laudydahdee

To paraphrase my August-hating mother, February is my 12th favorite month. I hate it. Like, I really hate it. It’s the looooongest month of the year, and it always brings bad news. There’s not a lot of sunshine. People die. Marriages bust up. The buttons on my jeans stop closing properly. You know, that sort of stuff.

Oh, but “they” say — Valentine’s Day is soooo cute! Yeah … no. For every stolen sweet Valentine’s moment of my life, February has paid me back with really bad haircuts, dog diarrhea, funerals, broken hearts, totaled cars, and static cling. So, I’m not really a fan. Well, I mean, the discount chocolate’s pretty nice, I guess.

Each year as the dreaded month approaches, I seek out new strategies to muddle through those bitter 28 (or, ugh! 29) days .

Make!February!Fun! has become kind of a yearly mantra now. And I must admit I’ve had some pretty decent moments sandwiched between sobs and Oreo binges.

The first year I started this project, I tried to something different every! single! day! By day 19 I thought a random act of kindness would be a good idea — it made me feel better to focus on someone else. I had it all planned out: I would pay for the car behind me in the Dunkin’ Donuts drive through on my way to work.

But when I was at the window, I made the mistake of turning around and eyeballing my target. There sat a young, very glamorous, very beautiful woman in a new red Mercedes.

Needless to say, my tired, haggard, money-struggling evil side took over and I let that bitch pay for her own damn coffee.

But then I felt terribly, terribly guilty, because she deserves a random act of kindness as much as anyone, right? Being young, beautiful, and wealthy doesn’t protect you from human heartache and suffering. What if she was also struggling with a dark February-dealt something, and that coffee could have brought a little sunshine to her day?

Or, let’s say her life is all roses and loveliness. Maybe that coffee would have inspired her to use her beauty and riches for good. Like, maybe she would have pulled out of that drive through and — emboldened by kindness and caffeine — then donated walloping sums of money to help the homeless or to fight cancer or to save a baby seal or something. That coffee could have made a huge difference in the world.

Or maybe she would have simply bought a cup of coffee for someone else slogging through the longest month of the year, and made an equally huge difference in someone’s world. I’m sure you get my point. Who am I to say the rich and beautiful can’t appreciate a free cup of coffee?

So, the next day I successfully managed to buy a coffee and egg-wrap sandwich for the person behind me. To keep my evil, jealous, judgey side at bay, I only glanced in the rear-view mirror long enough to see a black car — no idea if it was a Bentley or an old K car.

I attached a note that said “bought for you as a random act of kindness, please pay it forward.”

Every once in awhile now, when I’m feeling low or have a little extra cash in my pocket, I treat the person behind me. I figure maybe one day Mercedes lady will be behind me again, and finally get that cup I stole from her.

And it just might change the world. 😊

I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with my son – until she explained that she was my daughter.

Here’s the joke my oldest daughter says I’m not allowed to make:

If someone from my past ever says “Wait, you have two daughters? But I thought you had a son and a daughter?” I’m NOT allowed to answer, “So did I, har de har har!”

But to understand the punchline, I need to back up to 1995 — the year the movie Toy Story was released, and the year I became a mom. (Have you seen Toy Story? No? Please make a plan to watch it. I mean it. It’s wonderful.)

If you have seen it, then you know it’s the story of a toy spaceman who doesn’t realize he’s only a toy — he believes he IS a space hero. Upon trying to prove himself, he bounces around the room claiming that he’s flying while the other toys ooh and ahh. But the cowboy is unimpressed, and proclaims, “that’s not flying, that’s falling … with style.”

Back to my kids. After AJ was born, a few years later S came along. I couldn’t believe my luck: to have a boy and then a girl was always exactly what I wanted.

In those early years as a mother, I was flying high. I felt as confident in my parenting ability as Buzz Lightyear in his ability to fly. I knew what to do and how to protect them from almost anything life threw at me.

Runny nose? Got it. Sibling squabble? Handled. Tantrum in the grocery store? No sweat. Horribly broken arm because my toddler tried to fly down the stairs on a broom like a witch while I had a fever of 102 with strep throat? Well, for that one my mom showed up in the ER to help me get through.

I’m not trying to disrespect any of your parents, but I’m pretty sure I had the best mom and dad EVER. I had one of those magical childhoods filled with art projects and sledding and pickup games and bicycles and creeks and watermelon-seed spitting and I never, ever doubted I was loved.

With their loving example, I was CERTAIN I could handle anything my kids would throw my way.

And life was good for quite a while. Both of my kids were smart, sassy, funny, and involved in school sports and activities. They spent their summers with a horde of other children going on amazing day trips at the most wonderful childcare a parent could ask for. We bought a big, beautiful house with a wrap around porch in the country just four miles from where I spent my own magical childhood.

I felt so blessed, but a part of me kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And drop it did. The great recession coincided with PUBERTY. And boy was I ever falling.

My son went from a sharp, happy, involved child into a sullen, scraggly-haired, video-game obsessed teen.

A middle-school teacher called me in for a conference and told me that, when in school, AJ wouldn’t speak above a whisper.

In a scrapbook journaling assignment, the only page that generated any enthusiasm was writing out the lyrics to “I’m Just a Kid and Life is a Nightmare.”

Meanwhile, my youngest began to shine at competitive sports. This seemed natural because I had spent most of my life watching my father play and then coach. But if you know anything about youth traveling tournament sports, then you know it TAKES UP A LOT OF TIME.

A divide started to grow between my kids, AJ refused to come along to any games and — despite every parenting trick I tried — the two of them began to fight in a way that broke my heart and worried me terribly.

The next few years were one step forward, two steps back kind of stuff as I desperately tried to figure out how to help my child become confident, happy and involved again.

Then on Mother’s Day 2012, I stood back to appreciate a rare moment of family bliss: we were all together playing badminton in the yard, dog running happily between our smiling, laughing family.

I thought yes — this is it. The tide is finally going to turn. And then a voice inside me rose up and as clear as a bell said: “Hold onto this moment, because soon this will all be gone.”

A few minutes later AJ very nervously asked to speak with me alone later that night, he had something he wanted to tell me. All day long I rehearsed loving answers for a number of possible scenarios. But none of the hours and hours I had spent watching pitches on the sidelines of sporting events could have prepared me for the curve ball that was about to come.

That night, AJ confessed that she was transsexual: “You’ve always loved me as your son, I hope you can still love me as your daughter.”

Well, I like to think that I did what any parent would do. I hugged her tight and told her that of course I would love her no matter what, and that we’d figure it out. I got her to a counselor who specialized in transsexuality. She wasn’t ready to tell anyone else yet, so I kept her secret, but I bought her pink and pastel androgynous polo shirts to try and ease people into the idea a more feminine AJ.

I’d like to say that it was easy for me, but I’d be lying.

I was terrified for the happiness and safety of my child. Terrified of how people would treat her. Terrified and devastated that some days the only choice seemed like a life of secret misery or one of being ostracized.

Around this time, Kaitlyn Jenner’s transition became headline news, and my friends’ and family’s reactions gave me a sneak preview of whom I could count on for support, and whom I’d most likely need to cut loose.

Every time someone asked me how my son was doing, I felt a stab in the heart. “Not in college yet,” I’d say, “my soul-searcher.” “Boys” they’d reply more often than not, “so different from girls.”

“Not so much” I’d answer, inwardly wincing at my secret joke.

During this time, my kids’ father and I divorced (completely unrelated, he had handled AJ’s news wonderfully). We had to sell our big, beautiful home, and I bought a small house in a town that my country bumpkins found rather different from where they grew up. But, they began to grow closer through that experience.

Finally, as AJ began to take hormones and tell people, almost everyone was surprisingly supportive. But she still hadn’t told her sister. Truth be told we were all a little worried about that. Did I mention she had a temper? And she was a teenager in small rural school where — no lie, they drive tractors to school — and where everyone knew her older brother.

The night came when AJ texted me that she finally told her. On my way back to the house, I called S to kind of get a feel for things. She chatted about her day, then said matter-of-factly:

“Oh, AJ told me. I don’t know why everyone thought I couldn’t handle it. I think it’s bangin’. I did her makeup.”

At the end of Toy Story, now comfortable in his own identity, Buzz Lightyear swoops in and saves the day. His former nemesis Woody the cowboy shouts: “Buzz you’re flying!”

Buzz replies, “This isn’t flying, it’s falling with style!”

And now, as the mother of two [mostly] happy beautiful, 20-something sisters — who both made dean’s list in their colleges last year! — here I am, still falling, but with style, as I proudly watch them take flight.