mama now.  Claim that right with pride.

You grew up with a mom who often felt like that frazzled, wild-haired bus driver in the Magic School Bus series, which I greeted at the time with a sigh and a promise to myself to get it right the next time. Still, decades later and without apologies, I realize that the messy, the dirty, the not wearing the right shoes, or shoes at all, and letting go of a whole lot of shoulds and coulds, just might have been one of the best gifts I could give you.  I can’t end this letter without a big shout-out to your partner in life and love, Miles.  His hands-on fathering melts my heart. What a lucky baby Arlo is to have you both as parents.

From one mother to another, I wish you the best of everything and several consecutive hours of sleep this Mother’s Day, dear Emery.  Only now that you are a Mom can you begin to understand how much I love you. And I do.  So much.

Still.

Mother’s Day, 2012

Stories for my Grandchildren

I am seated on the same blue couch I sat on a year ago, looking out of the same window at the same spot on the Oregon Coast. Last year, I witnessed a small gathering of people standing shoulder to shoulder at the water’s edge, their faces and attention all turned towards the sea.  I was drawn to their stillness and connection to something I couldn’t see but could feel.  As I got closer, close enough to see the individuals in the group, while respectfully maintaining my distance, I saw someone seated in front of the group who appeared to be younger than those standing.  She wore a yellow raincoat.  The person at the end of the group moved next to the girl, squatted down, put his hand on her back, and handed her a box.  The girl held the box to her chest, then returned it to the man, picked up a stick, and began carving something into the sand.  When she was finished, the man returned the box to her, and the group slowly walked away from the water in a single file, with the girl in the yellow raincoat trailing behind. I had walked away from the group, not wanting to intrude, and when I returned, I saw the letters MA carved into the sand.  The tide may have erased the first part of the word,  or maybe that was all she wrote.  Was it MA?  Or were they the last two letters of MAMA?  I wasn’t sure, but the image drawn beside it was unmistakable—a heart.

I may not have gotten the details right, and that didn’t matter, but what I did get right was the witnessing of love that the line-up of people had for someone who was no longer with them. It made me think of my three children and what they would look like if it were me they were honoring and mourning. A year later, that is not the story I’m telling.  Instead, it is my two sons and I who are metaphorically standing at the water’s edge, mourning the passing of my sons’ only sister and my only daughter. It’s not the order of life we expected, and we still grapple with the reality that it happened. My daughter, Emery, who was not even as old as I was when I gave birth to her, is no longer with us.

Emery was always my first text after I’d post a new essay on my blog.  She’d praise my words, noting specific parts that moved her or made her laugh. Enough that I knew she had read the piece and wasn’t just giving me a quick, “ I loved it!” acknowledgment.

She texted that she could see herself and her brothers doing exactly what I said in the piece.“We’d be talking over each other and interrupting with stories about you, Mom, because there were so many.” I won’t get her response to this post.

After seeing the group of people mourning someone they loved and leaning into each other in sorrow, thoughts of my death were softened by the love my family had for each other and what has woven us together as a family.   I never thought it would be the youngest family member we would be saying goodbye to first.

This morning, a year later, I thought about the girl in the yellow raincoat, whom I guessed was a young teen.  She was the one I related to, especially after seeing the letters MA  and the heart carved into the sand.  As a Mama who said goodbye to her daughter, who was also a Mama, I became the girl in the yellow raincoat.  The oldest and the Mom in our family of five made an unlikely connection with the youngest in the lineup of people on the beach because of a heart drawn in the sand and two letters that I have turned into the word Mama for the story’s sake.  She missed her Mama, and I am a Mama who misses her child.  We have a connection.

Back in the mid-70s, when I was getting my pilot’s license, I became close friends with Leigh, who was also in her late teens, working on her pilot’s license.  Leigh and I connected with our experiences, enjoying each other’s stories far more than anyone else would. Our conversations were punctuated by “this will be something we will tell our grandkids.” It became our tagline and our push to do things that scared us — more stories for our grandchildren. 

I had no idea at the time that the stories I would be telling two of my grandchildren would not be about my flying escapades, but rather stories about their Mama, some that only I could tell them.  I will tell them the stories their Mama won’t be able to tell them. I will be the one to tell them that she loved red shoes as a little girl, twirly skirts, and that she could French braid her hair when she was in kindergarten.  I will tell them she had a deathly fear of silverfish, but came to my rescue more than once with a mouse.  I will tell them that for many years, she would only eat yogurt if it had goldfish crackers in it, and so that’s how I prepared it for her.  I will tell them I sang to her at night until she was old enough to sing along, and it became a nightly show rather than a peaceful transition to slumber.

In the same way, I would sit with my Dad in his last few years and ask for more stories, so afraid he would die before I had them all, I need to make sure Arlo and Muna have all the stories I can remember about their Mama.  It will be healing for me and information for them. I will feel Emery’s presence as I ramble on to Arlo and Muna with stories about their Mama. I will feel her beside me, nodding and smirking, then saying, “Well, that’s not exactly how it happened…”. And I’ll look back at her with raised brows, and she will correct herself and say, “You’re right, and some exaggeration is OK because you’re the storyteller and you have a captive audience.”  At least, that’s what I imagine. 

In telling my daughter’s stories, the edges of the missing part of my heart will soften. Salve to my heart will become information for Arlo and Muna.  I thought about the “stories we will tell our grandchildren”  while walking on a beach a short drive from where I’m staying. A few minutes later,  I noticed I had missed a call from Leigh.  We hadn’t talked in almost 20 years.  I sat on a rock to listen to her message and saw a heart-shaped rock in the sand, directly in front of my boot. Emery is with me, and she’s making sure I know it.

As I returned to my car,  a couple reading the trailhead map at the edge of the parking lot stopped me and asked me if it was a hard hike down to the beach.  “Hard?  No, not at all.  It’s very easy and quite lovely.”  They thanked me and left.  I paused, wondering what possessed me to give them the information they wanted, but with a British accent.  I don’t normally respond to people I don’t know with a British accent.  Actually, I’ve never done that before in my life, but there are many things I’m doing now that I’ve never done before as I am navigating an unpredictable path. The only explanation I could come up with is that during these heavy days of sadness and grief, I don’t always want to be who I am.  I don’t want to be a Mom who has endured something that no Mom should ever have to endure.  Instead, I became a British woman, perhaps on holiday, enjoying a short hike and an afternoon at the beach.  Maybe someday, that will be added to the long line-up of stories I’ll tell Arlo and Muna.  The story of grief being so difficult to maneuver that their Laudie pretended to be someone else and spoke with a British accent. 

Many of the stories I will share with Arlo and Muna were recorded in journals and essays I’ve written and collected since the day I found out I was pregnant with their Mama.  As I sit here today, on the same blue couch, looking out of the same picture window to a part of the country I’ve come to love, I think about the girl in the yellow raincoat.  I wonder if, a year later, the raw edges of her grief have been softened, and if she asks the others who were with her that day to tell her more stories, because when there is a finite number, they hold more weight and importance than ever imagined.  The words I write today,  tomorrow, and for the rest of my life will be the stories I tell my grandchildren when the time is right. They are words inspired by my beautiful girl, Emery, written by the one she called Mom while in the throes of grief that I never could have anticipated.  

“Once upon a time, your Mama…” I’ll say,  and Arlo and Muna will lean in, holding onto every word, then will carry them as their own.

Words for Emery

(that I never thought I would write)

01/19/2025

As a writer, I have always found comfort and solace in words, much like other family members find in music and art.  Words have helped me make sense of the world and have given me a portal to express myself, whether I’m sharing my work with others or for my eyes only.  I’ve opened my computer countless times these past two weeks, but words fail me. Instead, when I open my computer, I find myself going through photos of Emery. I linger on the ones of her as a little girl because the more recent memories of my girl as a woman, a wife, and a mother hurt my heart too much now.  Funny stories came to mind, but I wondered if they would be appropriate for Emery’s celebration of life…a time of reverence, respect, and awe.  Then I felt Emery’s nudge…and her telling me, “Celebration, Mom, focus on the celebration part and tell the stories.”    And so I will.

My Flower Girl:

Like many children, Emery never wanted to go to bed, whether at night or during afternoon naps.  When most children her age would be put down for naps in their cribs, Emery would try to persuade me to let her nap on the couch, “mostly to keep me company.” I caved more often than I should have because I loved having her curled up next to me on the couch, pretending to sleep while I pretended to read.  One of my nighttime techniques to help her fall asleep was to sing to her.  I am not a singer, by the way.  I don’t remember how, when, or why, but the song “I Love the Flower Girl” by the Cowsills became my nightly lullaby.  When she was old enough to sing along, it became our duet, with hairbrush microphones in hand.  This hardly ensured Emery’s entrance into slumber, but it was fun, and we loved fun, so it became our routine and “our song.”  

Emery grew up loving flowers, and at an age when most of her friends didn’t know the difference between a daffodil and a daisy, she could name every one of the perennials and shrubs in my very large garden… in Latin because that’s how I taught her.  When she was in kindergarten, she started calling my garden “the garden of love.”  She decided she wanted her kindergarten teacher, Miss Lindner,  to get married there and began to make plans.  She  knew where Miss Lindner would enter the garden, under the rose trellis, of course, and where her husband-to-be would be waiting for her.  She told me we would need to call the newspaper.  I told her Miss Lindner needed a boyfriend.  She dismissed my concerns and said we needed a photographer.  “Could you be the photographer?” She asked.  I told her I’d be honored.  Miss Linder did not get married in our  “garden of love,” but we did attend her wedding two years later.  As we watched Miss Lindner walk down the aisle, we looked at each other, smiled, and nodded.  Our thoughts were on the same thing… our garden of love.  Truly, my flower girl. 

Marley:

Emery’s love of animals ran as deep as her love of plants.  When she was in kindergarten, we adopted our beloved yellow lab, Marley.  On our first visit to the vet, a female doctor came into the exam room, introduced herself, and told us she would be right back.  Emery asked me why the veterinarian was a woman.  She had opened the door to a conversation I loved having with her about how women can do the same jobs as men, but before I could finish my point, she interrupted me and said, “Oh, I know that, Mom. I was just wondering why Marley’s doctor wasn’t a dog because wouldn’t a dog understand our Marley better than a person?  I started to explain to her that a dog wouldn’t be able to tell us what Marley needed but stopped because I wanted to savor how her brain processed life through the lens of love.  Emery and I would be in that room together, curled up on a blanket next to Marley, 12 years later, when we had Marley euthanized.  She asked me why it hurt so much.  I told her because the deeper the love is,  the more painful the goodbyes are.  I told her this when her Gramps, my dad, passed in September.  I’m telling myself this now.

Not long after that, she asked me when the world turned from black and white to color because there were pictures of me and her grandparents in my photo albums that were black and white, and the photos of her and her brothers were in color.  “Was I there when it changed?  Was it amazing to see everything turn to color after it had been black and white? she asked me.  Another question I needed to savor first and explain later.  Emery saturated the colors in life in the way she saw things, and in doing so, she changed the way I looked at life. As alike as we were, I had one trait that she told me she could never understand, and that was my love of a gray day, a sad movie, a melancholy song, or a long string of rainy days. Emery wanted the sun and the saturation of colors that came with it. Emery needed the sun.

There are no words that can carry the depth and weight of the emotions and love I will always carry for Emery.  Nor should there be because feelings this deep cannot be defined by words but rather can only be felt in the depths of our souls. A part of my heart left with her because, as her Mama, I couldn’t let her go alone.

I want to end with words I wrote to Emery in November 2012 as I grappled with my emotions of letting her go to begin a life with Miles the following year.

“Sometimes I look at you, and you are four years old — with chubby arms and legs, wild hair that you refuse to let anyone but you comb, and you don’t, and a twirly skirt that you enjoy keeping airborne while revealing your mom’s lackadaisical dressing style because you have no underwear on.

You are not four years old, and I am not the mama of a four-year-old, yet somehow, in my teaching you how to fly, I forgot to teach myself how to let you go.  I’m watching you fly while I desperately try to remember exactly when your feet left the ground because one day, I was carrying you, and in what seemed to be no longer than a restful pause, you were carrying yourself.  When you were handed to me in the hospital, I felt like I was holding onto a big part of my heart.  I still do.  And just as you told me when you were little and what we still say to each other every day,  I love you with my whole heart.  Really, really, for my whole life.“

Soar through the skies, my beautiful Emery.

A Good Night’s Dream

Two nights ago, I dreamt I was sorting through piles of dolls and stuffed animals with Emery in the dining room of the house she grew up in. Dreams love to plop you down in random places doing things that seem pretty irrelevant, but after you wake up, hopefully with a rough sketch of who, what, and where, I find that the puzzle pieces usually fit together quite nicely.  There was no doubt in my mind when I woke up as to why I needed to sort through dolls slowly and stuffed animals with my daughter.  It was exactly what I needed.

We were sitting in dining room chairs, in a room void of all else except the large piles of stuffed animals and dolls.  Emery would thoughtfully pick up every doll or stuffed animal and turn it over slowly while looking at it with such love that it seemed she might have actually birthed it.  I was coming from a place of more efficiency and less emotion, and wanted to speed up the process and start building piles.  The save pile was the only pile that was even a pile at all, as the other two, the trash pile and the give-it-away pile, were still just empty spots on the wooden floor.  My daughter is a softy with a huge heart.

There was one doll that was about 18 inches tall, with hair that had been cut and washed by Emery, neither with much success. It had a broken eye, a missing arm, and no clothes.  None of the dolls or animals were familiar to me, and I was aware of that in the dream, giving me pause as to why we were sorting strange toys in the first place.  I quietly slid naked punk-haired baby to the spot on the floor for throw away, or give away, giving her the honor of starting whichever pile would be acceptable.
“We can’t give her away, Mommy. No one will love her like we do because we know her,” said the sweet, tiny voice next to me.

When I turned around to justify my decision, it was 4-year-old Emery who was sitting next to me, wearing the dress with cowboys and horses on it I had made for her, red cowboy boots, and striped leggings that didn’t match anything.  My sweet little 4-year-old Emery, right next to me.
I wanted more than anything to pull her up onto my lap and hug her and hold her and hug her some more,  but I didn’t because I was afraid if I tried to touch her, my hand would go right through her like a ghost and she might even disappear.

For the remainder of the dream,  I got to sit with my little girl next to me and sort out piles of dollies and animals that, although I had no attachment to,  I began to find a fondness for simply by seeing them through Emery’s young eyes.  I knew that the task at hand would be a simple one and that the give-away and throw-away piles would remain empty spots on the floor because my assistant’s heart was bigger than the room, and there would be no creature left behind.

One of the very strange and memorable elements of the dream was that I had control of the pace and can distinctly remember slowing it down to a crawl at one point simply for the luxury of getting to linger in memories that were so real I could touch them, feel them and even help lovingly stack them into piles with stuffed animals on one side and the dolls on the other.  I had dipped into the realm of lucid dreaming, something I had accidentally stumbled upon during an evening class several years ago.  Yes, accidentally.  This was a much easier accident than when I enrolled in an Astronomy class my first semester at K-State and quickly figured out that I wasn’t going to learn anything about Virgos and what sign they would have the most luck dating.  I was a very young freshman, barely 18, if that helps my cause.

Anyway, back to dream classes…I thought I had enrolled in a one-evening dream analysis class,  but instead I got a three-hour rundown on lucid dreaming, which ended up being better than what I had planned on.  I didn’t learn how to do it, per se, but now can easily recognize it when it happens, which is cool.

The last text I had gotten from Emery before I fell into dreamland that night was a photo of a cute little yellow house in Ft Collins, Colorado, the house that she and her new husband, Miles, had just signed a rental contract on during their quick weekend visit to house search. She’s married.  She’s moving to Colorado.  She’s growing up.

I woke up feeling sentimental, sad, confused, yet with a very full heart. There was a part of me that needed to sit with 4-year-old Emery and be reminded that no matter how old she is, or how grown-up the decisions she is making with Miles are, she will always have that loving little girl inside of her with a heart that’s as big and open as the Kansas sky.

While growing up and finding their wings is what I assume most parents hope and plan for their children, the process is clumsy and awkward with shoes that are too big and pants too long, and then one day it all fits and they’re adults doing adult things and managing just fine, because that’s what we taught them.  It still sometimes surprises me, though.

Life gave me the gift of a tiptoe back to a place that I needed to be reminded of while helping me, once again, through the process of letting go —a process I hadn’t realized was already taking place.  Somehow, that pile of orphaned toys and the little girl sorting through them gave me the message that everything was going to be OK. And that, in my maternal pain of letting go, is what I’m holding onto.

Even as a baby, she loved them all… no favorites…

The “real” dolls fared much better than the dream dolls…