What Day Is It?

Posted by on Jul 23, 2016 in Losing a parent | 1 comment

The last words you said to my brother were “What day is it?”

You were asking because your fight was over and you knew you were going Home.

It was July 17th

The last day anyone would see your warm smile, or look into your kind, brown eyes.

It was the last day that Mom would hold your hand and laugh with you over a joke between the two of you.

It was the day for which we’ve been preparing for several years, but that caught us all completely by surprise.

It was the day that I saw more strength in my mother than I knew one woman could have.

It was the day she held up the rest of us as we grieved.

It was the day I held your hand one last time.

It was the day you shed the earthly body that had held you back from what you love for so long.

It was the day we looked through 73 years of your full life, laughing, crying and marveling at the man you were.

Today is July 23rd.

It is the day that everyone who loved you so deeply will celebrate who you were, even while our hearts break.

It’s the last day we’ll look on your sweet face.

It’s the day we will put your earthly body in the ground in the cemetery that has so much meaning, and even more so now.

It’s the day we will cherish each kind word, each sympathetic tear and each memory of the most wonderful man we knew.

It’s the day we’ll remember, for the 1000th time, that you are in Heaven this very minute, and our hearts will strengthen at the thought of it.

It’s the day we will say goodbye, if we’re ready to or not.  We’re not.  We never will be.

It leaves every piece of my heart asking “Lord, what day is it? What day will you call us Home to be with Dad and the others who went before him?”  As much as my heart longs to see my earthly father again, it pales in comparison to the thought of seeing my Heavenly Father.  He, after all, is the One who made a way for us to see those we’ve lost and to spend eternity with them–and Him.  All because He loves us so.  He grieves with us as we grieve, but is in Heaven rejoicing at the arrival of my Dad, His good and faithful servant.  When I think of how Jesus must have felt, knowing the fight my Dad fought on this earth, when he walked into Heaven in a perfect body—I can’t help but smile through my tears.

Dad, we all wanted so badly to make you proud of us in this life.  It’s my turn to tell you how proud I am of you.  You fought well and you were dearly loved.  Your life was authentic and touched everyone who had the honor of meeting you.  I will miss you fiercely until I ask one more time “Lord, what day is it?” and the answer is “Today.”

But let me tell you something wonderful, a mystery I’ll probably never fully understand. We’re not all going to die—but we are all going to be changed. You hear a blast to end all blasts from a trumpet, and in the time that you look up and blink your eyes—it’s over. On signal from that trumpet from heaven, the dead will be up and out of their graves, beyond the reach of death, never to die again. At the same moment and in the same way, we’ll all be changed. In the resurrection scheme of things, this has to happen: everything perishable taken off the shelves and replaced by the imperishable, this mortal replaced by the immortal. Then the saying will come true:

Death swallowed by triumphant Life! Who got the last word, oh, Death? Oh, Death, who’s afraid of you now?

I  Corinthians 15:52-55 (The Message)

Dad

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My Father’s Daughter

Posted by on Jul 20, 2016 in Losing a parent | 0 comments

“You are your father’s daughter.”

I’ve heard that phrase more times than I can count.  I never tire of it.  As a child, I would nearly burst from pride when someone would notice my dimple, or my brown eyes, or the way I walk, and say “You are your father’s daughter.”  I would look at his face when he smiled his gentle smile at me and then touch the dimple in my own cheek, to make sure it was still there—so proud to bear a physical resemblance to a man I loved so dearly.  Over time, I’ve even come to terms with having my father’s horrific feet.  Recently, as I tried to ease his compression socks onto his legs without hurting him, he said “You know, these feet are your destiny” with a wide smile, and we would laugh conspiratorially at our shared misfortune.

There is a gaping hole in my heart right now that feels impossibly deep, but the love of our friends and family, and especially our Savior, is carrying us through.  I profess to be a writer, but the words to convey the lovely person my father was escape me. I couldn’t do it justice with all the words and all the time in the world.  I loved him so, and he loved me. So much of who I am is because of who he was.

While my thumb is a much paler shade of green than his, I’ve grown to love watching seeds that I planted sprout up from the earth.  Never mind that they have about a 50% chance of survival–at most. The last several visits we had together, he would say “now tell me again what you’ve planted and where you’ve planted it” while I took him on a virtual tour of my yard and garden and he assured me I’d done everything right—whether I really did or not.

I love gardening because of him.

Some of my earliest memories (before they raised those pesky height requirements!) are of him tightly buckling me in beside him in a rollercoaster car, putting his arm around me and giving me that raised-eyebrow grin of his, as we took off up the steep grade, only to plummet back down again, me giggling, and him clutching his Ohio State hat in one hand and my tiny arm in the other.

I love rollercoasters because of him.

I love the smell of a campfire, and the way a hot dog tastes when it’s straight from the roasting stick, charred from the open flames. And there is nothing sweeter than a marshmallow, roasted on a fire that my Daddy built with his trusty National Guard shovel and a few rolled up Bryan Times newspapers.

I love campfires because of him.

He loved being our dad.  Both of my parents valued experience over possessions and I thank God that they did.  We traveled, went camping, ziplined, tubed down rivers, took road trips and climbed sand dunes.  We were professional adventurers. Even when we weren’t exactly looking for adventure, it somehow found us. 🙂

I love adventure because of him.

More than anything, my father taught me what it means to be a Christian.  When I imagine what Jesus must be like, I imagine him to have many of the same characteristics of my Dad.  A soft-spoken strength, and a love for his children that feels safe and strong.  In the middle of the hypocrisy and cruelty of this world, my parents showed us what genuine faith looks like.  The last time I saw Dad, we were talking about my husband and I said “He reminds me a lot of you, Dad.”  He smiled and said “You sure got a good one and so did he.”  He called me his “sweet daughter” when I left, and my heart caught in my throat.  I mentally held onto those two words, desperate to remember that moment, knowing my moments with him were growing few. In the three days since he left this earth, Jesus has whispered that comfort to me over and over. I am his “sweet daughter” and my beloved Daddy is with him this very minute. I don’t know how any of us could do this without that knowledge, and if one person’s faith is made stronger by the legacy my Dad is leaving, I can’t think of anything that would make him happier.  I’m so thankful for an earthly father who quietly demonstrated the love of Jesus.

I am my father’s daughter, and I am my Father’s daughter because of him.

Thank you, Dad.

I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. II Tim. 4:7

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Open Heart Surgery

Posted by on Apr 19, 2016 in Compassion | 2 comments

My seven year-old daughter wears her heart on her sleeve.  Unfortunately, wearing your heart in such a vulnerable place leaves it open for getting damaged, broken, or lost.  In most pockets of my life, I keep my heart safely tucked away, where no one can find it and hurt it.  Not my girl.  She puts it right out there, showing it to and sharing it with anyone who needs it.

She’s the girl who cries when cartoon animals are mistreated.

She cries at the thought of squirrels being cold in the winter.

She cries at funerals for people she doesn’t know.

She cries when she hears an ambulance, for fear that a stranger is terribly hurt.

She cries when she thinks of Jesus’ love for her.

But, with all of those tears, and all of those feelings, she is not deterred.

This past weekend, we celebrated my youngest stepson’s birthday. My daughter is crazy about birthdays.  She plans and obsesses over them, wanting each detail to be perfect for the birthday boy or girl.

She labored over which decorations to buy, and which gift he wanted most. She spent her money on two very thoughtful gifts and wrapped them with love and the great delight of one who loves to give more than receive.

She meticulously hung streamers and filled balloons, all the while, chiding him like a mother hen to “not come out until it’s ready.” She asked me a dozen times “do you think he’ll like it, Mommy?” with her eyes shining at the thought of making his day special.

When it was perfect, and she was ready to reveal her hard work, she led him by the hand, begging him to keep his eyes closed tightly until she told him to open them.  When he did, she exclaimed “Happy birthday!”

He looked up, surveyed her work and said: “Can we go play now?” Now, you have to understand—he is seven, and he is a little boy.  He wasn’t trying to be rude or hurt her feelings.  He was just in the middle of something and was annoyed at being pulled away from it.  Not an unnatural response—and not a response I haven’t had myself, more than once.

I gasped a little and looked at my daughter, expecting the tears to come. Instead, she hopped from foot to foot, grinning widely and said “I knew you would love it!  We wanted it to be perfect!” The gift of her heart and her love for her brother didn’t leave any room for hurt feelings, or bitterness or feeling unappreciated.

Party

When he unwrapped his gifts later, she could hardly wait for him to unwrap hers. He thanked her, and it was as if he had handed her the keys to a brand new car.  Here I am, sitting there wondering why he isn’t more aware of how much thought she put into his birthday, feeling offended on her behalf, and there she is—fearlessly putting her heart out there.

As a parent, I worry about what I am teaching my kids. Am I teaching them to grow in their faith? To learn the value of hard work? To be kind?  In my worrying, I completely miss what they teach me.  I’m envious of my daughter’s heart.  While I work so hard to protect it for her, she just opens it more and more.  It scares me to know how deeply she could be hurt with such a tender heart.  How quickly I forget that Jesus is watching over her and blessing her sweet love for others.  When her heart does get broken, He gently picks it up, as only He can, and makes it new again.

I want a heart like that. Covered in the scars of loving people.  No room for feeling unappreciated or rejected or misunderstood.  Consumed by love for others, no matter how much it hurts.

I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. Ezekiel 36:26

stony-heart

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Walk Softly and Carry an Empty Purse

Posted by on Nov 20, 2015 in Fear and Doubt | 2 comments

I was in New York City this week to meet with customers.  I love NYC—especially this time of year.  The storefronts on 5th Ave are brimming with Christmas cheer, and there’s a crispness in the air that signals the subtle change from fall to winter.
macys

As much as I love the city, I always empty my purse of all but the necessities, just in case.  Hey—I don’t want to replace my prescriptions, my Costco card, and every single discount card I own in the event of a mugging.  Nope!  Ain’t nobody got time for that. I carry my ID, my corporate card and the earbuds that I always have in place (but with nothing playing through them so that the solicitors leave me alone.  Oh, yeah.  Midwesterner street smarts, you guys.  I got ‘em.). Go ahead and steal my purse full of zero things, muggers.  Joke’s on you.

purse

This visit came on the heels of the terrorist attacks on Paris. I talked to my children about what had happened.  They were fearful that terrorists could come to our city.  I agreed that it’s possible.  Wide-eyed, they asked what we can do about it.  I told them that all we can do is just live our lives and refuse to let fear take hold.  We know who holds our future, and He wants nothing but the best for us.  Even it is something we can’t possibly understand in this lifetime, we don’t need to understand it.  We aren’t meant to.

While I was in New York, I had meetings in Times Square. I met a friend at a restaurant packed with people.  I walked around Manhattan enjoying the sights and sounds and peculiarities only found in New York.  Even in the midst of uncertainty, life goes on if you allow it.

One of my customers is in an office across the street from where the World Trade Center once stood.  When I visit them, I sit there, looking out the window and wondering how they ever got the courage to come back to work–to that building, across from two charred, empty holes in the ground.  I am not sure I could have been so brave so soon.

I had one moment of panic when I walked from my hotel to grab a slice of pizza in Hell’s Kitchen.  I was walking through one of those dimly lit, graffiti-addled construction labyrinths when I came around the corner, and someone grabbed my ankle.  I screamed, but no one came running. I was all alone in the dark—I thought.  I looked down, and a homeless gentleman (clearly as panicked as I was) stared up at me in surprise.  I woke him up with my loud footsteps, and he was afraid I would step on him in the dark.  We didn’t exchange a word.  He let go of me, and I kept walking.  He has no idea how close he came to getting kicked in the face.  (B and I are avid Walking Dead fans, and I was channeling Rick Grimes for just a split second. You go for the brain stem when someone grabs you.  It’s just what you do.)

I took the long way back to my hotel, and my heart pounded for what felt like hours.

When terror is thousands of miles away, it’s easy to tell your kids that even in the worst case, if tragedy finds its way to our doorstep, we will awake in the presence of God.  It’s another thing if it actually finds your family.  Would I be able to hand my children over to God without resenting Him for taking them?  I thought a lot this week about what I tell my kids about our confidence in the future and the contradiction that is often in my heart.

never-give-in-to-fear1

My last night in New York, I decided not to take the long way around the construction walkway.  I walked right through it, with the intention of finding that man, not stepping on him, and apologizing for scaring him half to death.  More for me than for him, honestly. He wasn’t there, but it didn’t seem quite so terrifying when I walked into the darkness with intention instead of trepidation.

I want to be smart in this life, but I want to be brave. I want to trust Jesus so completely that no matter what comes, I walk through it with intention, compassion and confidence in His plan for my life.

2Tim1v7

(I’ll still empty my purse when I need to, though.  That limited-edition MAC lipstick isn’t going to replace itself.)

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Just Play Along

Posted by on Oct 27, 2015 in Blended Families, Finding your joy | 0 comments

I’ve played the piano since I was 4. It started as a way to make my older brother look bad. He also played, and hated practicing. I, too, hated practicing, but you’d never know in those early days. I’d grit my teeth and exclaim “Mommy, can I play some more? I loooooove to practice!” while my brother would roll his eyes and pantomime threats in my direction.

As I got older, I realized that I genuinely did love to play the piano, and I stuck with it. It was my talent during my years of participation in the Miss America program, I’ve been the pianist for both churches I’ve attended in my adult life, and it’s still the most liberating, cathartic outlet for the blues that I have ever found.

I’m often asked to accompany singers and other musicians for various things. I’ll labor over the music, keenly aware that one wrong note could throw off the whole thing. I want to do a good job for the person who asked me to accompany them, so I worry, and I fret and I practice my fingers to the bone. Even with 30 years of experience as a pianist, and with the love I have of music in general, I still worry that my accompaniment won’t be good enough, and I’ll somehow disappoint the person who is depending on me to perform to the best of my ability.

As is the case with most accompanists, I make it through the performance fine, pleased with the way it turned out, and proud to have been part of it. This moment is when I have to remember consciously that despite my hours of practice and worry, and despite the investment I may have in the music—right down to my soul, that I am just a player in the background. My job is to accompany the person who needs me, step back, and applaud along with the audience when it’s over.

I can choose to feel like chopped liver, or I can choose to cheer for the people who need me.

As a stepmom (and as a parent in general), it’s so tempting to feel slighted when you’re working so hard for the good of your family, and it seems to go unrecognized and unappreciated. When you plan and fund an activity you know will create lifelong memories for someone, and they don’t even want to you to be there to enjoy it with them, it hurts. When you plan meals you know someone will like, and you are met only with sharp, nitpicky criticism, it hurts.

At those moments, I can either choose to be resentful or relentless. As a musician, I will never stop striving to be the best accompanist I can be for the person who needs me. As a mom and stepmom, I will count it a privilege to have people who truly depend on me—even when I might want to shake them a little bit. I don’t need the applause. I need my kids to have the confidence that they are loved, cared for and worth working hard for. At the end of it, when they are grown and making their own way through life, I’ll be standing in the background, applauding for them more loudly than anyone.

Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. I Corinthians 13:4-7

Piano

Sometimes the accompaniment is the most important part. You are doing good work, parents.

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Owner of a Lonely Heart

Posted by on Sep 16, 2015 in Compassion | 0 comments

4th grade is a whole new world for us. Not that Kindergarten through 3rd grade was a cakewalk for W or anything. The teachers at his school don’t mess around. They run a tight ship, and they are excellent at what they do. I can’t imagine a better learning environment for my kids. We’ve just noticed that 4th grade suddenly feels very…grown up. He’s spelling words like “omniscient” and “camouflage” and doing research projects online. It feels like we’ve turned an academic corner to the uphill climb from here to graduation. Bittersweet for this mama. 12th grade will be here all too soon.

Currently, we’re working on his “Bug Collection” project. Can I just take a moment to say how much I hate bugs? Hate. Them. He is tasked with collecting at least ten different insects or spiders or centipedes, etc. He is supposed to study what they are doing in their natural environment, write down where and when he found them, draw a picture of them and then brutally murder them. Okay, okay. The instructions don’t include the word “murder” but…let’s just say they are supposed to take a trip to the freezer, after which they’ll never be the same. After they are…no more, he is supposed to put them in a plastic tackle box (formerly one of my earring organizers–not anymore. I intend to burn it and its contents on Friday at 4 pm sharp).

tackle box

So, here’s the problem. My tenderhearted boy does not kill things. He is a vegetarian. A staunch defender of all creatures, no matter how disgusting. For this reason, we are only collecting dead bugs for this project. Less murdery, but more challenging to find bug corpses in good enough condition that they’ll work for the project. So far his diary looks like this:

Name: Common Wasp

Where did you find it? In an old birdhouse. My mom killed it with Raid. I didn’t kill it. She did.

What was it doing? Nothing. It was just curled up all sad and alone under its nest full of dead offspring where my mom ambushed it and killed it.  She killed them all.

You guys, the struggle is real with this boy. He is one bucket of red paint away from an anti-fur rally. We smuggle meat into our house like drug mules. I’ll distract him with a plate of soy nuggets while the rest of us crouch in the corner, stuffing steak in our mouths, shooing the cats and dogs away while we guiltily savor each cholesterol-laden morsel.

Why don’t I drop the hammer, and force-feed him some meat, you ask? Because he means it. It’s not a show. It’s not an act, or a means for attention. He is truly convicted that eating or killing animals is not something he wants any part of. He has stuck to his guns for nearly three years, despite our cajoling and ploys of tempting him with hot dogs (used to be one of his favorites). He knows that God put animals on the earth for our use, but he chooses to go the veggie route, and that’s okay. He’s extremely healthy, his eyesight is perfect and he’s an honor student.

Go on with your bad vegetarian self, W.

I am confident that his compassionate heart for all of God’s creatures doesn’t go unnoticed by their Creator.

Back to the bug collection. While he was at his grandparents’ lake house this weekend, he and his dad found an obscenely large, incredibly crunchy, disgustingly horrifying grasshopper. It was alive. He couldn’t bear to kill it for the sake of science.

Everyone, meet our new pet grasshopper “Lonely.”

grasshopper 2

I figured it would survive a day or two at the most in captivity. Oh, no. It is thriving under W’s diligent and loving care. Thriving. I swear it’s getting bigger. I threaten it. I show it the tackle box and assure it that it’s “only a matter of time before it joins the others.”

It won’t die.

I emailed W’s teacher today to ask if we might have a stay of execution for our stupid grasshopper so that he can use it as part of his collection but spare its life. If I were her, I would not want to set a precedent of my students (no matter how convicted) bringing live bugs into my classroom. Nope. In her benevolence, however, she has graciously chosen to humor our plight. Lonely is going to 4th grade.

As much as I don’t want a grasshopper in my home, and as much as I would like to eat meat freely in the light of day with the rest of the carnivorous world, I can’t help but admire my son. His compassion is real. It’s honest. As he grows, and that compassion takes root in things besides the sparing of grasshoppers and the avoidance of chicken nuggets, I imagine the difference he could make in the world.

Empathy is in short supply these days. You go ahead and save the planet one bug at a time, my boy. I could learn some things from you.

Now, if you’ll excuse me—it’s time to feed the grasshopper.

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The Itsy Bitsy, Teenie Weenie, Yellow Polkadot Truth about Growing Up

Posted by on Sep 3, 2015 in Change is Terrifying | 4 comments

When I was a little girl, my mother, who at the time, I thought was the most unfair, vindictive, Amish mother in the world, made me wear very modest swimsuits. You know the ones. Not just one-piece, but one piece with a skirt. A skirt! Oh, the injustice! Oh, the stifling of my personal expression! While my tiny little friends sashayed around the beach and pool in their adorable bikinis, I was billowing around in my layers of body-covering rayon, so very aware of my too-tall frame among such petite lovelies.

Oh, mom. I am so sorry. Sorry for saving up my money and secretly purchasing those hideously neon bikinis from the clearance rack. Sorry for shoving them deep down in the recesses of my sock drawer, or once you caught on to that, between my fitted sheet and the mattress pad (the only hiding place for anything I might have slipped past you). I am sorry for leaving the house in my rayon swim-burka, only to hastily change into a bikini when I got to the pool. I totally, 100% get it now.

Do I think there is anything inherently wrong with wearing a (respectably cut) bikini? No. It’s a hot topic among Christian women, and I see both sides of the debate, but no. I do not. In fact, throughout my college years, I competed in the Miss America pageant system wearing a modestly cut, body-flattering bikini and was completely at ease doing it. The whole point of the swimsuit competition (the original point, y’all. Not the media-sensationalized point) is fitness. It’s called the “Physical Fitness in Swimsuit” competition. It’s designed to show that a young woman competing for the title of Miss Indiana/Miss America/Miss Whatever is the whole package. The brains to rock an interview chock full of current events, the talent to captivate the audience with a well-done performance, and also the desire and ability to be physically fit and invested in her health. Finding time to go to the gym and eat healthy is not easy, right?

Bikinis weren’t required in the swimsuit competition. I could have worn a one-piece. Truthfully, I wore a bikini simply because my abs were sick, you guys. Two babies later, I can say that without any ego, because my abs are no longer sick (in that sense, anyway). I look at those photos from the glory days of my mid-section, and it’s like looking at a younger, hotter long-lost cousin. I have mixed feelings of admiration and hate for the girl in that picture. I totally underappreciated the tummy of my youth–my goose that laid the golden egg of scholarship money.

RIP, old friend.

Oh, stop. I can hear you gasping in horror.

Anyway, back to life now. So my daughter, a fashionista at the tender age of 6, desperately wants me to let her wear a bikini, and I will not do it. I will not. We’re at the stage where she won’t wear the tutu one-pieces anymore, so I have acquiesced to the tankini. It covers everything a one piece covers but comes in two pieces. Easier to pee. What’s not to love?

My little girl, however, still so young by the measurement of years, but so mature in appearance and intellect, thinks I’m terribly unjust for refusing to let her wear anything less covering than her tankinis.

“Why can’t I wear a bikini? They even make them for two-year-olds, Mommy.”

“I know, but I wouldn’t let my two-year-old wear one either.”

“You wear one sometimes.”

“I know, but I’m a grownup. I don’t want creepy people looking at your body.”

“Do you want creepy people looking at your body?”

Well…shoot. Swift shut down from a 2nd grader.

My sweet little girl is growing up so fast. Her physical development is one step ahead of her emotional development. I experienced the same tug-of-war at her age. Navigating a body that changes so quickly, you hardly recognize it day to day, while your brain bounces between wanting to watch cartoons and wanting to catch up to your body. I remember knowing I wanted to wear a bikini and makeup and high heels and perfume, but not knowing why I wanted to. It’s an odd instinctual pull, the desire to embrace the idea of womanhood while you’re still only a child. I grieve a bit for the little-girl-me and the fight she had to navigate those strange emotions. People look at you differently and make comments about you that seem vaguely uncomfortable to your young brain, but you’re not exactly sure where the discomfort lies or why.big shoes

Yes, knowing Jesus helps–but at that age, there’s something a little weird about being like “Hey, Lord? Why are my hips wider than all my friends’? Also, I held hands with a boy while I was roller skating, and I didn’t hate it. What’s going on? Boys are gross, Lord. You made them. You know this. What’s happening to me?” We are free to come to Him with anything and He deeply cares about all of it, but still– I can’t help but imagine Him fielding some of my more angsty prayers back then with His hands over His ears going “Lalalalalalala! I can’t heeeeeeear yoooooou!”

I am holding on to my daughter’s innocence with white knuckles. I am not going to let go. I will protect her for as long as I can from the sideways glances, the comments that are callously made within her earshot, and most of all from a society that wants her to desire bikinis and boyfriends long before her tender heart is equipped for any of it. In hindsight, I am grateful for the struggles I had as an “early bloomer” and the perspective it gives me on how to pray for and talk to my precious daughter. I can still feel the same awkwardness of growing up as if 1987 were just yesterday.

We’ve got this, my sweet girl.

I stand by my statement that bikinis don’t ooze sinfulness just because the hem of the top piece doesn’t meet the hem of the bottom piece. I will stand just as firmly, however on the fact that my tall, curvy, lovely daughter doesn’t need the masses at the pool to be privy to this vulnerable time of growing up while she’s trying to figure it all out. That’s just where we are.

She might be six, going on 16, but she’s my baby. Please treat her as such, World, or I will cut you.

Suffice it to say, my collection of bikinis has since been boxed up. Tankinis, here I come. I draw the line at anything with a skirt, though.

A girl has her limits.

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