Shattered Dishes and One Girl's Wishes

Thanksgiving 2018

The year is 1993 and I am a 26 year old, newly engaged young woman.   My fiancé and I have gone to Bloomingdale's to register.  We may or may not have had a mother or future mother-in-law in tow, that part is fuzzy.   Registering seemed so exciting and so full of hope and promise.    At the time my fiance was a graduate student and I was working at a non-profit.   I probably don't need to say that we didn't have two nickels to rub together.   But, we could register ourselves for a life that didn't exist yet.   We must have registered for three dozen wine glasses, 12 for red, 12 for white, and 12 for I'm not sure what.   I wasn't a big wine drinker then, and I'm still not, but I certainly envisioned dinner parties with a long, then non-existant dining table, with a white linen table cloth (don't forget to register for that) that someone would spill red wine on that I would quickly pour salt on just like my mother did.    I was starry eyed as we selected napkins, blenders, pots, pans, forks, spoons and knives.   It was just so much fun.   Then it came time to choose the every day china.   My mother-in-law's friend had generously offered to buy us an entire set that she had picked out from a well known household goods store.    We went to look at the set and I immediately knew it wasn't for us.   "That's not our china" I remember thinking.   It was lovely, and I'm pretty sure I've seen it in other people's homes where it seemed quite at home, but it wasn't ours.   As a young, soon-to-be bride I wasn't as used to asserting my opinion as I am now but I knew that it didn't belong on the non-existant dining table that I envisioned.   I think there was some disappointment on the part of my mother-in-law that I wasn't overly exuberant about this potential, extremely generous gift but that's a blog for another day.   So, on the day we were at Bloomingdales, I turned a corner and saw "our" everyday china.   It came in multiple colors, was slightly Asian looking (just like our slightly Asian family). You could register for just one color or pick and choose several.   We were all in for the blue, green, and of course, purple.   We registered for 12 place settings.   I couldn't imagine ever needing more than that.   As I looked at the china, so many dreams filled my head.   I imagined two place settings for a romantic dinner for two with a candle in between, but also all the plates filling the aforementioned, nonexistent table set for a holiday meal with all our current family members and also members who were yet to be born.   I could see a single plate being used to hold a first birthday cake, or a bunch of cookies for Santa, or a seder plate with matzoh, hard boiled eggs, and horseradish.   I saw a plate full of a boring weekday meal but also full of a decadent dinner for the most special of occasions.   So many dreams for one set of dishes.

The year is 2018.   It is some 25 years later.   I am loading the dishwasher.  It is a mundane, every day job and I'm not thinking much about it.  Then suddenly the bottom rack of the dishwasher lurches forward and crashes to the ground.   Several dishes go flying and break.   My dear, beloved dishes that have lasted 25 years are now in fragments and dust on the kitchen floor.    I am stunned for a moment (as is the dog) and don't do anything.   I know that the dishes were discontinued years ago and my heart kind of breaks alongside them.

These dishes have held so many meals.   They have held Wednesday night macaroni and cheese as well as prime rib on Christmas Day.   They have done their job holding birthday cakes that resembled a bunch of bananas, a strawberry and a sandy beach (amongst other things).   They have held Santa's cookies many times, and acted as Seder plates.   They have held meals for people who are no longer with us, as well as for people who now live far away.    They have travelled from our tiny first apartment where the two of us dined on an inherited coffee table, to another apartment where we became a family of three and ate on a dining table that had been had been well used, and passed its prime, by multiple generations of my family, and finally the set had moved to our current house where we had become a family of four and in due time it landed on the now existent dining table that had been so clear in my mind 25 years ago.    At some point one of the dinner plates must have broken unceremoniously because for the past few years we have just had 11.   In fact, just this past Thanksgiving we had had exactly 12 people at our Thanksgiving dinner.  I gave myself a plate that didn't belong to the set.    It was a lovely Thanksgiving.   There were candles, and there was both red and white wine in our wine glasses.    In many ways, it was exactly what that 26 year old was dreaming about all those years ago.

But all of that was broken now.

If it was possible for dreams and memories to shatter all at once, they just had.   And I was paralyzed in the debris.  

After the initial shock wore off I realized that I needed to deal with the mess so the dog or I didn't end up with a piece of shattered memory in our feet.   With great sadness I took the broom and dustpan out of the closet and cleaned up the mess.    I eventually became more concerned with the potential danger of the shards of the glass, than anything that the pieces meant.   I emptied the dustpan into the garbage can and as I peered into the contents all I saw was dusty ceramic debris.  Nothing more.

There were no dreams and memories in there.
Somehow those had remained intact.
It turns out that those are shatter-proof(and dishwasher-safe)

No One Ever Died From Running

When I was in high school I was a runner.   That might be hard for anyone who knows me and my soft, round, motherly shape now, but it is true.  And, I was a pretty decent runner.    I ran all three seasons in high school, always long distance.   My cross country coach was an older than middle aged Latin teacher who was known for always donning a Greek fisherman's hat and driving a Le Car (remember those?).   He wasn't particularly warm or kind but somehow he made us work our hardest.   If there is one quote I remember him saying, it was "No one ever died from running."   He said it to us almost daily, usually when we were whining about the weather, complaining about the length of the run, or listing the myriad of other, more enjoyable, activities we could be doing instead of running.    He'd say "No one ever died from running."   And, obediently, we ran.

Recently, I've started running again.   It is hard when you are soft and round and most definitely out of shape.  It was much easier when I was sixteen.   But his voice keeps running through my head, "No one ever died from running."

But here's the thing, back in 1983 we did not have the internet.   We could not look things up.
So today before I ran I did a quick Google search - "has anyone ever died from running?"  And the results were staggering.   It turns out many, many people have died while running.   One might argue that it wasn't actually the running that killed these people, but a bad heart, a lack of electrolytes, or in some of the most unluckiest cases, a car or a train.  But the fact is, many people have died while running.

My cross country coach sadly died last year (I don't believe he was running at the time), and I probably hadn't spoken with him for over 30 years, but as I started my run today, I had my own personal conversation with him to get a few things off my chest.  It went something like this:

Me:  You know people do die from running.

Coach:  I'm aware

Me:  You are lucky we didn't have Google when we ran for you.

Coach:  Indeed.

Me:  Why did you tell us we couldn't die, when we absolutely could?

Coach:  You were 16 and in excellent shape, chances were pretty slim that you would die, and you didn't, did you?

Me:   No.   I've started running again and now I'm 51.

Coach: And?

Me:  I could most definitely die from running now.

Coach:  I suppose you could.

Me:  I could stop and walk right now.

Coach:  You could

(out of the corner of my eye I swear I see his Le Car drive by and I pick up my pace)

Me:  Was that you?

Coach:  No.  I am quite dead.  I am not capable of driving a car.

Me:  Right.    I would feel better if I stopped running.

Coach:   You probably would

Me:  And it's raining.

Coach:  So?

Me:  I'm getting wet.

Coach:  And?

Me:  I really want to stop running.  I'm tired and uncomfortable.

Coach:  Why don't you stop then?

Me:  I could.

(Out of the corner of my eye I think I see a man in a Greek fisherman's cap and I pick up my pace)

Me:  Was that you?

Coach:  How could it be?  I've already explained that I am quite dead.

Me:  I could have sworn it was you.

Coach:  Are you still running?

Me:  Sigh.  Yes.

Coach:  Are you dead?

Me:  Not yet.  But that doesn't mean I might not just drop dead 10 seconds from now.

Coach:  Why don't we wait and see if that happens.

(I pick up the pace to try to prove that my heart might just explode if I run too fast and that I can indeed die from running)

Coach:   It's been more that 10 seconds and you are still quite alive.

Me:  Dammit.

Coach:  You really don't have much farther to go.

Me:  If I die I want my epitaph to read, "Coach lied, you can die from running."

Coach:  Okay,  but you will have to live long enough to tell that to someone else, because I am already dead and cannot pass that message along.

Me:  Double Dammit.   I don't want to run any more.   Dying seems like the more attractive option right now.

Coach:  It's okay you can stop now.

Me:  Wait.  What?  Really?  Oh.  Very Funny.  I'm at the end of my route.  (looking at phone).  Hey.  I just ran my best time since I started running.

Coach:  Is that so?

Me:  I can't believe I just did that.

Coach?

Coach?

(In the distance I swear I see a Le Car going over a hill driven by a man in a Greek fisherman's cap)

Me:   You know you were wrong when you said no one ever died from running.  Right?   It can happen.   But, I didn't die today, did I?



So, I guess I will take my chances again tomorrow.

Thanks Coach.

Mutually Inclusive

I came home late last night, and as part of my evening ritual,  I took a look at my Facebook feed.   It was chock-a-block full of posts made by friends and family of the many "March of our Lives" events all over the country.   I was not able to attend myself but I was overwhelmed with how much this event meant to people, young and old, and how so many people are striving for a change that so clearly needs to happen.

But that wasn't all that was on my Facebook feed.

For those with kids, especially high schoolers, the end of March is a busy time.  It tends to be when non-athletic extracurriculars have their end of the year events and competitions.   So in addition to photos from marches across the country,  my feed was full of young people dancing, singing, acting and playing the cello.   Some of them were just having fun, and others were winning prestigious awards.  I scrolled by so many pictures of smiling kids, and extremely proud parents.

I have to admit that when I first saw the non-march photos, I was kind of taken aback.   The first thought to run through my head was that everyone (no matter what their political stance) should have been at a march, that it was far more important to make a stand than to dance, sing, act or even play the cello.   Mind you, I hadn't been at the march myself because I was helping adjudicate a student event.   

I am a 50 year old woman, almost 51.  I was born in 1967.   My entire childhood took place during the Cold War.    We had drills in elementary school where we hid under desks in case the U.S.S.R. decided to send a nuclear bomb our way.   I was not a dumb kid and realized that hiding under a desk wasn't going to help me much in the event of a nuclear war.    I understood from the age of 7 or 8 that if a bomb did indeed find its way to my neck of the woods that everyone and everything I knew would be instantly obliterated.   And that gave me some weird comfort.   I would probably die but so would everyone else I knew, so somehow it didn't seem as scary.   Maybe that was just me, I was a pretty weird kid.

My children were born at the end of the last century, actually the end of the last millennium, and their childhood experience has been completely different.   They have never known a world without school shootings and terrorism.    I honestly can't imagine what that must have felt like growing up.

I do know that when I, as an adult, go to the movie theater I check for where the closest exits are and I mentally make an escape plan in my head.    I never did that as a child.  Ever.  There was no need.

Children in school today have drills in case an active shooter enters the building.   There are code words that all school personnel and students understand and the kids are instructed what to do in multiple threatening scenarios.    Students today are well aware of all the exits in every single one of their classrooms and where they can hide so they won't be in the line of fire of a shooter.   When I was a child, I took comfort knowing that if the Soviets dropped a bomb we would all die together.   These kids don't have that "comfort".   If a shooter enters a building, they might die, or maybe they will watch a friend or teacher die, and they would have to live with that vision for the rest of their lives.   

As an adult, when I go to the movie theater, I check for exits.   These kids do so much more than that.  "Checking for exits" is their entire day, their entire life.  

When they go to an event like the aforementioned dances, concerts, theater events, or sporting competitions, they have their guard up.   They are aware that no event, no space is off limits from potential tragedy.  Nowhere is sacred.

There are so many adults who don't seem to understand why these students are so upset, why they are screaming at the top of their lungs for things to change.    As adults, especially those of us over the age of 35, we have just not experienced their reality and we need to listen.

Last night, at first glance of my Facebook feed I saw two categories of photos and they seemed mutually exclusive.   On the one hand there were groups of students, parents, and concerned citizens marching for a safer world.  While in nearby venues, students were pursuing their dreams and reaching for the stars.  The photos from the latter seemed pretty self-indulgent, and almost in poor taste to me at first.

But then, suddenly, Duh!

I understood that they weren't mutually exclusive at all.   All these kids are playing for the same team, going after the same goal.    They just want what we took for granted our entire childhoods (minus the nuclear bombs of course).  They want a sense of safety and security that they have never known in their entire lifetime.

Every single kid has the right to stand on a stage, or on a football field, or even just sit in a class and only have to think and worry about what stars they are shooting for, without having to worry that they might be on the receiving end ............of somebody else's shot.

A "Perfect" Holiday

Years ago I found myself reading a holiday edition of "Martha Stewart Living" magazine about the "Perfect" Christmas.   Page after page of the magazine showed photographs of color-coordinated rooms with Christmas trees that matched the room's decor flawlessly.    Clearly, every ribbon, bow and wreath had been selected with great scrutiny to ensure that all the reds were "blue reds" and not the dreaded "orange red" that would just completely ruin the look.   The pictures usually included a holiday plate, by the fireplace for Santa, with two or three cookies placed in an aesthetically pleasing manner, and a glass a milk that was neither too empty or too full.  Just right.   The cookies were symmetrical and decorated with incredible attention to detail.  The gingerbread men's buttons were all lined up in a straight line and the round sugar cookies were, well, round and unburnt.  If there happened to be any children at all in the pages of that magazine, they were sitting by the fire or on the couch in perfectly matched flannel pajamas (that, btw, matched the rest of the decor in the room), nicely playing together with big smiles on their squeaky clean faces.

Sigh.  The whole magazine made me feel like a failure.

At the time, I was probably sitting in a room with my kids who would have been about three and five, covered head to toe in powdered sugar and who I imagine were using "adult" scissors to make strangely-shaped paper snowflakes, unsupervised, while I read my magazine and sipped my coffee.   There would have been little pieces of white paper all over the living room floor.   The Christmas tree would have been tilted and held to the ceiling with a piece of fishing line.   Most likely there were no cookies for Santa because any and all cookies made had either been eaten or burnt and deemed inedible.   The gingerbread men would not have even existed long enough to be decorated with buttons.   I'm sure there would have been crumbs all over my kitchen where cookies used to be.   There was probably a gingerbread house in the room with way too much icing on the roof, which was most likely caving in.   And there would have been little dimples in the icing where candy used to be but little fingers had stealthily removed every sugary stick-of-gum shingle and every candy cane light post.    My kids were probably singing some off key version of Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer and all it's silly versions.   When my kids were done cutting out their snowflakes, I would have given them tape and they would have taped them to the big picture window in our living room for everyone driving by to see.    They would have chosen where to tape them and there was probably no symmetry, or any rhyme or reason for that matter, as to where they placed them.  It was just wherever their little hearts desired and felt they should be placed.

Yet, all these years later, it still brings a smile to my face when I think of driving up to my house in the month of December and seeing those haphazard snowflakes, and lots of fingerprints in that big picture window.   And, do you know why?

Because, it was "perfect".
It was my perfect.

In that very moment, sitting on that couch, probably fifteen years ago, I had an "perfect" epiphany.

"Perfect" is subjective.   "Perfect" is whatever you want it to be.

Martha Stewart has her version of perfect, I have mine, and you have yours.

Fifteen years later my Christmas looks a lot different.    We have all learned a thing or two over the years.   We've learned to cut the Christmas tree in a way that it doesn't tilt when we put it in the stand.   We can now make unburnt cookies and restrain ourselves long enough to decorate them and actually keep a few on the side to give to "Santa".   We have learned to make a gingerbread house and NOT pour the entire bowl of frosting on the roof.   But, there are no snowflakes in the window, as little fingers have turned into big fingers and now busy themselves typing term papers at college instead of making holiday crafts.

You might even say our "perfect" has evolved.

Or has it?

My "perfect" this year has nothing to do with any of the decor, or the music, or the cookies.  Although, I do love cookies.
My "perfect" this year is just having everyone home, under one roof.
My "perfect" is them.
But perhaps that's what it's always been.
So maybe it hasn't evolved at all.

But, oh, what I wouldn't give to drive up to the house and see those misshapen, asymmetric snowflakes in the window, surrounded by those tiny "perfect" fingerprint smudges.

Wishing Everyone a "Perfect" Holiday season, whatever that looks like to you!

What Do You Say, Dear?

When I was a kid I had a book called "What Do You Say, Dear?" which was a children's book that posed a bunch of sort of silly ethical dilemmas with even sillier resolutions.   I don't remember them all but I do remember one where the ethical dilemma was about "What do you do when someone crashes a plane through your roof during tea time?" and I think the answer was "Well, you invite them to tea of course!"   I may be remembering this all wrong but I loved the book and the preposterous scenarios it presented along with humorous illustrations (done by none other than Maurice Sendak).

Today I was presented with a "What Do You Say, Dear?" situation that was NOT so fun and even though I am not thrilled with my response to the dilemma in question, I ultimately dealt with it in the best way I saw fit.

My refrigerator hasn't been running (so I don't have to catch it ;P).   So, I called the refrigerator repair man from a local store that we have been happily purchasing all our major appliances from for years.
The repairman shows up and he's an older gentleman (and by older I mean older than me), and he loves my dog and he makes a few bad jokes that I would put in the category of "Dad jokes".   He was an affable fellow and I felt comfortable with him in my home.  Not only that but he immediately came to the conclusion that the problem with our refrigerator was not nearly as dire as we had previously thought.   And, the fix he suggested was really quite simple, and considerably less expensive than the original estimate.  I was pleased.   He was even explaining to me, in that Dad kind of way, how fridges work, and helping me become a more educated consumer.   It was all good.

And then he asked me why I had decided to buy this particular, Korean brand of refrigerator.   Other than the fact that it was on sale at the time I didn't really have a good answer.

Then this man, this gentle, Dad-like person, started making comments that were not very kind about the Korean people or their ability to make quality products.    At one point he called the motherboard of the fridge the "Flied Lice board" and he referred to the Korean people as "those bomb droppers".   This is when my jaw dropped.

I would like to add that while he was in my house both of my daughters, who are clearly at least part Asian, walked through the kitchen and he clearly saw them.   Still the comments continued.  And, in case anyone is wondering, my daughters were not privy to his comments, if they had been, my reaction would have been much more immediate and confrontational.

But, here was my dilemma.   He was fixing my fridge, and doing a mighty fine job.   He had the capability to charge me as much as he wanted to fix it.   He also could have easily made things worse for me.   So, what is a white girl listening to his racial slurs to do?

I was a coward and did nothing.  

I let him finish his work and then said goodbye and showed him out the door.   I did not offer him any tea.

I felt sick to my stomach after he left and couldn't stop thinking of all the things I could have, should have said.    I truly believe that it is the responsibility of white people to not let this kind of elbow nudging,"we're in this together"(wink, wink) kind of behavior to go on.

After an hour or two of stewing I finally came up with a solution to my dilemma.   I called customer service at the appliance store and explained to the manager what had transpired and made it clear that kind of talk is "Not okay" in my home or anywhere for that matter.   He was nice, and said all the right things, of course, but I still feel kind of icky.   I still wish I had said something to the man who was spewing hateful words in the kitchen of my loving, interracial home.

I called my husband after the incident and asked him if I did the right thing.   He agreed that confronting him at the time could have ended badly (mostly for us).   So, he thought I did the best I could have given the circumstances.    I wondered if I wasn't married to an Asian man, and I didn't have half Asian children, if I would have done anything at all, if I would have let it go?  It sure would have been easier.

I'm really curious to hear other people's opinions about what they would have done in this situation and I hope you will share with me.   I am interested to hear the opinions of people from all different races, from families of all one race or mixed race.   Please be candid and honest.

Which brings me back to my original question "What Do You Say, Dear?"

16 hours until what?!?!?!

Once upon a time I had a different blog.   It was called Live Lees (get it?).   I wrote in that blog from 2004-2009.   The blog was mostly for geographically scattered family members to read stories about our growing girls, and it was a place I could post pictures so family could watch them grow from a far.   Then in 2009, I abruptly stopped.   Can anyone guess what happened in 2009?  Why I might have stopped using a blog to update people about our lives and post pictures?  Any guesses at all?

In any case, as luck would have it, I was perusing this blog recently and I discovered that the very first post I made was the night before Sophie started kindergarten.    I was musing about what it meant to me to have both my kids in school.  Here is the link to that blog: 16 hours to go and the pictures that go with it.   It was called "16 hours to go" because I had 16 hours until both of them boarded the big yellow school bus.

And now, quite suddenly it seems, I am on the other side and in 16 hours (more or less) I will no longer have a kid in the school system.

Except I'm not sure what that means.

I knew what it meant to have kids IN school.  It gave the day, my life, structure.  It meant getting up at a certain time, making breakfast and lunches, getting everyone outside, waving them off on the bus, going outside at the appointed hour to get them off the bus and then spending the afternoon shuttling everyone to activities.   The next day was just a repeat.

I have no idea what it means to NOT have kids in school.
Summer will start tomorrow.   In mid-May.  That is just crazy.
My college kid is done.
And now, my high school kid is done too?

And what does this mean for me?
They both drive.  They both have jobs.  They have one car to share.
That means a lot of fights over the car.  And, I'm guessing on some days, one of them will manage to convince me to give them my car, leaving me stranded.   Alone.   And, I'll be left to write silly blog posts like this one.   But, with no kids in school, whatever will I write about?

I am really not sure what my life will look like in 16 hours.  But here are some thoughts on some things I know will be true.

16 things in 16 hours,

1.  I will no longer care AT ALL about whether kindergarten is half day or full day.
2.  I will never have to pay for a bus pass, or parking pass again (but in retrospect it really is a lot cheaper than college tuition)
3.  This household will never, ever again have to get up and have breakfast and lunch ready before 6 a.m.!!!!  Can I hear a Hallelujah?
4.  This household will never have have to get sleep deprived teenagers out the door before the clock strikes 7 ever again.  Unless of course, we are catching a flight to some exotic locale and then I don't think getting them up will be a problem.
5.  I will never have to leave a store to beat the school bus home again.  Not that I've had to do that for a while.  Although, I have on occasion raced back to the house to beat my daughter and her boyfriend home.
6.  I will never make an after school snack again.  Wait.  Was that a thing?  Was I supposed to do that?
7.  I will never, ever EVER again have to rush a school project, paper or permission slip to the school across town ASAP!  Phew!
8.  I will never get a call from the school nurse again telling me my child is "sick".  I will never have to decide if it's real or if she's faking.   I will never have to go pick up that kid at school and try to assess as she walks from the school to the car if she is actually sick.  Some of the finest acting I have seen over the years, has been watching this short walk.  A special Brava! to my youngest child.   She really gave this walk her all and at times it was an Oscar worthy performance!  Note to my kids: we are paying about a bazillion dollars for every single college class you attend.  So, please go to class and don't pretend to be sick.
9.  Snow days will be meaningless to me.
10.  High school drama will be a thing of the past.
11.  High school theater will be a thing of the past.
12. I can finally forget everything I ever learned about high school math.   Not that I was ever very good at it.
13. I will never have to worry on a Sunday night if the kids got their homework done.  The answer was always "yes" anyway, usually followed by a "oh S*@t!" on Monday morning as they realized that it was not actually done.
14. SATs, ACTs, MCAS are all just meaningless letters now.
15. I will never have to write a check before 6 a.m. again for something that has to be paid TODAY!
16. In 16 hours, I will immediately become one of those curmudgeons who doesn't want to see their taxes raised to help pay for school improvements (Just kidding, I am a strong believer in good public schools and will always be willing to pay for them to be improved.)

Now, I am challenging myself to not make this blog post mushy, or profound, so I'm not going to delve into all the other things that will happen in 16 hours, and what that will mean for me and my family.  Nope.  Not going to do it.

The truth is, in 16 hours, I will have to start giving some long, hard thought to what I want to do when I grow up!  Yikes!

Why We Are Proud

In a couple of days I will no longer be a parent with a child in the public school system.
In a couple of days my youngest child will have her last day of school, then she will graduate, and then we, as a family, will be off the grid.   Sure, our kids are still in school but not down the street, not even in the same town.   The familiar hum that has buzzed in the background of our lives for the last fifteen years will quiet.   It will be strange.   Tonight will be our last school concert. I can't even count how many concerts we have been to over the years.    The strong music program in our school system was a major factor in why we stayed in here and it has been "instrumental" in shaping our kids into who they are, and for that we are eternally grateful.   I am sure, and I apologize in advance, that for the next few weeks my social media sites will be full of "end of year" "end of an era" pictures.   Most likely they will feature a clean, happy, well-coiffed girl and her proud parents.   And, we are quite proud.  

But here's the thing, and I think most parents of new graduates would agree, these pictures, as lovely as they are, don't even come close to showing the world why we are proud of our kids.   And, even if you looked at every single picture I've ever posted, I doubt you would find that golden nugget of what makes us beam with pride.   We are ever so happy that our kids managed to complete thirteen years of school without failing or being kicked out.  That is indeed quite an accomplishment.  We are pleased that they can clean up so nicely, put on a lovely dress, and look confident and beautiful either alone or next to a handsome date for prom.   We are even more pleased when that pretty girl comes home safely at the end of the evening (pretty please!).  That is truly every parent's dream.   We are so happy when our kids enjoy the activities they are involved in, and if they happen to win awards, individual or group. that is just the icing on the cake.

But, none of this even begins to cover why we are proud parents.
The things that make us really proud, have never, will never, and should never make social media.
I think most parents would agree.
It's the stuff that happens off to the sidelines, off stage, and sometimes in the wee hours of the night when most of the world is asleep that is the truly good stuff.

Why We Are Proud
It's when we seeing you being kind to someone who desperately needs kindness.  Yes, even someone who has been mean to you.
It's when we see you working late into the night to make sure a paper, a musical piece, or a project is not just okay but something you are sure is your very best effort.
It's when you've had a hard day, but pick yourself up and keep going, even when you just want to crawl into bed.
It's when you show your true grit.
It's when you fight your demons.  We all have them.
It's when you help your friends fight their demons.  They all have them.
It's when you shed tears for not just yourself but also for the people you care about.
It's when you shed tears for people across the globe that you have never met
It's when you bake cookies for someone who is going through a hard time
It's when you want to bake cookies for people across the globe that you have never met
It's when you are so unbelievably happy because something wonderful happened.......to someone else
It's when you stop yourself when you realize unkind words are coming out of your mouth.
It's when you know you are wrong, and admit you are wrong.
It's when you know you are right, but you are humble.
It's when you apologize.
It's when you don't complain about giving up something fun to honor a previous commitment.
It's when you stop doing something fun to help someone who needs you "right now!"
It's when you stand up for what you believe in, even when that means arguing with us.  Sigh.
It's when you realize you cannot change some people and learn to walk away.
It's when you educate others, with respect, and show them a new perspective.
It's when you listen to someone who is teaching you, show respect, and keep an open mind.
It's when you put one foot in front of the other
  
It's when you show love.


I suppose the list could go on and on.

As I said before, in the next couple of weeks you will probably see lots of pictures on social media, of not just our kid, but lots of kids doing their rite of passage things.  They will look pretty and handsome.  Their hair will be done nicely or freshly cut.   Their lipstick will be perfect and their suits will be well tailored.  They will be social media ready.

But there is so much more to all of their stories that none of us will see.   And, that's how it should be. It may not be as pretty, and it cannot always be nicely filtered on Instagram.   But, I guarantee you it's there.

It's why we are proud.