On July 16, 2018, my mother passed away.  My sister and father and I surrounded her in the early morning hours as she took her last breath, and we waited quietly while her heart gently stopped beating.  For the last five years, she suffered incomprehensibly.  She didn't quietly fade. It was ugly and torturous and my mother didn't deserve the living hell she endured.  Her last years were tragic, but her death was not.  Her death was, peaceful, and kind of beautiful.

I have shared so much over the years about her suffering, but I don't want that to be her legacy.  She was so much more than the final five years of her life.

I wrote her eulogy at 4:00am on the morning of her funeral.  I was exhausted, grieving, and I know for sure that it's not my best writing...however, I wanted to share the text here, so I'll have a permanent record.

So...for what it's worth...here it is:




My mom was the best mom.

She was born in 1933, to my beloved grandparents, Herman and Rose.  The youngest of three, her brothers, Raymond and Mike – (who were 11 and 9 years older), were fiercely protective of her, and according to my grandmother, still referred to her as the “baby” – right up to and beyond her wedding day.

In her youth, she was a popular girl, she loved reading and learning and going to school and Frank Sinatra.  Her years in high school were among her happiest times.  She had a lot of friends (she took great pride in the fact that many of her friends were the intellectual elite in her class), worked on the school paper – and was recognized at Olney High School as the class of 1951’s “most witty” female graduate.

Temple University followed, where she found her love of Shakespeare, jazz, and politics.
In her young adult life, she started her own insurance agency.  It was during this time that she ran into an old friend who introduced to a charming fellow by the name of Aaron Caplan.
Dad took Mom on their first date, to see the movie, “Some Like it Hot”, and 8 later, they were engaged.  He thought she was the nicest woman he’d ever met. 

By the time my sister and I were born, Joyce and Aaron had a little rowhouse on Bayard Street, which was also the home office of Bayard Insurance Agency.  The house sported three bedrooms, living room, dining room, one purple kitchen and a bathroom my mother lovingly wallpapered with pictures of Frank Sinatra (this by the way, was the first and last crafty thing she ever did).

My mother’s universe for the next 30 years revolved around her business, her family and democratic party.  Once we moved to Cheltenham Township, she and dad dove in and became party leaders. I spent my childhood walking door to door with my mom, handing out leaflets, listening to her encourage people to register to vote, helping them find ways to get to the polls on election day.  She was a staple outside of her district polling place, proudly wearing her buttons, greeting her neighbors (she knew EVERYONE) and encouraging everyone to vote blue.  She collected a bounty of interesting friends and characters who shared her passion for politics and social activism.  We had a constant flurry of new people in and out of our house, which sometimes felt just as much like “headquarters” as it did like home.  

With pride, I watched her win elections. She was a proud delegate to two national conventions, in 1976 for Morris Udall, 1980 for Ted Kennedy.  She was also elected Constable in the early 1990’s – sort of by accident – her name was placed on the ballot,  as a” placeholder”, because the dems didn’t have anyone to run against the long time incumbent.  She agreed to put her name on the ballot as a courtesy, expecting to lose. This way, the incumbent, who was doing a fine job, would keep his position and source of income.  What they never expected was that my mother was so well known and so beloved in the community, she won that election by a landslide.  She went on to faithfully execute the duties of her office, as well as deputizing the outgoing Constable so he could hold on to his job.

Her other love was of course Jazz Music.  She and Daddy befriended jazz great Milt Buckner in the early seventies.  Between recording albums, and performing in Europe, he would come to Philadelphia on a regular basis and perform at local venues.  He became “family” to us – (he referred to Mom has his “main sister”, Wendi and I called him Uncle Milt) – he’d stay at our house, perform at my parent’s parties, even performed a Standing Room Only concert in our living room  where tickets were sold to help raise money for the Cheltenham Dems.

When she suddenly lost her hearing in her left hear, it was merely a bump in the road, yet her hearing loss would prove to be one of my biggest heartbreaks for her, for it so severely disabled  someone who so loved talking to people and listening to music.  

And my mom was the best mom. She was not the mom who would greet you at the front door with a plate of freshly made cookies and lemonade, but she was the mom who would shlep you and your girlfriends on a bus to Washington DC to march for women’s rights.  

The center of her universe shifted quite dramatically after she became a grandma.  She waited 60 years, and in her words, became the worlds most obnoxious grandmother.  She spent that last nearly 25 years worrying, obsessing, and adoring her girls.  Hayley, Sydney, Addison and Lia-Rose were her everything. 

My mom was the best mom.  All of her energies were spent thinking about others. Whether it was fighting for social justice, making sure there was always a piece of fish in the freezer for my (non-meat eating) dad, educating and influencing her circle of friends by obsessively posting on Facebook, or texting me exactly 27 times a day to make sure I was ok and Wendi was ok and Gregg was ok and the girls were ok…but, really she was making sure we understood that family always comes first.  She was the best mom.

Mom first became very ill 5 years ago.  And during those initial days of her illness, watching as she was breathing only with the help of a ventilator, I prayed for her recovery.  I was desperate not to lose her. I wasn’t ready.

My mother valiantly survived that health crisis and lived nearly five more years.  

Each day since then, she has suffered so much, from the indignity of having to rely on others to to bathe and dress, to be dependent on oxygen, multiple medications, and daily insulin injections, to the frustration of being so hearing impaired that even a casual conversation was nearly impossible; to the agony of having a chronic and severe cough.

But my mom was the best mom – and this is why.  She knew.  She knew five years ago we weren’t ready to lose her. She knew that it was inevitable that one day, we would have to say goodbye, but she wanted to make sure we would be able to manage our loss. 

 She suffered, suffered terribly for five years.  But I don’t think she suffered in vain.  I think this was the last big “mom” thing she did for us. She suffered so that we could be prepared. She readied us to say goodbye.  She prepared us for this day.

A few weeks ago, she told me, when she passes, we shouldn’t feel sad.  We should be happy for her, for she will be no longer be suffering.  And just a while before she passed, she opened her eyes, looked up at the ceiling, and smiled...a big, wide, smile that looked like pure happiness.  

 Although I will miss her every day, I am happy. My mom suffered so bravely, for so long, that knowing she is out of pain, feels good.  And though, for my whole life, the thought of losing my magnificent mother was one of the things I feared most of all, I know,  she selflessly prepared us for this moment.

 My mom, was the best mom.

Fly Fly Away

Hayley is fully ensconced in a new life, a new journey; one that she chose, regardless of the advice of her elders.  Regardless of the "order" of things.  She has embraced a life that is her own.  And though a piece of this anxious Jewish Mother wants her right back next to me, cradled in my arms, saying goodnight to the moon and the stars; I know that she is happy.

When she was just a baby I wrote a letter to her in her baby book. "Just be happy", I pleaded. That's all we can ever hope for our children, really.  Because, in the end, that's all that matters...that you were happy, that you were surrounded by love and you have given and received love generously, isn't it?   And so, to that level I am pleased as punch...jumping for joy.  Because my oldest girl, this old soul, who, as a baby cried more than any baby before or since;  fussed til her parents were collapsed in exhaustion, only started to become happy when she gained control of her world.  As she gained strength in her neck and could hold up her head, sit up independently, crawl, walk, and talk (and boy, could she talk!) it was only then that she became a happy child. When she was in control of herself.

I have been asked so many times by so many people how I FEEL about her move. If I'm being completely honest; I'm jumping for joy!   She is a butterfly, her spirit soars.  She has had adventures in her (almost) 22 years that I wouldn't even dare dream.  My fears, my anxieties and my lack of confidence strapped me in to a more traditional existence; but boy, just once in my life, I would have liked to have been someone like this beautiful creature who I brought into this world.

I know she adores her family.  I know we adore her.  This isn't a girl running to an exotic destination to run away from anything.  This is a girl who ran to an exotic destination to live rather than just exist.  And, hell, when you are young and unencumbered by adulthood, isn't this the perfect time to do just that?

I thank God for Indigo, her puppy, who found her by fate.  Because I know she and and Indigo will take care of each other.  Be unconditional best friends when life gets challenging.

I miss my girl.  So so much.  But I also know, that she is living her life.  Happy, loving , generous, independent and kind. 

She is not like me, but she is just like me.  The part of me inside myself.  The part of me that wants to fly into the wind and dance with the butterflies.  The part of me that wants to walk barefoot in the jungle and make friends with every character I meet.  The part of me that wants to spread a little magic wherever I go and to whomever I touch.

So, in answer to your question, the truth is, I couldn't be more proud.

May 5th, 1989

Twenty-six years ago, Cinco de Mayo fell on a Friday. It was a rainy day, the weather on the cusp of bursting into summer weather. But that day, it was a little chilly, and very gray. A week before, I had moved out of my parents house, a little overdue for the move, considering I was already 25. I was living in a tiny apartment in an old South Philly neighborhood, not far from South Street and the Italian market. I worked for an insurance company, where my paycheck afforded a lifestyle that included weekly trips to the Limited Express for clothing, chinese food for lunch everyday, $290. per month rent, and evenings out as a young, single girl in the city.

Nineteen years ago today, I was elated to finally be out on my own, and to celebrate, Irisa and another friend (what was her name?) came to see my pad, and walk over to JC Dobbs, to see Irisa's favorite band at the time, The Rivals. We spent a lot of time at rock and roll clubs, and had our favorite bands, Tommy Conwell, The Hooters, The Rivals...

The Rivals were a poppy 80's band by anyones standards, The band members wore mullets, with plenty of mousse to extend the top of their heads, diamond stud earrings, tight ljeans, metal belts, brightly colored shirts. We loved going to see them, and stand in the front and make eye contact with the band members.

The band was playing at JC Dobbs, and they were probably a little ill-suited for that venue. Dobbs, a philly institution, was a down and dirty rock club. Nirvana had played there before they were well known, as well as a host of other famous bands.

Normally, when I went out, I was hoping, maybe to meet a guy, so I'd get dolled up, and do a lot of eyelash batting. This particular evening, however, I was just about DONE with men. I had been hurt one time too many by other boyfriends, and I just felt finished. I wore old jeans, a tank top, bo-bo sneakers, and a blazer.

We arrived at the club and just hung out for a while chatting together. A large group of guys and girls walked in a little later, and they looked a little clean cut for the down and dirty atmosphere of JC Dobbs. One guy, taller than the rest, light haired, came in with a big smile on his face, a green sweater with a white turtleneck underneath and he was palling around with another girl. Though they were together, I got the distinct impression, that it was a platonic relationship, even though they hugged several times.

I leaned over to Irisa, and commented, "that guy is SOOOOO cute". Too bad he's too young for me. He looked about 22 and just out of college. Maybe a preppy fraternity type. He would definitely not be attracted to a little short Jewish girl from the suburbs. But he was so cute.

I couldn't stop looking at him, but could not work up the courage to go up and say hello. He had some other friends there, and one particular guy, seemed goofy and approachable, so I figured, maybe I can get an introduction through the goofy, approachable guy.

I approached this guy, who spoke like a surfer dude and informed me that his name was Crank. (I later found out that his name was Craig, I just didn't really understand him). We chatted for a while, and just like I planned, I was able to get intro to the cute tall blonde guy. He was holding two drinks, when "Crank" intoduced me to him.

"This is my friend, Gregg". Gregg looked down and juggled his glasses to free up a hand to shake mine. His eyes had a sparkle that made me smile, and I immediately felt comfortable in his presence.

He walked away, soon after our introduction, and I thought, well, "he's just not that into me."

A little later, I went to the bar to get a beer, and I peered down to my right, and saw Gregg standing there. I gave him a little wave, and he waved back and motioned to the bartender that he wanted to pay for my drink.

He came over to me, and asked me to dance. I was so surprised, because he actually could dance, which pretty unusual for most men. As we danced to the music, I inexplicably uttered my first words ever to my future husband, which to this day I find cheesy and embarrassing.

"You're a really good dancer...for a guy" Way to win him over, Lori.

Soon after, the band took a break and we went to the side of the stage to chat. I sat on a step, and he leaned on a rafter, looking down at me. He was so gorgeous, I couldn't believe he was talking to me. But, I started my interview.

"How old are you? What do you do for a living? Where do you live?"

28, Vice President of a printing company, South Jersey.

Pretty good credentials, I thought, not the 22 year old frat boy that I thought he was.

We spent the rest of the evening together, and when the bar was ready to close, we weren't ready to stop hanging out.

The girl he had arrived with, her name, Terri, came over to talk to me. She was very pretty, with light brown hair and gorgeous light eyes. She seemed friendly and intelligent, and frankly, like someone I'd be friends with. With both of her hands she grabbed mine. The looked at me, with a serious and heartfelt look, said,

"I want you to know, he's the nicest guy in the world". Wow. He must be a great guy, I thought, and it pretty much sealed the fact that, to get a recommendation from a cool girl like this, I was pretty lucky.

We ended up hanging out at my apartment after the bar closed. I told him, "I want to hang out, but I'm not like...THAT". He assured me with his smile that he was a gentleman, and thankfully, my instincts were right.

We left the club, and stopped at a Wawa across the street. We bought ice cream sundae fixings and walked in the pouring rain back to my apartment. We began our relationship by eating junk food at my kitchen table. We stayed up talking for the rest of the night.

Nineteen years, three children, two dogs, and one fish later, we are still here.

Once in a while, I look over at him and think, "he's just some guy I met in a bar". And boy, was I lucky to be there, Nineteen Years Ago Today.

Second Chances

In the cold, gray days of November,  I would watch my mother. The machine would help her breathe, I would hold her hand, comb her hair.  I would say goodnight, and wonder if she would still be with us in the morning.  In my mind I reflected on her life, our relationship, on all the things I'd never said.  In my mind I planned her shiva, shuddering at the thought of never again being held in her loving embrace.  Back in November, I thought this was the end.  The time in my life I dreaded so deeply, but I knew was inevitable.

These six months have been the hardest six months of her life.  No one should have to endure the pain, the trauma, the loss of dignity that she has had to endure.  There were days that I was wracked with guilt that maybe we prayed a little too hard for her to survive, for she seemed so unhappy to have woken up.

The road has been long.   Tiny victories along the way.  She never saw them as a big deal.  But even learning to comb her own hair, to swallow spoonful of applesauce, to dial the telephone...these were all milestones in her journey.

The road ahead is long as well.  But she has taken her first, slow, steady steps out of her wheelchair.  She is settling in a new home, making new friends, creating new memories.

And today, on Mother's Day, a day I was sure we would never get to celebrate together again, we sat on the patio together, soaking in the sun, holding hands.  And I realize that we are the lucky ones.   I get that second chance to show her how much I love her, to tell her how I feel....a second chance I once thought would never come....

Thank you, my Mommy for being my strong, intelligent, powerful role model.  For loving us so unconditionally, for placing us in the center of your world.  For being my safety net, for being my cheering section.  For believing in me, for looking at me every day (still) like I am still your little girl...for making me feel safe, for assuring me.  Thank you for being so funny, so able to laugh at nonsense, to always know how to make people smile.  Thank you for being so pragmatic, so logical, for always just knowing the right answer.   Thank you for forgiving me when I've been wrong, or disrespectful or just didn't know better.  Thank you for showing me what it means to be a GREAT mother...although I'm sure I will never possess the patience and selflessness that you showed me. 

And finally, on this Mother's Day, I thank you, my Mommy, for sticking around a little longer...so I could get the chance to share the sunshine with you once more...

Notes from the ICU

When the doctor first told us that my mother was being transferred to Intensive Care, it was rather casual, a "precaution", nothing to be too upset about.  We hardly realized that the journey was just beginning, and we were about to spend weeks and weeks on a roller coaster ride for which we never realized we were in line.

I'd never been to a Critical Care Unit, and when I first entered, I tried to hold my head down - to give dignity to people whose dignity was probably left on the floor of the ambulance that brought them here.  But like a bad accident, it's hard not to peak.  And in the past three and one half weeks, I have seen a lot.

A lot of bodies breathing mechanically, each with the same items hanging from the IV rack: the light brown bag is the food that is fed through the nose.  The clear bags are the antibiotics and fluids.  The white bottle is Propofol - the sedative (and if you aren't familiar with it, just Google "Michael Jackson", and you'll get your answer).  Each body has a monitor next to it with numbers.  The top two are heart rate.  The middle one is oxygen intake.  The bottom is breaths per minute.  The final numbers are blood pressure.

I pass each one, day after day. I compare their numbers with my mother's.  I'm not sure why.

The machines beep, and blurp and hiss and sound more like circus clown horns than ventilator alarms.  Each noise makes me jump out of my skin just a little...but the nurses are calm, and don't react until the beeps start to repeat and get louder.

Once in a while, a young patient appears.  A woman in her twenties, freckle faced, curly red hair.  Her father spends every moment by her side.   A man in his fifties, sitting up in his bed, hands propped behind his head.  No blankets, feet crossed.  He watches football.  He looks like he's vacationing. A mom in her thirties, who has a large family rallying for her.  Everyone in her room must be cloaked in sterile robes and masks.

But most are old.  Grey.  Frail.  Small.  One, a lady who suffered a heart attack while being treated for lung cancer, had her machines disconnected.  Her monitor is blank, no flashing lights, no beeping.  She lays in the darkened room straining for each breath. Her daughters sit by her side, one is knitting an outfit for a baby.  I come in the next day, and the room is empty.

There is a waiting room.  Serene colors and comfortable furniture.  Sometimes it is a place to have quiet, to cry, to collect.  Other times, it feels like a party, with  friends and family gathered, catching up, laughing.  Sometimes, the hospital chaplain, Monica, stops by.  She is gentle, and kind, and wise.  She is happy to spend a half hour with us, catching up, listening to us, holding our hands.  She's become our friend, part of our inner circle.

Back in the unit, Mom's room sits right outside the nurse's station.  And over the weeks the faces are all familiar.  The young surgeon who is as skilled with a scalpel as he is with offering  words of comfort; the army of pulmonologists who change shifts every four days.  The unit secretary who sits at the computer - she's had only one or two days off since we've been here.  And the nurses.  Oh, the nurses.  They take care of my mom, and sometimes, they take care of us.  When my sister became overcome with emotion, it was the nurses who offered comfort with an embrace.   When we try to put our medical "two cents" in (AKA: reciting everything we learned from GOOGLE) They are respectful and compassionate.  Plus they do a lot of dirty work... I couldn't stomach what they do for a moment, yet they do it every day, with grace and professionalism.

The frail bodies lie there, but day after day, you start to notice changes.  The woman in 307, who was on a ventilator 2 days ago is breathing on her own today.  The frail lady down the hall is sitting up in the bedside chair, with a tray of food beside her.  The gentleman next door took a walk down the hall with the help of two therapists.  These are the moments I look to, and pray for when I look at my mom. She has come far.  She has a long way to go.

As I walk the halls of the ICU,  I see body after body, lying in each room.  Most are alone.  In darkened rooms with bare walls.  (How is it that you can leave your loved one alone when they are so seriously ill?)  But when you arrive at my mom's room, you see dozens of cards and pictures and mementos on the wall, a constant reminder of all she has to live for.  Messages on her dry-erase board from her granddaughters: "We love you!" "Be strong" "Nothing to fear but fear itself!" And she has her family.  We are a constant.  We are her advocates.  We are her cheering section.

She is blessed.  Beyond compare.

I hope that our roller coaster ride in the ICU ends uneventfully and ends soon.  But I'm humbled to have had the opportunity to have spent the past few weeks of my life witnessing life, death, healing and compassion.   I have gained insight and wisdom, and learned that I can withstand more than I knew I could.  My greatest wish is that Mom would have never gotten sick, and we'd never have to be here.  But since that is not to be, I am strangely grateful.

Thank you to all for the unending love and support.
xx

On Gratitude and Miracles

A few days late, but this year, our season of gratitude is coinciding with the season of miracles...and this year, with my mother's difficult health situation.

We celebrated our "Thanksgivukkah" at The Country Club Diner on Cottman Avenue in Philadelphia.  We congregated there, because it was the closest restaurant to the hospital, where my mother lays, in Intensive Care, sedated and hooked up to a ventilator.

The food was fine, the company was wonderful, but we were not home.  I missed out on my yearly tradition of waking up early to get the bird in the oven - sitting down now and then to watch the Broadway performances at the  Macy's Parade.   As the day continues I putter around, and the aroma of our upcoming feast begins to waft through the air. The girls make their way down, and we watch the Dog Show, and somebody sneaks a taste of pumpkin pie, or mashed potato, or my (fantastic) home-made cranberry sauce....and this will undoubtedly anger me...My dad is the resident turkey carver, and he is sure to make a terrible mess slicing the turkey, but no one else wants to take the job from him, because, it is our tradition.  I prepare for days, we eat in minutes, and then all that is left is to clean up and collapse with exhaustion.  It is on days like this, that my house feels more like a home, and I feel satisfaction, to be filled with so much abundance, and so much to be grateful for.

Our dinner at the diner this year was quiet, subdued, and although I ate turkey with all the trimmings, I didn't feel abundance and appreciation.  I just felt  exhausted, and sad, and helpless.

But this is a season of Gratitude.  And over the past week, I have realized how much I have to be grateful for.   Small things that surprised me, and big things that humble me...all of these things are now filling my head, unless I write them down, they will keep spinning in my head....

So, here goes:

I am grateful for the staff at Jeanes Hospital.  Doctors and Nurses who don't just look at my mommy as a laboratory specimen, but as the vibrant, intelligent, wonderful mom that we need in our lives for many more years.  They treat her with dignity and respect; and show equal concern for the well being of my father as he resolutely waits by her bedside praying for her recovery.

I am grateful for the Hebrew students at Congregation Beth Shalom.  They made menorahs out of craft foam and felt; so we could "light" the menorah in her hospital room.   We add a candle each day, and I pray my mommy will be awake and breathing independently before the last candle is lit.

I am grateful that my mom had the foresight to purchase extra toothbrushes at the dollar store.  Certainly came in handy when I unexpectedly found myself sleeping in my old bedroom back on Church Rd.  (Even if they are Power Ranger toothbrushes with an approximate two day life span).

I am also grateful for my new found knowledge, that you really only need two outfits...and a washing machine...and I have learned that the world will not end if I go a day or two without mascara and eyeliner...and I am equally grateful that the doctors and nurses don't appear to be judging me.

I am grateful for my sense of humor...for the flexibility of our souls to navigate from a moment filled with grief and fear  to uproarious laughter in the next.  I know it's good to get those tears out, but it is equally okay to giggle now and then, too.

I am grateful for my Dad's positive attitude.  If you ask him how he is, he responds, "I'm fine...I'm a tough son-of -a-bitch," and boy, he sure is.  When I'm with him, I feel like I'm eight years old again, and he is my perfect, strong hero...reassuring me that we will all be okay.

I am grateful for my big sister, the more mature one...because I learned that we both have different gifts to offer in this situation...she takes action, she plans, she organizes; ..none of these things are my strong suit...and I have learned our personalities are a perfect balance....and I am especially grateful that even when I lose my temper now and then, she is quick to forgive me...because she understands that we stand in this uncharted territory together.

I am grateful for the other man in my life, my incredible husband.  I left him and my girls to be closer to both my parents.  He has taken on additional responsibilities without hesitation, and remains unwavering in his support for whatever I have to do...

For my wonderful boss, who gets it when I say, "I can't be anywhere but by my parent's side...", even during the busiest time of year.   I hope she knows that if the situation were reversed, I would be there for her in a heartbeat.  I thank her for her kindness and humanity.

For my children, who braved the sights of the ICU to see their beloved grandmom, to hold her hand, and to comfort her ; and to sit with my dad and help him pass the time by listening to his funny stories and pontifications.  They continue to amaze me every day...

I am grateful for my iPhone, even though it died on me for a day.  For with my iPhone, I can Google a medical term, look up a surgeon's credentials, text a friend, look at an old picture of my mom and even play a game or two of Candy Crush to pass the time.

I am grateful for Facebook, for the love and support I have received from far and wide is astounding.  Just a note reminding me how special my mom is, or that prayers are being sent our way is of great comfort...even during the worst moments.

I am grateful for prayer - for that is where I go when the moments are quiet...and I find that I mostly pray for strength...

I am grateful for hope - it's what gets me through the night.

I am mostly grateful for my mom...for being an incredible role model, a caring friend, an activist, a businesswoman, a devoted wife, mother and obsessive grandmother.  She placed us in  the center of her world, and I hope she knows how much I appreciate her love, her energy and her strength.

So in this season of Gratitude and Miracles, even though my Thanksgivakkuh feast was less than perfect, there is much to appreciate...and I truly haven't forgotten  (well, maybe for just a moment)...

Next step?  Patiently waiting for our Miracle.  And I will wait for as long as it takes...

Just....stop.

It just keeps going. Time, that is.   No stopping.  No frozen moments.  It just continues on, changing everything in its wake.   I used to be a young mom, juggling diapers, sippy cups and playdates.  Then, I was a soccer mom--lacing cleats, keeping score, planning celebratory pizza parties.  I was a camp mom...enduring the summer heat and less than favorable living conditions so I could share in the joy that is camp with my girls.  Then they got a little bigger, and when it was time to loosen the reins, just a little bit...overnight, it seemed, they slipped right out of my grasp.   They grew up.  

How did they change so much, when I still feel new at this?

My life before them, was really, just the time I would spend waiting for them. Longing to have a family of my own, to be "Mom".  I imagined I'd be perfect.   Always patient, kind, always ready with a band-aid, comforting words, homework help.  Dinner ready every night.   Laundry always washed and folded.  Patience never thin. I'd be a great role model, friend, yet firm disciplinarian.

On some days, I think I was pretty perfect.  On others...many others, I'm quite sure I fell short of perfection.  I gave in a little too much, lost patience a lot, and I'm not even going to mention the laundry.  It's just that I always thought there would be a tomorrow to try to get it right again.  But the tomorrow's are waning.  Hayley has already finished freshman year in college.  She has friends that I may never meet, a life I will never fully share, and a path that she needs to forge on her own.    And now Sydney is graduating high school.  And all over again, this weird mixture of pride, joy and dread at the inevitable chore of letting go, has taken hold.

In a little more than a week, both of my oldest girls will be headed to camp for the summer.  This time, as staff members.  And that's it.  They'll come home for a few days before they go off to college, but essentially our life with just one child at home starts in just a few days.  This is a brand new chapter.  

I hope I can give Addie the patience and perfection that often eluded me during her sisters' teenaged years.  I hope she will enjoy her next 6 years as an "only" child.  I pray my house is filled with love and joy and abundance.  That I remember to treasure every little milestone in her journey. That I won't forget that in the blink of an eye, this familiar dread will reappear and we will be waving goodbye to her as well.

In the meantime, I'll be holding back the tears for the next few weeks, as we watch Sydney reach this milestone.   It's bittersweet.  It's exciting.  And for me, it's the tomorrow I never realized would get here so quickly.