Eighteen

A few weeks before the end of 2018, I got a message from my daughter's doctor.

Figuring it was just a reminder that she had another birthday coming up, and thus another annual checkup, I didn't think much of it --- until I opened it and got a shock.

It was a notice telling me that, as of Jan. 25, 2019, I would no longer have access to my daughter's medical records. That's because, on Jan. 26, she would turn 18.

18.

Eighteen. 

Legal. A legal adult. One who didn't need her mama looking at her medical records anymore, apparently.

Wow.

Yes, my cute, sweet baby girl I prayed for and cried for and died a little for is all grown up. She is putting her finishing touches on her final year of high school.  She is writing essays and filling out college applications, mulling her options and figuring out how much scholarship money she can get and how much more green she will need. 

She pretty much has decided where she wants to go (and it's not too far away!), but she's keeping options open. She wants to study music, but wants to go into the business part of it (even though you all know she has a beautiful singing voice she chooses to keep to herself). 

She is a busy, active teen with many friends, an after school job taking care of a little boy for a local couple. 

She has no residual effects from her scoliosis surgery -- except that she can't pick her socks up off the floor. She still has an aversion to putting her laundry away too, but at least she does it herself. 

She is strong, independent, stubborn, wickedly funny and willing to fight for what she believes in. She already registered to vote, too.

How could I not be proud?

I have no doubts that she will go out into the world and find her way. I don't think I  have to worry about her making poor choices. She seems to have chosen her friends wisely and has never been much of a "follower." 

Yeah.

But I'm a mom. And I'm doing my best to try to slow down time right now, to not think about that moment in a few months when she will back out of my driveway with a car full of stuff to move to a new place. Without me. 

I'm not ready.

From the moment Gail put her into my arms I have been determined to savor every second I had with this child. I held her when I could (even when the mother-in-law said I was spoiling her). I didn't want to miss a thing. I let her sleep in my bed. I cuddled, rocked, coddled, held hands, hugged, kissed, sang, played, dressed up, read stories every second I could and brought her late to daycare just about every day (sorry Sue!). I Spent every extra minute I could with her..

And it still won't be enough. 

Our family

Couldn't think of a clever idea for our Christmas card this year. So I asked Lora Leigh, my 10-year-old daughter who has just this year decided that art is her thing, and who absolutely loves The Animated Woman, to draw it for me. And she did.

I think she's from Mars...

Merry Christmas! From our family to yours!

Flashmobbed

*Disclaimer: This story DID NOT  really happen. All characters are fictional.. Everyone knows my 10-year-old daughter would NEVER act like this in real life. 

I've never seen anything like it.

Here we were, my mom and I and one of my daughter's friends, sitting at the dining table, enjoying some nice boiled Louisiana crabs on a Friday afternoon.  My favorite. Mom's treat. Even better!

We had no idea what was coming.  But come it did.

It was a flashmob. A crying, screaming, pouting, huffing, puffing, foot-stomping, door-slamming, You-Don't-Care-About-Me flashmob. Of one, ONE, 10-year old girl, obviously in the throes of a hormonal melt-down. Or something.

Forget the Terrrible Twos. This is the Terrorizing Tweens. Lord help me.

I guess I should have seen it coming.  We know she grew up fast. A lot faster than most of her peers. She may be 10 but she looks 12. She's already nearly as tall as me. She's already wearing my shoes and trying to steal my clothes. And she does have a tendency to be a drama queen at times (can you say melodramatic?)

But this ... ?

I still don't know what happened. Or why...

All I know is, one minute I was helping my daughter's friend peel a crab and find the good stuff, and the next my daughter was throwing herself on the sofa and screaming at me. Something about being too nice to her friend and not nice enough to her.

But she doesn't even like crabs!

OK. Full disclosure?  I did kind of egg her on a bit. After she stomped across the hardwood floor, rattling the china in the cabinet and making the dogs run for cover, she stormed into the bedroom. I yelled after her.

"Hey! Come back! You didn't slam the door! Everybody knows you have to slam the door. It works soooo much better when you slam the door. Do you want a do-over?"

"NOOOOOOOO!" she screamed back.

A few minutes later she stomped back into the room, rattling the china again.

"Are you enjoying your dinner with your new daughter?" she screamed at me.

Mom and I exchanged a wide-eyed stare. Then burst into laughter.

"Been there, done that," she said to me, cracking a claw for emphasis. "I remember those days. Oh boy are you in for it!"

"Oh really," I said. "I wasn't that bad. Was I?"

"Oh," she replied, rolling her eyes heavenward. "You were terrible! You cried all the time. You were so emotional. Don't you remember?"

I had to admit, I did.  And I did try to run away from home a few times, but couldn't figure out how to take all my clothes with me.  And I wasn't allowed to go past the paint store a few houses down. Or cross the street.

"I remember," I said. "Sorry Mom. I love you."

"Well," she said. "Your sister was worse."

Lord help me.



Linking up with Erica and friends at LoveLinks.  Expand your bloggerizons.

A good Friday

It didn't take her long, but then it never does.

Just a few minutes after our arrival, shortly after the exchange of hugs and kisses, the few introductions and the exclamations of "Look how tall she is!" -- along with the obligatory side-by-side comparisons to just about everybody --  she is off and running. And it is almost like she never left.

She fits right in, her dark skin matching theirs. Her brown eyes matching theirs. My blue eyes -- different.


Within minutes she is in her brand new swim suit, jumping into the pool with the cousins she barely knows and can hardly remember. Kids are kids. And family is family.

And this is tradition.

Good Friday is the day we bring Lora Leigh home, to her family, to her people, to her roots.  To her mother and her sister and all the aunts and uncles and cousins who aren't getting to watch her grow up.

But they've seen it.


We've been doing this for 10 years now -- with a few exceptions -- setting aside Good Friday for Lora's family. Every year we make the trip down the bayou to the little blue house where she would be living if her mother had not given her to us.  She gets to see them, they get to see her and we get to eat the best boiled crawfish, crabs and shrimp the Gulf of Mexico has to offer.

Oh, they laugh at my up-the-bayou ways of peeling my crabs, my demand for plain old red ketchup to go with them and my one Coors Light,  while Marty hands me the keys and tries to match them Bud Light-for-Bud Light.

Soon enough my old Cajun accent comes back and I start sounding a little bit like them, while my Chicago and California-raised husband tries to understand us and our Houma jokes.

And they make fun of me for looking up every few seconds to see where she is and what she is doing, checking to make sure she's doing OK and having a good time.

"She's OK, momma," her mother says to me.

I know she is.  And so do they.

And that's the whole point of this open adoption experiment of ours.  To make sure that she is OK and that they know it. They can see that she is healthy and happy. I am sure to tell them that she is smart and talented and oh-so-creative, that she writes wonderful stories and draws beautiful pictures.  That she has made the Honor Roll twice this school year.

But I have to cajole her into showing off her beautiful voice -- maybe a little too hard.  But, just like me, they are brought to tears by the sound.

Hours later, exhausted and full, we start to say our good-byes. There are lots of hugs and kisses and "See you soons."  But, this time, there is an exchange of cell phone digits among the cousins, and promises to call.

Later I ask my sun-kissed child, "Did you have fun?

"Yes, I did," she replies.

"I'm glad we do that," I say.

"So am I," she says.

Lora's sister Ashlee, Lora, me and her birthmother, Gail

Ten

My dearest little Lora Leigh,

I simply cannot believe you are 10. Where in the world did the time go? Wasn't it just yesterday that Gail put your tiny little self in my arms? Wasn't it?

Sometimes it feels like it. And sometimes it feels like a million years ago. But I still remember every detail of that day you were born...
... and the day you became ours.

So now you are 10. And nearly as tall as me. And wearing my shoes. And some of my clothes.

And leaving them on the floor.

I finally gave in and let you have a Facebook so you could keep up with your sister in Houma and your sister in Florida, and you promptly signed up to play a dozen silly games and changed your last name.

Sometimes I just shake my head.

What an adventure you have been. Still are.

If not for you I would not know what a Muggle is or a Slytherin or a Golden Snitch. And I wouldn't still have icicle lights hanging in my dining room and puke-flavored jelly beans left over from your party. (And I wouldn't have gotten to see Aunt Jo eat one flavored like pizza!)

If not for you I wouldn't know who all those kids are on the Disney Channel. Or Justin Bieber, or the Jonas Brothers, or Hannah Montana or, heck, half of the artists on the radio.

And I might be shocked that the Naked Brothers Band played at the House of Blues.

If not for you I wouldn't have seen Miley Cyrus live in concert. Or the Jonas Brothers. Or the Naked Brothers.

If not for you I would be up and walking with my dogs at 6 a.m. instead of snuggled deep under the covers with you.

(It's a ritual we've kept since you were born. Every morning your dad would scoop you out of your crib and put you in my arms so we could snuggle. Now you come to me on your own, even setting your alarm clock a half an hour early to do so.)

If not for you I wouldn't have an entire collection of Disney Princess dolls gathering dust.

Or crayons on my floors.

Or a Pepto Bismol pink room in my house.

Without you, my world would not be in color.

Without you I wouldn't have gotten to experience the greatest love of my life, the greatest thrill, the greatest joy, the greatest fears.

Without you, I'd be so bored. And a little less loved. And a lot less happy.

Happy birthday, my little love. I hope all of your birthday wishes come true.

Love,

Mom

She's just a little girl

She’s almost taller than me.

We can hardly find clothes that fit her. Already she has outgrown most of the sizes in the girls’ department and she can’t quite fill in the 0’s in juniors.

She has to look down to see most people her own age or even older. One older but littler girl was dismayed to meet her in a line for a Disney park attraction, and late another night a group of nasty teenaged girls mistook her and me for a same sex couple sharing a little kiss.

Sad, I know.

She gets funny looks when we walk down the street holding hands and second looks when I give her a hug or a kiss.

She gets exasperated when she tries to get dressed and the clothes we bought her last month no longer fit and her shoes already are too tight.

Other moms think it strange that she wants to ride the kiddie rides at the fair with her friends, even though her legs and arms stick out the little cars. And they laugh awkwardly when she picks up her friends to help them board.

And little kids wonder why the big kid is waiting in the line to see Santa.

Because she is only 9 years old. And, even though she might look 10 or 12, she is still a little girl. MY little girl. And regardless or how big she is, or how old she looks, she still deserves the chance to be a little kid.
For a little while anyway.

We all know its hard enough being a kid in the world today. She has her own blog. She wants a Facebook.

Need a Power Point presentation? She’s your girl.

Need to change the settings on your iPhone? No problem at all.

Spot Justin Bieber on TV? Please call her. Then listen to her sing along with her angelic little voice – perhaps the only part of her that hasn’t outpaced her age. Or, if you’d like a new song to sing, ask her. She probably can write you one. Or a poem. Or a story. Or a computer-generated video.

She’s sharp. She’s smart. She’s quick-witted and becoming an expert in the art of sarcasm. She likes irreverent t-shirts and is developing her own fashion style, but I have a hard time getting her to comb her hair.

But she still gets scared in the dark, and she still loves to snuggle with her mommy at night and in the morning. We can even play footsies.

And she still believes.

You see, she’s still a little girl, with lots of childhood left. If we let her be.

Dispatches from the Pink Room

I had forgotten about this... This little blog chronicling the life of my child...

I will remember it. And update it.

I promise.

Dispatches from the Pink Room

Lora Leigh's Super Star Birthday Party

Make a Smilebox scrapbook

Sportswriter/Mom

So January 24, 2010 will go down in history.

It will be the day that WE WON.

It will be the day that one player scored the game-winning points in the final minutes of the game.

And it will be the day her mom will never forget.

It has been a rough season for the Norco 7-8-year-old girls basketball team.

The team with the girls who look like they should have driver's licenses beat us 19-0.

The team with the coach's kid who plays like a boy (yes I said it) and shoots NBA 3-pointers at 8 beat us twice. Yesterday they beat us 20-4.

And walking out of the gym with my arm over her shoulders, I did my best to convince my soon-to-be 9-year-old daughter that having fun and loving the game are more important than winning. Sometimes teams are just better, I said.

And today, she got up and put on her uniform and went back out on the court with a smile on her face.

We're not a bad team. We have girls who can dribble. We have girls who can shoot. And we have a 4-foot-8 1/2 soon-to-be 9-year old that other teams guard like white on rice. The problem is, we can't pass. Or catch.

And the big girl -- they call her The Shaq -- stands on her spot and patiently waits for someone to throw her the ball. But nobody does. And if they do, she's likely not to see it anyway. And if a reboundable ball comes her way, it's just as likely to hit her on the head as on the hands. It did today, anyway.

But as the final minutes were ticking off and Norco was trailing 4-3, a ball bounced off the rim and hit her hands. Her hands closed on the ball. And after just a moment's hesitation, she remembered what she was supposed to do.

Shoot it.

And she did.

And it went in.


And her mother stood up and screamed like a fool.

Running back up the court to find her defensive position, she looked up at me in the stands and smiled. Big. She was so happy. She was too far away to see the tears in my eyes, but knowing me the way she does, she knows they were there.

And then her father and I clutched each other and prayed that the other team would not score.

They did not.

We won the game.

She won the game.

And the smile on her face was huge as she accepted high-fives from her friends and her coaches and the other parents.

But it was nothing compared to mine.

Lora Leigh -- Future Pop Star!

Make a Smilebox slideshow

Where did the time go?

The future star

Miley Cyrus, eat your heart out!