Monthly Archives: August 2013

I never wanted to be a blogger…



I never wanted to be a “blogger”. In fact, in all honesty, up until a few years ago when my sister began blogging about her struggles and victories as a foster and adoptive mom (, I thought (rather naively) that the only reason people shared such deep and touching moments with the general public was to get some kind of attention or somehow have their experiences validated by getting nods of approval, OR that folks blogged for professional gain. Well, I was wrong. I’ve never been wrong before, so that was a surprise to me, too.

[insert eye rolling and laughter here]

I used to try and “journal”. I’d go to Barnes and Noble and buy the prettiest little notebook with a bright floral or paisley print, maybe a new gel pen – heck, maybe a whole set of colored gel pens, ya’ know – so I could write in different colors based on varying moods. Then I’d ice that pretty little cake with a few highlighters, just in case I needed to emphasize a particular part of a story. Er… to myself I guess?

But, I never kept it up. In fact, my past was such a potpourri of my own perceived failures that when I’d go back and read the BS it was so jolting and embarrassing that I’d shred those pages – burn them – bury them – whatever I had to do to make them permanently go away, as if that would somehow Control-Alt-Delete my life.

I never stopped telling the stories in my mind, though. Nobody does. We drive long distances to work and retell and recreate the past, we plan and act out events in the future. We line everything up neatly so that we don’t continue to make the same mistakes. In those moments in our thoughts we love the deepest, we are the most patient parents, we are the most dedicated employees, and of course we are the winners of all arguments.

So, I don’t want to blog about the things of the past, although some of it will come up as it relates to my being a grandmother and reflecting on my days as a young mom. Instead, I want to use these words to sort out these thoughts in the present, the hopes for the future; and in the interim if you’d like to laugh with me, cry with me, or even pat yourself on the back for doing things differently, please do.

Here I am, the dreaded blogger.

Emily (Mimi)

I heard you say…


ImageI heard you say “my son” for the first time yesterday. You were talking about the kind of mom that you want to be, and the example you want to set for your son.

Your son.

Your son.

Such a simple phrase.

“My son”, yet it implies so much.

It means you’ve grown up and you’re going to be a mommy. It means that my days of raising you as a child have come to a screeching halt. It means that I am now the parent of an adult. It means I have a grandson on the way. It means that you are on your way to knowing what it feels like to have every ounce of your body, mind and soul connected to another person in a way that could never be put into words. It means that from here on out your own personal needs will no longer be of any importance to you, because that little one will be everything; your entire world.

It’s the first of many times you’ll say “my son”. You’ll say “my son” to teachers, doctors, old friends, new friends, family, lunch ladies, bus drivers, neighbors, coworkers, dentists, coaches, preachers, school counselors, principals, and complete strangers.

There will be many times you’ll hear “your son”. When the doctor hands you your newborn baby as he cries out naked and innocent making his triumphant entrance into every day of the rest of your life.

You’ll hear “your son” and it will elicit feelings of every emotion imaginable, love, fear, anxiety, worry, happiness, anger, frustration, and pride. Your son will single-handedly be responsible for most of these feelings on a daily basis, yet your love and devotion to him will outweigh all of them.

You are about to experience an intensity that I’ve often heard described as wearing your heart on the outside of your body, but that only gently touches the magnitude of this feeling. Not only will your heart forever be exposed and vulnerable, everything you see, everything you touch, everywhere you walk, everything you smell will be unfailingly changed.

When you see him for the very first time you’ll say “my son”. When you snuggle with him privately, the two of you alone and bonding in a world that is confusing and chaotic, you’ll make promises to your son.

And with a guarding eye and a protective heart, from a distance, I’ll be praying for you, My Daughter.