I call my mom at least twice a week to ask the most random questions that I’m convinced only she can answer. Questions like, “How can I tell if this hamburger meat is still good” or “Is it really necessary to hand wash this shirt or is that just a suggestion?” or “So, what does poison ivy look like again?”  Remember when you were younger and you misplaced something and your mom always seemed to know where it was? Chances are she still possesses that power. It’s an even greater chance that her unique role as the only person in the house capable of locating missing items has since passed down to you. It is only now, as a mother myself, that I can truly appreciate the level of annoyance that comes with being designated as the “All-Time Finder of All Things.” A few days ago I spent a full hour searching for Uni the Unicorn’s magical berry. This is an hour of my life that I will never get back.
 
Like most mother-daughter relationships, our partnership has progressed through all of the traditional stages. As a child I was her bike-riding sidekick and Christmas tree decorating assistant. As a bratty pre-teen, she made sure my softball uniform was always clean and I made sure to invite a herd of my cereal-eating friends over without warning to drive up her grocery bill. As a know-it-all teenager, I lamented her rules while benefiting from her unwavering support and constant care. It wasn’t until my college years that I finally realized how much I missed her homemade mashed potatoes and around the clock laundry service. In my 20s she was my biggest cheerleader, my staunchest defender, my shopping partner and my wedding planner. And now, as a mother and wife in my mid-30s, I rely on her guidance and assistance more than ever.
 
I can’t tell you how many urgent calls I’ve made during the last seven years that have resulted in her jumping in her car and driving over to help. When my son split his chin open on the shower rail, I called her on speakerphone while I held him wrapped in a towel on my lap and waited for her arrival and opinion to determine if he needed to go to the hospital for stitches. She volunteered to take my daughter who was, by this time, sitting in a cold bath and wondering why her crazy mother was crying. A year before this, she drove to my house in record time when I called to report that my daughter had cut her nose on a can of corn while playing in the pantry when I was cooking dinner. (I swear I am not a negligent mother, my kids are just a tad bit clumsy and I’m more than a tad bit squeamish of blood.) Not to leave my youngest out, my Mom was the first person I called when the doctor came in on my baby’s first day in this world to inform me that she might be transferred to the ICU. Without having to ask, my mom (who had stayed the night before until 3 a.m. to witness her birth) raced back to the hospital and spent the day rocking the baby and reassuring me that everything would be fine.  And it was—Mamas always know. It’s nice to have a Nana on call to swoop in with reassuring words and a calming presence that makes everyone, myself included, feel better.  She also buys Band-Aids in bulk to fix a variety of scrapes (real and imagined) and delivers popsicles and 7-Up to sick grandbabies who are more than just a little bit spoiled.
 
It’s not until I became a mother that I realized just how labor-intensive that job really is.  I always wondered why my mom was ready for bed by 9:00. I thought she was just a party pooper, but it turns out she was understandably exhausted from a full day spent working and cleaning, cooking and carpooling.  Her day began hours before the rest of us woke up and she’s kept this same schedule for the last 34 years as my youngest brother is a freshman in high school and a few years away from leaving the nest. And now I know that Moms really don’t have “sick days” because, after all, the laundry won’t fold itself and for some reason the kids think they need to eat every day.
 
The influence of a mother is impossible to understate. Her example becomes your habit and her voice becomes your own. Have you ever opened your mouth to speak and out pops one of your mother’s characteristic phrases? I frequently tell my children that I want to “squeeze their guts out.” The first time I said it, my husband looked at me in horror and disbelief until I explained that this means I love them so much that I want to give them a big squeezer hug. (Some phrases tend to get lost in translation, but you get my point.) A mother is a beacon in the night and the calm in the storm. She can simultaneously serve as both a confidant and a critic, your biggest supporter and your most cautious advisor.  She can mend broken hearts with trips to the mall and cure boredom with marathons of reality TV and homemade popcorn doused with unspeakable amounts of butter. A mother sews ripped prom dresses and pays for wedding gowns.  She makes your favorite cake for your birthday (fresh coconut crème) and buys diet pop when you are coming over for dinner. She knows your greatest secrets and has bared witness to your darkest hours, and still loves you all the same. Over the years, a mother dries your tears and a few of her own. And she holds the unique position of having changed both your diapers and those of your children. 
 
So, on this last day of the year, as I pause to reflect on my blessings and give thanks for the wonderful people in my life, I want to send out a special thank you to all of the moms who sacrifice their own needs for those of their children.
 
Thank you for staying up late to help with homework and getting up early to make breakfast. Thank you for spending your days in the boardroom and your nights in the bleachers. Thank you for skipping showers and hair appointments to make it to gymnastics. A special thanks to all of you single mothers who must also play the part of dad and bear the full weight and responsibility of parenthood—I am in awe of your selflessness and amazed by your strength. To the moms who marry into motherhood and assume the role with grace and dignity, thank you for showing the world that love isn’t bound by bloodline. And for those of you that welcome children into your arms that you didn’t carry in their wombs, you are proof that a mother’s love is unconditional and the world could use a few more women like you. And for the moms who are watching from Heaven, we search for your guidance in our hearts and your absence is felt daily. Even though we wish we could hear your voice just one more time, we know that you are making our favorite cake in preparation for our glorious reunion and rocking our babies before you send them down to us. 
 
And, to my own mom, thank you for setting the standard for what a mother should be and for loving my babies as your own.  I even forgive you for loading them up with cookies and sweet tea before sending them back home. I recognize karmic justice when I see it.  

I still remember the song that was playing as I drove my little red Hyundai Excel down the highway, packed floorboard to ceiling with clothes and shoes, bound for Kalamazoo and my new life as a college student.  I sang Wide Open Spaces at the top of my lungs along with the Dixie Chicks and must have played that track on the CD six more times before I reached my final destination.  The words of the chorus rang out so true – “She needs wide open spaces, room to make big mistakes, new faces, she knows the high stakes.”  The world was my oyster, full of promise and possibilities.  I could choose my own destiny.  When I look back at that memory through the eyes of a seventeen year old, I can still feel the excitement of that drive.  When I look back at that memory through they eyes of a mother, however, I get a different feeling. It’s funny how perspective changes everything. 

Instead of seeing the college bound Co-Ed rushing around her room, throwing all of her favorite sweaters and framed pictures into her suitcase, I see a mother on the other side of the door, holding back tears as she stares at a picture on the wall of her now grown daughter as a five year old, splashing in the waves during a day spent at the beach.  Instead of the Dixie Chicks, I hear Whitney Houston’s “Greatest Love of All” playing from the tape deck of an old mini-van as a Mom recalls the countless hours spent listening to her daughters singing in the backseat on the way to school or sports practices or sleepovers.  Instead of feeling excitement for the future, I feel the distinct sensation of sadness and loss with a heavy dose of teary-eyed nostalgia.  Sure, the sadness is mixed with pride, at the person this young girl is and will become, but the sadness is still there nonetheless.  They don’t call it an empty nest for nothing; our children hold our hearts and when they leave us, either to head off to kindergarten or to college, we feel an emptiness in our homes as well as our chests. 

A few years ago my friend Becky, whose kids are older than mine, told me that she felt like the years sped up as soon as her children entered school.  She said, “It’s like the time goes to warp speed as soon as kindergarten hits and, the next thing you know, your oldest is entering high school.” To be honest, I was in the haze of having two young children, so I didn’t really believe her when she said that time was going to progress at anything faster than a snails pace.  If you’ve spent any time at home with two babies under two, you know how one hour can feel like five.  But now I know.  Now I believe her.  Because I swear I was just teaching my little man his letters but, somehow, he will walk through the first grade classroom doors as a reader of chapter books.  And that sweet dimpled baby that I rocked to sleep every night (wasn’t that just yesterday?) will be starting kindergarten in nine days. 

It’s funny how the realization that our children are growing up can strike at the most unexpected times.  The other night I let the kids fall asleep in my bed.  My husband was working late and I just wanted to snuggle with them for a little bit longer.  As I picked up my daughter to carry her to her own bed, I was shocked by how long her legs were and how they dangled from my arms as I navigated the stairs and doorways.  When did she get so big?  How did I not notice this before? I actually cried as I looked at her face and realized that those chubby baby cheeks had been replaced by the thinned out version of a young girl.  I didn’t cry because she was getting bigger and growing at a normal and healthy pace, those are good things and should be celebrated.  I cried because I didn’t notice it everyday. I cried because it snuck up on me.  I cried because I could only vaguely remember the way her little mouth stayed partially open when she slept as a baby.  I cried because as much as I wanted her legs to grow, I equally wanted to go back to a time where I could cradle her entire body in my arms.  The dichotomous nature of a parent is almost too much to bear sometimes. 

I know that we shouldn’t say these things out loud.  That we want our children to stay little forever. That we want them to stay safe within the four walls of our home. That we don’t want them to venture out into the real world; a place that can be cruel and cold and unforgiving.  We think these things, every parent does.  As we lie awake in the stillness of the night, we think about all of the ways that we can build a wall to protect our babies from the pain and heartbreak they will inevitably face throughout their lives.  Sure, we think these thoughts.   But, do you know why we shouldn’t say them out loud?  Because we know that, in our heart of hearts, they are statements made out of fear and selfishness and not grounded in reality.  They will grow up.  They will leave our homes to build their own.  They will get their hearts broken.  They will experience loss.  But it will be beautiful.  It will be life.  And, God willing, we will get to watch it all and be right there to cheer them on.

My dear friend Renee is sending her youngest child off to her freshman year of college today. You would be hard-pressed to find a warmer, kinder, more nurturing mother than my friend, so you can imagine the turmoil her heart has undergone during the lead up to this big day.  She’s done all she could to prepare her daughter for this next step and, by all measures, she’s succeeded.  She and her husband have raised a poised, confident, and incredibly talented young woman who will surely exceed all expectations.  Yet, my heart aches for Renee because I can only imagine the dueling feelings of pain and pride that will tug at her heart as she watches her baby girl climb the stairs to her dorm room.  It is hard to let go of something you love more than yourself.  But it is even harder to try to hang on to the winds of change.  Best just to hug them tight, tell them you love them, and hold back the tears until you get back to the car. 

I’m beginning to realize that it doesn’t matter which phase our children are entering, all new steps in life will result in a crying mother behind the steering wheel of her parked car or a misty eyed father whose voice will crack just a little bit as he’s giving last minute advice.  I was that mother last year as I watched my oldest walk confidently into his kindergarten classroom on his first day and I’ll be that mother again when my daughter does the same next week.  I will be that mother when my baby, the last to leave my nest, throws her high school graduation cap high into the air.  I will definitely be that mother who cries in the front row while she watches her husband walk their daughters down the aisle.  And I will proudly be that Grandma who takes her son’s newborn baby into her arms for the first time. 

Time marches on.  We can either drag our feet, kicking and screaming, hoping that our persistence will slow its passage, or we can march right along with it—enjoying the view and the changing scenery along the way.  Just remember to tuck a few tissues into your hiking shorts, and keep putting left in front of right, and right in front of wrong. 

We call her Sister Sabotage—and for good reason.  

My oldest daughter (and also my middle child) is the ultimate “seize the moment” kind of gal.  Unfortunately for my son, her Carpe Diem outlook usually comes at his expense.  She relishes in the opportunity to embarrass him in front of his friends. She lives to undercut his impassioned and frequently embellished stories with a dose of harsh reality.  She never misses a chance to show him up or call him out.  She is the epitome of a kid sister. Poor guy, after dropping hundreds of pennies into wishing wells over the last six years in a fervent attempt to get a brother, he is stuck with two girls—a dimpled disruptor and her smiley sidekick. 

It all started a few years back, when she was two and he was four.  Ever the performer, he was excited to show off his new Tae kwon do moves in front of a crowd of family members gathered together for a birthday party. We all watched and clapped as he moved effortlessly through his routine, landing sidekicks and low blocks like a pro.  After demonstrating a strong front snap kick, he stood with his legs shoulder width apart for his final stance.  His face beamed with pride.  We were so busy clapping and complimenting his skills that we failed to notice his ponytailed sibling make her way from the audience to center stage.  Not to be outdone, she decided to land her own front kick.  Let’s just say, he started wearing an athletic cup after that.

Her desire to steal his thunder continued into her third year.  During a highly coordinated Scavenger/Easter Egg Hunt designed by her Nana, she waited for the perfect moment to pounce.  This perfect moment came after he had spent fifteen minutes painstakingly sounding out and reading each and every clue left for him.  As he read the last clue aloud, the one detailing the location of his hidden basket, she must have sensed that it was written as a rhyming poem.  Before he could say the last word, she chimed in to take all the glory by loudly proclaiming, “It’s in the boat!  It’s in the boat!” and took off down the hill to confirm her suspicions.  Thank goodness he is faster than her, because I never would’ve heard the end of it had she made it to that basket first.  Sister Sabotage strikes again.

There is a reason why he reacted with a disapproving sigh when I mentioned that she would be joining us for his kindergarten class Valentine’s Day party last year.  True to form, she delivered the embarrassment he feared in her signature fashion.  As he was talking with his buddies, she chimed in to inform the group that her brother really didn’t have a girlfriend even though he claimed that he did. She went on to explain to the group that, A. she had just talked to his “girlfriend” and she said that they were just friends, and B. “Mom said that you’re not old enough and can’t even have a girlfriend until you’re in high school.”  Satisfied with her daily dose of truth telling, she popped a heart shaped cookie into her mouth, sat back in her chair, and looked at me as if to say, “Don’t worry Mom, I set the record straight.”   The look he shot me was a bit less satisfied.  Mortified is the word that actually comes to mind.

I would like to tell you that these are isolated incidents.  However, I have a litany of examples to back up the assignment of her nickname.  These examples are starting to come more frequently the older, and more competitive, they get.  If he is being scolded by his father for not listening to directions the first time, she will interject with a phrase like, “But, am I being a good listener, Daddy?” (This query will usually be accompanied by an impish grin and a few bats of her eyelashes.) If he forgot to take his plate to the sink after dinner, and I beckon him from the kitchen to get off the couch and finish cleaning up after himself, she will sidle up to me at the dishwasher and calmly ask, “Don’t you like how I always put my plate on the counter, Mama?”  Oh, sister.

Her most recent foray into the realm of subversion happened today.  Her brother purchased a few paintings at a garage sale with his own money, and soon after found a buyer in which to resell them to in order to turn a profit.  The buyer (his uncle) indicated that the purchase of the paintings was contingent upon my son cleaning the glass frames before pick up.  During his clean up job, he accidentally sprayed the glass cleaner too close to the frame and a puddle of solution stained the mat.  He was devastated and on pins and needles for the next hour, hoping against hope that it would dry up and he could close the sale.  Luckily it did, and he informed the buyer that he could pick up the paintings—and none would be the wiser.  That is, until my lovely daughter took it upon herself to spill the beans (in the interest of full disclosure of course).  You know when she starts a sentence with the phrase, “Well, actually…” that you are about to feel the wheels of the proverbial bus roll over your back as she throws you underneath it.

I shouldn’t make it seem like she saves all of her truth telling for her older brother. She likes to spread the sabotage around. She has no problem announcing that I’ve worn the same outfit too many times when we are out in public.  She wonders aloud why her Daddy snuck her a piece of chocolate “even though you told me that I couldn’t have any more sugar, Mama.”  And, don’t even ask her opinion on your latest culinary creation if you don’t want to know the truth.  She has no filter. She has no patience for dishonesty.  And, she can’t stand coming in second place.  Combine all of this with the fact that she doesn’t possess an inside voice, and you have the makings of many embarrassing moments.  But when you hear her laugh—a deep, infectious belly chortle—that usually accompanies these moments of subversion; you will understand why we treasure the moments when Sister Sabotage appears. She is unabashedly daring. She keeps us on our toes and keeps us laughing.  I can’t help but sit back and admire her colorful narration of daily life as she fulfills her role of Commentator in Chief.  And I do sit back. I don’t want her to throw a zinger my way.

I have a sneaking suspicion that Sister Sabotage might have some competition waiting in the wings though. Her baby sidekick appears to enjoy subterfuge as much as her big sis.  This apprentice can crash through a building block fortress and destroy a Lego town faster than you can say, “No baby!”  She’s already found the power button on the Xbox and utilizes her stealth crawl to turn it off at the most inopportune times for her big brother.  Her favorite activity is to crawl up on the fireplace hearth while looking back at me to get a worried reaction. She loves when I rush over to scoop her up moments before a headfirst dive off of the couch or seconds before a tumble down the stairs. I see many gray hairs in my future.  With their powers combined, they are going to be a daring duo.  Watch out world—Sister Sabotage and Babyzilla are on the loose.  I’ve already picked out their matching capes. 

“You wouldn’t care so much about what people thought of you if you knew how seldom they really did.” 

Ouch.  Those words simultaneously bruised my ego and released me from the pressures of self-consciousness, which is not an easy task when you are a sixteen-year-old girl.  When my dad threw those harsh (but true) words of advice out there, in the midst of a drama-laden moment from his teenage daughter, I don’t think he realized what a tremendous impact they would have on my life.  The moment was, if you’ll excuse the cliché, paradigm shifting. But the truth of those words stuck with me over the years.  Live your life the way you want to live your life. Do what you want to do and be what you want to be. Don’t worry about what others will think, because they are too busy living their own lives to worry about yours. Basically, the world doesn’t revolve around you kid.

My dad’s advice, once I got over the initial sting, was tremendously liberating.  Have you ever been self-conscious out on the dance floor? Guess what…so is everybody else out there. The good news is that they are more concerned about how they look busting a move than about how you look shaking your groove thing. If you want to get on the fast track to conquering your fear of dancing in public, just attend a Zumba class.  Most of the women poppin’ and lockin’ were probably once wallflowers too, before they realized that nobody really cares how you look when you dance—only that you showed up to join the party. I can tell you from experience that I am completely oblivious to the movements of my fellow dancers because I am way too intent on following the steps myself (and noticing my “club face” in the mirror during the latest Pit Bull song).  I received further evidence to support this theory when one of the instructors recently yelled out, “There are no wrong moves….just accidental solos!”  So, dance like no one is watching because, really, no one is.

You can imagine how helpful this piece of advice—that people are too busy living their own lives to worry so much about my daily decisions—can also be for students who are nervous to deliver a speech in front of a classroom full of their peers.  Glossophobia, or the fear of public speaking (thanks Wikipedia!), is a widely shared condition and one that can be difficult to overcome.  My conversation with students who suffer from this phobia usually goes something like this:

Student: “Mrs. Carlin, I’m just too nervous to talk in front of people.  I think I’ll take the point deduction on my grade and just skip the speech part of the assignment.”

Me: “Oh, you’re nervous to talk in front of the class. I totally get that.  You should volunteer to go first.”

Student: “What?!  Didn’t you just hear what I said…I am terrified of public speaking.  Why would you tell me to go first?”

Me: “Because, if you go first, the only person who is really going to be listening to you is me.  Everyone else is going to be too busy thinking about what they are going to say when it’s their turn.  They will be polite and quiet when you are speaking, but they won’t really be listening….they will be practicing their own speeches in their own heads. So, basically, you will just be talking to me.”

Student: “Really? Nobody cares about what I have to say?”

Me: “It’s not that they don’t care….they just care about what they are going to say more.  And the students that aren’t stressing about their upcoming turns at the podium will be too busy subversively texting to pay attention to your two minute lesson on the Mongols.” 

Student: “Oh….okay then.”

Bubble burst.  But, with truth comes confidence.  And overcoming a fear of public speaking in front of their own peer group, a crowd of self-consumed 17-year-olds, will hopefully make other obstacles in their lives seem less scary. 

These guiding words can be applied to other areas of life as well.  Worried about how you look in that dress?  Don’t be. Every other girl in the room is thinking about how she looks in her own dress to be much concerned about yours.  Stressing over changing your major in college? You shouldn’t.  You’re the one who has to take the tests and work in that field; others have their own jobs to trudge to on Monday mornings.  Concerned about what other runners will think about your split time for that last mile?  Hate to break it to you, but they were too busy looking at their own watches to notice.  You know what does matter though?  That you put on the dress, that you value education, that you laced up your kicks and got off the couch.

It’s easy to get wrapped up into the dueling evils of peer pressure and groupthink.  We are bombarded with images of “perfection” every day and encouraged to keep up with the Kardashians.  Our society breeds self-doubt and self-consciousness. I know that my own kids will soon enter that dreaded phase of considering others’ opinions when making decisions that will only impact themselves. But I hope to buck that trend entirely, or at least keep it at bay for as long as I can.  I intend to foster an environment that will encourage my son to bust out his best dance moves to a medley of One Direction songs every year at the elementary school talent show, regardless of the potential for embarrassment. Because what you do becomes who you are.  If he repeatedly takes on challenges and isn’t afraid to put himself out there, he will grow up to be a man with integrity, a leader who follows his own code of ethics instead of the crowd.

A friend on my newsfeed this morning posted the following words of advice and I found them both comforting and inspiring: “Focus on who you are instead of who you aren't. Be you - it's easier.”  I couldn’t agree more.  Sounds much easier to live a life of your own choosing.  Sounds more fun too.

So make bold choices. Live confidently. Sit in the front row. Dance in public. Take a chance. Go for it, always.  Because, as the saying goes, the people who mind don’t matter, and the people who matter don’t mind. 

“Have you ever tried on your Mom’s high heeled shoes?”

“No, I have my own high heels.”

Such is the tenor of the discussion between my daughter and her dance instructor.  Four is the new 14. 

This is the same daughter who I found hiding in the pantry eating the jelly beans that I told her (three times) that she could not have before dinner.  And the same one who recently asked me, “Are you really going to wear that to my school?  Didn’t you wear that the last time you helped out in class?” The one who melts her father’s heart mid-scolding by cooing, “Daddy, you have such beautiful eyes.”  And, yes, the same one who will not be rushed into putting on her socks.  Come hell or high water, the seam line will be straight across her toes or we will just have to be late to story time at the library. 

It is a curious and wonderful and maddening thing raising a daughter who has her own ideas about everything. There is a fine line between cute “I can do it myself” stubbornness and “I’m not eating that” rebellion.  Now I adore Alice Paul as much as the next gal, but when my daughter acts as though she is an Iron Jawed Angel after a 50-minute standoff at the dinner table, this mom has had enough.  But when I yell out, “It’s broccoli, not suffrage for God’s sake,” she just continues to glare at her plate with the same level of tenacity. She knows that she will lose this battle, but, much like her mother, her inner-Xena just can’t seem to give up the fight.  Maybe, just maybe, with enough willfulness and grit, tonight will be the night that she can achieve dessert status without finishing up the green stuff first.   I feel her pain.  Stubbornness is a powerful force and runs deep through our matriarchal line.  I’ll let you in on a little secret though -- I want her to keep fighting.  As much as I am exhausted by our 10-round bouts, she is going to need that skill when navigating the world outside of our cozy home. 

Sometimes I try to rationalize her strong will. “She gets it honestly,” I tell myself through gritted teeth.  My great-grandmother, Elvie (isn’t that a great name?), used to run moonshine during prohibition.  She was the lookout for my great-grandfather who, legend has it, made the best moonshine in the whole county. While he would stir his famous concoction in an old bathtub out in the middle of the back woods in Arkansas, she would stand out on the road and whistle if she saw any lights.  Once a week, she would bottle it into two big jars, pack the jars in a suitcase and walk to the bus stop.   The bus driver would always ask, “Elvie, what do you have in that suitcase woman?” (Side note: she was 85 pounds soaking wet and the suitcase probably weighed half that much.) To which she would reply, “moonshine.”  He would laugh at such a silly notion and she would get on the bus and make her weekly stop to the police station to sell the best moonshine in the county to the local sheriff.  You don’t get much more badass than that.

But how do you encourage feistiness while at the same time discourage reckless abandonment?  I want my daughter to take a solo trip to Europe in her 20s to visit all of the gothic cathedrals that she’s read about in her college world history course. I do not want my daughter to take a trip to Vegas on her 18th birthday to visit a little white chapel with a cute boy in a fast car.  See my conundrum?  How do you temper the fire without snuffing it out completely?  It is a delicate balance with girls. 

I want to raise strong women.  I want them to raise their voices, raise objections, raise hell, and raise their own stubborn baby girls someday.  I just don’t want them to do it without thinking about why they are doing it first.  I pray that their DNA contains even the tiniest bit of their father’s calm-headedness and pragmatic approach to life.  While I’m pretty sure my oldest daughter is a shiny red apple sitting right underneath my tree, the jury is still out on the baby. 

I own this shirt that says, “Well behaved women rarely make history.”  I freaking love that shirt.  I want my daughters to love that shirt.  But I also want them to listen to their teachers, and be respectful to their elders, and show deference when it is appropriate.  Long story short – I want them to follow the mantra painted in the locker room of the Dylan Panthers – “Clear Eyes, Full Hearts, Can’t Lose.”  Because kind hearts are just as important as strong minds.  Level heads are just as important as unbridled passions. Tender hands are just as important as strong fists.  There is a time for both, I just pray that they will know the difference.  

So, as I’m tucking my sweet girls in tonight and kissing their beautiful little foreheads, I will say a silent thank you to all of the fearless women who’ve fought mightily over the ages to blaze a trail for my two girls to reach heights unimagined for women of my grandmother’s generation.  And as my oldest whispers to me before drifting off into a dreamland filled with moonbeams, rainbows, and unicorns, “I love you so much mom, but I don’t miss you when I am at sleepovers” - I will only allow myself one brief pang of sorrow, because a girl who conquers sleepovers today will be a woman who conquers the world tomorrow.