Life's a Dance

 

It was 1994 in Montgomery, Alabama.  The only thing bigger than my dreams was my hair.  Sorority semi-formal in a southern town - a perfect storm of future TikTok content.  We were on the dance floor cutting the proverbial rug when I planted my black high heel squarely and with great force on Michael’s big toe.  And because steel-toed boots were frowned upon at such an occasion, that toenail has never been the same.  It didn’t slow us down, but Michael did, with some firmness, comment on the fact that the Great Toenail Massacre of ’94 could have been avoided had I just let him lead. 

As of this morning there are no longer any teenagers in the Dulion household.  The baby boy turned 20 today – unbelievable.  I got to squeeze him – all six-foot, four amazing inches of him – and all I could think was ‘THIS, this is my most favorite time to be your Mama’.  I’ve said those exact same words at every stage of their lives – as I sniffed newborn heads, as I cheered for first wobbly steps, as I made up songs about using the potty, as I took off training wheels and tried on first pairs of shin guards and cheered from basketball bleachers and conquered the mysteries of the combination lock and stomped on my passenger brake pedal during white knuckle driving lessons.  But this stage, this one?  It’s my favorite.

Parenting young adults is a lot like a dance where both partners really, really, really want to lead.  It can be a great time, but you’d better be prepared to get your toe squarely and forcefully smashed on occasion.  It’s the time that all the songs talk about when we’ve done our jobs well and are supposed to sit back and watch them “spread their wings”.  It’s also, however, probably the time when they need us the most.  The future is looming large, and it is terrifying.  They are all at once sure about everything, and absolutely nothing.

The definition of “life altering decisions” hits them squarely between the eyes, and they’re just not sure if they want to run boldly into the great unknown or sit in your lap eating goldfish while you read them a story.  They balk at your rules but seek your counsel.  They struggle to find the sweet spot between feeling like a visitor in their childhood bedroom and really enjoying the safety net of a meal plan and gas card.

And somewhere in the midst of ALL that uncertainty and dancing and toe smashing. . . they become.  They become these AMAZING humans who you are no longer biologically mandated to spend time with, but for whom you willingly drive hours for just a few minutes of their time.  They become thinkers of deep thoughts and conversation carriers.  They become contributors and encouragers.  They become considerate and concerned.  They become givers of gifts and appreciative receivers.  They become humble and kind and confident and poised.  And those little people who you squared off with so many times, reminding them that ‘you are their parent, not their friend’?  Well, it turns out they become the best of friends.

Happy birthday, baby boy.  You amaze me just by being you.  Keep wanting, keep reaching, keep challenging, keep learning, keep believing, keep caring, keep wondering, keep questioning, keep pushing, keep becoming, keep DANCING.  These aren’t my words, but I sure wish they were, because boy did he nail it: “Life’s a dance you learn as you go.  Sometimes you lead, sometimes you follow.  Don’t worry about what you don’t know.  Life’s a dance you learn as you go.”  THIS! This is my most favorite time to be your Mama!

 

The Most Beautiful Things Are Close

To say that I love to travel is a gross understatement of fact.  Next to reading, travel is the thing that makes my soul sing.  I love everything about it.  The planning, the logistics, the anticipation, the experiences, the memories – my bags are packed, and I’m there for ALL of it. 

During my treatments I was “temporarily grounded”, but that did nothing to dampen the wanderlust.  I spent that time reading travel blogs, making lists, doing research, and itching to GO.  It was a perfect escape from reality, those daydream trips I took.  And just as soon as I got the all clear. . .. oh, the places we will go!  We spent our anniversary tooling around Anna Maria Island in the cutest pink Moke you ever did see – the water there rivals the Caribbean, and the sunsets, well, they’ll take your breath away.  There were weekends in the Loveliest Village on the Plains, Thanksgiving in Mexico, BBQ at Little Dooey’s in Starkville as we explored Grace’s newest zip code, visits to the Wiregrass to love on our people, beignets in New Orleans, and Michael’s AU vs Vandy Nashville birthday.  Every trip was the “best one”.  Every memory made a treasure.

In recent years I’ve fallen in love with the state of Maine in all its gorgeous, northeastern, coastal, mountainous, lobster infested, COOL, low humidity splendor.  It’s just my favorite.  We made it twice this summer - it is a magical place, and I’ll never tire of visiting. 

As I type this there are tabs open in the background ripe with potential for fall trips in the making.  We are knee-deep in all things “back-to-college”, and I didn’t want time to get away from us without something on the calendar.  My head was full of plans and possibilities, and then I was stopped dead in my tracks with the most beautiful reminder.  The story nor the words were mine originally, but I’m unashamedly stealing them.  The original author tells the story of their recent visit to Portofino where they befriended a charter boat captain who took them on a tour of the area:

“. . . he told us of his travels and how he grew up and still lives in Portofino.  At one point he pulled into a cove and played Andrea Bocelli’s “Love in Portofino”.  After telling us that he grew up fishing in that cove as a boy, he nonchalantly said under his breath, “the most beautiful things are close”.  I don’t know if he even thought twice about what he had said, but I felt it to be such a tender sentiment of home and family.”

And there it is, my new motto.  It makes my heart smile.  It is everything I have always known with absolute certainty but never been able to put into words.  It is my life’s work and my heart’s desire, my every whispered prayer, and my greatest blessing.  The most beautiful things are close.

They are the perfect shade of blue hydrangeas blooming in the front bed.  They are the doodle taking his 5^th nap of the day.  They are the dent in the garage door made by a stray basketball.  They are the kitchen and dining room tables that remind me of my grandparents.  They are the turn at Memphis that means I’m almost home.  They are the college sweetheart who proved that he meant it when he promised “in sickness and in health”.  They are the little people who first made me a mama and then grew up and made me a friend. 

I will never, ever be the one to tell you not to go.  Absolutely, 100%, without fail - Take. The. Trip! But then, sweet friend, come home.  

The most beautiful things are close.

Roots

 

Yesterday for the first time in a long time I headed outside to pull weeds.  It was hot.  Too hot.  But the unwelcome little green visitors popping up between the red brick of my front steps were starting to hurt my feelings.  At first, I pulled absentmindedly aggravated at the heat and the task itself and the heat and the bugs and, did I mention, the heat?  But then I noticed that some of the little suckers were harder to pull than others, and when I stopped to pay attention, I marveled at how tenaciously some of the roots grew and reached for their life-giving source. Against all odds, a seed had somehow found itself in a tiny, mortared crack, sandwiched between unyielding masonry, and the roots of that plant stretched and strained and anchored themselves so that the leaves that were exposed and stretching for the sun could be beautiful.

We moved Cooper into his dorm at Auburn 19 days ago (but who’s counting).  Eight days later Grace had her last, first day of school.  We blinked, and she’s a senior.  And suddenly, as so many people seem to delight in reminding us, our “nest” is empty.    Now THAT will get you thinking (mainly because it’s quiet and there is SO MUCH LESS laundry to do and sometimes you can just have cereal for dinner and it’s ok which frees up SO MUCH thinking time).  And the “think” that has been most often on my mind is, “did we do everything that we could to make sure that they are ready for what comes next?”. 

And I think that’s why I paid such attention to those weeds.  Because that’s what it’s all about - giving them strong roots so that when they are exposed and stretching for the sun, they can be beautiful. 

So, once the weeds were eradicated and my body temperature returned to normal, I settled into my quiet, laundry-free nest, thanked the Lord for my little birds and then prayed for their roots. . .

That they never stop reaching for their heavenly Father, the ultimate life-giving source.

That they always remember where they came from and have the confidence, determination, and work ethic to get where they are going. 

That no matter what storms rage around them, they stay anchored in their faith, what is right and true, and our unwavering love.

That they stretch and strain and leave their comfort zone and look for ways to make this world better than they found it.

That when they are pulled in all different directions, they stay true to themselves.

That they remember that not everyone has roots that are cultivated and strong, so they should always, always be kind.

And that they find rest, shelter, and shade when they are weary and never, ever forget that they are beautiful.

Eighteen

 

A few days ago, a friend and I were discussing our children’s approaching birthdays.  Both were about to turn 18, and we agreed that it felt somehow anticlimactic.  It SHOULD be a really big deal, and yet there would be no new car parked in the driveway nor would the bouncers suddenly welcome them into the local bar with open arms.  The more I thought about it, 18 felt a lot like middle school – too old for a pirate party with goody bags but too young for the Vegas strip.  

Basically, 18 gets a bum rap. . .  Congratulations, you’re a whole adult today.  WooHoo – you can now vote for people who will either grossly abuse the use of self-tanning products or store classified documents in their corvette, and, by the way, don’t forget to register for the super-fun draft!  Cue the balloons and confetti.  

So, because I suddenly felt bad for poor 18, I set out on a quest to boost its image.  

I was going to make 18 go viral.  

It didn’t go well.  

On the periodic table 18 is the atomic number for Argon; there’s nothing exciting about Argon.  I could have worked with Titanium, and even Neon has potential.  There are 18 holes on a golf course.  18 is considered a lucky number in China.  It is also the legal drinking age there.  Coincidence?  I think not.  

And then the stars aligned and google did its google thing, and there was this:  18 pertains to great wisdom and compassion, the kind that comes from experience. This number also often symbolizes endings and indicates that you’re entering a time of closure in your life. When one phase completes, another begins, so it also brings hope and a view to the future.  

I love it.  Hope and a view to the future.  For those of us who have long since left 18 in the rearview mirror, isn’t that just exactly it?  18 isn’t anticlimactic.  It’s hope and a view to the future, and that’s something to celebrate.

Cooper,

You’ve never liked when things come to an end.  You cried your way through kindergarten graduation because you “just didn’t want it to be over”.  You love life so big, and you mourn every completed chapter with your whole heart.  18 must feel pretty big, huh?  Childhood – done.  I’m right there with you, buddy.  It hurts my heart too.  Saying goodbye to something SO WONDERFUL is hard.  But it’s not gone.  We’ll always have it – that magical growing up time of yours - it’s one of my favorite movies to rewatch.  

According to the google number guys, you are now supposed to possess “great wisdom and compassion” that you’ve gained from experience.  I think they’re probably right.  I see you.  Thinking before you act or react or speak or decide, reasoning, weighing options, evaluating consequences, anticipating outcomes, considering others – that’s wisdom.  I wouldn’t label it as “great” just yet, but you’ve got lots of time to work towards that.  And compassion?  You were sent here with that; you’ve just had 18 years to shine it up a bit.  Hold that one tight; a heart for others can fix so many things.

You’ve got a lot of big change coming your way.  Put that way it sounds scary.  But call it a time of “hope and a view to the future”?  Sign me up!   You’ve had 18 years of training wheels to get you ready for what I know with absolute certainty is going to be the ride of your life.  Don’t be in such a hurry to reach your destination – find the joy in the journey.  With every hill you top, stop for a minute to soak in the view – you worked hard to get there.  And when you blow a tire, rest confident in the fact that you have every single tool that you need fix it – we’ve spent 18 years filling up that toolbox.  

A whole adult.  Unreal.  Happy happy birthday, baby boy.  18 never looked so good (at least not since Grace turned 18, because we both know that she’ll read this and it will be a thing if she thinks that I meant that 18 looks better on you than it did on her, and that is NOT what I meant, geesh).  Now take that newfound hope and view to the future of yours and go buy a lottery ticket just because you can.  Wanna meet for a drink in China?  

I love being your mama.

Win one for the Gipper?

 

This will come as a big shock to many of you, but I am not an athlete.  I know!  I’ll give you a minute to process.  In fact, the closest I came to having an athletic career was my time as the statistician for my high school football team.  And that little foray into the wide world of sports was just because I was good at math and had a genuine appreciation for the art of the male form in a football uniform.  I did, however, have a great uncle who was a successful coach, and that fact coupled with the countless hours that I’ve spent seated in bleachers cheering on my offspring practically makes me an expert. 

Our current football season, it’s just not good.  At least not when you look at the stats and the record and, I’m guessing, the film on Monday morning.  Not. Good.  With that said, there is MUCH about the game of football that I don’t even pretend to know. I wouldn’t know a jet sweep from a flea-flicker (although I do love a good flea flicker).  When to throw the ball or when to call a running play.  And does ANYBODY really know exactly what “ineligible receiver downfield” means?!   I don’t even pretend to know what needs to change or how to fix all the things.  But I do know a thing or two about the players; it just so happens I have raised one with some measure of success.  And if ever given the opportunity to deliver the team-rallying half-time speech (somewhere Cooper is making the sign of the cross and thanking the heavens that this will NEVER happen), I’d climb up on that locker room bench, and this is exactly what I’d say. . .

Ouch.  That was ugly.  Like, REALLY bad.  But you already know that, don’t you?  I was just watching it.  You were the ones getting thumped up and down the field and scratching and clawing for every yard.  Losing stinks.  It’s just not fun, and it gets old.  Really, really old.  You don’t need me to point out what you already know, but you do need to hear me say this.  No matter the final score, you, Knights, you have already won.

What we don’t remind you of is the fact that out of your ENTIRE STUDENT BODY, you are the only ones who get to wear that uniform and represent your school out on that field.  That is an honor and privilege no matter your record; don’t forget that.  You are one of the handful of people in this entire world who know what it feels like when you run out of that tunnel, onto that field, under those lights.  That feeling.  That “there is nothing I cannot do” feeling that you have before you’ve even played a single down?  Don’t ever forget that feeling; it is precious and rare. 

Those Heisman Wannabes with the dad bods up in the stands have forgotten that the view from field level is a lot different from their cushioned stadium chair vantage points.  Reality is that they had to buy a ticket to get in and would need IV fluids after one practice, oxygen after one down, and a hip replacement after one good hit.  What sounds like spirit-crushing criticism is really just super-frustrated love because they know how incredible you are and just wish that everybody else had the opportunity to see it too.  You keep your chin up and tune out the noise. This is your time; they’ve had theirs.  Listen to the voice inside of you.  Play the game for your school, your brothers, and yourself. 

Does your coach screw up?  ABSOLUTELY.  A lot. Show me a grown-up who doesn’t.  But he also shows up.  For you. A lot.  I certainly wouldn’t want an entourage to follow me around at work and publicly shame me in front of my peers and subordinates every time I made the wrong call.  We as parents spend your entire childhood reminding you to be respectful.  We should probably take a page from our own playbook, and save a bit more of our ESPN level commentary for the car ride home. 

Now I’m running out of time here, so one last thing, we’ve not been honest with you.  We’ve told you that “these are the best days of your life”.  They’re not.  Don’t get me wrong, these are AWESOME days.  But the BEST ones?  Those will come later, when you’re sitting in the stands watching your heart out on that field.  These?  These are the learning days.  These are the days when you realize that the numbers on that scoreboard mean nothing (even when they are in your favor) if your character is lacking.  How quickly your knee hits the field when a player, any player, is injured.  How you watch your language around the cheerleaders because they are young ladies.  How you offer your hand to help an opposing player up.  How you seek out your friends on Monday morning and thank them for dressing up like Goodwill cowboys and showing up, for you, Friday night after Friday night.  How you build up a teammate who just botched a big play.  How you show up for practice, early and late and hurt and tired and when you just really don’t want to.  How you respect your teacher in the classroom and your parents at home.  How you’re humbled by the National Anthem and the sacrifices that you’ll never fully understand.  How you feel pride every time you pull that jersey over your head because you know that representing your school is a privilege.  How you admit when you are wrong and recognize that you have much still to learn. How you thank the band for their energy and the trainers for their support.  How you leave everything you’ve got on that field because that’s what you signed up to do and you know that commitments are important.  That.  All of that. Those things.  That is how I know that you’ve already won.

Look around you. This team.  It’s yours.  These are your brothers. And this moment, it’s fleeting.  Play for each other.  Have fun.  Soak it in.  Dance it out.  Shake it off.  This is your time.  The haters?  They’re just jealous.

Now, stand up straight and fix your face.  Dig deep and find some energy.  You look like a bunch of saggy shouldered quitters.  Not everybody gets a trophy and right now you look like you don’t even want one.  There is football left to be played.   Play to win.  Don’t accept defeat until the very last second ticks off.  Go out there and hit somebody.  And after you hit him, go up in the stands and hit his mama.  DANCING is a contact sport; football, well, it’s a hitting sport. 

And then, after it’s all said and done, when they’ve wiped those red numbers off of that scoreboard, stop on the way to the bus and hug my neck because, my precious boys, I’m so damn proud of you.

Who more than Self their Country Loved

     Yesterday in church a couple of sections to my right and a few pews back, two gentlemen sat straight and tall in full military dress.   They immediately drew my eyes, my heart, and my respect.  Now admittedly I’m a sucker for a man in uniform, but this time my gaze quickly wandered from the dashingly handsome soldiers to the lady who sat sandwiched between them.  I don’t know the family, but I’m guessing that her rank is wife and mother.  She was beautiful in red, white, and blue and while her outfit might have lacked bars and medals, she was the one who I couldn’t look away from.  The men at her side projected dignity and strength and honor, but that Mama?  She oozed pride from every pore.  I’d venture to say that she is the strongest of the three.  How terrifying it must be to offer those you love most up in service to our Country. 

Every year on Memorial Day I look for the words and pictures posted by a dear, forever friend who lost her husband way too soon.  I didn’t have the privilege of knowing him, but the legacy he left behind in his children speaks volumes as to who he was.  My favorite picture that she shares shows a larger than life, grinning guy in a flight suit standing in front of a plane with his arms flung out around little people who clearly adore him.  There is such love and joy in that picture.  And I’m taken aback every single time that I see it.  It’s not every day that you come face to face with a hero.

At the end of the service yesterday we sang “America the Beautiful”, and my eyes watered up just like they always do.  I love this Country and am ever aware of the fact that the ability to call it home is both an honor and a privilege that I have done absolutely nothing to earn.  The debt of gratitude that I owe to those who made the ultimate sacrifice to ensure that I can attend that church and sing that song and vote my conscience and type these words. . . it’s one that I could never even begin to repay. 

O beautiful for heroes proved

in liberating strife,

who more than self their Country loved,

and mercy more than life!

America! America!

May God thy gold refine

til all success be nobleness

and every gain divine.

Who more than self their Country loved.  If that doesn’t just knock the wind out of you.

Back pew Mama, may our heavenly Father always surround your guys with a hedge of protection and may they feel and know the love of a grateful nation.  To my precious friends for whom today is about so much more than cookouts and pool parties, may the God of the broken-hearted wrap you in a comfort and peace that we cannot even begin to fathom.  I’m so sorry that they didn’t make it home.  Thank you for your service and sacrifice.  I promise to never stop remembering.

B Positive

 

Cooper Warren Dulion arrived via emergency Cesarean section on a Wednesday morning 17 years ago.  It was chaotic and terrifying . . . for most of us.  I didn’t get to see it, but they tell me that Cooper arrived completely unphased, looking calmly around the OR as if to say, “Why the panic, everyone?  It’s all good.”  He was an 8 lb 2 oz, 21 ½ inch bundle of pure perfection.  There was no distress, no worrisome Apgar score, no need for the NICU nurses who stood ready to whisk him away.  He greeted this world and its people as if he knew that he was exactly where he belonged, and that hasn’t changed for 17 years. 

Last weekend Coop donated blood for the first time.  He liked the idea of being able to help people.  He did NOT like the idea of that help involving a needle anywhere in his proximity.  Despite his anxiety, he charmed the ladies responsible for the needles, ATE all the snacks, and somehow managed to get a tour of the back processing area.  He left a pint lighter but gained a t-shirt, gift card, and some kind of multi-tool.  He had such fun that he spent the ride home googling how often you can donate.  Weirdo.

A few days after his super-fantastic experience Cooper was notified of his blood type . . . B Positive.  Imagine that.  I couldn’t make it up if I tried.  B positive.  It’s funny because it’s true.  He is and always has been.  Positive that if you look for the good, you will find it.  Positive that it really will all work out exactly as it should.  Positive that if he tries hard enough, he can do it. Positive that all people are his people.   And positive that he is EXACTLY where he belongs. 

Happy birthday my beautiful boy.  I know that you are the one who gets to make the wishes today, but if I could borrow a candle or two, I’d wish that you always . . .

. . . be positive of your ability to make a difference.

. . . be positive that kindness counts, and the good guy really does win in the end.

. . . be positive that He knows the plans He has for you.

. . . be positive that your big, big heart is your most beautiful feature.

I absolutely adore you, Cooper Warren Dulion, from the top of your head to the tip of those big, hairy toes. Of that you can always be positive.

More than you’ll ever know,

Mommy