Meatloaf and Livin' Life

 Published in the Idaho State Journal on August 29, 2021. 

An old friend recently stopped in town on her way to climb in the Cascade Mountains. This friend is a “kid” who played soccer at Idaho State years ago and became a favorite dog sitter of mine. She’s all grown up and doing a great job livin’ life in Colorado. We talked way too late on a work night, and as the yawns encroached on our conversation, she got out a pocket-sized sketch book. She set it on the kitchen counter and said, “I’d love for you to write some of your best advice in there before I head out in the morning.”

What columnist doesn’t love giving advice? Even more so when asked. With this kind of free reign, the wheels in my mind woke up, and I went to sleep thinking about the wisest people whose paths I have  crossed. What could I synthesize into a single piece of advice?

The advice that I didn’t write, but that I felt compelled to share verbally comes from my mom, of course. It’s not about life so much as it is about meatloaf. My mom made the best meatloaf in the world right up until I was able to improve it.  I never run the oven in the summer, but when the cooler fall weather arrives , I put Mom’s best advice in action:  line the bottom of the loaf pan with two pieces of bread, the heels if you have them.

This is a genius use of the never-loved bread heels that serve to soak up a bunch of grease. When the loaf is finished cooking, the bread peels away and the dogs in the house will sit at attention until it  cools. I never give them the pieces all at once because they don’t need all that grease either, but little bits over a few days are a treat.

I didn’t include this advice in the sketchbook because it wasn’t oven season. Also, she’s still young. I imagine she’ll try a plant-based diet in her mid- to late 30’s like many athletes do in an effort to improve performance or ease the pain when everything starts to hurt. The meatloaf tip doesn’t apply to daily living. I wanted to come up with something more poignant that applies at any life stage.

I recalled a few years ago when a friend’s daughter was a junior in high school. This student had friends, good relationships with teachers and administrators, and schedules tailored to her learning style, yet she approached her mom wanting to transfer schools mid-year. Her mom told me,  “She doesn’t realize that wherever she goes, she has to take herself with her.”  Those words have stayed with me since, and become the best advice I could give – or receive.  And just like Mom’s meatloaf, I’ve added a personal touch to build upon the overall guidance. This was the advice I wrote in the sketchbook:

Always remember that wherever you go, you have to take yourself with you; always remember that wherever you go, you get to take yourself with you.

The original message from my friend with “have to” addresses personal accountability in any given situation. Once when I was having conflicts at work, at home and in a volunteer endeavor, it dawned on me that with so much conflict in those days, perhaps I was the problem. Whether being unreasonable, failing to see others’ perspectives, or just plain grumpy, I was well-served to do a personal assessment before spending another second on what people around me were saying or doing. When frustration envelopes me in all directions, I’m obliged to recognize how my own thoughts, words or actions are affecting (tainting) the situation –  and my outlook.

When “have to” in that first sentence is changed to “get to”, the theme shifts from accountability to empowerment.  We get to take ourselves with us. We aren’t just stuck with ourselves. We are blessed with ourselves.  When frustration envelopes me in all directions, I have the ability to recognize how my own thoughts, words or actions could affect (improve) the situation – and my outlook.

Our ability as humans to live and thrive together in this world can be boiled down to how we balance personal accountability and self-empowerment. As our kids started school this week during a pandemic this is the core of what I want them to consider this school year.  Will their life be better in a different situation? Or can their life be better if they are better? With so much out of our control, we can control our own thoughts, words and actions and when we address those, some of the worst of situations can shift.  This was the back-to-school discussion in our house. And , it took place over some hand-crafted,  made-with-love meatloaf. 

My friend sent these pictures to me at the end of her trip to see me - I mean, at the end of her trip to hike the Cascades.

The sun in the Cascade Mountains. Is it rising or setting? Photo by Liv Zabka

On top of the Cascades. Photo by Liv Zabka

 

His hand-written note

 Published in the Idaho State Journal on August 15, 2021.

A couple weeks ago on the morning after my 30-year high school reunion, I gathered my coffee, the Sunday paper and my collection of cards and stationary. When I have an event like that, the build-up and hype can be so intense that I feel a harsh emotional crash when it’s over. That old-school quiet thinking and writing of “thank you’s” and “it was so great to see you’s” help ease the descent by bringing gratitude and warm fuzzies into focus. It helps the good times last a little longer and cement them in my brain, and I hope it does the same for those to whom I write.

This reunion was particularly grand because it combined the classes of ’91 from Poky and Highland. The classes of ’90 from each school also joined because they had to cancel their event last summer. Since I had gone to Hawthorne Junior High, my class split with most heading to Highland and fewer of us heading to Poky.  I had a blast reconnecting with junior high classmates as well as people from high school.

As I sat down to read the paper before writing cards, my mind was abuzz reminiscing about those six years of my education and the wonderful people who crossed my path. At the top of that list of wonderful people is Gail Siemen. Mr. Siemen was my principal all three years at Hawthorne Junior High, and on the morning after my reunion, he was at the forefront of my mind as I came upon the obituaries.

Mr. Siemen passed away two days before our reunion. I had to take a few minutes. I’m still taking a few minutes.

During my time at Hawthorne, I got the opportunity to work with Mr. Siemen on a few projects when I became student body president. Whenever we had assemblies, he would pull me aside to let me know the program and guide me through what to say in the microphone. Speaking to 900 fellow junior high students was terrifying. Mr. Siemen helped make it less so.

When I left Hawthorne and went on to Poky, I got a message in class my sophomore year to call Mr. Siemen. My ninth grade earth science teacher had died in a car accident. Mr. Siemen asked a few former students to come back to Hawthorne to share their memories of Mr. Terch in an all-school assembly. 

When the service began, the student body applauded the introduction of the first speaker. It was not an uproarious round of applause with whistles and cheers, but still a thunderous clapping of hands. I wasn’t sure that we should be clapping in a memorial service, so I looked to Mr. Siemen. He wasn’t clapping. He was agitated and it was one of the few times I noticed him not smiling. He jumped out of his chair after a few seconds.

Mr. Siemen not-so-gracefully took the microphone from the student speaker. He was kind but firm in explaining why we were gathered in the gym and acknowledged that while it is normally appropriate to offer applause when someone is introduced, it was not appropriate for that occasion.  The sense of being slightly scolded was edged out by feeling lovingly educated. A stern lesson to kick off a memorial service may not have been “appropriate” either, but seeing his instinctual need to educate and offer heartfelt guidance in those moments speaks to the man he was.

A couple years later when I was elected student body president at Poky, I got my very own mailbox in the office. The first official presidential correspondence I received was a hand-written note from Mr. Siemen. He expressed his well-wishes and faith in me. I hadn’t been a student of his for years, but he still thought about me. He still rooted for me, and he took the time to tell me in a personalized, intentional way. That gesture was powerful.

I continued to run into Mr. Siemen as I got older. He came to many of the ISU volleyball games I played in, attended many of the ISU Hall of Fame celebrations I went to, and seemed to need things from Fred Meyer at the same times I did. He was always quick with a bellowing “Hi, Billie!” or “Hi, Kid!” and a smile to back it up.    

Many will remember Gail Siemen for his kindness, positivity and educational leadership. Many will remember his athletic accomplishments at Idaho State, his steadfast Bengal-boosting or his role as a family man. It was sweetly poetic that I had a stack of blank note cards and a pen right next to me when I read about Mr. Siemen’s passing. With every hand-written card, letter or note I ever send, his inspiration and influence endure. I will always remember Gail Siemen for his hand-written note.

The Statues that Got to Me

Published in the Idaho State Journal on July 18, 2021  

This week in Charlottesville, Virginia, three statues were removed from prominent public places. I knew about the first two when I sat down to write this piece, but I learned about the third when I turned to the internet to clarify a few details.

The first two were statues of Confederate generals Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson. The site of Lee’s statue is where the2017 Charlottesville “Unite the Right” rally was held and where protester Heather Heyer was killed after a Nazi enthusiast drove into a crowd of counter-protesters. The third statue that was removed surprised me. It was a statue of Lewis and Clark along with Sacajawea.

Why in the heck was that removed? My quest to find out why led me down a rabbit hole of internet research that concluded with an hour-long phone call with a woman in Fort Hall named Rose Ann Abrahamson. Rose Ann is Sacajawea’s great-great-great niece. More on her in a minute.

I haven’t kept up with every statue across our country that has been removed, relocated or is the focal point of such talks, but my original intent in this piece was to mention the Confederate statues in Charlottesville as a lead-in to discuss two other statues in recent years that got to me. After learning about the Sacajawea statue in Charlottesville, however, now there are three - three statues in particular that lead me to be a solid proponent of these discussions at local and national levels about who we honor and how.

The first statue that got to me was that of Joe Paterno on the Penn State campus. Paterno began coaching at Penn State in 1966. A seven-foot bronze statue of him was erected on c in 2001, and he was the winningest coach in NCAA Division I history at the time of his dismissal in 2011. His statue was removed in 2012 in response to his lack of response when he learned that one of his coaches was molesting boys in the school locker room.  

The former president of Penn State, Rodney Erickson, said at the time “were it to remain, the statue will be a recurring wound to the multitude of individuals across the nation and beyond who have been the victims of child abuse.” And not only that, it would have entailed a school and community continuing to honor someone whose negligence hurt children at their institution. 

The second statue that got to me was that of J. Marion Sims in Central Park across from the New York Academy of Medicine. I had never heard of him at the time of the statues removal in 2018. When I read a headline that an old doctor’s statue was being removed, I thought for sure these efforts were about to spin out of control - until I explored the Wikipedia tributaries for information on James Marion Sims and found dozens of articles after that. I was horrified. 

 

Sims has been called the “Father of Gynecology” for groundbreaking surgical treatments and inventions, but his success came through experimentation on enslaved women without the use of anesthesia. His “work” was raw torture, sanctioned and encouraged by our society at that time. I felt aches and twinges as I read in detail what he did to women. Black women. Although the New York statue has been relocated, there are still others of him prominently displayed in our country showcasing Sims as a dignified doctor rather than the medical monster he was. How long will they stay? 

The third taken-down statue that got to me is the one I have only known about for six hours at the time of this writing: the Lewis and Clark statue with Sacajawea located in Charlottesville. Or should I be calling it the Sacajawea statue with Lewis and Clark?

Descendants of Sacajawea, including Rose Ann who I mentioned earlier, visited Charlottesville in 2019 to talk with city officials in person about Sacajawea’s life and how she is portrayed in the statue. Lewis and Clark are featured standing tall and looking outward while Sacajawea is crouching and looking at the ground. “Cowering” and “subservient” were words that Rose Ann used. As I searched the web for photographs at varying angles to form my own opinion, I came to see and feel why keeping this statue as a centerpiece of the city is problematic.

 

Lewis and Clark are depicted noble and proud. Sacajawea isn’t. It isn’t that the statue is offensive; it is arguably inaccurate. Here in the West, we’ve developed a great regard for Sacajawea as an integral part of that expedition. The statue in Charlottesville doesn’t do her justice. It doesn’t do history justice. Talks are ongoing to relocate the Sacajawea statue to the Lewis and Clark Exploratory Center in Charlottesville where it can be given context and used to educate the public. 

Each of these statues got to me because I feel the human elements of why they needed to be removed or relocated. I feel an extra disgust at Paterno’s statue from being the child of a child protection worker. I feel an extra repulsion in Sims statue from being a woman, and I feel an extra dismay entwined in the Lewis and Clark and Sacajawea statue with that particular representation of Sacajawea because of how I’ve come to learn about and revere her in southeast Idaho.  

I welcome this dialogue in our nation about who we honor and how.  Remembering and honoring are completely different, and how we go about each of those speaks to who we are, who we have been and who we want to be.

 

Stock photo of Charlottesville statue

 

Saving America One Reunion at a Time

I attended the Juneteenth celebration at the Pocatello Senior Center two weeks ago.  I was reunited with people I haven’t seen in over a year due to the pandemic as well as people I haven’t seen in many years due to the business of our lives. When I was visiting with an old friend with from my days working at ShopKo in the mid-90’s, I noticed our Chief of Police flipping burgers. One of his captains manned the grill next to him, and members of the Idaho State Football team along with two Pocatello City Council members served food to the lunchtime stragglers.

I was happy to see that the event, hosted by the Pocatello Branch of the NAACP, received media coverage in the ISJ’s print edition on June 22 titled “Diverse group of more than 200 people celebrate Juneteenth in Pocatello.” I was even happier to see the pictures provided by Pocatello City Councilwoman Heidi Adamson and Police Chief Roger Schei included in the online version. Reading about events in our community is one thing, but seeing them adds a valuable dimension - especially when those celebrations are about our diversity. Experiencing them in person, as I did, is even more valuable and refreshing.

After the Juneteenth picnic, I headed to Priddaho’s LGBTQ Pride celebration at the Bannock Fairgrounds. My heart felt serenely settled seeing so many people gathered in kindness and revelry. I experienced even more sweet reunions with people I haven’t seen in a long time. I can now say that I have been re-acclimated to hugs.

My attendance at both of these events has spawned the exact emotional state I want to usher me in to the Fourth of July.

I love the Fourth of July. I love the food, fanfare and fireworks. Freedom, too. (Although, I will not be buying any fireworks this year, and I beg everyone to please, please be conscious of the fire risk around us.) I enjoy feeling like I am a part of something bigger, and even more,  I like being a part of something bigger. Attending community events in person remind us that we really are part of something vast. I missed that during this past year with Covid-19.

Community events like these are not just invitations for people to come together over a kernel of commonality, they are opportunities for us to uphold America. Our country is having, or trying to have, some serious conversations about race, policing, religious freedom, gun rights and education to name just a few topics. It is impossible to have meaningful conversations without a foundation from which to build – without relationships that can support the content and emotion.

I talked with Chief Schei at the Juneteenth gathering and expressed my gratitude that he and his officers were there. He let me know that officers were also in attendance at the Pride festival. He and I both agree on the criticality of relationships in our society. Knowing fellow Americans who are Black; knowing fellow Americans who are in law enforcement; knowing fellow Americans who are gay, Christian, Muslim, teachers, gun-owners, parents and on and on will only help us in the conversations we need to be having in this country. It’s just not enough anymore to simply be an American to listen to each other. We need to have relationships with our fellow Americans for trust to take hold and discussions to develop.

Learning to trust each other and talk to each other takes practice. Building and maintaining relationships takes practice. Finding a kernel of commonality and building from there takes practice, but how might we find that and practice these things?  Attending events like I mention above can certainly help, but you can also go to your high school reunion. (I’m looking at you Poky and Highland Classes of ’90 and ’91.)

Think about it. The passé hairstyles, the quirky math teacher, the Cruise, homecoming shenanigans, the songs, the cheers, the skipping classes (not me) … all of those memories from a specific and shared time in our life can lead to conversations with people we might not otherwise engage today. When we can talk about the seemingly small things we have in common, it opens the door for more serious conversations at a later date. America needs this from her citizens.

On this Independence Day in 2021, if you’re feeling disconnected in the wake of the pandemic, make plans to go to your high school class reunion and reconnect. If you’re feeling the woes of political divides, go to your class reunion but don’t talk politics. Talk about your younger years. If you’re feeling like America needs saving, the perfect gift on her 245^th birthday is an RSVP to your high school class reunion and a commitment to work on just that – reuniting. 

 

 

 

The Rainbow Flag

Appeared in the Idaho State Journal on June 13, 2021.

June is LGBTQ+ Pride Month – a time to recognize and celebrate lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer Americans. Before I talk about Pride Month and the rainbow flags all around, let’s start with a few definitions for some of these terms that may not be in the mainstream yet.

“Transgender” refers to people whose gender identity does not align with the one they were assigned at birth. “Cisgender” then, means that someone’s gender identity matches the one they were assigned at birth.  “Queer”, a term that some still find offensive due to historical use as a slur, is a catch-all for people who may not be straight or cisgender. The plus (+) has been added to include intersex people or those who are asexual. Intersex people are born with anatomy, reproductive organs, and/or chromosomal patterns that do not fit the typical definitions for male or female bodies, and asexual people do not experience sexual attraction.

I was raised to be a proud person. I’m not talking the arrogant type of pride (although, I can be); I’m  talking about a pride that exists in the absence of shame. The messages from my mother and teachers at my Lutheran school echoed for years: be proud of who you are. Be proud to be a redhead. Be proud to be a girl. Be proud to be a child of God. By the time I started to question if I was gay, I was already too proud to let the parental or parochial messages of shame that emerged sink in. For the most part.

In high school, since I didn’t feel like I could talk to anyone, I spent hours quietly combing the archives and microfiche at the Idaho State library to find answers. I researched the “nature versus nurture” debate. I became acquainted with state laws against homosexuality, and I read every magazine article I could find on gay history, activists, and celebrities. I also read religious texts on the topic and through all of this learned how to delineate and discuss homosexuality in a civic context versus a religious one.

I was searching for evidence that I was okay. That I’d be okay. I have never been suicidal, but LGBTQ+ youth are up to three times more likely to attempt suicide than heterosexual youth, and that’s exactly why I’m writing all of this. There is a hope that sprouts with every rainbow flag seen during Pride Month. A community finds connection. A kid finds kinship. 

The first Pride event I attended was the Seattle Pride Parade in the mid-1990’s. The grand marshal was  Margarethe Cammermeyer, the Army colonel and reservist whose legal challenges dismantled the military’s anti-gay regulations and led to “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell”. A Microsoft employee group marched with strollers and feather boas behind their banner. A gay men’s water polo team was there in speedos. Drag queens danced to disco, and members of the Seattle Mudhens women’s rugby team recognized me on the sidewalk from matches earlier that spring and yanked me into the street for a line-out play. I was in the parade!

I went through eight rolls of film with my little 35mm camera that day. My Idaho eyes were struck by the sheer number of people, artistry, joy and genuine pride in who they were. My Idaho heart had never felt that kind of unquestioning solidarity among thousands of people.

When I graduated from Idaho State, I wanted to move to Seattle or Portland where I’d be free to live more openly, but three things got in the way. My mom’s illness got worse, and I wanted to stay close. I got a great job, and I started to mountain bike. As my career progressed and mountain biking led to great adventures and lasting friendships, it was clear that southeast Idaho wasn’t just going to be my childhood home but my forever home.

Ever since I was a teen, I’ve been able to spot a rainbow bumper sticker from 50 yards away in the Pine Ridge Mall parking lot. A dime-sized pride flag lapel pin leaps out at me across a room, and just last week when I attended church for the first time in 16 months, I took an extra second to take in the rainbow flag taped to a window en route to the parish hall.

I’m not alone in being an LGBTQ+ Idahoan who chooses to live and love in this state.  I’m not alone in recognizing who I was at a young age, and I’m not alone in having experienced an exceptional joy among strangers at a Pride event or the soothing salve of seeing a rainbow flag in a church space. Despite rationally understanding that we aren’t alone, being LGBTQ+ in Idaho can feel lonely and isolating. June’s LGBTQ+ Pride Month and every single rainbow flag chips away at that loneliness and replaces it with camaraderie and affirmation. The rainbow flag is an acknowledgement of our existence, a symbol of promise, and a declaration that we can have… that we should have…that we do have…pride.

Pride flag en route to the Trinity Episcopal Church parish hall

Margarethe Cammermeyer leading the 1996 Seattle Pride Parade

The 30-year Black and Blue Rendezvous

Last summer, the Poky and Highland classes of 1990 had to cancel their joint 30-year high school reunion due to Covid. Fueled by long-lasting Poky Pride and Ram Power, organizers wanted to hold their event this year. They knew that their younger 1991 cohorts would be planning their own 30-year summer soiree, so numbers were exchanged. Texts were traded. And, now there’s a weekly Zoom meeting with representatives from all four classes to plan the 30-year Black and Blue Rendezvous.

I talk all the time about how I loved high school and how much I still love Poky High. I also generally like people and still live in my hometown. I’m pretty much a poster child for the kind of person who enjoys a good class reunion – and who eagerly joins the planning committee. It’s been fun getting to know and exchange jabs with the Highland folks. As the getting-to-know has increased, the exchanging of jabs has lessened. Some of us really have grown up since high school.

With the advent and rise of social media, some classmates have told me there’s no need to catch up in person because they can already see what everyone is up to. Well, almost everyone. Class reunions may very well fade off into the social media sunset, but I sure hope ours doesn’t.  

When we had our 20^th, I wrote the following in a letter to the editor about my classmates. These words still apply today.

Some of us revel in our high school memories while some of us cringe and are thankful every day that it’s over. Some of us aren’t where we wanted to be. Some of us surpassed all expectations. Some, because no expectations were placed on us. Some of us are fat, think we are fat or are unhealthily thin. Some of us are happily married. Some of us are getting divorced—for the second time. Some of us can’t wait to bring our partner while some of us are silently wrestling with the idea. Some of us have 3.5 kids. Some of us have 8 in a blended family. Some of us are regretting not having children and some of us have lost a child. Or a spouse. Or a parent. Or both of them.

Some of us want to come back for a Buddy’s salad. Some of us need to check in with our parents, so the reunion is as good a time as any.  Some of us have never left southeast Idaho and love it here, while some stayed and feel trapped. Some of us are nicer than we used to be. Some of us are as nice as we always were but are now more outgoing so the world can see it. Some of us are still shy. Some of us are still jerks. Some of us drink. Some of us don’t. Some of us probably shouldn’t. Some of us have heard, “you have cancer” and some of us delight in each new sunrise.

Some of us loved every minute of high school, and some of us hated it all. But ALL of us spent part of our existence, simultaneously inside the old brick walls of Highland or Poky High. And all of us can make our reunion weekend whatever we want, or need, it to be.  I want it to be fun and filled with my classmates’ many personalities. I want to reconnect with some and meet others for the first time. I want new, happy memories. This is what I want. What we need, however, are RSVP’s. 

If you are part of Highland’s or Poky’s class of 1990 or 1991, we’d love to see you July 23 and 24 – and we’d love for you to RSVP. You can email pokyhighlandreunion9091@gmail.com for all of the details.

The first night is planned in Highland’s neighborhood with food trucks at the Portneuf Wellness Complex The second night is planned in Poky’s neighborhood with a catered dinner at the Downtown Pavilion. These two main events will be outside and allow for social distancing, and we will continue to monitor CDC and local health department recommendations. We’re working on optional Saturday activities like golf, swimming, school tours and more.

These past couple years have been a doozy. Between politics and the pandemic; the economy and everyday life; global conflict and local clashes, people’s differences seem to be in greater focus than what we have in common. I crave peace. I crave connection. Funny thing is – I believe peace comes from connection, and those connections start with nourishing what we have in common.  That’s exactly why I hope those in the Poky and Highland Classes of 1990 and 1991 will join us at the 30-year Black and Blue Rendezvous: to celebrate and nourish what we have in common.

I Can Own this Day

Appeared in the Idaho State Journal on May 9, 2021.

This past week our youngest turned 13. THIRTEEN! He marked the date by placing 13^th in his cross-country race with a time of 13:13. During his race, with his permission, some friends and I dressed up in my cow suits to cheer for the runners. Why the cow suits? Because I have them. They are fun. Who better to ring the encouraging cowbells than a bunch of cows?  Smiling heifers are perfect messengers urging runners to “Keep Moooving!”

At his first meet this season, he asked me not to wear the cow suit and cheer. I could certainly cheer, but in normal clothes. I suspected my cow suits and I were on borrowed time with the kids as they traverse their teenage years, but I was still disappointed. Gratitude and slight pride eclipsed my disappointment when I grasped that he was comfortable asserting his wishes knowing I might feel let down. My personality is not always one that invites dissent, especially from my stepkids. I honored his wishes.

When his second race rolled around, I was informed that it would be okay if I wore the cow suit. It would also be okay if I let the coach’s dog, Solomon, wear our dog-fitted cow suit. Ah. So this was about his coach and Solomon, an easy-going golden retriever who is a service dog for one of the coach’s sons. Solomon was key to my stepson being okay, even eager, to have his stepmom root for him and everyone else in a cow suit.

When I use the word “step” referring to our kids or myself it often elicits a correction or commentary. Some folks tell me they use the word “bonus” as in “bonus mom” or “bonus kids.” I like that. It’s cute and a positive spin counter to the connotations that come to mind with Cinderella’s evil stepmother, but it’s not a vernacular I grew up with. I am really okay with “stepmom” as it pertains to me and my relationship with the younger two kids. Their older sister was in her tweens when I came into their lives, and now that she’s in her 20’s, I’m simply “her Billie.” These monikers suit our family.

This is my fourth Mother’s Day as a state-recognized stepmother. Now instead of only spending this day reflecting on my own mother and the many women (teachers in particular) who helped raise me, this day holds reflections of my role in these kids’ lives.  What am I doing right? What am I doing wrong? No good mother rests on Mother’s Day, do they?

It’s easy to romanticize the day as brunches, flowers, and kindergarten finger-paintings, but the older I get, the more complicated I realize Mother’s Day can be.  For the first few after my mom died, the Hallmark display was right in front of my preferred entrance at Fred Meyer. I couldn’t avoid the orchids and cards and they were a gut-punch when I just needed milk and eggs.  They weren’t a celebration, they were a reminder of loss.

From what I write, you would think my mom was an angel on earth who never made a parenting misstep, but truthfully, depending on my brain space, my Mother’s Day reflections might revisit all of her mistakes. Sometimes I take steps in the direction of grace and forgiveness, and sometimes I take steps to wallow in bitterness and grief. Thanks to the springtime sun, my bike and a happy 13 year old in the house, this is looking to be a grace and forgiveness kind of Mother’s Day on that front.

I have deeply appreciated how my wife, the kids’ dad and the children themselves have embraced and empowered me in my role as a stepmom. We’ve got the co-parenting, carpools, permission slips, and problem-solving that many families do. I often feel like somewhat of an imposter on this holiday because I did not come about motherhood the way my own mom did, but through all of the exhaustion, guilt, joy and second-guessing, it’s pretty clear that I can own this day with the rest of the moms out there. I have all of the mom love, fear, worry and hope.  And as the 13 year old will attest, thanks to the cow suits, bells and obnoxious cheers, I’ve become great at embarrassing him, too. Yep. I can definitely own this day.