30 Minutes of Wonderful

"Steel Magnolias." One of my favorites. It's been my treasure box of quotes, quips and memories since the first time I saw it. It's one of two films that I can't turn off if it's airing. I had seen it probably 20 or more times by 2006.

And then Dia was born. And I couldn't watch it again.

At first all was well. But as Dia's fevers kept recurring and her blood sugar bounced around and we knew something was wrong but had no idea what, it started getting too real. The movie, I mean. Life was getting too real too, but I'm a genius at adopting a false sense of security, so in between bouts - when she seemed so healthy and normal - I could convince myself it was as it appeared on the outside. Carry on, carry on. But don't watch dramas, don't listen to sad songs... just keep it cheery and carry on.

But the fevers didn't stop. The pain didn't stop. The weight loss or at least the absence of growth didn't stop. The dark circles under her eyes didn't stop. Every 28 days like clockwork - plus the occasional just-for-fun flares triggered by too much activity, stress or fatigue - it didn't stop.

Finally we got a diagnosis. The good news was there was a treatment. It wouldn't cure her, but it would prevent the flare ups. It took years before we finally seemed to have the dosage high enough to keep the bouts at a minimum. During that time we saw so many specialists, she had so many tests, she went through so much pain, lost and gained back so much weight, spent months of her life in bed and still we would carry on.

Well meaning friends would comment on how well she looked. They'd see how she'd grown or how healthy her complexion was. They'd comment on how happy a child she is - how tremendous - how unique. I treasured those comments and I stored them in my heart for hope and to feed that glorious sense of security. All would be well. Forever.

But you know how, in the movie, Shelby is fine most of the time? And how, in the movie, she doesn't pass until she's fully grown, married and with a child of her own? And how, the fact that she got all the way to adulthood means little to M'lynn because she still suffered the loss of her child? And how M'lynn knew all along that Shelby had to be careful; she was different; there were limits to what she could do?

Yeah. A mom of a child with a long-term prognosis of a potential early departure from this life is a tough role to play. I struggle with it much more than it looks on the outside. Much more than I even give myself credit for. And I haven't found the playbook for how to handle it yet and, if I did, I wouldn't read it. It would make it too real.

Not too long ago, though, I finally mustered the courage to watch the movie again - this time with Dia. And though I sobbed much more violently than ever before, I heard a message spoken by Shelby but delivered, somehow, through Dia: "I would rather have 30 minutes of wonderful, than a lifetime of nothing special."

I realized, whether subconsciously or intentionally, I am doing exactly that for her. I'm giving her 30 minutes of wonderful in every instance I can. I throw crazy parties transforming my living room into Mount Olympus or a fairyland or Tatooine or a comic strip - not to impress the guests, but to give my imaginative girl her vision of the world for a day. We travel. I've hopped the pond more times in the last 4 years than I have in my entire life. I spend money on ridiculously elaborate backyard tree house-decks and Michelin rated restaurants and over-sized stuffed animals while I drive around in a 13 year old car, forego mani/pedis and wear clothes that are so outdated they are verging on 'vintage.'

More importantly, though, I give her time now. My time, I mean. It took a few years of having none of it to give her - of trying to drive my career, of thinking (erroneously) that my title and a good salary was my version of wonderful - to realize that I was missing the very thing I was trying to save. Thankfully, a beach house and a wonderful man and the support of my little family got me back to the place I belonged and since August, 2018 I've been right here.

Now I never miss a Super Monday or a Hotel Night or a Momma Day - these silly traditions that Dia invented where we watch Super Girl, or cuddle together on my bed with 'room service' and pretend we're traveling, or spend the day - just the two of us - at the beach, or shopping, or at the movies. I never miss a performance; I can be called to hear what she just learned at school and I can give - and get - all the hours of wonderful that this life inherently provides.

It's still scary to be a M'lynn, though. I'm not gonna lie. But it's not bad, I suppose, to cherish every day. I'm going to give her every 30 minutes of wonderful this life can offer her so that when that day comes... if that day comes ... when her body gives out, we can remember and rest in knowing that this life of hers was made up of 30 minutes of wonderful every single day.

One Errant Comment

Dia didn't want to go to her theater practice tonight. She gave all kinds of excuses: 1) she was getting picked up early anyway; or 2) she just didn't see the point; or 3) it was "just" school theater...

I made her go, but she was sullen and angry at me.

Then she didn't want to submit her audition tapes for two potential parts in an upcoming TV series. She was overwhelmed at the idea of memorizing all the lines. She was overwhelmed at the amount of time these parts could potentially take. She was overwhelmed at how much they could change her life. She was convinced she wouldn't get the parts anyway, so why bother.

And this isn't like her at all.

She could do this stuff in her sleep. She lives to act. She lights up more on a set or up on stage than anywhere else in her world. Her dream is to be an award-winning screenwriter and director and maybe act on the side. Plus, I've never seen my child so driven as I have when she's on set. She's focused, she's interested, she pushes through everything and anything. For God's sake -- one (very) early morning, as we were driving to set a few years ago, she got sick in the car and in between wretches she insisted that we keep going. She collected herself in the Studio parking lot (thank God I'd brought a change of clothes for her) and then, running to get to set on time, she fell in"New York City" on the sidewalk that was still under construction. She tore open her knee but picked herself up explaining that she could not be late and kept on heading for her location. The cheers of the set builders trailed after her: "Way to go!" "That girl's gonna be a star!"

So why, all of a sudden, does she feel so gloomy about it?

I had to find out, so I poked the bear. Sometimes getting your kid super mad at you is a good thing. It's like getting an adult drunk. They blurt out the truth after a bit of annoying prodding.

And the culprit? One errant comment.

Apparently, at the last theater practice one of the teachers got frustrated with the group for not being off-book yet, or not knowing the lyrics, or just generally fooling around when they should have been quiet and focused. Said teacher blurted out (something to the effect of) "The only people who know their stuff is Joe and Marcus." which Dia translated to "Dia's acting is terrible." and "Dia sucks."

You see, she flubbed her monologue earlier during practice. She had it down at home - but, for whatever reason, she lost the whole train of it during practice. She was already angry at herself, embarrassed and frustrated and then, because the teacher specifically said that there were only two in the class that were any good, Dia figured the rest out. She's pretty good at math and this particular 1 + 1 equaled "You are terrible," in her equation.

Making matters far worse is the fact that she adores this teacher. She wants to do nothing but please her and prove herself worthy. Saying that she wasn't one of the 'good ones' crushed her. And it bled into the rest of her life.

When I look back on my life, I can clearly pick out those errant comments that changed my course. One similar one stands out, in fact.

I, too, had theatrical dreams. I thought being an actress sounded fine, but my dad made sure to let me know that I most assuredly did not have the drive for that. I, like Dia with her teacher, loved my dad and wanted nothing but to please him, so I accepted that at face value. "OK, I thought... I'm not very driven." I so absorbed that message that it wasn't until last year that I realized, "Wait... I am nothing if not driven. I raised 2 kids by myself, working 3 jobs at a time while attending school full-time and worked myself up from being a whatever-paid-the-bills to the COO of a data analytics firm. So, yeah, Dad, you might have misread that one a bit..."

Yet my whole life I've deemed myself a "Type X" - not quite the bottom of the ambitious barrel but way below Type A. And while I am rather laid back and more calm than not, I reflected recently that those attributes have nothing to do with drive. I may not be keen on drama nor clamor up the corporate ladder in a frenzied state, but drive I have in spades. I wonder how differently my life would have been had that comment not ever been uttered. Oh, I wouldn't have been an actress, I don't think, but maybe I would have just done it - whatever "it" was - because I wouldn't have thought I couldn't do it before I started. Instead, I sat in an identity of "Definitely Not Driven." I wouldn't be successful at anything that took a lot of drive, so what was the point of going for it?

Now, if I'm going to be honest, I'm sure I've said 3000 errant comments to my kids, my friends and my family members. I can tell you with no uncertain terms that I am feeling rather sorry about that right now. Things said in anger, or to plant kids solidly on logical and practical ground might be better kept to ourselves. I think we all should do a bit more shutting up.

For me now? I'm gonna at least make sure my kid knows she's one hell of an actress and can do anything she puts her mind to!

-kec

Soaring Love

It was so green today. All this rain does wonders for the landscape. The desert mountains go from brown and gray to shades of green so lush they rival the hills of Ireland. I try to memorize it all while I'm walking - to take in the hues and the plushness, the aliveness of it all. Ah, but my memory has never been very photographic and so today I decided to stop for a moment and take a photo.

I paused above our wash. It reminded me of Yosemite's rushing creeks and the sound of the water running through the wash put me back there. I smiled at the memory of a New Year's holiday spent with my family, all of us together in one magnificent place. I smiled at the beauty and perfection of nature in those woods. And I smiled at my own neighborhood, so clean and newborn.

I raised my camera and tried to capture what only the naked eye can truly behold.

Without so much of a glance at the end product, knowing it would merely be a reminder of the beauty I took in on this day, I pocketed my phone and walked up the hill toward home. A butterfly flew around me. Delighted, I  remembered being told that butterflies represent the souls of those gone before you, yet remaining with you still.

A few more steps later another butterfly flew around me, then another and another. I saw in them my dad, my Aunt Brenda and Erin encouraging me and letting me know I was loved. I was filled with inexplicable joy and comfort. Looking over my shoulder I saw four more flitting toward me. As they flew over my head I saw Roger and Stella, still holding hands, still in love. I saw Carmen smiling and Hooner singing. Smiling more broadly than my face allowed, I continued up the hill. More! Still more! Butterflies flew around me and past me, leading my way. I saw my grandfather and grandmother, my Uncle Bob and Aunt Bev, my cousin John. Dozens of butterflies flew around me, above me and beside me. I raised my arms to the skies and tilted my face to the sun and knew in that moment all the souls gone before me were with me still.