Summer of Senior Year: Bucket List

Last week Wednesday, my baby girl graduated from my high school. My alma mater. I know what you're thinking: But Mary Pat, you're a Boy Mom! Yes, yes. I am indeed. But before that, I was something else. Something I never stopped being.

A fairy godmother, of course.

When my sister had her first baby, I fell in love with a tiny redheaded bundle. She grew into a human who lives up to the fire that grows from her head, and she means as much to me as my own children. I have been a part of her life from the day she was born and every day since. I'm actually a little offended because mothers of graduates who are alumnae were invited onto the stage during the handing out of diplomas, and no one told me.

"You're not her mother," they all said.

Speechless. I was speechless.

But still, she is my girl. And seeing her graduate from my school brought back so many memories, especially of my senior year. How was I so lucky that I loved that year of my life? I often hear people groan over memories of high school, but somehow, through a stroke of luck or fate, I ended up with the perfect friends for me. And when I think back on that summer after we graduated, I remember sunsets and dusk light turning the trees gold. Thunderstorms. I remember backyard fires and elbow tag (it's a Mercy Girl thing) and just...being together.

I may not be Olivia's mom, but I don't doubt I am a special part of her life. A fairy godmother gives gifts and blessings and, well, magic. So for Liv and her friends on the night of her graduation party, I compiled and shared with them this bucket list for their summer of senior year. Based on my best memories and the things that have stayed in my heart and become a part of my identity, I gave them this:

Mary Pat's Summer To-Do List:

1. Do something unusual and fun together at least once a week. Rollerskate. LaserTron. Go-karting. Beach bonfires. Those kinds of things.

2. Practice making strangers smile. Out of joy. When you pull up next to someone at a traffic light, for example, give them a hearty thumbs up. Wave. Blow a kiss. Dance in the car. Don't be obnoxious. Never be rude--it's not worth it. Making people happy as much as you can when they don't expect it is MAGIC. And, like, blow a kiss at an old man who looks lonely (but not in a perverted way).

3. For the love of God, DANCE. Find as many opportunities to dance as you can. And most importantly...DANCE IN THE POURING RAIN. No shoes. In puddles. Hair soaked. Blare a song, and DANCE.

4. When you are out in public, make conversation with people you don't know. Start small. The cashier at Wegmans. Then go big. Someone in line at Target. Then bigger: a guy at the go-kart place. Ask people about themselves. They love that. Ask them their backstory. Ask them their dreams. Literally, look at a stranger and say, "Excuse me, but what ARE your hopes and dreams?"

5. Kiss someone on the cheek. Just 'cause. (Make sure they don't seem like a rapist, of course.)

6. Get a dozen roses from Wegmans and go to Canalside or the mall. A big busy place. Walk around and hand a rose to people who inspire you or seem like they need cheering up. Tell them it's just to make them happy and to have a nice day.

7. Go kayaking. Two people to a boat. You can rent them at a bunch of places. There is no trust game like operating a kayak with another human.

8. Wear your prom dress to a backyard party. This one should be at the end of summer. Make sure you hang string lights, eat chocolate, and drink sparkling grape juice.

9. Run down the hill at Chestnut Ridge. Then sit on the swings and watch the sunset.

10. Do a walking ghost tour. Drive to Valvo's. Then to Lily Dale.

11. Write a letter...with pen and paper...to each friend. You all have to do it. And give them to each person on the day they leave for school. Seal them in envelopes. Write your memories and wishes for each other. And then when school is overwhelming, or big, or you are just homesick, you will have your friends right there with you. A blank page that is filled up by a person's words to you is...MAGIC.

The End.

What Makes Her Beautiful

In preparation of Mother's Day, I asked my boys today what they liked best about my mother. Without hesitating, they all answered, "Her cooking." Okay...lame and obvious. I asked what they loved to do with her.

"We love when she tells us stories about you and how crazy you were."

Okay, before anything else, let the record show that I was not crazy. If anything, crazy well-behaved. But that's it. I was a freaking angel.

Anyway.

It's funny because that's my favorite thing about my mom, too. I love the stories she tells about her life. First because the life she's had from beginning to end is unique and fascinating, but also because I love imagining how she saw herself when she was young and comparing it to who she is now.

I know she was beautiful. I think she was fearless. I know that she snuck cigarettes in the high school bathroom. She liked high ponytails. But when I see pictures of her from when she was young, I notice something else, too.

She is stunning, isn't she? But...she didn't smile much. At least not in pictures. Her face here is perfect, at least to me, her daughter. I did not inherit such a face, or her sleek black hair. And still, the first time I ever saw this picture, she snatched it right up and said, "Wasn't I gorgeous?" (She's funny like that.)

I don't know where I got this from, but I'm a blurter. As in, I have to be really careful to control the stop sign that's supposed to be between my brain and my mouth, and I'm not always good at it. So in that moment, I blurted, "You look like a bitch."

She wasn't offended. She laughed out loud and said, "Well, that's because I was!"

Well okay then.

Tonight is the eve of a Mother's Day where her baby girl is thirty-eight. There are many, many more pictures of my mom now, and though she is older and smarter and, as my children can attest, a marvelous cook, I know she does not like that she has grown older. 

I've tried to argue with her, but she usually changes the subject abruptly or gets sad. So mostly I steer clear of the topic altogether. I mean, I'm thirty-eight and I miss being a teenager who used to pretend she was only borrowing the car to go to library and then picked up her best friend and went cruising through South Buffalo with the windows rolled down, looking for boys. I get it. It's just that when I look at my mother, I see something very different than she does.

I see her sitting alone in the morning when it was still dark, a cup of coffee next to her on the table, enjoying the rare silence that mothers crave. I see her standing at the front of a checkout line with her scary eyes demanding that a cashier give her the sale price. Coming into my room when I was younger and upset about some silly thing, trying not to smirk, always able to make me laugh. Always able to make the problem feel small and make my heart feel big. I remember my cousin John Conor being upset about something once, and my mom jumped up just as his chin bunched up to cry, and she took his hand and said, in her trademark matter-of-fact voice, "Come on, let's go see if I have some candy somewhere." When she talks like that, people don't argue. They don't question. It's like a magic spell. They're momentarily confused, probably thinking, "Wait...candy? But...I'm upset. Or am I?" and they follow this woman who confidently leads the way. And within minutes, the only thing any of us ever think is, "God, I love her."

It doesn't matter that she is forgetful and scatterbrained and probably suffering from ADD at some sort of exponential level. When things go wrong, she is the person I want. And I pray with all my heart that in thirty years, that is how my boys feel. And...not just that they will want me. That they know I will always be here for them. I will never say no. Because that's how my mother is for me.

When she looks in the mirror, I know she wishes she saw that sixteen-year-old version of herself, poised in white gloves beside a fireplace and refusing to look at the camera. But look at her now. Do you see the difference? All these years, all these Mother's Days--and birthdays and Christmases and Thanksgivings and grandchildren--and yes, her face has changed. It radiates with happiness. It is the embodiment of love, the real, raw kind that holds on to you and swears it won't let you fall. 

I don't think I have ever seen anyone more beautiful.

A Summer Girl

I measure years by summers. It began with being young and in school, and was perpetuated by becoming a teacher and a mom. When I say this year or next year, I'm speaking in terms of time span that runs from September through June, with July and August existing in a magical limbo that is disconnected from everything else.

I wrote once, long ago, of blossoming trees. As the leaves come out and fill the skyline with green, I think of all those leaves will see in their short lifetime. They live during magical limbo, and drift off when the new year begins. When they begin to fall, my heart hurts for the ending of my favorite time of year.

Today the brand new leaves saw my four-year-old son take on the world wearing khakis, a button-down shirt, and his Phantom of the Opera mask. One of the things I've learned as a teacher is to let kids be comfortable being as weird as they are. I will not squash his Phantom love out of him. Sometimes he wears the cape. Sometimes he wears the whole tux, and I'm not kidding. The leaves of this summer will see my littlest boy embracing his weirdness.

They will see my oldest embrace his newfound independence. Riding his bike through the neighborhood, going to movies sans parents in groups that include--gulp--GIRLS. What I love most about the way I've raised him is that every day since kindergarten I've sent him off with the message, "Try your best and be kind to everyone." I see the fruit of that now. It didn't always feel like he was listening; it still doesn't. But then I see the way he reaches out to friends, and to people who aren't his friends. He tries to understand everyone's backstory so their attitudes, often different from his own, don't bother him. "Be everyone's friend," I tell him. "Don't get involved with the negative stuff. Just be neutral. Just be kind."

The leaves will see my middle boy struggle as he always does. I say the same things to him that I do to his brothers, but his response is different because he is different. And that's okay. I like my little middle. The leaves will watch him take his confusing world and mold it into what works for him, and I love that.

Dear Summer Leaves,

I pray that you will whisper with soft warm breezes and bless us with a kind of pixie dust that makes us strong and healthy, quick to smile, slow to anger. Bring us moments that will stay in our hearts like photos in an album. Bring us chances to rise up and make our lives special, even when it is daunting to do so. Help us to spread goodness where it is needed, and to make the world as magical as you are.

Love,

A Summer Girl

Slice of Life

This is going to be poorly written, but if I don't do it now I won't remember it. And it so perfectly sums up the chaos that is my life.

Where do I start.

Joe and I have an event to attend tonight, which means we need a babysitter. That means, at least to me, that I have to do a run through the house with bleach and Pledge and make sure it at least looks good enough for me to say, "Oh, my, excuse our mess! Tee hee!" instead of "Please don't call CPS."

So I'm running around, scrubbing the toilets and wiping the mirrors behind every sink, because boys are gross and for some reason when they spit out water they need it to be like putting a thumb over the hose nozzle.

When it looked decent (and it doesn't; I left two full baskets of laundry downstairs by the entry of all places...I hope remember to move that), I was like, "Okay. Shower." Get the older brother to watch the younger brother. Warnings and threats about behavior because these two are oil and vinegar. Or really, vinegar and vinegar. Or like...machete and machete. I don't know. Dangerous combo. So, yeah. Warnings and threats.

Dash up the stairs (of which I'm terrified because I almost died falling down them four weeks or so ago), fling off my clothes, and hop into what will most assuredly be a half-assed shower.

Through the steam, I see my four-year-old son run into the bathroom. I can see he is wearing one gardening glove and is brandishing scissors. The wrong way. They're safety scissors, but I've always found that ascription to be a bit of an oxymoron.

"NO SCISSORS!!!!" I screamed.

Even through the steam, I can see he is annoyed. Like, "Guh. Mom is so stupid, thinking I'd hurt myself with scissors."

Whatever. He put them down.

Then, I hop out of the shower, and I'm wrapped in a towel running around (is this too much information? apologies, but really, it's life, right?) and I see Max in the hallway in his underpants and bright orange socks, yanking on his Thomas the Tank bathing suit.

"Max!"

He put a hand up, like a crossing guard about to let children cross the road. "I have a cold. I'm very sick and I need a shower." He was so matter-of-fact (and also lying), I was momentarily stunned into speechlessness, before I said, "Just take your socks off first."

I mean, really. I just can't.

Right now he's lying on his belly on the floor of my shower waving his arms and legs around like he's swimming, and he has a plastic dinosaur next to him. The safety scissors are on my counter and the gardening gloves lays in the wait on the floor.

He's singing Phantom of the Opera songs louder than a Broadway diva. I gotta get outta here.