To This And More I Say Yes

"You'll have to see if your students notice," my hairdresser said as she handed me a mirror and spun me around.

"Oh, my own kids won't even notice," I responded.

(And sure, I only took off a couple inches so my hair falls to the top of my shoulders, and I stopped coloring all my silver strands when I moved to Seward, but she just blew it dry with a round brush, using two hair utensils I don't even own. I'm generally a wash-n-go girl often waking up in the morning throwing my hair in a ponytail without more than a glance in the mirror.)

"Its part of being Mom," I said. "My kids rarely see me. I'm just the holder of stuff. The giver of things."

An overly stuffed re-stitched heart with arms.

A strong back with deep pockets.

An over-flowing pantry that gives good hugs.

I can't even count the number of times my children have walked into the kitchen and asked me--what's for dinner?-- without even noticing the tears no longer trapped by my lashes as I listen to another heartbreaking story on NPR.

Or they've found me shoveling compost or chopping wood, with my rage or grief clearly on the surface, brow furrowed, cheeks stained, and asked, "Mom can you help me with something?"

And sure, I have a legally blind son with autism, and a daughter who is still pretty young, in the final months of her last single digit year, so my outline may fill in as time circles ahead. It took me until my early twenties to see my own Mom as Susan and not just an extension of my needs.

Mom The Responder, The Soother, The Provider, The Carrier of All Things, including sticky wrappers that somehow still get handed to me despite my constant refrain: "I'm not your garbage can."

And yet as parents, we often are our children's dumping ground. They save their worst behavior for us, stoic and subservient all day in school, emotional un-wielding tyrants the moment we bring them home.

We carry their fears, their anxiety, their insecurities, their tears. We hold space for our children within the framework of ourselves, moving over old ambitions, pushing out future dreams, to make room for their needs.

Of course they see themselves reflected in our tired faces and not the man or woman we were before they claimed us as their own.

I think this is why I have always been and continue to be an advocate for time away from parenthood. Time to pursue paths that don't include wiping chocolate ice cream off Olive's chin or helping Elias put soy sauce on his rice so he doesn't squeeze the whole bottle on the table.

Last fall, when I still worked at the male maximum security prison, with days spent surrounded by testosterone and tattoos, I told a friend I needed more opportunities to connect with strong women and she invited me to join her book club.

Once a month, on a Sunday evening, we gather in a different living room, share a potluck meal, drink wine, discuss the book of the month as well as anything and everything in-between. In September we read Tell Me More by Kelly Corrigan and when I received the email with our time and place to meet it came with an optional homework assignment. Write a list of things you'll always say yes to, similar to Corrigan's short chapter titled "Yes".

As my writing time decreases like our dwindling daylight, without deadlines or assignments to hold me to task, and with a new overwhelmingly full-time job as school counselor at both the high school and middle school, I embraced the idea of homework.

So I spent the Sunday morning of our meeting in bed (as I'm doing this morning to write this post) and penned the following list without letting my hand stop moving, just putting down on paper one thought to the next:

I say yes to late fall sunrises and coffee with cream in bed, to dinner, walks, and quality time with friends, yes to dark chocolate salted caramel, brie cheese, melted cheese, just cheese.

Yes to gender neutral bathrooms, free equitable public education, sensible gun control, a woman's right to choose, to say yes, to say no, to say yes and then no, to say no and then yes.

Yes to sex education, to access to contraception, yes to extended eye contact, to love letters, to dance floors in a dirty kitchen or a crowded club, yes to foreplay or to skipping right to the deed, yes to orgasms, yes, yes, YES!

Yes to being outside in the sunshine, to sea glass and shell searches, to tundra and ridge climbs, yes to pick up games and ice skating on frozen mountain lakes.

Yes to "Mom can I snuggle with you?" "Can I pour you a drink?" "Do you have time to talk?" "Would you like avocado with that?"

Yes to thrift stores, yard sales, naked lady parties, and hand-me-downs from friends, yes to free plants, to flowers picked from the garden, to peas pulled from the vine.

Yes to live music (if it starts before nine).

Yes to homemade casseroles brought by neighbors when meals seem impossible to manifest, yes to fires in the wood stove, to pulling over for rainbows, yes to an unexpected mid-Saturday offer of quesadillas and margaritas.

Yes to anyone trustworthy willing to watch my kids, yes to time alone with Nick, yes to love that deepens over time.

Yes to laughter, yes to tears, yes to every possible chance to be more real--to this and to more, I say yes.

As all the women in the room read their lists, I wanted to add more and more items to mine, yes to advice from my father, leaving work early, travel anywhere..

So these words represent an incomplete list, one I plan to expand upon every year, as I continue to carry Elias's rolling backpack up the stairs, and open my arms for Olive to fall in-- yes, yes, to this and more, I say YES.