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Dear Stay-At-Home Parents

Posted on July 16, 2013 Written by Tonya

After almost a month hiatus, I am proud to welcome Melissa of The Valentine RD as my Letters For You guest today.

A Registered Dietitian and Certified Diabetes Educator and HUGE Duran Duran fan, Melissa is a recent transplant from New York to Southern California and we are happy to have her on the left coast!

Melissa is conducting a panel for a Facebook chat on “Nutrition For Moms” hosted by FitForExpecting.com on July 22, 11:00 am – 12 noon PST.

Her letter is to stay at home parents and the shock and awe of becoming one herself.

Dear Stay-At-Home Parents:

I never thought I’d be a Stay-At-Home (SAH) parent but after moving from New York to Los Angeles, I took time off from the professional world to help my child settle into his new surroundings. I went back to school at age 30 to change careers and never thought a child would take me “off-track” but I’m proud to have been part of the SAH community for a little over a year now.

I owe SAH parents an apology. I thought that the job of staying at home was definitely going to be easier than any work I’d do in an office. I always found my definition and purpose through my career. I was the employee that every boss wants because I was extraordinarily dedicated my work. When I became a SAH parent, I thought that I’d finally be able to have my dedication truly appreciated and put to better use to by my family.

I was going to be the ultimate SAH parent. I’d work out every morning, decorate an immaculately clean house, prepare healthy meals and I’d still have enough time to look halfway decent and all the while be more available for my school-aged child.

I failed in nearly every aspect of my plan to do it all. I worked out most days but it all went downhill from there. Most of my other intentions would often be overrun by the tentacles of social media (Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, Google+ and my blog) and other minor responsibilities. I was often the parent picking my child up from school in the same clothes I worked out in that morning. I was stinky but available for my child.

I learned that work skills aren’t necessarily transferable to being a SAH parent. I was the weekly parent helper in my child’s classroom. Try as I might, my crafting wasn’t up to snuff and there were days that I required a drink after my two hour stint (teachers, how do you do it?!) but my child was so thrilled to have me around that it made stretching my own limitations well worth it.

Despite my SAH parental shortcomings, I realize that the ability to be involved in my child’s school at an early time in his life is an extraordinary opportunity. I may not have reached the ideal in SAH parenthood in my own mind but I doubt my child noticed. I can guarantee that while I was freaking out that there were other parents who would have loved to have switched places with me but couldn’t because they were literally otherwise employed.

Parenting isn’t easy period. To stay at home or to work outside the home is difficult on every parent. It often isn’t a choice but an obligation for one (and often both) parents to work outside the home. It isn’t easy to manage the financial responsibilities and emotional demands of a family. In my experience, the decisions made to achieve balance between need and want is one that gets tested every day.

Working parents and SAH parents, I’ve gotten a chance to visit both sides of the grass and I’ll tell you that the grass isn’t greener on either side. There’s some sort of parental, professional or personal guilt no matter which knoll is yours.

I knew it deep down but I learned that whether you stay at home or outside the home, as a parent you work and work hard. It’s unfortunate that there will always be an unspoken judgment on parents when they identify as being either a SAH parent or work-outside-of-the-home parent. SAH parents, I judged and I’m sorry. I won’t do it again (even when I return to my professional career). I hope maybe someone reading this letter won’t judge in the future as well.

In solidarity for all parents no matter where they work,

Melissa

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Dear Dad

Posted on June 19, 2013 Written by Tonya

Angie of Angie Kinghorn Life, With Artistic License is a self proclaimed writer, blogger, twin mom, former lawyer, Junior League dropout, PPD survivor, bookaholic and founder of the Anti-Scrapbooking League. She also squeezes her toothpaste from the middle. Such a rebel and an all around awesome chick! And I’ve got her here today with a letter to her father, who passed away four years ago. With Father’s Day last weekend (and every other day), he has been on her mind.

Dear Dad,

Four Father’s Days after, I want nothing more than to send you a card.
Happy Father’s Day, it would say. It’s summer now, and we’re teaching the twins how to play softball. I still use your old glove, and the neon yellow ball we threw around the front yard so many summer evenings.

I wish you could see them – you’d be so proud. Grant’s got a summer haircut, cropped short, and with his freckles and the blue eyes that have turned to green, he looks so much like you. Especially when he’s up to something. He has your impish grin. He has your thirst for knowledge. Right now it’s all things sharks, trains, and dinosaurs. And he’s so kind, both to people and to animals – just like you.

Anne is beautiful and strong-willed and well, everything you’d expect my daughter to be. I love her and we butt heads, and I feel a little more for what you went through raising two daughters. She has this inner light that draws people to her like moths to flame; charisma like I’ve never seen. One minute she’s a six-year-old cuddle bug, the next, she’s a sulky teen. God, how I’d love to talk to you about raising daughters.

I’d love to talk to you about raising a boy, too. Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing it right. If there’s enough sport mixed in, if there’s enough rough and tumble.

But I have Mark, and I wish you could see just how wonderful a husband and father he is. I’m beyond lucky, Dad, and I thank God every day for bringing him into my life. The children idolize him, and so does the dog. In fact, he’s really more Mark’s dog now, if that tells you anything.

Twice a week the kids have swim lessons, and I help the children learn to move in the water, slipping about like discombobulated fish. The sharp tinge of chlorine makes me think of you and days spent at the pool or at the beach. Mark watches golf and during a rainy U.S. Open I hear your voice, telling me that in a lightning storm you should hold up a one iron because even God can’t hit a one iron.

Mark sings “Sugar pie, honey bunch … you know that I love you!” to Anne, and it hits me like a punch in the gut, because all of a sudden I’m with you, and your presence is so palpable I can smell your cologne.

Most days the pain of your absence has faded to a normal part of life, but days like today make it impossible to ignore.

You’ve given me so much, and now I can’t even give you these words on a piece of corny Hallmark stock.

I’m better for having been your daughter. I just wish, this time of year especially, that when I talk to you in the columbarium, you could talk back.

Love,
Angie

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Cara Nonna

Posted on June 11, 2013 Written by Tonya

So many times I wish I knew now what I didn’t know then about the limited time I’d have with my parents, so many things I wish I had asked, said and learned from them while they were both still here. Kristin of Two Cannoli is my guest today with a thoughtful letter to her grandmother, in which she explores this exact same thing.

Kristin has been an amazing supporter of Letters For Lucas and I am honored to have her here and if you don’t know her yet, don’t miss her touching post recently featured on The Huffington Post, The Things I Love About Bedtime.

Dear Nonna,

I made marinara sauce tonight; Giada’s recipe. I know, I know; it’s not like yours at all. I remember the tender beef that would shred with the slightest touch of a fork, or the richly-flavored potato you added to the sauce early in the day – the one I always claimed at dinner. I remember watching you form meatballs with your strong, capable hands, even into your 80s.

The problem is that while I enjoyed your cooking very much, I didn’t pay attention to how you did it.

The family cookbook doesn’t help, because it gives instructions like “pour some good oil in a pan” and add “a roast” and then “add two boxes of Pomi tomatoes and season.”

What’s “good oil” and how much do I need?

How big is the roast?

How long do I let it simmer?

I found the Pomi boxes; now how do I season the sauce?

I wish I had appreciated the cooking process and not just the eating process. I wish I had asked you to show me how you made your meatballs, and your perfect marinara, and the strufoli. Or the cannoli.

Or even the milk-marinated veal parmigiana I used to love until I revolted as a teenager and refused to eat veal. I wish I could take back my words and hide the veal in a napkin instead of causing that look of hurt on your softly-lined face.

Now that I’m married and have a child of my own, Grandma, there are so many things I want to ask you.

Did I tell you I love you enough? Did you know how much I enjoyed visiting you? Did you understand when I sassed you? I also want to know more about your childhood, and how it felt when your mother passed away and what your two stepmothers were like. I want to know what it was like to have my mother, and what it was like to be a woman in the 30s and 40s. I want to know how you fell in love with my grandfather. I want to know more about your passions, and your hobbies, and your dreams.

You died before I knew the questions I wanted to ask.

A couple of weeks before you passed away – in your sleep, peacefully – you handed me your wedding ring. When I wear it, I feel you near me.

Your great-grandchildren know who you are, because we have photos of you all around and we have told stories about you. We talk about your generosity, and your sense of humor.

We joke about the nicknames we chose for you and about the way you fell asleep in front of The Wheel of Fortune every night. “I’m not sleeping; I’m just resting my eyes” became our punch line when we wanted to tease you.

There’s so much to discover, Nonna. I wish you were here not only to teach me about the sauce, but to teach me more about life.

I miss you, and always will.

Love,
Kristin

Nonna and Kristin’s first niece – 1999

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Letter To An Unknown Soldier

Posted on May 28, 2013 Written by Tonya

Jennie dreamt of marrying a Frenchmen and her dream came true! And he whisked her off to France, where she writes the blog, A Lady in France about “life and sometimes grief, parenting, gardening and all things French. It is also a cooking blog, with primarily easy French recipes.” If you haven’t met Jennie yet, please let this letter to an unknown solider be your introduction.

This has to be the most educational, not to mention, historical and thoughtful letter I’ve had the privilege of sharing and with Memorial Day this week, very timely too.

Dear Comrade in Arms, Known But to God,

You are far from home, I know. You were so courageous to come. I’ll bet you studied about that far-off place called Europe in your history books, never imagining for a second that you would go. I’ll bet you rushed in front of all your friends to sign up for the war, joking about how quickly you would be back. And here you are. Here you lie forever.

Were you there? At Omaha, storming the beach in the cover of darkness with your fellow troops? Did you parachute in or did you slide off the boat into the freezing salty water, carrying your heavy weapons and backpack, praying against the mines and the incessant enemy fire?

Were you one of the ones who said to a heavy-hearted General Eisenhower – who knew what a heavy loss his troops would sustain, “Don’t worry, General. We’ll take care of this thing for you.”

It doesn’t matter if you entered the war shaking in fear, or if you went in boldly and cheerfully. The important thing is that you went, and the murderous oppression was stopped – by you.

Look at the beach now. It’s so peaceful, isn’t it?

You almost can’t imagine the dark hell you found yourself in, where the only light came from the gunfire and the burning bodies – where there was no longer a chain of command, only a fight for survival. You almost can’t picture the Germans firing assault upon assault at the dense mass of humanity that swarmed the beach, dragging their heavy waterlogged equipment, seeking cover wherever they could find it.

See that cliff over to the right of Omaha there? The Rangers scaled that cliff so they could disable the German machine guns aimed at the coast. But they got picked off, one by one, in their vulnerable position by the German soldiers. And those who survived the climb and achieved their mission were forced to hold the area for two days until help could arrive, losing over half their men in the process.

Were you there, scaling the cliffs to the top so you could disable the targets? Did you see the peaceful French countryside in the early morning, too alert, too frightened to take it in because you were looking for unexpected movements, sudden flares, a sharp report?

But I guess we will never know because you didn’t make it back home. And no one knows who you are.

Would it surprise you to learn that the French are not cowards and the Germans are not enemies? It’s true. My husband’s grandfather was there the day the Germans invaded, and there was really nothing they could do. Their generals were unprepared and building up the Maginot lines, but the Germans just went around it and came down through Belgium. The French soldiers would have been shot down to the very last man, had they not run away in order to fight again another day. Maybe you would have done the same.

And my sister married a German. Can you believe it? A German, a French and Americans, all tied together by matrimony. His people will tell you that there were quiet heroes who didn’t agree, who had not been brainwashed by the frightening propaganda, though they were outnumbered and quiet resisters. The evil was Hitler, and those who pushed his agenda forward. The evil was not the Germans. In fact, the enemy is never any one country, nor is any one country righteous.

The view is pleasant from the cemetery where you lie, overlooking the ocean.

There’s a nice breeze and beautiful, orderly graves.

And you’re on American soil, you know, though you’re so very far from home.

And there are many Americans visiting you each year so that you’re never alone.

Yes, you! We kneel by your grave, we touch the tombstone, and we weep for a soldier known only to God.

And we whisper, “Thank you.”

Omaha Beach looking up at the cliffs where the enemy fire came from.

German bunkers Rangers captured.

Follow Jennie on Facebook, Pinterest and Twitter.

My Cheatin’ Heart

Posted on May 21, 2013 Written by Tonya

Elaine, wife, mommy to three, amateur (and also awesome) photographer has been writing her blog, The Miss Elaine-ous Life since 2006. In blogging years that’s an eternity! I am lucky to have her here today.

Elaine misses the Lone Star state and hopes to return some day, until then, she’s written the great state of Texas a letter in hopes that she won’t soon be forgotten.

Dear Texas,

I saw you recently and you looked pretty good. You continue to grow like crazy. People really do love you.

And I love you too but I have to let you know that I do feel like I have been cheating on you a little bit.

And I am sorry.

You will always be my first love. I mean, I found my way to you when I was just a baby and all of the major milestones in my life happened with you (well except the last one, the birth of my own baby girl… sorry about that, it was out of my control).

But here’s the thing. It has been almost 4 years since I have left you (!!!) and although I have made frequent visits back to see you, things just aren’t the same.

Last time I was in Dallas I could barely navigate the getting-even-bigger-and-bigger freeways. I mean here in Louisiana (at least in Lafayette) I call the mall (that is 7 minutes away) “The other side of town”. The only reasons I even get on the highway are to go to Baton Rouge or to come see you.

Oh and one of the last times I was there you burned down Big Tex. What is up with that?!?!

I am not trying to sound rude but I have to say, Louisiana has been pretty good to me. I have made some wonderful friends. (I know, I know, I have great friends in you too, Texas, trust me I know!). My children have made good friends. We have experienced different food, a different vernacular and different culture.

The weather here is actually pretty good despite the few months of MAJOR humidity (c’mon, you have your fair share of that too…) But it rains a lot so there is no fear of drought and the winters are not too cold.

The people (for the most part) are kind and friendly and willing to give you a smile when you pass them.

And I have two words for you, (okay kinda three, and they are all French, not Spanish, so I hope you understand): Beignets and Café au Lait.

I know, you have chicken fried steak and awesome salsa. Oh and Margaritas… mmmmm…

You have a lot to offer and I miss much of it, I do.

But I have to say, I gave LA a bad rap before we moved here and it just wasn’t fair. It’s really not that bad after all.

I do wish that we will be back together someday though… After all, our families are there and I can only do without Chuy’s and Uncle Julio’s on a regular basis for so long.

So, save me a pretty house on some land where I can plant a nice veggie garden and raise my own chickens, that’s not too far “from town”, deal?

Deal.

I love you, Texas, but we just cannot be together right now.

Hope to see you soon…

ALWAYS Yours,

Elaine

Click on photo for source.

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To All The Parents We’ve Never Met

Posted on May 16, 2013 Written by Tonya

Arnebya is a writer, speaker, wife, and mother. She was selected as a BlogHer Voice of the Year in 2012 and is a fellow 2013 Washington, DC Listen To Your Mother cast member! Her blog is What Now and Why and her writing is equal parts cheeky and smart, not too mention funny and poignant.

Arnebya shares a letter with us today directed to the parents of her child’s friend, who want her to sleepover (Arnebya’s daughter, not Arnebya… keep reading). This is more than a play date or meeting at the movies, this is all. night. long and there are a few rules…

Dear Parent I’ve Never Met Who Wants My Child to Stay At Your House,

Last week, my daughter was invited to a birthday party for your child. My daughter said the plan was for you to take them to the movies, to dinner, then back to your house for a sleepover. She said the movie started “around 4.”

I don’t know you, and that’s as much my fault as it is yours. I guess. But, my child was invited to your house. Here are a few things I think would be beneficial for you to know/do before inviting other people’s kids to your home:

1. Call parents and introduce yourself.

2. Provide a detailed invitation with a phone number and address because word of mouth between seventh graders is kinda insufficient.

3. Offer information about yourself and your home. Do you have an escape plan in case of fire? When was the last time you changed the batteries in your smoke detectors? Do you HAVE smoke detectors? This isn’t the time to forget to mention that you grow and sell weed from your backyard.

4. If you’re driving someplace (movies or bowling, for example), I may want to drop off, pick up, and bring my child to your house. Don’t be offended. If you plan on having 7 attend but your car only seats 5 people, I’d rather my child not sit on someone’s lap.

5. Do you allow open access to the Internet at home? Because even the most benign search request can turn up porn. Trust me.

I am a nice person, I promise. I’m not even particularly over-protective or nosy. But when it comes to my child being your responsibility, especially overnight, I really need to know that you are, well, responsible. If our children are to spend time together, even irregularly, shouldn’t you be able to answer a few questions about me, if asked (instead of being that person who blindly offers “She didn’t seem like the type” when you find out I duct tape my kids to chairs in order to watch certain TV in peace?)

Let’s bring back community. Let’s bring back knowing the parents and families of the children our children are friends with, or at least knowing one person who knows the mom of that little boy who always tries to cross the street against the light.

Signed,

The Parent Who Usually Says No (and can tell the difference between weed and mint growing in your backyard)

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Desperately Seeking Missing Mojo

Posted on May 9, 2013 Written by Tonya

Ugh! I’m a mess. I honestly don’t know if I’m coming or going.

I do know that I have become the worst blogger ever. No, that can’t be true. I am the worst guest host ever. My weekly series, Letters For You is suppose to run on Wednesdays (technically, Tuesday nights) and here it is almost FRIDAY and I am just now posting this. I literally lost an entire day this week.

My sincere apologies to Jennifer, my guest and all of you waiting with bated breath.

Jennifer of Jennifer P. Williams (previously, Mom Made It Look Easy) is my guest today.

Jennifer has lost something and would love to have it back…. Good God, can I identify as proven by my lackadaisical mind this week.

Dear Mojo,

I hope this letter finds you. I know it has been awhile since we’ve hung out, and I’m not sure whether or not you’ve moved. All I know is that I can’t seem to get in touch with you. Did you leave me Mojo? Did you? You can tell me. I promise I can take it. Was it Hormones? Did she scare you away? I know she can be a real bitch, but she’s only around a few days a month. If I promise to try to keep her under control will you come back?

If it wasn’t her, could it have been Lazy? She’s been showing up a LOT lately, stinking up the place, throwing her dirty laundry everywhere. I can definitely understand why you wouldn’t want to hang out with her. Do you think you could come over for a visit if I kick her out? I know Creativity has been missing you. She’s been throwing around ideas like crazy, but without you she can’t seem to do anything with them. You really are the glue that holds the whole Right Brain thing together.

Or is it me? Have I pushed you away with Distractions and Excuses? I promised at the beginning of the year to keep my focus, but sadly, I feel that between sometime then and now I’ve lost it. I wanted to do great things this year. I wanted to write and take photos and organize my house and update some of the rooms. It feels like you, Mojo, and Focus are the knife and the fork, but instead of running away with the spoon, you’ve ran away with me. The real me. The me that yearns to do and be and think and feel more.

I need you back. I need my essence. I need my drive. I need that thing that makes me me. I need you. You complete me. See, I can’t even do better than a corny movie line without you. Please. Come home.

Love always,

Jennifer

Follow Jennifer on Facebook, Pinterest and Twitter.

My Body

Posted on April 23, 2013 Written by Tonya

Debi, better known as Doctor G, is my guest today.

Doctor G is a part-time family doctor and full time mom of four boys, she focuses on practical tools and teaching skills, not just dishing out advice. From one minute tips on making your life easier while building kids’ character to her downloadable guides (chores at every age, boundaries for tech use and more) Doctor G makes parenting more simple and more effective and I have sought her advice many times!

Debi’s letter to her body really touched a chord with me because it’s one that I should write. How many times have you heard, “your body is your temple?” It’s one of those ideas that sneak into your consciousness and you don’t know where you actually heard it.

Take a minute to appreciate your temple.

To my body,

I just want to say thanks.

Thank you for my childhood. A smattering of illnesses – I don’t think either of us can forget the particular panic of waking in the middle of the night with a raging ear infection, too little to understand what that sharp pain is. The chicken pox weren’t so bad (though I wish you hadn’t given it to my Dad – I was so scared when the ambulance came to take him to the hospital because he got them inside his lungs!); I wouldn’t eaten chicken til I was 5 or 6 after that. You really withstood the sprains and breaks and I am seriously sorry about all the sunburns. Sunscreen – who knew?

My teen years, well, I think we can both agree I should have exercised a little more. On the plus side, though, I didn’t give any illegal substances during that time. Strangely, I think there is a connection between those two facts. 😉

You really stood up to a lot in my twenties. You withstood the genetic pressure of my family’s mental illnesses, the abuse I heaped on you through my early divorce (not eating), med school (not sleeping) and my parents’ divorce (barely breathing).

In my thirties? Thank you more than words can say for my four pregnancies. It looked like that last one was a miscarriage (oh sure, YOU knew better, but how was *I* supposed to know?) when it turned out we lost a twin, but not the other. Hey, body, can you tell me if my precious little boy knows on some level that he started as one of two? Just wondering.

Anyway, it was a lot to ask of you, to grow and birth and then feed four babies in six years. It’s been a total of 10 years of pregnancy, labor and breastfeeding. Yours was the hard part, I got all the rewards. You’ve complained in only the most mild ways – changing shape to adjust, some pain here and there. Thanks for stepping up with the breast milk – there is no guarantee of that and I DO really appreciate it!

Now I’m in my forties, and you are still stepping up. This decade I particularly want to thank you for withstanding piggy back rides for 50 pound kids, wrestling with boys who are too old to “cuddle” if anyone is around, climbing into top bunks each night because no one else is around so the cuddle is welcomed. Thanks for sitting through outdoor sports events that go into overtime only if the weather is cold and rainy. Thank you for managing on less rest than you’d like when one of the other bodies in our house is sick.

Thank you for hands that help my patients feel more whole. Thank you for eyes that see what’s happening, and the extra ones in the back of my head. And thanks for the increase in my sex drive (my husband says to say thanks too)!

Thank you for healing the small and large insults you’ve withstood so far.

Now here’s the “ask.” Can you stick with me? I’m starting to realize, now that I really like me, and feel really comfortable inside you, that you are the key. Whether the next decades are great or hard depend in large part on you. So I’ll do my best to keep you tuned up, checked, vaccinated and moving. You let me know if there is something I need to pay more attention to, alright? I’m counting on you to help me give piggyback rides to grandkids someday!

Thank you for your patience as I’ve struggled to appreciate you.

All the best,
Debi

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A Chance

Posted on April 16, 2013 Written by Tonya

Kori, my Letters For You guest today is the assignment editor for SheKnows.com’s Parenting Channel and my infertility column assignment editor.

Kori and her husband have adopted four children from foster care.

Little G is one. She took a chance on her parents and is now a very important and very loved member of a family.

To my darling daughter,

You came to us at just shy of 7 months old. You were oh so small, so weak and a little sickly. You weren’t thrilled at all about being here. Who could blame you? We were your fifth family in your short life and you were so tired of moving; you just wanted a home. You wanted someone to love you.

As the weeks and months passed, each day you woke up as happy as can be. Always laughing. Always happy. Always content.

And though no one would know it, I wasn’t sure that you would ever love us.

You wouldn’t let us hold you close. Yes, you were content to sit on my lap or play on the floor by my side or be carried around the house. You would smile and giggle, and sometimes even laugh a big belly laugh. But if I wanted to pull you close to my chest — to hold you, to comfort you, to love you — you’d push away. You’d push with all the power in your tiny arms and legs.

You didn’t want to be close to me, to Daddy or to anyone.

Even though you were still shy of a year old, you had figured out that you shouldn’t get close to people so fast. Why should you? I’m sure you thought we might leave you and pass you off to the next family.

And so our lives went on, day by day without issue. You were happy from the time you woke in the morning until you slept at night. You were much quieter than the rest of our kids — and let’s be honest, you were much better behaved. And then one night, we decided to leave all of you with a sitter while we took a class just a few steps away. Even though you had been in our family for many months, this would be your first time away from us since the day we met.

Not one hour into the class, you couldn’t take it anymore. The always-happy little one was now a crying — no — a bawling mess. When I scooped you up to take you home, your sobs were uncontrollable. Your whole body was shaking and you couldn’t catch your breath.

You cried for hours long after we were back home. When Daddy put you to sleep in your crib, you were still sobbing. Moments after he closed the door, your sobs turned to bloodcurdling screams. And soon, we had you back downstairs with us again. We sat on the floor playing with you and soon your tears turned to laughter and then night turned to early morn. Finally, you fell to sleep and all was well.

I knew that you had cried because you didn’t want us to leave — and secretly, that made me a little happy.

Over the next few days and weeks things changed. The baby who pushed me away so strongly, now wasn’t pushing so hard, and gradually, I began to believe you might really love us.

Now that little, weak, happy (yet apprehensive) baby isn’t a baby anymore. You are now my big, beautiful 3-year-old girl. You love getting big hugs, sitting on mommy’s lap at the computer and climbing all over Daddy on the floor. We can pull you close… very close. And you don’t even slightly wriggle to get away.

And now, nearly three years since you arrived in our family, without a doubt, I know that you love us.

Anyway, little G. I just wanted to say one thing… thanks for giving us a chance.

Love,
Mommy

Follow Kori on Twitter and if you’re a San Antonio Spurs fan, be sure to check out her SpursTalk site.

Better Luck Next Time

Posted on April 10, 2013 Written by Tonya

Erin of is my guest today with a letter to her parents about a recent visit gone a bit awry.

If you don’t know Erin, she writes Erin L. Margolin, The road to my writer roots and co-founded The Gay Dad Project, a Website and blog dedicated to families who have a gay parent.

Sometimes we want so badly for everything to go right, we set impossible expectations for ourselves and those around us and then look back and wonder what the hell we were thinking; this letter is a perfect example of that.

Dear Mom & Dad,

I’m sorry this trip sucked. I tried to be Wonder Woman, but I’m not; I don’t have a cape and magic lasso. You live far away in different cities and you’re divorced. You’re not getting along. You both want to see the kids and me. Of course we want to see you, too.

Thursday morning, the day we left for New Orleans, my alarm didn’t go off as planned. I shot out of bed like a rocket at 6:45. Woke the twins, told them to get dressed and eat something, leaving the baby to sleep until the last possible minute.

Running up and down the stairs 22 times, sweating pooling in my bra, I packed the car, let the dog out, fed him. Woke Piper just before leaving the house at 7:10 (for an 8:30 flight with a 1/2 hour drive to the airport). I hauled a heavy suitcase, a Britax car seat,

photo credit

and two carry-ons from the parking garage into the airport myself while the twins took turns pushing Piper in her stroller to the gate. I hijacked a giant rolling cart from somewhere and threw everything on it and we ran to security. Getting through that was perhaps worse, as I heard them announcing our flight boarding while I was yanking my shoes off and jamming everything through the x-ray machine.

With minutes to spare and my t-shirt soaked with sweat, we made it. Several people in the airport asked me if I was okay, if I needed help (see also: the kindness of strangers). I refused most of it until we were boarding when it was physically impossible to carry my baby, my carry-on bags, and her carseat alone through a narrow aisle. By the time I sat down to buckle in, I felt like I might pass out.

Abby looked at me with eyes full of concern and asked, “Mommy, are you okay? Mommy?” I was so overwhelmed it took me a minute to answer and reassure her.

I can’t do it all.

And this was before we even got to New Orleans.

Once there, I tried to appease everyone, but it was impossible. Forget the things I wanted to do for myself.

It’s ALL ABOUT THE KIDS. I went out one night and bonded with my brothers which was awesome. I went shopping once to get an outfit for the news segment and some NOLA souvenirs, but otherwise? That was it. Trip to the zoo, to mom’s office to meet her co-workers, playtime, Morning Call beignets, snowballs at Sal’s, mealtime, quiet time, bath time, naps for baby, laundry, bedtime meltdowns. Lots of togetherness. Cousins all meeting for the first time. My brother and SIL meeting my baby for the first time.

And yet.

It wasn’t enough. You guys furious at each other, Mom angry with me. Everyone wanting more time with the kids than they got. Mom upset with me for working while I was home and not getting time with me to herself. With my three kids plus my niece & nephew (FIVE kids, ages seven & under) underfoot, too. There is never enough time.

Pushing, pulling. A rope ready to come undone into fibers. Never enough to hold onto. Holding on til my hands are raw and blistered and bleeding.

Maybe the worst part is feeling like I let you all down after all the trouble, time, and money it took to make this trip happen. Or the fact that Mom said she’s canceling her trip to Kansas City for Mother’s Day weekend, when I am co-directing and producing the inaugural Listen To Your Mother Show: Kansas City. When I’ll be up on that stage reading a piece about her.

It’s just life. It’s family. We all have our struggles, don’t we?

I want to be like a duck and shake the water off my back.

I want to be able to explain to my kids why there was so much tension, why they didn’t go to Hattiesburg to see PopPop & NaNa. I want to explain why Mom and I were arguing.

But it’s too much, and they’re too little. And they don’t need to know all of this.

Hopefully someday, things will work out. And someday they’ll be old enough to travel alone. They’ll be driving, making their own decisions. And it won’t always be this weight on my shoulders. This heavy feeling of sadness, wasted time, and unhappy endings.

I love you. I just wanted this to work out better. I wanted it to be easy.

Is that so wrong?

Love,
Erin

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