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This is me turning 50 last August. Notice how I’m not disintegrating.

            My right knee gives me a hard time. It’s not a constant battle, but when it gets aggravated, it lets its voice be heard. Case in point, the other morning while working out, I had to go lower on my dumb bell weight for step-ups because said knee was pitching a fit.

I hate having to modify workouts because I have a bad habit of all or nothing thinking. My thought process goes something like this, “If I have to use a lighter dumbbell on this move, I’m going to start disintegrating like the character Walter Donovan in Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade when he drinks from the wrong cup, and I won’t be able to work out or do anything because I’ll be a pile of dust by the rowing machines.” A bit eccentric, I know.

Anyway, when I told my trainer that I couldn’t go heavy on the move, he simply said, “motion is motion.” This coming from the same sage trainer who introduced me to the term, “smart rest.” (A gem that I treasure and use frequently in all sorts of situations.) Immediately, I felt better and realized that I would not suffer the same fate (or anywhere near it) as Mr. Donovan.

After class, the idea of “motion is motion” stayed with me. I’m stubborn and a tad vain, so aging isn’t the best activity for me, yet it is one in which I am fortunate to participate — I’m not that vain. Talking with friends who’ve hit the 50 mark, as I did ten months ago, it’s clear that our bodies are changing. It’s not an overnight thing, but gradually we’re noticing we’re not able to do things exactly the same ways we once did.

For instance, when I ride the Woodstock Express in Camp Snoopy at Carowinds, I have to sit a certain way so I don’t jerk my back on the first hill. Road trips now include stops simply for stretching, and the first ten minutes of my runs aren’t as pleasant as they used to be. However, despite all that, I’m moving, refusing to stop, and that’s the mantra I’m applying to everything.

It’s no secret that women are often cast aside when they reach a certain age, especially in media, with the exception of Martha Stewart. (Go Martha!) But whether we like it or not, the world often assigns women an expiration date regarding when we can be and do certain things, and as someone who’s not nearly finished doing things, I give that a “whatever” from teenage me — complete with an eye roll.

When I turned 50, everyone asked me how I felt, as most birthdays don’t offer the perceived seismic shift that a half-century does. I was honest when I answered that I was a little freaked out, but more liberated than freaked out. Freaked because 50 years is 50 years. If a company stays in business that long, it’s a big deal, so it only makes sense that living for 50 years is too. Liberated because it is what it is, and this is who I am. I’m a 50-year-old woman who’s so very tired of worrying about who she’s supposed to be.

I was 14 when my mother turned 50, and I don’t remember her as an old person at all. She was still doing all the things, and she looked beautiful while doing them. Back then, 50 wasn’t as young as it is now, but for my mother it was.

She’d always say that having me at an older age kept her young. Older parents are more common now, but back then, she was a unicorn. That said, I remember her being more fun than the other moms, especially the younger ones who were always stressed out. She loved throwing parties and traveling. She was the one you wanted to carpool with on field trips because she’d let you listen to whichever music you wanted and most likely offer you a Breath Saver. She was the adult who would swim in the lake with my friends and I while the other grown-ups stood on the porch. Mom didn’t let anyone stop her.

When I went away to college, she started taking college classes, a dream of hers that couldn’t be fulfilled when she graduated high school. People (including my dad) would ask why she was doing it, and she’d simply say because she wanted to. She wore out at least three stationary bicycles, walked on the beach every chance she got and even tried to learn how to play the dulcimer. That didn’t turn out so great, but motion is motion. Instead of whimpering about growing older, joking about hot flashes or surrendering to dowdy fashion, she tried new things. She lived her life.

Now it’s my turn. Yes, my knees sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies some days, but so what. I’ve got 50 years of joy, sadness, heartbreak and hilarity in this body, and there’s room for plenty more. Bring it on!

“I’ve always been crazy, but it’s kept me from going insane.”

I’ve never been struck by lightning, but song lyrics have been known to stop me in my steps, which is ironic because I’m notorious for singing the wrong words. Up until two years ago, I thought ELO’s “Evil Woman” was, in fact, “Medieval Woman.” This song came out when I was three years old, and now I finally understand it.

            I must have passed this gene down to my son because this morning at breakfast we were listening to “Bennie and The Jets,” and he thought Elton John was singing, “Baby, I’m a Jack.” Regardless, music is my second language, and when I (correctly) hear a lyric that punches me in the gut, I take notice.

            While I can listen to most all genres of music (in various doses), I find classic country to be the most fertile for good songwriting, and one of the masters is the late Waylon Jennings. If you’re in the nucleus of my inner circle, you know that I love Waylon Jennings as much as I love driving a pickup — a whole flippin’ lot. Waylon’s solo work, his songs with The Highwaymen, plus his epic duet with Big Bird in the underrated musical comedy film Follow That Bird (1985), make him a certified badass in my book.

That said, when I heard his marinated baritone seep through my speakers earlier this week, my listening ears clicked on. It wasn’t one of my top favorites — think “Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys,” or “Lukenbach, Texas.” Nope, it was “I’ve Always Been Crazy.”

I’m sure others can relate when they hear the line, “I’ve always been crazy, but it’s kept me from going insane.” Of course, that tracks for me, but the line that scooped my heart like a cantaloupe was this, “Are you really sure you really want what you see? Be careful of something that’s just what you want it to be.”

Obviously, when I heard this song walking around my dad’s machine shop as a kid, it didn’t have quite the philosophical effect it has on me now. Turning 50, which I did last August, changes your outlook on so many things, as it’s a summit of sorts. You have no idea how much longer you’ll live, but odds are it’s going to be less that what you already have. There’s a sense of accomplishment, a tug of grief and the relentless realization that you need to spend your time wisely.

I’m not gonna lie, turning 50 hasn’t been easy for me. Yes, I’m fortunate any way you slice it, but a part of everyone aches in some way or another. For me, it’s weird that my parents aren’t here for this milestone to give me a high five or better yet, a hug. It’s strange (and sad) that the home and community that rooted me for the first big chunk of my life is mostly gone. And it’s baffling that a vertical wrinkle beside my nose just decided to pop up one morning. (I’m trying come up with a story to pass it off as a scar. Suggestions welcome.)

All that said, with my new box (I’m in the 50-59 group for 5Ks now) comes perspective, candidness and if you’re lucky, humor. When I see a fellow Gen-Xer wearing Peepers and a Cure T-shirt, I feel seen. The same is true when someone gets my Seinfeld references. Conversations with friends have also numbed the sting, as I’ve noticed we talk more about real things than we used to. It’s not that we were valley girls before; it’s that we’re finally at a place where it’s okay to be a little vulnerable, a little less guarded and way less perfect.

At this stage of the game, we’re all looking for life rings, something to hold on to while navigating these new and often complicated waters. We’re not scared to share that we’re in marriage counseling or that our teenagers are struggling with depression or that we spent the past weekend changing a parent’s diaper. And we’re also happy to drink a bottle of wine on the patio while listening to Yacht Rock or act silly during a girls’ night out. The days of glitz and glamour chit-chat have subsided to make way for reality, no matter how messy or crazy it is.

It’s probably not exactly what you thought you wanted to see or exactly the way you wanted it to be, but it’s your life, beautifully appointed with dents, scratches and detours. You can tuck it away behind a curated façade or you can embrace it. I vote for keeping it real, and I think Waylon would agree with me.  

The other day my voice teacher said, “Give me less time, more consciousness. Don’t go through the motions.” She initially said this because I kept holding a half-note too long, but then she said, “Don’t go through ANY motions in your day.” That’s when it hit me that that’s all I’ve been doing for the past four years. And judging by the increase in pajama sales, that’s all a lot of us have been doing. 

As much as I’ve tried to be strong and continue being a productive human through the pandemic and the deaths in our family, my go-to approach in dealing with it all has resulted in doing exactly that. Going through the motions. 

Some of you might be thinking, “Lori needs to breathe and be more mindful.” Thanks, but I don’t have any deep breaths left to take, and I’m sick of that trendy, overused and marketed word — mindful. People are good at commercializing meaningful things. It’s like when I saw a 1000-piece Where the Crawdads Sing puzzle at Barnes & Noble. One of the best books I’ve read in a long time was immediately diluted when I spotted that puzzle, along with a matching tote bag and pouch. It killed the magic for me as much as seeing a mug with the words “Practice Mindfulness” on it at Target does. 

Instead of going through the motions of working, exercising, running errands, signing up for yet one more thing on Sign-Up Genius and toting our children to more activities than a diplomat tackles in a day, why can’t we cut the fat and focus on what’s real? What matters? Don’t volunteer because it makes you look good. Don’t go to church to be seen. And don’t go out to dinner with friends just so you can post about it. Focus on the intangible things you want to get from these experiences. 

Last August, I turned 50 and proceeded to celebrate this momentous, and frightening, occasion by going on a yoga retreat to Turks and Caicos. That’s right, I left The Tots with my husband and jetted off to the islands with my bathing suit, sun dress and the hope that I could somehow find a little peace. 

Part of this experiment involved using my phone sparsely and spending as much time as possible in the ocean. On one of my first days there, I swam freestyle, floated on my back and did flips (forwards and backwards) for hours in the clear, turquoise water. My friend started calling me a mermaid. I wasn’t trying to burn calories (well, maybe a little), I was trying to wash away the pain and grief my father’s death left behind.

Dad died on November 5, 2021, and when the Hospice nurse woke me up to tell me he was gone, my body went numb. All I have done since that moment was break down his life and legacy into folders on my desk, sift through boxes of newspaper clippings and birthday cards, and cry when the right country song comes on the radio. Numb. That’s all I could muster.   

My days in the ocean were different. I had energy. I had fun. I had intention.  (Yes, I realize that’s also a trendy word, but it’s my word for 2023, so I’m going with it.) It felt exhilarating to open my eyes under the water, brush my feet on the sandy ocean floor and come up for air. Every time I thought I was ready to retire to the shore, I dove back in, vowing that I would take this feeling with me when I returned to the real world. 

I’d like to say I succeeded in doing that, but a couple weeks after reentry, I was back to where I began, checking things off of my to-do list wearing a blindfold. There was no consciousness, just doing. 

Over the last few days, I’ve heard about the deaths of two people. Both were students at my high school when I was there, both younger than me. I didn’t know them well, but does that matter? Hearing about someone your age leaving this world for one reason or another is jarring. You start punching numbers into your own calculator, wondering how much time you have left. It’s ironic how death brings numbness as much as it injects life. A wake-up call as potent as my voice teacher’s sage advice. 

Today, I’m not doing back flips in the ocean. I’m not cutting pictures out of magazines for a vision board. And I’m not claiming to be enlightened. I’m giving less time and more consciousness. Fingers crossed this takes me where I need to go. 

Growing up, my father always told me that my problems were my problems. He wasn’t being flippant. He was trying to show me how to have compassion for others — and for myself. He did a good job of teaching me that there were always people worse off. But even though that is and will always be true, dad wanted me to know that my struggles mattered. 

I’ve thought about that a lot lately, as my little segment of the universe has been pelted with loss. I’ve lost my parents and my father-in-law in less than three years, and my dear friend, Jessica, passed away while I was at a family wedding in England two weeks ago.

Standing outside a restaurant in London, I listened over the phone while another dear friend told me she was gone. Instead of delivering funny texts and memes, my phone has morphed into a death and dying reporter over the last few years. You can only prepare so much for a loved one to leave. Even if you know it’s coming, you don’t really know, and the fact that I was half-way around the world didn’t help matters. 

I get so frustrated with our society’s obsession with prescribed perfection. People get so wrapped up in what they’re told will make them happy that they forget what creates happiness. Life is not supposed to be back-to-back Instagram photos. Life can be cruel and harsh. It can hit you in the gut and come back to hit you one more time — #reality. Some of the most beautiful moments in my life happened around tragedy, pain and heartbreak. I wouldn’t have gotten the goody out of those experiences if I would have glossed over them with a “fine” reply laced with a fake smile. I would have missed the point. 

As I stood on a cold cobblestone street holding my phone, young British bankers downed pints after their workday, enjoying a Tuesday night as if it were Mardi Gras. All I could do was cry. I was crying for Jessica, for her husband, her four kids and her parents. I was crying because I hate f*(@%$# cancer, and I was crying because sadness was the only emotion available. Instead of cramming it down my throat until we got back to where we were staying, I let it out. Maybe not everyone would do that. Maybe more people should.    

Through a series of travel miracles (five trains, a plane, a three-hour hotel nap, a shuttle, another plane and an Uber), I came home early for Jessica’s service. More importantly, I was able to sit with some of the people I love most in this world as we said farewell to one of our own. Turns out wearing eyeliner wasn’t the best idea, but I didn’t care. I let the tears roll down my face.

Sitting there holding my friends’ hands, I felt a tremendous sense of peace, a feeling hard to come by for tortured souls like me. I was grateful for Jessica’s life. I was grateful for our friendship and shared mom fails. I was grateful that our children are friends. And my Scottish heritage was grateful to hear more than twenty bag pipers play Amazing Grace. Yes, I was at a funeral for someone who was too young to suffer and die, yet I was surrounded by so much beauty. When life throws moments like that at you, you need to pay attention.  

As I soaked it all in, I thought about how Jessica lived every second of her life, even before her diagnosis. She took the trips. She threw the parties. She had the hard conversations. She got the tattoos. Hell, she was a scuba diver. One time before cutting sugar, she pulled me aside to tell me that she’d had chocolate Turtles and Sun Drop for dinner the night before. And the last time I saw her, she was the one telling me that everything was going to be okay. 

            The other day while driving to pick up The Tots, Jimmy Buffett’s He Went to Paris came on the radio. It’s one of my favorites because it’s honest and real. Years do slip away, and bad, horrendous things happen. It’s true for all of us, but the best line in the song is this, “Some of it’s magic, and some of it’s tragic, but I had a good life all the way.” 

            Jessica didn’t get the 86 years the guy in the song and my father-in-law did, but she took the tragic with the magic in the 42 years she did get and ran with it. That’s what it’s all about. You have to have both. Light can’t exist without darkness. And Jessica was such a light. 

            I miss my friend, my parents and my father-in-law like crazy. Moments of pure anger are followed by moments of joy as I parse through memories, making sure I learn all I’m supposed to learn. It’s not always pretty, and lately it’s been pretty ugly, but I’m taking the tragic with the magic. It’s hard, and it’s maddening, but I know I’ll arrive at a happy ending one day.  

Dad called me every year when his azaleas were blooming. He always wanted me to come over and see them before they returned to their inconspicuous, boxwood-like appearance. Sometimes I made it over, sometimes not. If I couldn’t get there in time, dad took pictures of them, had them developed (smartphone user he was not) and delivered the photos to me with the pride of a kindergartener at show and tell. 

Last week, driving up my parents’ driveway for one of the last few times, I saw a patch of pink by the carport. It didn’t register at first, but there they were, as vibrant as ever — my dad’s prized azaleas in full bloom. I immediately parked my car and ran over to them like you would an old friend. 

All I wanted was to tell my dad how beautiful they were and give him a hug. But I couldn’t. Standing in the driveway where I rode my bike as a kid and drove for the first time as a teenager, all that was left was me and a bed of azaleas that shared the same memories. 

When I was younger, I relished the chance to be alone at my parents’ house. After school, I could watch General Hospital, eat Cheez Doodles, live what any teenager in the ‘80s would deem “the good life.” If it was a summer morning, I could watch as many game shows as I wanted in a row — while drinking a Pepsi. (Anyone remember Sale of the Century?) Back then I couldn’t imagine life being any other way, and I certainly couldn’t imagine the three of us not living together on Shoreview Drive. Things change.

Ever since my dad passed away in November, I’ve been striking the set that served as our family’s home for 42 years. Sifting through yellowed elementary school programs, photos of birthday parties and racks filled with everything from the matching dresses mom made us for the 1976 bicentennial to my prom dresses to the Carolina blue dress she wore at my wedding. Every corner conjures a memory. Every chotchke reminds me of a trip. Without fail, the furniture in the living room takes me back to our Christmas Eves, where the three of us would take turns opening presents for each other after church. 

Once the floor was covered with empty boxes and wrapping paper, dad would sneak behind the tree for two envelopes. One for mom, and one for me — money for after-Christmas sales. Sure, I loved scoring a marked-down Swatch at Carolina Mall with my mom, but the best part was watching him sneak up to the tree like we had no idea what was going on. He got such joy out of it. The same joy he gleaned from his azaleas.

As the sting wore off from seeing dad’s favorite part of spring, I walked the perimeter of the house, looking for any other flowers that had decided to join the party. No, only the azaleas, always the stars of the show. Staring at them more, I realized what a miracle it was that they had bloomed at all. I hadn’t touched them since dad died, and I’m not sure if dad remembered to prune them last year. I hoped that they would make an appearance, but I understood if they wanted to take a break. They lost dad, too. 

But instead of sulking in a wilted state, these pink miracles did their job. They reminded me that things can be good, even beautiful again. They gave me a moment with my dad that I so desperately needed. They made me cry as they gave me permission to move forward.

When you’re mired in grief, it’s hard to see the beauty in anything, much less the future. Glimpses of light are rare, and hope seems to be a novel idea created for other people. You forget how to have fun, how to dream, how to live, how to be. 

Dad’s azaleas reminded me that there’s more to come in my life. And no, it won’t all be great. It can’t be, and that’s okay. The crummy parts make the good parts shimmer, and knowing that something somewhere is about to blossom carries us through the in-between. I’m grateful for a dad who loved azaleas, and I’m grateful I got to see them one more time. 

I had a feeling my mom would show up. It was the first time her granddaughter was going to see a musical with a professional cast — the national tour of Wicked. No way she would miss it. 

Santa brought Margot tickets for the show in 2019. I don’t need to explain why we had to wait until last Saturday to use them, but if anything, the excrutiating delay only made the day more exciting — for both of us. 

Once we were zapped in, something I always worry about until the mission is complete because I miss paper tickets (see photo), we were set to experience the show. When we found our seats at Ovens Auditorium, I looked a few rows down to where my mom and I’s season tickets used to be. For years, mom would meet me at my apartment in Charlotte, and we’d go to dinner and a show. It was the best because it was just us. 

Sometimes we’d go to a cool restaurant and pretend we were in Greenwich Village beforehand. Other times we grabbed snacks at the local convenience store because we were late for the theatre, and one should never be late for the theatre. It didn’t matter whether we ate fancy pasta or crackers, all that mattered was that we were doing something together that we loved. 

Even before we started buying season tickets, we’d go to shows — a couple of times in New York and frequently in Charlotte. During high school, when I was obsessed with the score from Les Miserables (what theatre nerd wasn’t in the ’80s?), mom bought us tickets for the national tour as soon as she heard it was coming to Ovens. We sat there crying our eyes out as Fantine sang “I Dreamed a Dream” only to return home to finish my science project that was due the next day. Being tired at school was completely worth it because I can’t remember what my science project was about, but I remember everything about watching Les Mis with my mom. 

It didn’t matter what the show was; it was magic. Magic because that’s what theatre is and magic because it was our thing. As I sat in Ovens with Margot, I began to get a little weepy remembering all the good times mom and I had. A few scenes later, my mask began smelling like my mother. Sure, we were sitting in a sea of ladies wearing a variety of Estee Lauder fragrances, but I’d like to think it was my mom joining us for a matinee. 

If that wasn’t enough to convince me she was there, what occurred in the second act did. Starving, I pulled a piece of gum out of my purse, pretending that it was a snack. After I chewed all the sweetness out of my Doublemint, I placed it back in the wrapper (during a loud number, I’m not one of those people) and held it in my hand so I could throw it away after the show. After cradling my wadded gum for a few minutes, I realized that it was my mom. 

A little backstory here. My mother wasn’t the tidiest person in the world, a trait her lovely daughter inherited. And mom also loved gum, another trait she passed down (don’t judge). Mom was famous for leaving gum wrappers in her wake. It drove me crazy because who doesn’t have time to throw away a gum wrapper? Still, she persisted.

Now that she’s gone, I miss finding those gum wrappers. That’s the hardest thing about losing someone, stomaching the random reminders that pop up on your path just when you’re certain it’s cleared of roots. In Kacey Musgraves’ latest song “Justify,” she sings that healing doesn’t happen in a straight line. No truer words have ever flowed through my speakers. 

Grief comes in all shapes and sizes, and it never runs on a schedule. But just as it grabs and tugs at unexpected moments, it also delivers these random ethereal connections, reminding you that person is always there. 

            Watching Elphaba and Glinda sing “Because I Knew You,” I clinched my gum wrapper in my hand, knowing we were all together. Three generations sharing a family tradition in beloved Ovens Auditorium. For a moment, I felt at peace, a feeling that’s been hard to come by lately as I navigate tweens, middle age, covid and an aging father. I need my mom’s guidance and wisdom more than ever. I constantly toss questions and requests into the air, hoping at least one will make its way to her. Most of the time I hear crickets, but once in a while, mom sends a Wink my way. 

            That’s exactly what she did at Wicked. She did what she could to be with her granddaughter as she watched her first show. Knowing mom was with us was all I needed to sit back and enjoy my daughter discover the thrill of live theatre.

Mom and I during our next-to-last Mother’s Day together.

John and I have been watching The Flash on Netflix with The Tots. Though I missed the first few episodes, the gist is that The Flash is a meta-human who can run super fast. He gained this superpower by being struck by lightning and particles from a particle simulator explosion simultaneously. Other people in Central City were also affected by the explosion and became meta-humans, each having their own mind-blowing talents. 

            As I watch this show, I see so many parallels between meta-humans and mothers — to the point that the titles are almost interchangeable. Though I could go on a power trip by thinking that being a mother is the same as being a superhero (it often is), I’d rather change the narrative. Mothers shouldn’t be expected to be superheroes or meta-humans. We should be expected to be human like everyone else. 

I grew up in the 1970s when parenting wasn’t so hands on. Sure, my mom worked hard to give me a wonderful life, but she also spent hours reading Danielle Steel novels, sipping Crystal Light and pursuing things she was interested in. She’d send me out into our neighborhood with a Timex on my wrist and instructions to be home for dinner. The result was a glorious childhood filled with adventure and a little risk-taking, some of which got me grounded. 

During the past few months, I’ve been struggling with various issues in my life. (That’s why you haven’t seen any Winks lately.) One of the big things I’m wrestling with is figuring out who I am. I’m grateful to be a mom, and anyone who knows me well knows the hell I went through to become one. That’s all well and good, but over the past 11 years, I’ve poured so much into motherhood that I haven’t left any room for Lori. I take the blame for neglecting me, but I also point the finger at society and the ridiculous demands being made of mothers these days. 

Talking to friends and simply observing other mothers, it’s clear that the expectations of moms are at an all time high. Not only do we have to keep our kids alive and healthy, but we also need to make sure every second of their lives is amazing. We split our time between SignUp Genius and waiting in parking lots while our kids learn yet another skill to make them meta-humans. Our cars have become our homes, and so many times our self-worth becomes wrapped up in how many practices or rehearsals our kids have each week. It’s perpetuating a toxic environment for moms — and for our children. And quite frankly, it’s driving me nuts. 

Of course, I want my kids to have a wonderful life and learn to do all kinds of things. Sure, I want them to find a pastime or sport that interests them and pursue it with the passion than I pursued theatre and music. But along the way, I want them to learn that you can’t always get what you want. (By the way, that’s my second favorite song of all time, and I really hope The Stones reschedule their concert. Please!)

Life isn’t always going to be perfect, and if we mothers continue to raise our kids in an environment where they think that’s the case, it can only go nuclear at some point. Kids need to face disappointments. They need to fail at things. They need to know that moms need a life too, and that sometimes everything is not going to be okay but that they will survive. 

One of the most important lessons my mom taught me occurred during my senior year of high school. The beauty of this lesson is that I didn’t get it until this year. In a nutshell, my mom wasn’t home for my senior prom. She wasn’t there to help me get ready or to take pictures in our yard. She wasn’t there to hear all about it when I returned home. She wasn’t there the next morning when my date and I went to church in our prom ensembles, which was a thing in the South during the ’80s for reasons unbeknownst to me. 

My mom missed all of that because she wanted to go to a conference in California with her friends, so she did. At first, I blew it off because I was a cool teenager who didn’t need her mom. Later on, I’d tease her about it and lace my jokes with a shot of guilt to get her to buy me something and/or make her feel a little bad, but she knew what she was doing. 

First of all, she knew my prom date was a flake and that there was no way this dude would be around long term. (She was right, as we broke up the next month.) Second, I had already gone to the junior prom, so she had been through the hoopla. Third, she wanted to teach me that moms should and CAN do things for themselves, even if it involves missing a sliver of their children’s precious lives. That’s the part I didn’t get until recently. 

Looking at my calendar to see where my time goes, it’s obvious that I haven’t been great about doing things for myself. I’m not talking about pedicures, facials or long baths, I’m talking about pursuing things that I’m interested in. For a long time, I judged moms who did that. How dare they join a tennis league or do a show with the community theatre? What kind of mother would go on a long vacation without her kids? How dare they neglect their children?

Well, the joke is on me. They were right, and I was so very wrong. What I didn’t get was that making everyone else’s life amazing was slowly eroding my own. And it really is true that if mama isn’t happy, no one else is either. 

That’s what my mom wanted to teach me that all those years ago, and I had no idea. She wanted to show me that you can be a great mother and still live your own life. In fact, doing so makes you a better mom and an even better person. She had a great time on her trip, and I didn’t die because she wasn’t there for my senior prom. Instead, it ended up becoming one of my favorite memories of her.

So as I experience my second Mother’s Day without mom, I can only hope she knows what a gift she gave me years ago. I’m still figuring out how to incorporate it into my life, but at least I’m on the right track — all because of her. 

Happy Mother’s Day, mom.

            One of my favorite quotes is, “You must do the thing you think you cannot do.” It’s from Eleanor Roosevelt, and anytime I’m intimidated by an assignment, event or challenge, I look to it for strength. I even use it as the signature on my e-mail. So last week when Graydon’s teacher assistant e-mailed that they needed parents to volunteer for carpool duty so that teachers could get vaccinated, I turned to this quote. 

            A little background here, carpool at The Tots’ school is a well-oiled machine that involves Fosse-like choreography. For years, I opted for the walk-up option because A. I love to chat with other parents. B. Waiting in line eats up time. And C. I was terrified of the carpool line. 

            Back to the present. The e-mail request sat in my box, and I intended to answer it, but soon, daughter, mom and work responsibilities camouflaged it, and I forgot about it. (Nevermind that Covid fatigue has hijacked most of my cognitive skills.)

Regardless, I received another e-mail asking for help, and in a moment of bravery and duty, I said “yes.” After all these teachers have done for my kids and everyone else’s kids during the past year and all the years before that, the least I could do was throw myself into the carpool dance for an hour so that they could be protected from a ruthless virus.

            When the day finally arrived, I went to the front desk to get my Covid clearance. Keep in mind that it’s been almost a year since I’d stepped foot in my children’s school, so the weight of that threw me off my game, which was on shaky ground because of the task before me. 

            After playing a montage in my head about how school used to be, I found my contact at the end of the hall. She was already communicating on her walkie-talkie. “This was it,” I thought. No turning back. I was about to go into the trenches— for realz.

She quickly went over the rules (all of them boiling down to not letting children walk in traffic) and instructed me to pick a station. For a few minutes, it was just me out there under the awning, enjoying a much-needed 70-degree day.

Then the invasion began. 

            I heard a teacher ask, “Can I tell her to let them go?” and then they just started coming. An army of minivans and SUVs displaying carpool numbers and names filled the lanes. As I looked toward the road by the school, the line of cars kept growing. It looked like that scene in Braveheart when the English army swiftly rides on horses into battle. These parents were coming for us, and they weren’t leaving until they had their kids buckled in and secure. 

            Keep in mind that they weren’t the only ones advancing toward us. There were the kids. Everyone from talkative kindergarteners to moody tweens, all armed with heavy backpacks, water bottles and the occasional piece of artwork. They knew the steps to this dance as I stood there with two left feet. 

            Regardless, I persevered by escorting a first-grader to her dad’s pick up. “This is not so bad,” I thought, as I put her in the front seat. The gracious dad smiled at me and told me she had to ride in the back. Carpool lesson number one: It’s frowned upon to put a child who needs to be in a car seat (by law) in a regular seat in front of a windshield. Check. 

            Somehow I safely delivered a couple more kids to their parents when a teacher asked me if I wanted to man a station or motion parents where to pull up. After hearing me sputter out a couple of sentences summing up how clueless I was, she thought it best for me to man a station — under her supervision. Thank God she threw me a life preserver. If she hadn’t, kindergarteners might have ridden home in the flatbeds of pick-ups, their artwork landing in ditches. 

            Despite my ineptness, the line didn’t let up. I’d shout out a kid’s name only to realize that they were standing right beside me. About 30 minutes in, my mind began zoning out until a mom in a minivan asked if I could walk her daughter to the car. The child was standing five feet from me. I apologized profusely, and luckily, this sweet mom understood where I was coming from. “Carpool is brutal,” she said in a tone usually reserved for talking to someone who’s about to go in for their first colonoscopy. 

            Finally, the traffic thinned, and the teachers began clearing out. They went back to their rooms to wrap up their day and tackle whatever personal responsibilities lay ahead in the afternoon. I stood there thinking that they we should all be heading to a bar after the trauma we had just survived — this from someone who hardly ever drinks alcohol. 

            As I picked up The Tots from their classrooms, I thought about all of the things teachers do in addition to teaching. The list is endless, involving so many skills, talents and tools, each task requiring a dose of patience, understanding and in the case of carpool, endurance and military strategy. 

            While we’ve all faced challenges during the past year, teachers are one of the groups that’s been stretched the most. I often think about how I would react if the entire format of my job changed over a weekend with little to no notice. I’d be horrified. Yet, that’s exactly what happened to our teachers last March. One minute they were writing lesson plans on the board for the next day. Then the next day showed up in completely different packaging. Pivot doesn’t even begin to cover the magic educators had to perform in a couple of days. 

            That said, when I hear people complain about teachers, it makes me as angry as it would to hear someone say something disparaging about Dolly Parton. These folks are doing an amazing job of educating our children in an unprecedented and scary situation. This past year has been a curve ball like no other, and if you didn’t sharpen your empathy skills during this mess, you need a kindness tune-up. 

            Consider the proverb I recently learned — “Don’t judge someone until you have walked two moons in their moccasins.” The potency of this gem is beyond relevant today. That’s why it stuck with me (that and the fact that it’s about shoes). 

            Working carpool line gave me an hour in the moccasins of the teachers and staff members at our school, and all I can say is thank you. Thank you for loving my kids, and thank you for proving Eleanor Roosevelt right once again. You really must do the thing you think you cannot do. 

P.S. Weekly Winks will return next week. 

P.S.S. Send a Wink of Goodness to a teacher and/or school staff member. They could surely use it. 

Happy Friday! I’m in a good mood, and I’m going with it! This week delivered more Winks than I can count, so let’s just get to it.

Every Friday I share the Winks of Goodness I experienced throughout the week in the hopes of inspiring you to do the same thing. I’ve found that writing down and formally acknowledging these suckers gives them more power. I encourage you to share your own Weekly Winks on my site or on social media. Look around and write it down — share the goodness!   

Saturday— We had a fabulous dinner with our neighbors. The food was scrumptious, and the company was even better. There is nothing better than laughing with friends! 

Sunday — I went on a run in a tank top — in January! Just one more reason why I love my native state so much!

Monday — I got slime out of my daughter’s favorite shirt. Anyone who has been through the ordeal of a tween on the brink of losing a favorite garment knows that this act is akin to performing a heart transplant. Thanks to vinegar and a toothbrush, I attained Wonder Woman status — at least for an hour. 

Tuesday— Started the day with a great birthday workout for a friend. Bonus, instead of making us do 55 burpees, as per our usual birthday ritual, our trainer/friend made us do 55 jacks instead. Having to wear masks working out has its perks. 

Wednesday — I don’t know if I can even describe what an awesome day today was, but here goes. I was picking up a photo at Walgreens, when my phone began blowing up with messages — UNC dropped decisions. The first student I worked with this summer as I launched my essay business, and who is also a young lady I think of as my own, texted to see if she could open hers with me. (Background, she’s the daughter of my soul sister, and my soul sister was heading to a much-needed getaway at the beach with the rest of their family.) 

            Needless to say, she came over, we got her family on Facetime and clicked the button. As soon as we saw the word “congratulations,” everyone went crazy! It was just the best feeling in the world because this girl has worked more than hard for this recognition and opportunity. I can’t even tell you how proud I am of her, as well as my other students who got accepted. If you read my entry earlier this week (Either Way, You’ll Show ‘Em), you know the personal meaning this has for me. All I can say is that helping others pursue their dreams is the best way to pursue your own. 

Thursday — The clouds and wind in the morning sky were eerie and beautiful at the same time.  

Friday— My sweet Sunny spent the morning living up her to her name (see photo). 

Happy weekend, friends! Get out there and enjoy the sunshine!

Last summer, my soul sister encouraged me to start a business helping high school seniors with their essays for college admissions. Though I was terrified, the idea ignited something in me, and by June, Show Don’t Tell Essays was born. Suddenly, I found myself listening to 17- and 18-year olds share their dreams, hopes, fears, memories and more as we sweltered on my patio. It’s some of the most rewarding work I’ve ever done. 

            I’m thinking about my students a lot this week (and in the weeks to come) because many of them are about to find out if they got into their dream school. Everyone has their own idea of a dream school based on course of study, geography, sports, arts, family history, etc. Being in North Carolina, many of my students want to be Tar Heels. Typing that sentence makes my heart beat a little faster because I’ve been there. 

            I wrote about the scenic route I took to become a writer in my Closed Doors entry (November 13, 2019). In a nutshell, ever since fourth grade, I dreamed of going to Chapel Hill to study journalism. The Heels’ win over Georgetown in the 1982 national championship had a little to do with it, but my ambition was mostly fueled by my desire to tell stories. When a neighbor told me that UNC was the place to go for journalism, I clung to that idea like a pond leech on a leg. From fourth grade on, so many of my decisions were based on that goal. 

            By the time I entered my senior year, I had everything going for me in my college application, everything except a wonderful SAT score. That was always the wild card for me, and that’s the wild card that sent a thin envelope to my mailbox instead of a thick packet. I had just returned from my Governor’s School reunion, where so many of my friends shared that they had already been granted admission — three of my friends were up for The Morehead, two won it. Then there was me, staring at a rejection letter. 

            It wasn’t pretty, and there’s still a slit in my bedroom door where I kicked it in a fury, but it wasn’t the end. At 17, most of the rejection I had experienced involved boys who didn’t return my crushes. This was different. This was a new path that I hadn’t let myself think about for fear of introducing it to fate. But there I was, huddled in a ball on my canopy bed, crying with my mother. 

            My sad stupor didn’t vanish quickly, but it eventually faded as I began constructing another road to get where I wanted to go. Some folks travel in a linear pattern through life, A to B and onto Z without missing a letter. My path looks more like something you’d doodle during a boring meeting. Sometimes you have to be denied what you want to realize how much you really want it or if you even want it at all. Either way, it’s a hard lesson, but one I’m beyond grateful for because through all of the heartbreak, anger and disappointment, I kept my dream in view and achieved it in my own messy way.

            So for all of those students who get into Carolina or whatever their dream school is in the coming weeks, congratulations! I hope it’s everything you want it to be. If it’s not, figure out a way to make it work for you or work your way to another school. But for those who don’t get the news they’ve longed for, know that it’s not the end. It’s simply a different beginning to your story, and it just might lead you to a better place than you imagined.  

            Good luck, seniors! I’m so proud of you!  

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