Don't Get Me Started with Linda Sharp

The Party Who Cried Wolf

I spent yesterday watching and reading the fallout, criticism, and hysteria directed at the White House Correspondents Dinner's roaster-in-chief, Michelle Wolf.  To say the hypocrisy was in full bloom is a serious understatement.

Whether you understand the event or not; whether you appreciate the brutal truth in which comedy is rooted; whether you laughed along or not at all; whether you cringed or craughed - Michelle Wolf did one thing - she nailed the truth right on its goddamned head.

Frankly, it's about time.  In a country where journalists won't, our comedians have stepped in to try to dam the relentless river of bullshit that threatens to drown this country forever.  Someone has to be brave enough to speak truth to what passes for power these days.

And she spared no one = from Rachel Maddow to Pence to Anderson Cooper to Trump to the assembled throng of journalists - they all had their moment in the roasting pan.  So spare me the faux pearl clutching, the she-was-only-mean-to-GOPers bullshit, and the holier-than-thouness of your "rage".

I am looking with my smoky eyes especially hard at you, MAGAts.

In a continuation of your campaign for sainthood, you have targeted Michelle Wolf's roast of Sarah Huckabee Sanders, the Barnum & Bailey of liars, for your most hypocrisy laden wrath.  Wolf's lines about SHS were as follows:

“I have to say I’m a little starstruck. I love you as Aunt Lydia in The Handmaid’s Tale”

“I actually really like Sarah. I think she’s very resourceful. She burns facts, and then she uses the ash to create a perfect smoky eye. Maybe she’s born with it, maybe it’s lies. It’s probably lies.”  

These lines have driven the right apoplectic. The rending of their garments being drowned out only by the wailing of their delicate sensibilities.  Their spin?  That Wolf was mocking SHS's appearance, body shaming her. That it was offensive, heinous, vulgar, unforgivable.

Try again.

Aunt Lydia was not used as a reference to Sander's physicality.  It was all about her willingness to trade any semblance of moral fiber for a chance to wield power.  And the "smoky eye" comment?  It was about mocking what she does daily at the podium - burns the truth, sets pants ablaze with her lying.  

Nowhere in that did she infer anything about the asymmetry of Sarah's eyes or face.  A trait which we all share with Sarah.  Look in the mirror, gang.  No one's face is completely symmetrical.  But even so, THAT IS NOT WHAT WAS BEING ROASTED.

Yes, ROASTED.  The send up of those gathered is part and parcel of this event.  Presidents, well, at least those not too cowardly to show up, take it HARD every year.  And they laugh along.  The nerd prom is about calling things out, cracking up, and celebrating a free press.  And this time, since no one in that free press is willing to call the emperor and his cadre of minions naked for fear of losing access, Wolf did it for them. 

I'm sorry you GOPers don't like having the truth of your actions and inactions shoved in your faces.  God knows the media has let the public down in that regard since Trump came down his elevator and replaced journalistic integrity with an insatiable boner for rating$.

And those on the left?  You may not like the way the lines were presented.  You might choose to drone on about it being meanspirited, but quite frankly?  That is how we got here.  Constantly trying to take some imaginary high road while the baser elements of humanity don't give a tinker's damn about being civil, decent, or HONEST.  Question - have you ever met any of them on that high road?  No, you haven't because that is a route in which they have no interest traveling.

That the magachurch of Trump is calling for Wolf's head on a pike is the biggest takeaway here.  The hypocrisy is astounding.  You prop up and support this:

Yet you are driven to hysteria by this:

You want apologies, penance done, a failed career for her:

Yet you defend this hot sack of venal, verbal garbage?

Sorry, you do not get to defend an admitted molester with crap like "just locker room talk" and castigate a comedian for offending your melting snowflakibilities with the same.

You do not stand on any type of moral highground when you wear T-shirts like this:

Or C-shirts like this:

Your Mango Mussolini gets a laugh when he routinely calls women "pigs" "ugly" "bitch" "dog" "slob" and "disgusting animal".  ALL DOCUMENTED.

Yet Wolf creates a joke about the Regina George wannabe using the ashes of truth as make-up and your hair is suddenly on fire.

At the same time Wolf was sending up DC, Trump was standing at a rally in Michigan lying, slandering, name calling, and threatening the free press.  Yet you cheer his behavior and words.  Ask yourself WHY.  Why do you put him beyond reproach yet demand retribution for anyone who dares to call him, AND YOU, out?

Look, it's obvious that Michelle Wolf, as can be said about ANY stand-up, is not every person's cup of comedy.  That is how it works.  Humor is completely subjective to the ears and cerebrum it enters.  So cringe all you want at some of her one liners at the WHCD.  Make it a point to never buy a CD of hers.  Whatever.  Your choice.

But don't think you can stand on the summit of Mount St. Hypocrisy defending a molesting, cheating, vulgar, racist, misogynist, immoral, amoral, flaming sack of dogshit, and not get called out.

Take your own advice:

Use Today

Greetings from 30,000 feet.

This morning, far before any respectable roosters were up, Rudy and I boarded a flight to Florida.  Yes, on Southwest.  Yes, on a 737.  And yes, I am sitting in a window seat.

I stared into the dark as we waited to push back, thinking about what took place two days ago.  Imagining the terror the passengers all felt.  The absolute horror of watching a seatmate pulled violently through a small window.  The superhuman fight to pull her back in.  And the minutes that had to feel like eternities as each passenger prayed, reviewed their lives, texted loved ones, and felt the clock running out.

That Captain Tammie Jo Shults and her First Officer, Darren Ellisor kept their composure, their professionalism, their training, their expertise at the fore of their actions is remarkable.  Those two people knew the gravity of the situation more than anyone in the back who were simply in terror over actual gravity.  They are to be lauded for bringing the plane in safely.

As I sit here looking at the small window, and thinking about the wife, mother, friend, business leader, Jennifer Riordan, who died, my heart hurts for her family.  And my heart desperately wishes that what happened was so fast that she simply had no idea.  Any other scenario is horrific.  

That those who shared the plane with her have spent the past two days analyzing their lives, luck, the fates, chance is not surprising.  No matter how much machismo, ego, arrogance or bullshit a person may contain or front, no one walked away from that landing unchanged.

They walked away with a full understanding on every regret they have, every opportunity they passed, every encounter they blew off, every kind word they did not share.  Because they, like all of us, boarded that plane believing there is always tomorrow.

That is where my head and heart are as we move through the clouds.

The hubris of a human is just part and parcel of the organic makeup.  We believe in our superiority, our importance, our imperviousness.  Right up to the second it is all threatened.

We do not have tomorrow.  At least not a guarantee.  What we have is now, this day, this hour, this moment.

What have you put off?  Who have you put off?  What do you want to do with your life before your life is over?  Whose phone call should you answer instead of sighing and letting it go to voicemail?  Where do you want to go, what do you want to see?  Who should know you care?  

The word privilege is bandied about a lot these days.  It is about the ability to not care because something doesn't touch your life.  Skin color, gender, orientation, religion.  Add breathing to that list.

Yes, breathing.

Breathing is a privilege, and one we give little to no thought because our bodies just do it.  Sure, we can suspend things momentarily, but try holding your breath at length.  Your body will kick you out of the way and take over the process.   Our bodies want to live, and breathing is a privilege we enjoy without effort.

In and out, in and out.  Slower, faster, deeper, shallow - every breath is an opportunity to do, be, grow, learn, reach out, reach in.

This morning as I bought Wifi, the first picture that appeared in my FB feed was the beauty of a DGMS family that just grew overnight.  Mom, Dad, and their new baby.  A baby who just took her first breaths in this life.  

What adventures are in her future, where will she go, what will she see, do?  Who will she love?  

As I sit here at 30,000 feet, I think about her and wish her the fullness of every breath.  I wish you the wisdom to begin doing, not waiting, not putting off.  To use today.  And most of all, I look at this small window and wish peace to the family of Jennifer Riordan, and that her adventures are simply continuing somewhere we all eventually will fly.

 

Your Emperor Is Buck Ass Naked ... And Afraid

“We all make choices, but in the end our choices make us.” - Ken Levine

We have raised our children to understand this concept, to integrate it into their lives, their decision making.  They understand that actions always have consequences, and those consequences can be very good or very bad depending on the choice they make.

It's not a hard concept.  Do a shitty thing, expect a shitty result.  Throw karmic poo into the wind, the wind will return it in kind.  Do something nice, thoughtful, magnanimous, legal?  Well, while the repercussions may be as small as a thank you card, they will be positive.

It goes hand in hand with "Honesty is the best policy."  Pretty simple, if you don't lie, cheat, grift, steal - you have nothing to hide.

Sadly, while we unwashed masses are, on the whole, beholden to these concepts, they always seem to escape the ones for whom consequence has long lost all meaning.  With each worm like wiggle out of any true retribution for an act, they become further emboldened as they commit the next bigger act.

Enter the Toilet Tweeter In Chief.  Yes, Commander Commode.  A permanently stunted man child who crosses his arms, stomps his feet, and tries desperately to deflect attention when the spotlight of guilt is upon him.  "Look at that shiny thing over there!  Hillary caused that shiny thing!"

It has been his commodus operandi all his life.  Spin, divert, deflect, sue, settle, grandstand, self promote, and lie.  Oh, how he lies.  He says whatever gumball drops to his tongue from the dispenser that is his brain.  Facts do not play a part, just big, sweeping, bravado laden statements.

And oh, how the easily led, dimwitted flock to his circus tent - assured by Trump of how BIG, BEAUTIFUL, THE BEST, BELIEVE ME awaits inside.  He is the Barnum & Bailey of our lifetime.

And you know what?  That worked great for him in the private sector.  He told his lies - sorry, Donald, hyperbole (from The Art of The Deal: People want to believe something is the biggest and the greatest and the most spectacular.) - and always moved on.  Leaving in his wake a trail of contactors who were never paid, casinos that went bankrupt, lives that were destroyed.  Henchmen at the ready to quiet, pay off, intimidate while he moved on to the next sure-to-fail con.

Yes, sure-to-fail.  Everything he touches eventually turns to mold, not gold.  Hotels, casinos, his "university", steaks, water, an airline, mortgages, vodka, a travel search engine (yes, called GoTrump.com), a board game, a magazine, a football team, a bike race (Tour de Trump, anyone?), a catering hall, the Trump Network, a radio spot, and on and on and on.

If Trump touches something with his grubby, stubby Oopah Loopah stained hands - it eventually fails.  Built on lies, bravado, loans - the house of cards always falls down.  On the little people who bought in.

So to those who continually fill my inbox with the "You just hate Trump now" garbage?  Sorry, I have detested this bloated self promoter for decades.  Anyone paying even cursory attention since the 80s knows he has always been a self confessed cheater, crook, mobbed up conman.

Yet, his system of grift continues to work because there is never a shortage of people desperate for a quick win, a silver bullet, a messiah.  In his case, MESSiah. 

Hiding behind his trademark "Believe me" Trumplestiltskin spins his lies and grandiosity into some mesmerizing cloaking device that bedazzles the dim, convinces them the "fish is THIS big."  Or in this case, that Robert Mueller is on a witch hunt, and the deep state is out to get him.

Yesterday should have been a wake up call to even the most transfixed of the MAGAts.  With yesterday's raid on his personal attorney's office, home, and hotel room - it should make them wake up from their Trump addiction (My God, can you imagine the literal DTs involved with weaning off a crackpot addiction?).  It should finally make them understand that Trump is not some angel of chaos sent by God, but a cowardly, cheating, lying sack of sputum.

It should make them see that their emperor is buck ass naked.

And stupid.  And criminal.  And a liar.

It should.

Will it?  Of course not.  The congregants of the magachurch of Trump have proven repeatedly that they simply do not care.  Evidence is fake news.  Republican FBI investigators are actually the Deep State.  And my favorite whataboutism in their arsenal "What about Hillary?!?"

Trump crossed his arms like a petulant, hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar 6 year old yesterday and blathered to the cameras about how the FBI "broke in".  How it's a "disgraceful situation" and "total witch hunt" and an "attack on our country."  He started this morning by tweeting again about witch hunt and the death of attorney-client privilege. 

Oh, that's rich.  In fact, it may be the richest thing about him.

Facts matter, Donny, so let's unpack, shall we?

As to your whole "witch hunt" assertion, you jumped that shark months ago, Fonzie.  People in your camp have been indicted.  MANY people.  If there is, in fact, a witch in this whole Russia enterprise, expect to scream, "I'm melting!" any day now.

Attorney-client privilege is not dead, in fact, in order to obtain these search warrants of the attorney of the sitting US President, these six safeguards had to be followed.  From the US Attorneys Manual:

l. Before obtaining a search warrant, investigators had to try to obtain the evidence in another way, such as by subpoena

2. The authorization for the warrant had to come from either the U.S. attorney or an assistant attorney general. (Rosenstein is deputy attorney general, a higher position than assistant attorney general.)

3. The prosecutor had to confer with the criminal division of the department before seeking the warrant.

4. The team conducting the search had to “employ adequate precautions” to ensure that they weren’t improperly viewing privileged communications between Cohen and his clients.

5. The search team would have included a “privilege team,” including lawyers and agents not working the case, which would work to ensure that investigators conducting the search didn’t see privileged communications.

6. The investigators had to develop a review process for the seized material.

So, see?  Even if you don't play by the rules in life, they do. 

Now, to get the search warrants, a very high bar had to be hurdled.  It was.  So much so that the USAG who should have signed off on them, Geoffrey Berman - a Trump guy and Republican - recused himself.  He literally saw there was no way to play Trump loyalty (read: protect Trump) against the rule of law.  The law wins.

So, the FBI did not break into your consigliere's office and residences - they obtained legal warrants to enter.

You can tweet and howl and "Believe me" all you want from this point on, Don, it won't make a difference.  You can fire Rosenstein, Sessions, AND Mueller - it won't help you.  Mueller handed this one off, it is not of his making.  Firing him won't make any of this go away like Trump vodka down a drain.

Choices, Donald, choices.  And the repercussions from them.  You, and every swampthing around you, are finally going to face them.  Careers will be destroyed, assets seized, jailtime served, all because you have never learned that, as Sartre said, "We are our choices."

And your choices have made you an arrogant, ignorant, blustering, criminal, buck naked emperor.  You are about to become the most watched episode of Naked And Afraid ever.

I just hope we have enough popcorn.

Age Is A GIFT

One of the benefits of having this blog is that I can look back through nearly 5,000 posts.  I can see what was making me laugh, pissing me off, making me think - at any given time in the past 13 years.

This morning, as I greet the day - my 52nd birthday - I have been looking back through the Posts of Birthdays Past (all apologies to Dickens).

Birthdays spent alone, birthdays spent in Vegas with my sister or Rudy, birthdays spent on soccer fields.  So many memories, so many observations.  And so many words that add up to an overarching theme - I am so very lucky.

My house is warm, my husband is hot, my kids are happy and thriving.  I wake up with love, I go to sleep with love.

There is a beauty to this side of life.  Mainly, it is the awareness that the small things are actually the large things, the lasting things.  And that real estate in my life is finally at a premium.  I don't waste it on people who drain, things I can't change.

These words appear in a post I wrote on the day I turned 50:  Life is about transitions, growth, letting go, learning more, and in my opinion, facing forward, moving forward.

If I were to offer advice to those younger, I would start there.

Embrace the unexpected as the universal gift  it is.  Life's speedbumps are where you find opportunity, how you discover you really are strong enough, how you grow.  It is where you face a fear, knock it to its ass, and move on.

I would then  add this - stop worrying about what other people think.

In my younger days, I worried obsessively about things like birthday party goodie bags.  I'm not kidding.  Stuck in an endless preschool-Chuckie Cheese-birthday-party loop, I lost sleep debating if mine were elaborate enough, full enough.  Was the party theme unique enough?  In the end?  Money wasted, time lost.  The kids' interest in the bags averaged about 90 seconds, and the parents' observations had more to do with "Jesus, more plastic crap" than "How much did Linda spend?"

In the final analysis, very few people in your world actually matter to your world.  The rest know fuck-all about what you are facing, why you are facing it, or where the struggle is going to take you.  

In looking back, I found this post from the day I turned 41.  FORTY ONE.  That seems eons ago.  But as I read it, I realized I still feel that way.  Perhaps even more so.  So, with an update to the years, I humbly present MY present to YOU:  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today I celebrate the fact that I have successfully completed 52 years of life on this planet.

(If you did not send a card or a really cool gift – I forgive you - this time. You didn’t know. However, all bets are off should you not mark your calendars and remember next year.)

I use the word celebrate above because I am not one of those people who bemoan each birthday, spend long minutes (hours) dissecting their every wrinkle in the mirror (if I don't like one, I have someone on speed dial to deal with it), or waste time clinging to some supposed glory days of yore.

No. These are my glory days.

These are the days when I feel better than I have ever felt in my entire life.

I didn’t cry over 50. And I certainly don’t shed a tear for having to add another candle to my cake.

Quite frankly – 52 doesn’t look a bit different than 51 looked when I kissed it goodbye in the mirror last evening before going to bed.

I do, however, realize that my mindset is different than most people who buy in to the whole "over-the-hill" greeting card market. You know who you are. Worried that life has somehow left you behind. That beauty or studliness evaporates in your thirties, leaving not so much as a white, powdery residue in your 40’s, and blows away in the wind of your 50s.

To those people, I say, "Pull your head out of your saggy baggy ass and pay attention."

Age is a gift – with it comes confidence, wisdom, knowledge. As a woman, I can tell you other females, it also comes with the gift of sexual clarity.

Oooo! Got your attention with that one, did I?

It’s true. Think back to your twenties – those glorious days when you faked it so often and so well, you actually believed they should add the category to the Oscar telecast...Best Performance In A Bed or On A Countertop...

Age changes that. You simply come to realize that just "settling" in the sack is a big, fat ripoff. You now know what you want. You come to understand that men are sexually ignorant (and rightfully so) about the female body, and you now have the confidence to not only ask for what you want, but to pull out a blackboard and chalk if need be and teach your partner how to do it.

Basically, as you get older, you declare a moratorium on bad sex.

Outside the bedroom, life is better too. The tendency to tolerate bullshit just doesn’t exist anymore. Truth becomes a powerful tool. You tell it, and you demand it from others. Life becomes richer because you are no longer wasting time on, well, wasting time.

I honestly look at young things in their 20’s and feel nothing but pity. The Kardashians and Hadids of the world? Feh. They walk through life so convinced they have all the answers, but continually make asinine choices and mistakes, blaming anyone but themselves.  (Think not?  Even Britney Spears, the personification of "shitshow" in her 20s has, at age 36, started to get it together.)

And, quite frankly, they look stupid. They draw their confidence from dressing alike, following the latest dictums of fashion, regardless of how an outfit actually hangs on their frame.  But what do you mean?  The latest issue of Glamour says I should dress like a ten year old girl from the 40s!

Pish.  Think for yourself.  Look in the mirror and acknowledge that some things just look absolutely stupid.  I know what looks good on me.  I know what doesn't.  And I am proud that I have very few fashion DON'TS in my closet. 

I also love that the scale no longer holds sway over my life. I don’t bop from one fad diet and Tae Bo-Pilates-Krav-Maga craze to the next. I know what works for my body. I treat it right, I feed it right. And if my clothes fit and look good in the mirror? To hell with some number on a scale.

Scales are for fish.

Yes, my body does bear the artifacts of both age and bearing three children. Yes, my tummy has a pooch of extra skin, my boobs – well, they look great, but that owes to a fabulous plastic surgeon who put them back where they belong years ago, my back tends to laugh at me should I try to stand up quickly after bending over for a minute, I tend to leak if my bladder is full and I laugh or sneeze too hard, and around my eyes are the memories of 3 million smiles and lots of laughter.

Not a bad trade, I’d say.  (Seriously ladies.  A leak here and there is not the end of the world.  Slap a panty liner in and laugh till it floats.)

Those of us with more birthdays under our belts are often heard preaching, "Oh, I wouldn’t go back to my twenties for anything."

When you ever hear me say that, take it to the bank, because I mean it.

My twenties were what they are supposed to be. Stupid. Selfish. Arrogant. Thoughtless. And filled with potholes and missteps.

Sure, these days, I still make mistakes upon occasion. But the difference is that I own them. I accept them. They don’t blindside me or leave me trying to blame them on someone else. If I f*ck up, I f*ck up.

Oh, and if I trail toilet paper on my shoe out of a bathroom, have lipstick on my teeth, a stain on my shirt, a hair out of place, or trip in public – I could not possibly care less. Don’t point it out and expect me to shrivel up inside. At this age, I don’t embarrass easily, if at all. Life is too short to worry about spinach in my teeth. If it’s there, tell me, I’ll pick it out and we’ll continue laughing over lunch.

I love this age because I see the world for what it is. Imperfect, incredible, frustrating, fabulous, scarier than shit, exciting as hell, full of smart people, rife with dumb ones, a buffet of humanity laid out before me. And experience has afforded me the wisdom to sidestep the dishes that will give me cerebral diarrhea or make my blood boil.

This is a good age. I know more. I have more confidence. I embrace challenges. And I laugh at myself with ease.

So to those of you lamenting turning 30 (babies), hyperventiliating full speed ahead as you near 40, or believe you feel the Grim Reaper's breath as you near 50, remember what I’ve said.

Age isn’t a punishment. And it certainly isn’t a crisis. Age is a gift. Open it, embrace every year that has passed, every facet of who you are, and rejoice.

Happy 52nd Birthday To ME. 

And embrace the silly Snapchat filters.  Just be sure you put a new panty liner in place first.

 

 

Life Is Not A Palm Tree - An Open Letter To My Children

This past week I drove just under 2,200 miles between Tuesday and Saturday.  Alone.  I don't mind - it gives me time for my music, my pace, and most of all reflection.  Mile after mile of reflection.

These miles had me thinking about my life, my family, and change.  Planned changes, and more importantly, the unplanned that first present as disappointments or struggles, but prove to be the most important.

All of my kids have learned, or are learning, that priceless lesson.

At almost 52, I have had many opportunities to fall, cry, rail at perceived injustices, refocus, make decisions, and fail or succeed.  With each misstep I learned better balance.  With each choice I learned accountability.  With each disappointment, I learned to stand taller.  And with each unexpected off ramp, I learned where life is truly found - not in the best laid plans we make, but in the sidetrips, the detours, the new vistas we encounter.

As I drove, as I ruminated, the above title kept running through my mind.

Which brings me to this open letter to my children...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Culley, Kendall, Toby - 

Life is not a palm tree.  No, this is not another countryism learned at my mother's knee.  Nor is it another "something weird" I have cooked up on my own to torment you and make you again question my sanity.  What it is, is a lesson.  An important one.

For almost 26 years, 24 years, and 21 years, I have watched as you have each grown, dreamed, planned, succeeded, failed, stumbled, and adjusted.  I have had a front row seat for joy, tears, laughter, pain.  In the joy, I can tell you that this mother's heart found a peace and happiness that I did not know existed.  And in your pain and struggles, I can tell you that this mother's heart encountered a despair and torture I could never have fathomed.

From the moment Culley took her first breath, I started holding mine.  When Kendall came along, I held it deeper, and when Toby entered the world, deeper still.  That intake happened because in those moments, I had found something bigger than myself, more important than anything I would ever want or need.  It is an emotional breath that a parent takes and holds because we are suddenly face to face with a creature we only just met, yet for whom we would immediately sacrifice all.

That breath is held in place by fear - the fear that something would befall one of you.  That you would be hurt, disappointed, or worse.  I have seen worse in the eyes of my friends who have lost a child; what they wouldn't give to once again take that breath, hold it, and watch their child soar, struggle, and soar again. 

Part of that breath includes planning.  Of course we plan your life out when we first say hello.  It's human nature, it's day dreaming, it's LOVE.  I can tell you that nowhere in those plans do we factor in disappointment, tears, desperation.  Again, human nature.  Again, fanciful fantasies. Again, LOVE.

We naively plan your perfect life as if it is a palm tree.  Growing steadily, strongly, reaching up, attaining, never branching off into the unexpected, until it unfurls fully at the top.

But as you have each found out, as every person comes to find out, life is not a palm tree.  Life is a tree, full of branches, bearing leaves of fulfillment, and buds that often fail to blossom.  And sometimes that tree is covered in ivy that threatens to choke off a dream, forever hinder a plan.

Culley - you first grew branches in grade school when bullies tormented you, when your breakfast consisted of cereal and Mylanta.  As you grew, we did everything we could to help nourish your trunk, yet more branches appeared - broken hearts, abuse, illness.  Instead of breaking you, you grew taller, defying the ivy, finding the sun.  Every lesson you have learned, you have paid for in emotional cost.  Yet betrayal rewarded you with clarity.  Abuse bestowed wise caution.  Physical struggle provided you with patience, endurance, and the appreciation that escapes many of us - that of a simple day with no frailty, ailment, pain.

I look at your life, at your branches, the scars on your trunk that match the scars they left on my mother's heart when I simply could not keep them from happening.  And while I would never wish them upon you again, I do not wish them away.  They formed you, helped you grow, brought you to where you are today.  They made you strong enough, brave enough to step forward, love again, and soon, to take his hand and forge a life together in Seattle.  My pride in you is beyond any words even my mind could script.  You are not a palm tree, you are a mighty oak.

Toby, every moment of your life has been about the unexpected.  From your conception to your talent to your true self that lay hidden for many years, nothing has been as we had thought, planned, dreamt.  Because we are human and we are limited in our ability to dream that big, that bold, that astonishing.  Your trunk grew as your sisters' - strong, solid, nourished by parents who loved you unconditionally.  Your branches began to grow like Culley's, at the hands of bullies, though yours were not only peers, but adults as well.  You stood them all, letting their branches wither in the shadow of your integrity, self esteem, determination, maturity. The past few years, more ivy, this of depression, anxiety, inner turmoil, and pain were cast off by the strong branches of certainty, inner truth, clarity, and pride in who you are.

Everything we had planned, you had planned, branched off.  Leaving behind soccer, stepping away from college, forging a path through a forest of darkness, you grew upward, stronger, your trunk unshakable, your face ever closer to the sun.  What I thought was also a mighty oak has revealed itself to be a giant redwood.  And my own branches are fuller and stronger for being allowed the privilege of growing alongside you.  

Finally, Kendall, I saved you for last because your crossroads are here, your struggle is so present, your potential new branches fighting hard against the ivy that wishes to contain them, keep you growing like a palm tree.  I get it.  It is self imposed pruning born of a fierce need to control your path.  For years in my young life I intentionally cut off my own branches, intent on thwarting life.  I can tell you now, what remains in those spaces are lost opportunities, untapped resources, adventures that were never allowed to unfurl.  And regret.

Pruning is control.  Whether we do it to a literal tree or bush, or to ourselves, pruning forces a shape, a destination, a plan.  But real life is not found in the discarded branches.  It is found in the leaves, buds, thorns, and blossoms.  It is also found in the fear.

The decision you face now is not deadly, but it may retard growth.  It is a branch full of potential, an off ramp you did not plan, and only you can decide its fate.  I would love to be your personal gardener, but that time is past.  You hold the shears, the choices are all yours.  I can only support you.  And I do, fully, always, without question.  Your determination, goal setting, planning, achieving have been humbling.  Your entire family stands in awe of you and what you have already accomplished in your young life.  Sheer will, determination, hard work, gumption, single mindedness - all bearing the amazing fruits of accomplishment.  I have long seen your desire to be a palm tree, and I understand the inner push to control, grow one direction, and reach a goal without interruption.  

I used to be single minded like that.  Hell, there are days I still struggle against what is most organic in me.  Against every impulse, every Type A inclination in my DNA, I have been forced to grow branches I wanted no part of at the time.

But I can tell you now, this many years and tree rings later, I am better for the branches, for the struggles, for the pain.  My own tree is one full of unexpected experiences, unwanted detours, adventures, lessons learned, people met, chances taken.  It is everything I want for you.  With this decision, whatever it may be, a branch will grow.  Life will out, and life will move you on.  Whatever your choice, I ask only that you fully embrace it, free of regret, second guessing, what ifs, and fear.

I have raised you all to understand that "screaming at a wall will never move the wall."  That sometimes the only path is to go around the wall, take the forced detour.  I live in a place now where I see actual trees living that truth - trees as tall as palms, yet with unexpected branches along their paths upward, literal curves in their trunks as they accommodated what life threw, or grew, at them.  In them, I see you, Kendall.  They are Aspens.  They grow, they see, they adapt, they move upward and onward, and they ultimately tower and bloom.  They do get where they are intent on going.

  

As you each continue your growth, my breath remains held for your happiness, your health, your well being, your successes.  And my heart wishes you the firm knowledge, born from the experiences of unexpected lessons, that your lives are not palm trees.  Let them grow where they may, seek the sun through the shadows, and branch as fully and freely as they can.  

I know this has been sappy, but I hope you grasp the roots of my meaning.  (As if you thought you'd actually get out of this without a few bad puns.)

Waiting to exhale,

Mom