(Or at least pick them from my garden…)

I shared this on Facebook a year ago, but I thought it needed revisiting and possibly a little bit of revision, so here goes:

I’ve always had a complicated relationship with Valentine’s Day. Well, maybe not always. As a child, there was not much better than frosted sugar cookies and a red Kool-aid mustache to accompany the hand-decorated shoe boxes into which we took turns placing our Care Bear and Strawberry Shortcake Valentines. If we were truly lucky, there would be a heart-shaped lollipop or a box of Conversation Hearts taped to the outside of most of the envelopes. By the end of the day, we would examine our over-flowing boxes, each containing exactly 31 Valentines – twenty-nine from our fellow classmates, one from ourselves since we were not allowed to skip boxes, and one from our teacher. At home, I would rifle through my Whitman’s Sampler from Mom and Dad, devouring anything containing nuts or caramel, while tossing the orange and coconut cream in the trash, because eww.

Valentine’s Day was awesome.

In the fifth grade, Valentine’s Day was ratcheted up a notch when a boy, whose name was something like Jack Jackson or John Johnson or Will Williams (but not), showed up at school with a teddy bear and heart-shaped balloon for me. Having never truly paid much attention to the boy with the same first and last name before, I was instantly smitten with this new proclamation of love. I did not mind that his intended recipient had turned this gift down earlier in the day and that I was second in line. He became my boyfriend for the next week or two. It was the best Valentine’s Day in my almost eleven years.

In the years that followed, it was difficult for anyone to match that simple Valentine’s magic that John Johnson or Rob Roberts (or whatever his name was) had sparked in me. No matter how many candy grams I received in middle school or pink carnations in high school (but not the dreaded white ones of friendship!), I always seemed to be unlucky in love around Valentine’s Day….or come to think of it, just about any major holiday. I was a serial dater in high school, but by January, the thrill was gone, and Cupid refused to show up for me until after long after Valentine’s Day had passed.

Except for my senior year. Well, sort of. I had dated a sweet boy for several months, and the January doldrums hit yet again, and we broke up. Not to be dramatic (but what 17 year-old girl is not dramatic?), but I was devastated. I managed my way through the school day as I watched my friends trade Valentine’s gifts with their boyfriends, but by the end of the day, I was emotionally spent and just wanted the day to be over.

Around 5 p.m., there was a knock on my front door, and behind that door was a hand holding the most beautiful arrangement of roses I had ever seen. My dad, not typically one to indulge in such lavish purchases, must have really stepped it up this year. Either that, or perhaps he was in the dog house and trying to get back in Mom’s good graces.

Except that the roses were not for my mom….they were for me. I opened the card to reveal that they were from my ex – the one who had just broken my heart a couple of weeks earlier. What could this possibly mean? Did he want to get back together? Did he recognize that the decision to break up was like the worst idea he had ever had? Did he still love me? Suddenly this day had turned around.

Immediately, I phoned my very best guy friend to share my news and to get some perspective. My excitement was instantly extinguished when I heard the discomfort in his voice. In the background, I heard a distant giggling.

“Brian, who is there?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s Angela,” he replied. Of course, his girlfriend would be with him on Valentine’s day. In the distance, I heard multiple voices carrying on a conversation….a male voice that I recognized and another female voice that I did not.

“Brian”, I asked incredulously, “WHO else is there?”.

The phone went silent for what seemed like an hour, and then I heard Brian release a quiet sigh. He whispered, “John is here.” My ex.

“And WHO else? I know there is another girl there.”

“Allison is here, too,” he reluctantly replied. Allison was Angela’s best friend, and I had seen her as a threat the entire time I dated John. She was cute and fun and flirty, and why wouldn’t he want to date her? Apparently, they had waited until Valentine’s Day to go out on their first date, which just so happened to be a double date with my very best friend in the world and his girlfriend.

Tears immediately sprung to my eyes, and my mouth forgot how to form words as I slammed the phone down (a concept, by the way, that our teens have absolutely no knowledge of) without a goodbye. Not only was I devastated that my false hope of reconciliation was never going to happen, I was livid that my best friend in life had been a part of setting him up with another girl.

I’m still not sure why I received 13 roses from my ex that day, although I guess the number of roses I received should have been my first clue that something was amiss. Perhaps he had really gotten ahead of things and pre-ordered before we broke up, although he did not strike me as someone who thought through much of anything that he did. Perhaps his feelings toward me were still complicated….or maybe he just felt sorry for me. If I had to guess, his unassuming and precious mother probably had ordered them for me, not knowing we were no longer together. I may never know.

I would like to say that I tossed those roses out the minute my heart broke a second time, but I don’t think that was the case. Rather, if I recall, I allowed them to wither and die, just like my feelings toward John eventually did. (As a side note, I did eventually completely reconcile with my best friend, and I briefly reconciled with John long enough to take him to senior prom later in the year. So all was not completely lost).

From that day on, Valentine’s Day has been dead to me. Okay, not really. But my feelings towards Valentine’s Day were forever altered that day (I say this while wearing a cheugy Valentine’s sweater, so take this with a grain of salt). I’m still a hopeless romantic, and I have tried, but often failed, to catch the magic of Valentine’s Day again, and that’s okay. When my children were younger, I was able to relive the simple joy of the Valentine’s box, only with Dora the Explorer and Bob the Builder cards this go around.

(I even forced them to do cheesy Valentine’s Day shoots each year. I know they love me for that.)

And now that they are older, I do not want to squelch their Valentine’s dreams, but I also want them to know the importance of showing up daily for their people…not just on a day that Hallmark (if they are even still a thing) has designated to spend 75% of their marketing budget on.

And just in case they happen to have a crappy and lonely Valentine’s Day (or two or ten), I want them to know that they are not alone. It could always be worse (refer to the above), and one day you will laugh about it.

And for my baby girl, do not wait on a man to buy you flowers. Buy all of the flowers your heart desires, but just wait until February 15 when they are half-price. If Miley can do it, we all can.

Or even better, go pick them from the yard. It is, after all, daffodil season, which simply means that the best is yet to come.

That’s what I call winning on Valentine’s Day.

But seriously, happy Valentine’s day!

And now that they are older, I do not want to squelch their Valentine’s dreams, but I also want them to know the importance of showing up daily for their people…not just on a day that Hallmark (if they are even still a thing) has designated to spend 75% of their marketing budget on.

And just in case they happen to have a crappy and lonely Valentine’s Day (or two or ten), I want them to know that they are not alone. It could always be worse (refer to the above), and one day you will laugh about it.

And for my baby girl, do not wait on a man to buy you flowers. Buy all of the flowers your heart desires, but just wait until February 15 when they are half-price. If Miley can do it, we all can.

Better yet, go in the front yard, and pick daffodils. There’s no better reminder of new beginnings than a daffodil. Maybe there’s a reason they bloom for us around Valentine’s Day.

That’s what I call winning on Valentine’s Day.

But seriously, happy Valentine’s day!

I would choose to end this post here, but a few days after I originally posted it, I received this message from my friend B and felt it needed to be included:

“Ok, so I read your Valentines post and it broke my heart a little. Ok, a lot. Isn’t it funny how those teenage hurts can stay with us and affect our outlook for years to come? It goes without saying, but I’m sorry 17-year-old Brian was such a jerk (okay, I may have edited this just a little). If only I’d know then which relationships were the important ones, that should be protected and nurtured. Spoiler alert, John wound up dating Angela after I went to college, so those were not the important relationships I’m speaking of. Anyway, I’m thankful for you and all the great, non-Valentines Day memories we share.”

Another spoiler alert: NONE of us ended up together. We all ended up with who God intended us to be with. And that is a Valentine’s miracle.

– And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love. 1 Corinthians 13:13

I saw a yellow butterfly in our yard the day before we left for Texas.  I was trying to work out whatever mathematical equation that needed to be worked out in order to fit all of your stuff in the car for our trip to Texas, and it caught my eye in the distance.  It’s been quite a while since I’ve seen one in our yard.  It’s also been quite a while since I have spent more than a week at home, so perhaps that’s why.  Or maybe I just haven’t been watching for them lately.  But I definitely think that God sent that butterfly last week to tell me that it was okay to release you.

I don’t want to release you.  But I think that this is how it is supposed to be.  The yellow butterfly just reminded me that I’ve got this…that you’ve got this….that God has both of us.  This is simply another cyle of life that we mothers all have to go through, whether we like it or not.  And right now, I do not like it.

It has been quite a summer for the two of us…probably one of my favorites with you ever. Aside from being able to tag along on your fabulous senior trip, our other excursions this summer have been a little less posh, but we have been together. We have toured most of the Southern states of the US from Texas to Tennessee to Florida to North and South Carolina, mostly chasing horses and blue ribbons.  What you did not realize, however, was that this was the first time I’ve felt like I was chasing you. And, this was the beginning of my slow release.

As much as I would still love to wrap you in a cocoon and wear you strapped to my chest like I did when you were a baby (mostly because you would not stop screaming), little by little, I have been practicing letting you go all summer. And while I was not ready to allow you to fully spread your wings and fly completely away, you were given many more opportunities to take short flights on your own this summer. 

Each time you flew just a little further (i.e., driving solo from Birmingham to Aiken through a torrential downpour or staying behind in Texas without me), I held my breath a little until I knew you had landed safely.  I will ALWAYS hold my breath.  Each time I gave you a little more room to go out on your own, it was never JUST for your benefit.  Simply put, it was probably more for mine.  Because moms need to practice these things.

Last week, the car was packed and loaded down, and we made the ten-hour treck to Texas to drop you off at school. I had big plans for our time together – plans of life lessons….of wise conversations we should have about growing up and adulting….of funny recollections of all of the moments we have had together.

But you know what they say about the best laid plans.  I listened to my book, while you slept and listened to your own music.  Then we fought.  And I cried for two straight hours. 

I have no idea what we even fought about, but once that dam was breached, the flood of tears that has been threatening to overflow all summer long was enough to flood the Grand Canyon and then some.  And to be honest, I am sure they are not the last of my tears.

While I know that a child soiling the nest on the way out is God’s way of helping us moms recognize when it is time to let go, I do not think that was the reason for my tears.

I think that the reason for my tears is that it just hurts to see your beautiful butterfly fly away.

While  butterflies teach us about change and metamorphosis, what is even more important is that they make the world even more beautiful by pollinating fuits, vegetables and flowers.

When I can wrap my head around the fact that it is your turn to share your gifts and talents with the world, then it makes it a little easier to allow you to take flight.

There is so much more that I have to say – and trust me, I will say it at some point. 

But for now, I will simply say, go fly and make the world a more beautiful place.  And when you need a place to rest, or a kiss from a familiar face, you can always fly back home.

Caterpillar in the tree

How you wonder who you’ll be

Can’t go far but you can always dream.

Wish you may and wish you might

Don’t you worry, hold on tight

I promise you, there will come a day

Butterfly, fly away.

Dear Taylor,

This is me swallowing my pride and saying that I messed up royally. If only I could go back to November and tell Frugal Heather that FOMO Heather would label her the “Anti-Hero” come May, then Frugal Heather might have coughed up more than $1K per ticket to see you last weekend in Nashville or the weekend before in Atlanta. Instead, FOMO Heather is forced to live vicariously through the Instagram posts of almost all of her closest friends who actually got to see you in person this time.

But that’s okay. Since you are so fresh in my mind, rather that think about how jealous I am that I was not there in person, I thought it might make me feel better to express my gratitude to you. You are not a mother just yet, but I feel like you have been there through so much of my motherhood.

You see, you have been the soundtrack of my daughter’s life. There are not very many memories that I have of her that do not somehow have your music woven into them. I could sum up so much of her life by so many of your own Eras. You guys have grown up together.

She graduates in less than a week. The memories have been hitting hard and fast lately, and the lyrics of “Never Grow Up” play on repeat in my mind daily. I wonder if you realized when you wrote this song that it would occupy so much space in the minds of middle-age mothers everywhere who are clinging so desperately to the ones who are now so desperate to be released.

“…Oh, darlin’, don’t you ever grow up, don’t you ever grow up, just stay this little...”

I’m going to admit that when I first heard “Tim McGraw”, I thought it was cute, but never anticipated that you would be anything more than a one-hit wonder. I’m sorry. But when four year-old Campbell could sing every single word to “Teardrops on My Guitar” – all before she could spell her name – I knew that you must be special.

She became a Fearless princess as you serenaded her to “Love Story“, and you taught her that sometimes an actual real life “White Horse” was better than a shady boy on a white horse.

“…Oh, darlin’, don’t you ever grow up, don’t you ever grow up, it could stay this simple…”

You taught her that being Fifteen was complicated and that there was so much more to life than she could possibly imagine. Oh, and that giving all you have to a boy who might change his mind almost always leads to tears (thank you for that one).

“…I won’t let nobody hurt you….“

And just as school drama began to filter in, you showed her that sometimes people are just “Mean“, and that proving people wrong was often “Better than Revenge“. We cried when John broke your heart, and you taught her with “Back to December” that we all have moments that we wish that we could go back to and do differently. It was simply a part of life.

“…Won’t let no one break your heart…“

When her heart was broken for the first time, it was from you that she learned that it was possible to find love and to lose love and then to “Begin Again“….and again….and again…and again. She would also learn that the best thing to do with “Bad Blood” was just to “Shake it Off.”

“…And even though you want to…”

And as almost every child experiences, you had a little bit of a dark period with Reputation, but she learned that it’s almost always darkest before dawn, and what emerges on the other side of that darkness is often the clearest understanding of who you truly are, and that you can’t spell “awesome” without “me“.

When I sent her a link to your song after going through a rough patch, “I Forgot That You Existed,” she wrinkled her nose, because moms know nothing when you are sixteen. Months later, when she finally admitted that she had listened to the lyrics and liked them, I fought my urge to say, “I told you so.”

I’ve probably told her “You Need to Calm Down” a few hundred times. But more often than that, she’s retorted with, “No, Bruh. YOU need to calm down.” And she was probably right.

“…Please try to never grow up...”

When Covid hit, you taught her that clarity often comes when we allow ourselves to have some space and some quiet. We saw the more introspective side of you in Evermore and Folklore, and we learned that slowing down allows us to appreciate what is most important and often breeds creativity.

So many of my most precious memories with her (and even a few not so great ones, too) somehow have you intertwined among them. You were there for the countless nights that I sat outside her door as she sang every word of the Speak Now album until she sang herself to sleep. You were there for birthday parties and recitals and dance parties and even the party in my basement that I had no idea I was getting myself into (note to your future self: when your teenager asks to have a few friends over for a party, clarify the number first).

You were there for her first concert, and then again for her second. You even introduced her to the legendary Mick Jagger.

You were there for the breakups and the friend drama and the makeups and the mama drama.

“…Don’t you ever grow up….”

But what I will miss the most is having you with us for the countless hours we spent in the car together traveling back and forth to horse shows all over the country. It sometimes got a little lonely being an Uber driver, as she often curled up in the backseat of the car, headphones on and lost in her own world. Inevitably, at some point near the end of what was often a six or seven hour drive, she would get restless and would ask to play “Mom’s playlist” (the only music of hers that she would allow me to listen to) over the car speakers.

We would sing together to your music at the top of our lungs. And just for a short time, she would be my Fearless princess all over again. “It was rare, I was there (and so were you), I remember it all too well.”

And for that, I say, thank you.

As I prepare myself to say goodbye to her in just a couple of months, I am so grateful that a little piece of her will remain on my radio, and I hope that she will occasionally listen to “Mom’s playlist” and think of me. I hope that one day she will be thankful that it was you, and not Bon Jovi or Guns N’ Roses, who helped me raise her.

When I finally kiss her and tell her “You’re On Your Own, Kid” in August, I’ll cry, but then I’ll crank the volume up for the ten-hour drive back home. Because where you are, so will she be.

Thank you for helping her shimmer.

With much love and gratitude,

Heather

Growing up is scary because it happens without you knowing it. – Taylor Swift

I don’t remember what day of the week it was or in what month exactly, but I remember where I was when I first heard this song. I was sitting in my car at the Southside Chick-fil-A (“God’s Chicken”) waiting on what was probably my third or fourth order of the week to come out. We eat a lot of Chick-fil-A in this house because, why not?

It was taking a while, so I flipped on the radio. I was coming off of what had probably been my most challenging parenting season yet, reflecting and looking back at how I had handled some things and how I wished that I could have changed my reactions to other things.

The first two lines hit like a ton of bricks – “Is there anyone out there trying too sleep? Is there anyone out there as lonely as me?”. Without any warning and only two lines in, and a tear fell from my eye. What the actual heck was wrong with me (besides my usual hormonal excuse)?

I turned the radio up.

She continued to torture me. “I know what you’re thinking, I know how you feel. Laying in the dark, looking for color. Wishing that your heart could cry with another.“

More tears fell. Seriously, how could she know?

She went on –

If all the lonely people spoke

To all the other lonely folk,

There’d be no lonely people.

If only we could shine like stars

To find each other in the dark

There’d be no lonely people.

There was a tap at my window. Red faced and bleary-eyed, I jumped, forgetting that my nuggets were just outside the window.

“Thank you,” I whispered as I rolled down the window.

“My pleasure,” Chick-fil-A boy responded. He caught a glimpse of my face and added sheepishly, “Have a blessed day.”

Before I pulled away from the parking lot, I had googled the song. I listened to it three more times before I pulled into my driveway.

I am not sure why this song hit so strongly that day, but it certainly left an impression. My difficult season with my children had been coupled with feelings of loneliness when I felt that no one really understood – when I felt that I could not fully express what I wanted to for fear of judgement from others.

Kate Bingham Smith echoes the sentiment of parental loneliness in her blog post, “Parenting My Teens Has Been the Loneliest I’ve Ever Felt as a Parent.” She states, “It’s lonely here. Really lonely. I wasn’t expecting it, but I know other parents feel it. And every time we are honest about the struggle of parenting a teenager these days, and can speak freely without judgment, we are making progress.”

The author of the popular blog Parenting Teens Today gives her own response to this feeling of loneliness in her article, “To the Lonely Mom Raising Teenagers, I See You“, when she asserts “Motherhood is by far the most wonderful and rewarding experience of all, but it’s also the hardest. Let’s be there for each. Let’s change our perspective and remind ourselves of the strength we have when we stand together. Let’s call a mom, let’s ask her how she’s doing, and let’s remind her she’s not alone.”

Was the the loneliness I was feeling? Was this why this song had affected me so much? Had I felt unseen and unheard? Had I felt left to battle my challenges alone?

There were certainly many times that I felt this way, but I am also exceptionally grateful for the fearless few who were there to listen and to lend a shoulder to cry on when I needed it.

Perhaps another reason this song hit so hard was that my children had navigated through their own seasons of loneliness over the past year and being the natural empath that I am, I had experienced those difficult feelings alongside them. I might have even exacerbated those feelings by wanting to swoop in and fix those feelings instead of allow them to work things out on their own.

Regardless, loneliness is no joke, and if you are experiencing it, well, you are not alone.

Yesterday, the surgeon general released a report titled “Our Epidemic of Loneliness and Isolation”, which finds that even before we were all forced into lockdown and isolation due to Covid-19, almost half of U.S. adults reported measurable loneliness (NPR). But why?

One of the theories surrounding the new-found epidemic of loneliness is the dramatic rise in use of technology over the last decade, which has led to a change in the way we interact with one another. There is not the “need” to communicate face-to-face as often, and as a result, we have forgotten the importance of doing so. While it has been difficult enough for adults to adapt to this change, the greater fear is that teens and young adults who have been raised on screens their entire lives never developed the proper skills to appropriately interact in the first place.

While people are spending less in-person time than two decades ago, the 15-24 age group showed a 70% reduction in face-to-face interactions with their friends, often substituting in-person interactions with social media interactions, which we all know are subpar at best (NPR). As a mom of two kids in this age group, this is particularly concerning.

And while most of us probably think of loneliness in the context of hiding away in a dark room alone, it is the loneliness that you feel from lack of understanding and connection – even in a crowd of others – that can often be the most difficult.

In that vein, there’s this poignant acknowledgement of this kind of loneliness:

Okay, mom, I’m sorry for the swearing. I promise that I looked for a clean version of this, but I could not find a video version without it. Because I will always have a special space in my heart for Justin Bieber (and maybe even a little bit of a “cougar crush” – don’t judge me), I felt I had to include it. It perfectly illustrates how judgement and misunderstanding can often lead to loneliness. Even better, he owns his loneliness. He becomes human and opens the doors for others to say, “Hey, I’m lonely, too”.

What if actually owning and admitting to our own loneliness is the first step in connection and recovery? What if “all the lonely people spoke to all the other lonely folk“? Would there “be no lonely people?”

I don’t like oversimplifying things, but maybe it could be that easy. Or at least a step in the right direction.

I believe there can be power in exposing our vulnerabilities, and if not power, then community. We aren’t wired to do this thing alone. We are wired for community.

So in this month of Mental Health Awareness, maybe we can seek that out. Seek out your friends with teenagers – we are all dealing with our own struggles and need an ear sometimes. Put your phone away and call a friend you haven’t seen in a while to go for a walk. Encourage your children, and especially your teens, to interact in person more. Sit on your front lawn with your neighbors more. Better yet, invite them to dinner. Listen more, judge less.

Look for the lonely people…..even those hidden in a crowd. “If we reached out our hands, we’d find somebody who wants to be found.” What a beautiful reminder.

For a full list of the surgeon general’s recommendations for combatting loneliness, see this article: “America has a loneliness epidemic. Here are 6 steps to address it.”

Let’s show up for each other.

And since my solace is often found in music, I’ll leave you with this one, which is remarkably more hopeful.

Loneliness is part of being human. It reminds us that we are not complete in ourselves.

– David Runcorn

A couple of weeks ago, I saw the first trailer for the movie, Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, and my stomach immediately did a backflip. That’s the only part of me that has ever been able to do a backflip, considering that I never made it past level one in gymnastics. I was immediately taken back to the summer of 1984.

I’m on the cusp of my 5^th grade year at Radney Elementary School in Alexander City, Alabama.  My sister, brother and I were on our monthly visit to the small local library in the center of town to select our next stack of books for the MS Read-a-thon. My stack, as usual, was the tallest. I was a voracious reader as a child, and without the distraction of social media and hundreds of extracurricular activities, I could motor through books like Dale Earnhardt.

Even more so, I was competitive.  Reading and academics were my sports.  As in my only sports. The thought of a ball flying toward me made me curl into a ball on the ground and duck for cover. Dodge ball and Red Rover were literal nightmares for me.  But I found solace in reading. I found even more solace in winning prizes for reading the most books in the MS Read-a-thon each summer.

In summers past I had devoured Freckle Juice, Blubber, Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, Superfudge, Double Fudge, and all of the other “Fudges”. But there was one of Judy Blume’s books that had stayed on the shelves.  There were rumblings about this book and why it was not appropriate for children, which made me want to read it more.

With my stack of books on the counter, tucked somewhere between a couple of Sweet Valley High books and The Grapes of Wrath, the librarian pulled the card from the back of Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret and raised an eyebrow. 

“Do your parents know you are checking this book out?”  she asked.

“Yes,” I lied.

She discretely placed the book back in the middle of my stack of books, and off I went with them tucked neatly under my arms.  I had done it.  I was a rebel.  I was going to figure out, at last, what all the fuss was about.

Growing up in a small town where your father is a Southern Baptist preacher, it was taboo to question the existence of God. Was that the central controversy of this book?  In my town, there were many different brands of Christianity, non-Christians (i.e., non Church-goers), and there was one Jewish family, the Sokols. One of the Sokol girls was a friend of mine. I tried to convert her to Christianity when we were in the third grade. It had not gone over very well.

 In the book,  Margaret is born to a Christian mother and a Jewish father who are allowing her to choose her faith for herself (scandalous!).  She speaks to God every night about her changing body, friends, etc. until members of her extended family try to force her into selecting a religion. It is then that she decides she no longer needs God (also scandalous) and stops talking to Him.

As a committed ten year-old Christian, I secretly hoped that Margaret would accept Jesus as her personal Lord and Savior by the end of the book, but that does not happen. She does, however, begin speaking to God again – a step in the right direction (yay!).

Reading the book did nothing to damage my faith, but it opened my eyes a little to Rachel’s. So that was ONE positive that came out of the book for me.

The other positives about Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret were that it very openly discussed puberty and first kisses, both of which would happen to me within the next year. Yes, I had my first kiss at age eleven on a dare (it was gross).  I was subsequently slut-shamed at school the next week and did not kiss another boy for two more years.  Then I kissed a bunch of boys (but that is ALL, kids!), but that is a post for another day.

Up until Margaret, the only real sex-ed I had ever had was from the encyclopedia and a book called Wonderfully Made (or something like that).  God forbid I talk with my parents about such embarrassing things.  Judy Blume and Margaret filled in a lot of missing gaps for me when it came to the perils of becoming a woman. So, with that, I say, thank you, Judy Blume.

 Side note: when I asked my much younger daughter if she needed help learning to shave her legs, she told me that she had already watched a YouTube on that.  NOT.CONCERNING.AT.ALL.  Whereas we had few sex-ed resources in the 80s, our kids have FAR TOO MANY, which is resulting in very unrealistic sex-pectations.  Again, that is a post for another day.

I also learned that it was okay to not have all of the answers, and that almost EVERYONE was dealing with some kind of insecurity, no matter how confident they looked. Sometimes I still have to remind myself of this.

With the reemergence of Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret in movie form, it has gotten me thinking that perhaps we could petition Judy Blume to do a sequel of this book for middle age women. She’s 85, so there’s not a lot of time to waste.

Hear me out on this.  How many of us in middle age still sometimes question God?  I know that I do. And I’m sure that my incessant chatter with God can sometimes vacillate between the mundane and the insane, much like Margaret’s. Thankfully, I do not think that God cares.

How many of us are handling hard things, like dealing with difficult things with our older children, becoming empty nesters, going through marital issues, experiencing a first date again for the first time since college, coming to grips with changing bodies, or dealing with sickness and/or death of our parents?

I think there is definitely a book in there for Judy somewhere for us peri-menopausal and straight-up menopausal women. I will volunteer as tribute and gladly allow her to use my name:  Are You There God, It’s Me, Heather.  I think it has a nice ring to it.  

To be fair, I am thankful that I live in a day and age where I can sit at a nice restaurant and have a glass of wine with my girlfriends and discuss our bonus twenty pounds or the fact that we want to punch every member of our household in the face or what hormone supplement we are taking (pellets, the patch, cream??) or our languishing or burgeoning sex drives. The boomers at the table over from us may clutch their pearls when we explode into laughter over such things, but at least we feel free to talk openly about this stage of life.  I’m not sure that our mothers had it that easy.

Perhaps if Judy Blume had followed up Margaret with Heather a little sooner, then menopause would have ceased being a taboo subject a little sooner. Maybe, Blume could have made menopause a super power, just like Farley Drexel Hatcher became in Superfudge! 

Judy, there’s still time.  And there’s absolutely a market for it.  Until we can rally Judy Blume out of her retirement for a follow-up book, let’s gather together in menopausal(ish) solidarity, discuss the hard and uncomfortable (and funny) things and tie together the collective threads that we are all clutching onto with our dear lives.  If there is ever a time that we need each other, it is now…..if not for emotional support, then to keep each other out of jail.

Now, who wants to go see the movie with me?

Male menopause is a lot more fun than female menopause. With female menopause you gain weight and get hot flashes. Male menopause? You get to date young girls and drive motorcycles.

– John Wayne

(Note: This is an edited repost of a Facebook post I made a year or so ago, but it’s even more relevant today).

Dear 30 year-old me,

I see you. You’ve got a toddler on your knee and a baby on the boob. It only takes one look at the bags under your eyes to see that sleep is a luxury you no longer have. It would be an understatement to say that your past couple of years have been taxed. Two babies in thirteen months is a lot; throwing in a new house construction in between did not make it any easier. I wish that I could wrap my arms around you and tell you to just hold on. This will simultaneously be the slowest and the fastest season of your life.

I know that right now you roll your eyes every time you hear that the “days are long, but the years are short.” You will probably roll them even harder when I tell you that no truer words have been spoken. Believe me, though. I’ve got 18 years on you.

Flying doesn’t quite describe the trip on which you are about to embark. Remember the Scream Machine at Six Flags? Yeah, it’s more like that. There are lots of slow deliberate movements until you reach the peak and then lose control as you race down the hill, go through twists and turns, and upside down and back up again.

Remember the fear you felt while you rode it? Like, in the moment of centripetal speed, all you want is for this roller coaster to stop so that you can take the nearest exit not just from the ride, but maybe from the entire park. But then when you reach the end, you sigh and go get back in the two-hour line to do it all over again because it truly was the ride of your life.

Since I’m eighteen years older than you in both body and wisdom, I feel it’s only my duty to prepare you for your personal Scream Machine. Because girl, you are going to learn a lot these next few years….not just about your babies, but equally about you. Maybe my words will prepare you a little better than I was at 30.

1) No matter how hard you try to mold your kids into who you want them to be, nature is wicked strong. It is your job as a mother to nurture what nature (God) has given you.

2) Along the same lines, no amount of dance or baseball pitching lessons will turn them into a professional ballerina or a pro-athlete if that’s not what they want to be (spoiler alert: your kids are as far from graceful and athletic as two kids can be). Save yourself some money (and LORD, save yourself from the over-zealous baseball parents and 5 days a week at the baseball field) and refocus on what it is they truly enjoy.

3) However, DO expose them to as much as possible. You’ll meet some of your closest friends this way. And bonus – you may discover some new things that YOU enjoy (and trust me, you will need this).

4) Save your money now because one of these children will decide on the most expensive hobby in the history of all hobbies. Actually, scratch that, and do not, I repeat, do not, ever let her get close to a horse. Your bank account and your future weekends will thank me. Prepare for her to be miserable. Just tread lightly.

5) The friends that you have right now may not be your closest friends in ten years. That’s okay. Some friends are meant for life. But as Justin Bieber says, “Some people come in your life for a reason; others, they come in your life for a season.” It does not mean that you will love them any less. And odds are that you’ll pick right back up in the same place when you happen to run into them at Target in 5 years.

6) You will begrudgingly allow your kids to listen to and love Justin Bieber. They will outgrow Justin Bieber. You won’t. Sorry, not sorry.

7) One of the most shocking things you’ll experience is that the couples you thought had the “best marriages” did not. Barbie and Ken break up….multiple times. Hold on tightly to your own marriage. Children make it even more challenging, but keep it sacred no matter what you do. It’s okay if marriage is sometimes hard – that will eventually be the thing that makes you stronger.

8) If you envy other moms who seem to have it all together….perfect mom, perfect wife, perfect job….don’t. It’s all smoke and mirrors. It’s impossible to be perfect at all the things at all times. Remember Monica’s closet in Friends? EVERYONE has one, whether it’s visible or internal.

9) As hard as you try, there is no such thing as a work-life balance. You will always rob Peter to pay Paul. Those are facts. Remember this when you decide to go back to work and give yourself some grace to be less than perfect.

10) When you do go back to work, please remember that it’s only a part of you….not the whole. It’s easy to be defined by what we do. Remember that it’s more important to be defined by who you are.

11) You will never realize just how much you are needed until you sit down on the toilet.

12) Likewise, on the very rare occasion you decide to take a nap, turn off your phone ringer. If you are taking a nap, then you desperately need sleep.

13) Prepare yourself for the for the time that you become less of a caregiver and just a gloried secretary/Uber driver/bank teller. Try to remind yourself that those are all still very valuable and needed jobs.

14) On the flip side, there will come a time that you stop placing Bandaids on boo-boos and take on the more difficult job of mending hearts. Just be prepared to have yours broken in the process. A mother’s heart often takes longer to mend than a child’s.

15) The little one in pink will steal your heart and then rip it out over and over again. She’ll tell you she hates your clothes, but you’ll find your missing ones in her closet (or more likely, on her floor). She’ll resist your hugs, but in a moment of weakness, she’ll grab your hand. Just pretend like nothing is amiss, but don’t be the first to let go.

16) For all the times that you lecture your kids that social media only shows the best of other people’s lives – a snippet of reality – remind yourself of this fact as well.

17) Your kids will give you the ability to finally find your voice. And when you find it, you’ll also find that not everyone likes your voice. This will disrupt your natural tendency to make everyone happy. Use it anyway. I would like to report that you are finally able to use your voice without crying, but that may have to wait for the next letter. It’s okay, though….tears show that it means something.

18) So much of life is revealed through the rear-view mirror. Be sure to invest in a great pair of tweezers since the best light you’ll find is in your rear-view mirror. You may judge the menopausal lady at the red light next to you with her tweezers, but just know your day is coming….and just look away.

19) Just so that you are prepared, it’s a cruel joke that you get to experience “second puberty” just as your kids begin their first. I’m certain that God is a comedian.

20) You know those 8 extra pounds you’ve been trying to lose for months on end? Don’t worry over them too much. They will eventually make friends and multiply, so enjoy that somewhat existent waistline for as long as you can.

21) A bonus is that you are no longer an A-cup. Motherhood with endow you with some things that you get to keep. Granted, they may no longer be located in their original position, but hey, you always wanted to shop at Victoria Secret, right?

22) Remember that curly hair you always wanted that you never had? Well, also guess what? You’ve got some now! They just happen to be gray and appear to be having a party in the center of your part. (Maintain a great relationship with your hairstylist).

23) The teenage years will be some of the loneliest years of your life as play groups are no longer and kids are off doing a million activities. Be sure that you invest in some lasting friendships that will get you through this.

24) Be sure that you have a few friends just a few steps ahead of you who can reassure you that “this, too, shall pass”. There will be countless days that you will need to hear this, particularly when your kids are teens.

25) You will need to strengthen your backbone while simultaneously softening your heart. The only exercise to prepare you for this is having tweens/teens.

26) While you are at it, though, exercise every day. If not for your waistline, do it for your mental health.

27) You will lose the faith of your childhood at some point in your thirties. What you replace it with is a much more genuine and authentic faith that does not come from obligation, but rather from years of prayer and soul-searching.

28) You will learn more about yourself from your kids than they are ever able to learn from you. Be a willing student.

29) Likewise, talk to them about any- and everything. The sooner the better. Odds are, they already know, but it’s best that they hear it from you.

30) However, If I could only give you one piece of advice, it would be this: make sure these babies know their Papa and soon. Make sure they know his voice, his face, his smell, and his heart. Pray without ceasing that they will possess some of his heart.

Girl, I know you are tired right now, and while there are some challenges up ahead, just rest assured that you could not be on a better ride. When you start to doubt whether you can do this, just pull this letter out and know that you’ve made it through 18 years, and you’ve learned so much along the way. You’ve got this. Just hold on tight, and remember to lift your hands high when you go down that steep hill…..because that’s the ONLY way to ride a roller coaster.

Love,

48 (almost 49) year-old me

With age comes wisdom, but sometimes age comes alone. – Oscar Wilde

Sometimes in order to move forward, you have to revisit the past. In therapy, you often recount past trauma to see how it plays an integral role in your present life. This particular post is neither a therapy session, nor did it occur in my distant past, but I have had enough space to view the evolutionary process of my parenting style to now have a little more clarity. This is chapter one of my confessional, and perhaps you might find some solidarity in it.

Often family dynamics can resemble that of a zoo. Each member of the family has his or her own personal attributes, smells (especially if you have teenagers), and noises. For instance, my husband’s incessant shower whistling resembles a mockingbird, my daughter’s heavy feet in her bedroom above my own can often sound like an elephant, and, on the contrary, my son’s movements are quiet like a fox.

However, their spirit animals are quite different.  On a good day, my son is a dolphin. He is wise beyond his years, is kind and is generally a people pleaser.  On a bad day, he can become a little more like a reclusive turtle.  My daughter, on the other hand, is most often a golden retriever. Despite the fact that she will probably live in a house full of goldens one day, I also view her to be very much them – carefree, but sometimes stubborn; independent, playful and loyal. On a bad day, she vacillates between a turtle and a porcupine….ouch. 

My husband is a lion. He is assertive and smart, and he is protective of his people.  But on bad days, he is a honey badger.  Remember the phrase, “The honey badger don’t care?” He epitomizes that fierceness when someone close to him is threatened.

Since I am married to a lion/honey badger, it has been relatively easy for me to embrace my own spirit animal:  the capybara. What is a capybara, you ask? He’s this guy:

He’s kind of cute, huh? The capybara is a go-with-the-flow, get-along with pretty much every animal (including the scary ones), large and fuzzy peace-making rodent. Growing up as a middle child, I always found myself being the peacemaker in the family and in friend groups, and I strived to be that as both a wife and mother. On bad days, I most identify with a feral cat, especially when poked by the porcupine, clawing when irritated and then retreating to woods.

I have never been much of a tiger mom, and I used to think that I did not have a mama bear instinct in me. I mean, why would I need to be a mama bear when I lived with a lion/honey badger? It was easy to live in my capybara world where I loved everyone, and everyone loved me…..until it wasn’t. 

Last summer I traveled with the family to The Grand Tetons and Yellowstone National Park.  We did what some might view as a cheesy sunset animal safari. Binoculars in hand, we spotted pronghorn, moose, elk, bison galore and both black and brown (grizzly) bears.  As it turns out, black bears are much less aggressive than their brown cousins.  We witnessed a black bear foraging for berries in the woods. Conversely, we witnessed a brown bear squaring off with a bison over an elk carcass. The brown bears, like the honey badgers, don’t care.

Without divulging into too much information and recounting stories that are not mine to tell, let’s just say that one of my kids was going through some difficult stuff, mostly unfairly circumstantial and unwarranted (think: Regina George Mean Girls kind of stuff), and maybe a small percentage self-induced. After a couple of months of ignoring and praying that the situation(s) would resolve, it became clear that intervention might be necessary. I tried the capybara method of parenting through love and distraction (i.e., Hey, you want to go shopping? Wanna go on a trip? Wanna go for a walk?).

When that did not work, I advocated reconciliation and compromise and tried to arrange for parties to meet up and talk. I tried reaching out to parents but was largely ignored. I capybara-ed until I no longer could. It was only when I saw my child in utter distress and felt that I was in a crisis parenting situation that my inner Mama Bear emerged.

Remember how I told you that the grizzly was a lot fiercer than the black bear? Well, I became a grizzly and I stayed a grizzly for a while.

If you have ever watched the movie This is 40, you may recall this scene where the mom confronted her daughter’s online bully. 

Yes, that was me, minus the swearing….and minus the face to face confrontation.  Regardless, for a brief moment in time, I was a grizzly This is 40 mom. 

I remember my husband asking, “You said WHAT?? And to WHOM?”

I hung my head in shame. He air-fived me from across the room. “Good job!”

Did my inner grizzly help the situation? To be honest, I’m not sure that it did. My child certainly walked away knowing that mama had his/her back, but they probably also thought that I was utterly crazy. I am sure that my child’s friends did as well.

There are times that this makes me giggle, but most of the time, it just makes me sad.  My inner grizzly got the best of me, and quite frankly, being a grizzly made me tired. I no longer wanted to be a grizzly. I realize that while I cannot always embrace the role of capybara (or even angry cat), the whiplash of going from peacemaker to grizzly bear was enough to teach me that there has to be a better animal to embrace as my own.

If you have ever watched the beginning of the Kentucky Derby, you might have noticed that each of the racehorses is led out by a companion horse or pony. Usually a good bit older than the racehorse, the lead ponies/horses offer comfort, guidance and support and allow the racehorse to focus on the task at hand rather than get overwhelmed by the chaos of the crowds and sounds of the racetrack.

As my children get older, and I get wiser, I realize I want to be less like a capybara/cat and more like a companion horse. Even though one is away at college and the other is soon to be, it does not mean that they do not still need my guidance and support. Eventually, I will drop the rope and allow them to run their own race, but for now, I will invest in a longer lead rope and hold it a little more loosely. For now, I am claiming the companion horse as my own.

As for my inner grizzly? Well, she is clamoring to go back into her hidey hole. Perhaps the next time she emerges, she’ll come out as a black bear and simply forage for berries in the woods.

A mother’s love for her child is like nothing else in the world. It knows no law, no pity, it dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path.

Agatha Christie

Butterflies are having a moment. I say this because I’ve just ordered a butterfly blouse, and the earrings I’m wearing at this present moment, as well as the necklace around my neck, are tiny (fake) diamond butterflies.  I’m turning into my grandmother.  Next time you go shopping, look for the butterflies.  I promise that they are everywhere right now.  That makes me feel so current.

It also makes me feel like I was just a little ahead of the butterfly game.  If you’ve followed me for any amount of time on Facebook, then you might know that my butterfly obsession started long before the latest butterfly fashion trend.  Just call me Anna Wintour.  I would like to say that the current butterfly trend originated with me, but I am not sure that ANY trend has EVER originated with me.  Just ask my 18 year-old daughter who daily questions my fashion sense. (Secretly, I think that she might just be jealous of my wardrobe, but I’ll play along regardless).

So pourquoi le Papillon Jaune?  It might be because “everything in French sounds fancy”, just like Fancy Nancy said, and I like to think that I am fancy. In French “le Papillon” means “butterfly”, and “jaune” is the color “yellow”.  My French is limited to the two years I had in high-school and my two semesters of college French, where I met my husband. He pretended to be dumb so that I would help him with his homework.  The rest is l’histoire and is a story for another blog post.

However, the fact that we fell in love in la classe de français has absolutely no bearing on the name of this website.

Several years ago, I was experiencing what I can only describe as a crisis of faith.  For those of you who don’t know me well, I was a “twice on Sunday, once on Wednesday, and as often as possible on weekends for youth group activities” Christian. My father was my pastor, I was baptized at age 5, and I essentially lived in the church growing up. I attended a Christian college, also known as “the Bubble”. While my parents did the best they could to expose me to other religions and cultures, that was difficult to do in a small Southern town.

My life after college was the first time I had ever really been immersed in a culture that was so unlike my upbringing. Moving from Birmingham, Alabama, where people dressed up for Sunday brunch whether they went to church or not, to Boston, where I was hard-pressed to find even a “Christmas and Easter-only” Christian, was perhaps the most eye-opening experience for me.

I honestly had never really questioned my own faith until I realized just how many people there were who 1) had no faith at all, or 2) had been hurt by people of faith. My father’s death in 2009 brought about even more questioning. How could God take someone so early who had devoted his entire life to Him and who given Him so much?  How could the person I considered to be as close to an earthly version of Jesus now be gone?

My anger with God quickly began to turn into doubt.  Did I truly believe what I had been taught my entire life?  Christianity began to feel more like something I had inherited and not something that I truly owned.

In the years following my father’s death, I began pouring myself into literature, both Christian and non-Christian, and into the Bible.  I doubted my beliefs and questioned my doubts. I wrestled to understand what it was that I actually believed, if I believed anything at all. I spent Sundays visiting different churches, seeking someone who would not only not chastise me for my unbelief, but who could normalize that as a process of solidifying my beliefs.

After church one Sunday in March of 2015 or 2016, I sat outside on my balcony and prayed. My prayer was simple – “God, if you are there and everything that I have believed about you is true, I need for you to show me….like quickly.”

Whether this was simply coincidence or divine intervention, up from the kudzu on the hill below our house, hundreds of yellow butterflies arose.  I had sat on that balcony many times before, but I had never noticed the yellow butterflies.  It had to be a sign.

From that point on, everywhere I went, I noticed yellow butterflies. While my journey through the deconstruction, and ultimately, the reconstruction of my faith was not solely based on the butterflies, it certainly did not hurt that they seemed to be sent directly from God at just the right moment.

As the yellow butterflies continued to flutter around me, I googled, “What does it mean when you see a yellow butterfly?”  I got a variety of answers, but the overwhelming consensus was that yellow butterflies symbolized hope and spiritual transformation.  Bingo.

As I continued to see yellow butterflies everywhere, I felt that maybe, just maybe, I was supposed to do something with them. I talked to friends who looked at me like I was crazy.  I prayed to God, “What the heck do you want me to do with these butterflies?”  God gave me no clear answer.

Fast forward to 2019, and the butterflies were beginning to drive me crazy.  I made a deal with God – “God, if you want me to do something with these darn butterflies, then I need a solid answer. If I see a minimum of twenty butterflies while we are in France this summer, then I will do something with them.” –  because I’m sure that God likes those kinds of arbitrary deals.

We arrived in Paris on a Sunday and drove to a house in Provence the following day.  After unloading our rental car, I sat in garden adjacent to our house.  One yellow butterfly flew by….then another….then another. I stopped counting at twenty-two. There was my answer. Whether it was God answering my prayer in that moment or it was just the fact that my eyes were open, I knew that I had to do something with them.  What that was, I still did not know.

I came home from that trip, purchased the domain name lepaillonjaune and had a designer create a logo for me.  I have sat on this for years in the hopes of God revealing exactly what I was supposed to do with Le Papillon Jaune.  Was this a cute name for a children’s clothing line?  Was this supposed to be some sort of company that offered some sort of hope to the world, since, indeed, that is what yellow butterflies symbolize?  Maybe I am supposed to breed yellow butterflies? I still do not really have a solid answer.

After my meltdown last week, I went on a walk the next day. Greens and yellows are finally starting to pop all over trees and in the ground cover…..and in the dreaded pollen. Nearing the end of my walk, a yellow butterfly crossed my path – the first of the season.  Charlie (my dog and best walking buddy) and I stopped to watch him (or her?) flutter back and forth, almost taunting us.  It was in that moment that I realized at least my temporary purpose for Le Papillon Jaune. 

I have always associated the butterfly with a parent letting go of her child, particularly at a time like high school graduation or a wedding.  However, I’ve recently had a new thought.  What if the butterfly also represents the child letting go of her parent?  What if it is just as important for our child to release us as it is for us to release them?  What if this release comes with a chance to embrace a part of us we have neglected or lost in the process of raising our own little butterflies? 

What if I am the butterfly, le papillon jaune?

I do not know exactly where I will head with this blog/website, but for now, this is my metamorphosis. 

While I do not plan to make this a religious blog, just know that my faith is a central part of who I am and is the reason I am here. My goal is to make this a source of hope, entertainment and perhaps some enlightenment.  Perhaps one day it will morph into something else, but for the present time, it is my therapy.

I hope that you will make it part of yours.  Beinvenue sur Le Papillon Jaune.

We delight in the beauty of the butterfly but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty.

– Maya Angelou