I participated in a writing panel at my church. The woman to my right is one of the funniest people I’ve ever met. Part of what makes her so funny is the fact that she says what she says in church. In front of God and the baptismal font and that huge Bible! She does not hold back. She uses very big swears and I always feel like one of the cool kids if she drops a hilarious but very true observation.
Jesse was in DC this week, so that meant solo-parenting for me. Which isn’t all that bad, actually. I told my friend and fellow writer Kelsi Folsom, who was in the thick of the same gig, that I feel like a superhero doing all the things and calling all the shots.
“Yeah,” she said. “It’s like we are drowning badasses.” And so a writing dare was struck between the two of us. We’d write from heroic defeat, or we’d write heroically about our defeats. Or whatever. We’d write. She texted me a poem earlier this week:
"The 2nd Grade Birthday at the Skating Rink" The carpet smells like horse ass. Don't ask me how I know this. I was uncomfortably close as I leaned over my six-year old's roller skates to ensure the peeling leather fit well and the unraveling laces were tied properly. A poor rendition of "I'm a Sucker for You" is blaring over the speakers, twelve year olds are singing this version. The lights all around the rink have seen better days, they are trying so hard to throw a good party.
And I? Well, I thought I’d made a rock solid plan for one afternoon when Harper had swim practice, and Hadley had a soccer game. I was winning Tuesday. I knew I was. Except I’d already lost because I messed up the time when practice started, which meant I couldn’t get to Hadley’s soccer game.
This happens from time to time, and I have a good friend who always sends pictures of Hadley when it does. That day, she sent the above one with the caption: She does not back down.
My friend is right. Hadley does not back down from a challenge, especially these days when she is learning about what it means to work for something you want – not an easy lesson when, for most of her life, stuff has come easy for her. This year especially I have watched Hadley wrestle and grapple and and grow in ways I haven’t witnessed since she was in Kindergarten. She has an eagerness and curiosity about her that I thought had gone away with the onset of adolescence and hashtags. But it is alive and well, and I am grateful to have friends and teachers who bear witness to it when I cannot.
That game, Hadley had a gorgeous assist that was videoed and I’ve since watched it about 75 times. And there’s also a clip of her dancing (to the Spice Girls) on the field, that I admit, I am just as proud about as I am of the assist.
This was Harper’s last week dancing, so I took a picture in front of the studio where she’s gone twice a week since she was 8 years old.
These lasts – the last time they nursed, the last time I drove Hadley to a soccer practice, the last time I read to them before they went to bed – often happen quietly and without notice because of the swirl and pulse of the everyday, and while I was quite aware today was one of the lasts, I also knew whatever story would form would only come from living it and not from my shaping it into something I could live (and thus write about). I know that’s not how it works.
Here’s how Harper’s last dance class happened:
It was also graduation day for the University of Michigan. For all intents and purposes, Harper dances on campus, and so our drive took us through a sea of caps and gowns and schools of parents and relatives and friends doing their best to navigate the route of letting go. The route is not straight. There are under currents and rip tides. Nobody pays attention to stop signs.
I wanted to take Harper out for ice-cream before her last practice but by the time we got downtown, we both knew there wouldn’t be enough time. I wasn’t even sure we’d make it to our normal parking spot – the exact same spot for six years – and get to class on time. No last walking past the large mural of ants and being spooked. No last quick stop at Bon Bon for the cutest chocolates you’d ever seen to take home for after dinner. No last pause to listen to the cello player who plays in Nickels Arcade. No last walk together through Nickels Arcade.
What did happen was we found a parking spot right in front of the studio – a downtown Ann Arbor miracle, and on graduation weekend no less. “How about something from Panera?” I offered since we’d literally just been given the gift of time, and Panera was next door.
The line was long. People didn’t know what they wanted or they had so many adjustments to their order they could’ve just put on an apron and made the damn sandwich themselves. Harper and I were getting extremely agitated. The last dance moment was turning out to be dramatic and not in the way I was hoping for.
We sat among graduates and their people and had a treat. “Thank you, Mom,” Harper said between bites of a cinnamon roll, and it was just the way it was supposed to happen being surrounded by all the other parents sitting with their children – all of them having endings and beginnings of their own.
The picture I took was rushed. Harper didn’t finish her cinnamon roll, so I said I’d take it back to the car for her, which ended up meaning that I was carrying the roll, my wallet, my keys, and my phone. For some reason, common sense wasn’t with me (is it ever?) and instead of putting one of these items on the ground or on top of the car, I very slowly and with much conviction pressed what I was sure was the unlock button but it was the alarm. That seemed to aggravate the other alarms of the cars on the street, of which there were about 583, and I can confirm first hand that nobody stops to see if there is danger, but they do stop to laugh at the woman who is holding more than she can hold, and there is no applause when she figures out she can in fact lay a thing or two down in order to get at what needs to be unlocked. There is no fanfare at the feat, just a sigh at the peace that follows the silencing of an alarm and the execution of a life skill.
Reading Notes:
- Finished: What Is Home, Mum? A graphic novel by Saba Kahn (an absolutely stunning book that I will be thinking about for a long, long time)
- Working on: Emily’s Quest by LM Montgomery (I will be so very sad when I finish this trilogy), and Angel Falls by Kristin Hannah
- Poems I Read This Week: “Tinder,” “Promises,” “Season’s Ice,” “Because the Professor Had Been to Contaminated Areas,” and “To a Coworker I once knew in Terra Haute, Indiana” all by Dave Malone, from his book Tornado Drill, and “Sneaker” by Nan Henke, who wrote it from a dare that happened between she and Megan Willome. Read the story about it, here, and while you’re at it, subscribe to Megan’s Substack. You will not be sorry.
Upcoming Course:
- I’m leading my Critique Course beginning in June. I only take six writers so as to allow for more extensive writing that I can pay attention to. It’s one of my favorite courses to teach. More details here if you’re interested.
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