This Week’s Moment of Happiness Despite the News

Hello, everyone!

There won’t be a This Week’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News this week because…I’m currently living it! The launch of my 10th book, If You Tame Me, starts in just an hour at Books & Company bookstore in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. Yesterday was Michael’s and my 20th wedding anniversary.

One of the things the Moments has taught me is when a Moment happens, you have to immerse yourself and savor. So I am savoring up to my neck.

This Week’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News will return next week!

 

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Late last week, when it was still summer (in true Wisconsin fashion, we’ve gone from 85 one day to 53 the next), I was driving home in the convertible. Top down, Starbucks by my side, one of my favorite singalong songs next in line on my CD. Linkin Park’s Roads Untraveled. I forgot I didn’t have the safety of car walls and a roof around me and I sang along with gusto in the welcome warmth of a September afternoon, with fall’s crisp colors all around me, but summer still in the air.

I’ve always loved to sing. But it wasn’t until freshman chorus that I realized I was terrified to sing solo in front of an audience. My chorus teacher asked me to go out for a solo in the annual solo/ensemble contest. I thought sure, why not. I picked out a song, I no longer remember what it was, and then went into the chorus room during lunch to practice with my teacher’s piano accompaniment. There were a few students in the room, hanging out, having lunch, and waiting for their own turn at practice. I stood by the piano, followed the score as my teacher played the introduction, and then opened my mouth to sing.

And nothing came out.

I was frozen. In my mind, the faces of the kids in front of me became millions, all laughing. I couldn’t inhale, I couldn’t breathe at all. My teacher stopped and asked me if I was all right. I managed to unstick my head enough to shake it and then I ran from the room.

Needless to say, I did not perform at the solo/ensemble contest. My teacher was so angry with me. I finished the school year, but then quit chorus and never joined again. I sang in the privacy of my bedroom, and then the privacy of my own house, and now, mostly in the privacy of my cars.

On this day, as I wailed happily along with Linkin Park, “Whoa, ohoh whoa, oh whoa!”, I was stopped at several traffic lights on the way home. I didn’t care – I wanted to get to the end of the song. At a stoplight, the final notes trailed off. And the man in the car next to me leaned out his window.

“I’ve been following you,” he said, and instantly looked guilty. “I wanted to hear you finish the song. You have a lovely voice.”

The convertible. Top down, no windows. I wanted to slide down to the brake and gas pedals. “Thank you,” I said.

“Really,” he said. “You’ve just made my day. What’s the name of the song?”

I told him the name and who did it. Then he turned right and I turned left. By the time I got home, I was beaming. In the safety of my garage, door closed, but my car’s top still down, I hit replay and sang all over again (don’t worry – I turned the engine off). At the top of my lungs. In my mind’s eye, in front of a crowd that wasn’t laughing at all.

Then, a few days later, a replay of sorts. The same CD was in the car, it was still warm, the top was down, Starbucks in the cupholder, the song was on, and I was singing. As I did, I glanced in my rearview mirror. Right behind me was a martian-green Kia Soul. Behind the wheel sat my oldest son, who waved at me.

Christopher is 35 now. Of my four kids, he is the first, and the only one who I had solo time with. We had 26 months together, before his first sibling, my son Andy, arrived. It was a lovely time.

When Christopher was five years old, he and I were going somewhere…I don’t remember where. By then, my son Andy was three and my daughter Katie was two, so it was rare I had just one child with me. But there was Christopher, in the back seat, and he was newly enthralled by music. This was 1989, but he was already showing a love and respect for older songs. His favorite was Red, Red Wine by UB40, to my mother’s horror. I had the radio on – no car with a CD player or even a tape player yet – and on came Phil Collin’s Another Day In Paradise. It was almost Thanksgiving, and Milwaukee local DJs Bob Reitman and Gene Mueller (94-WKTI!), put together a version with a voice-over by a woman from a local food pantry. It was so well done and so stirring, and without thinking, I began to sing along with it. When it was over, my son spoke up from the back seat.

“Mommy,” he said, “you sing really really good!”

I had that same sink-in-my-seat feeling then that I had with this man in the car who followed me through stoplights. But then the beaming came. And from that point on, I sang in the car, even with my kids in seatbelts beside me. They became my audience that didn’t laugh. Olivia and I now share a lot of the same taste in music, and we sing together.

But that day, that five-year old boy. The reverence and surprise in his voice. And now, there he was again, behind his own wheel, waving at me from his car, while I sang in mine.

I thanked the man at the stoplights all over again. For complimenting me on that day, and for bringing back that memory.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

(If you want to hear the song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wCnKl5VQ10s)

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Olivia’s been out of the house and at college now for about a month. Some folks have been asking how I’m dealing with that. My answer really depends, not only on the day, but on the minute. If I’ve just walked past her bedroom and glanced in to see the empty spaces where things used to be, gaps on the walls, her violin, guitar and ukulele no longer leaning against the wall, and Olivia herself no longer reclined on her bed, headphones in, feet pumping with the beat of the music only she can hear, her hands fluttering like birdwings, well, then I’d say I’m not doing so well. But, if it’s 3:05 and I’m still seated comfortably at my desk, writing, not having to interrupt the flow to drive through let’s-get-out-of-here-fast parent traffic and dodging new-kid-driver amateur mistakes, then I’d probably cheer. And then there are the moments where cheers and tears are only seconds apart. Because while her room is empty (tears), it’s cleaner than it’s been in years (cheers), and while I don’t have the jaw-clenching terror of picking her up at school (cheers), I no longer have the drone from the passenger seat of “Nothing happened today,” followed by the endless speed-speak chatter of everything that did happen (tears).  I was usually exhausted by the time we pulled into the garage from listening to everything that was nothing.

So it’s been a mix. Yes, I miss her.

Last week, Olivia came home for a violin lesson. She thought she knew the way well enough that she no longer needed the GPS. Which is why, at 8:30 p.m., I received a wailing phone call. “I’m lost, Mama! I don’t know where I am! I’m in the parking lot of that Applebees we always go to! I think I was headed toward Madison!”

So for those of you that don’t live here – Mount Mary University is 15.7 miles away. The route takes Olivia from the parking lot, through a couple turns, then turn left on a well-marked major road, follow for a couple miles, turn right on a well-marked major road and follow it home. For Olivia to end up at one of our usual Applebee’s, she’d either be in Delafield, which would overshoot Waukesha, or in Pewaukee, which would put her on a road she’d have to take a whole other route to. It didn’t make any sense.

“Put your GPS on,” I said. “It will tell you where you are.” And tell me too, I thought.

So she did. She was in West Allis. She never turned right on that second major road and just kept going. In general, she was heading more toward Chicago, not Madison. We’ve never been to the West Allis Applebee’s.

Even though her GPS was now on, I got in my car, found her, and she followed me home. It made us both feel better.

But I did my share of swearing on the way out there. No tears, no cheers. Lots of muttered curses and head-shaking. But you know. I got my girl. And I made sure she was safe.

So today, she’s coming home again. She works this weekend. Earlier today, while I was talking to her on Facebook Messenger, I verified she was indeed coming home tonight and not tomorrow, and said, “No getting lost!”

She answered, “I swear I won’t accidentally end up in West Allis.”

The words I typed in return were simply, “Just end up home.”

If I’d said them out loud, I would have emphasized the word, “Home.”  “Just end up HOME.”

And if Olivia had been in the room with me, she would have heard me add the words:

Because this house just isn’t the same without you.

Because I need to hear your voice.

Because I need to feel you wrap your arms around my neck, press your lips to my cheek and say, “Goodnight, Mama,” as you have almost every night for almost 19 years.

Because I miss you so.

She typed back to me, “I will, Mom.” And then told me she needed more quarters for her laundry.

Now, today is the release of my tenth book (fifth novel), If You Tame Me. The book has received some wildly wonderful reviews. I am more than excited about it. Ten books feels like…like something I can’t put a word to. Accomplished? Validated? Like I’m real? None of those will do. But it feels like SOMETHING. You would think the release would be my moment of happiness.

No. It’s those words.

“I will, Mom.” (cheers)

The use of the word Mom instead of Mama…(tears).

But she’ll be HOME.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

On Monday, back home after a lovely two-week retreat, I was trudging through my usual catch-up errand-running. As I was leaving the bank, I stopped in the little sally port between the outer and inner doors. A woman and her daughter were coming inside from the gray and drizzly parking lot. The daughter, a little Goldilocks who couldn’t have been more than three, got to the door first and struggled with opening it.

“I get it!” she said. “I get it for you, Mama!”

Mama sighed. “Let me get it,” she said. “We don’t have much time. We’re getting wet.” She opened the door the rest of the way.

Undeterred, Goldilocks ran to the next door. “I can do it!” she insisted. “I get the door for you, Mama!”

And the struggle began again. I saw Mama glance at her watch.

Before Mama could reach for this second door, I stepped backwards so I was near where the girl was hanging on the handle and pulling, her feet backing up inch by inch. Her face was lifted toward the ceiling, her eyes squeezed shut, and her pink tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth. She was so mighty. Her cheeks were growing red with her effort.

The door pulled open, but just barely. Not enough to let a person through. Especially a tired Mama.

Because Goldilocks’ eyes were closed, I held my hand up to Mama and smiled. Then carefully, I reached above Goldilocks’ head, caught the door’s edge, and slowly, slowly pulled it back. The little girl hauled on that doorknob the whole way.

“I did it!” she shrieked as I stepped quickly out of the way. “I did it! Go, Mama!”

Mama gave me a weary smile as she walked through. But it was a smile. She patted Goldilocks’ tumbling curls, sparkling with raindrops, as she passed by.

Then Goldilocks turned to me. “I got the door!” she said.

“You sure did!” I said. “And wow, you did a great job!” And I applauded.

That little one burst into a smile so big, the whole little sally port brightened into noon on a sunny summer day. Zap! She was just electric! As she let go of the door and ran in before it closed on her, I heard her announce to the whole room, “I opened the door! I did it! I did a great job!”

I grinned all the way to my car, warmed by Goldilocks’ sunny accomplishment in the middle of this rain-drippy Monday.

On Wednesday, I teach the AllWriters’ Wednesday Afternoon Women Writers’ Workshop. A student emailed me beforehand, reporting a problem with her printer and asking if I could print her pages for her. I did, and when I walked into the room, I set them at her place at the table.

“Thank you,” she said. “You’re the best!”

Like the little Goldilocks cheering, “I did it! I did a great job!”, I answered my student, “Yes, I am!”

And I’m pretty sure my smile was electric too and summer suddenly brightened the AllWriters’ classroom.

Because sometimes, that’s all it takes.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

The Moments are fairly easy to write when they’re tangible – something my daughter did, or I did, or someone did. I’m more aware of them than I used to be, largely because of this blog. Last week, soon after I posted the Moment, another moment happened on the road to a coffee shop in Wonewoc. I made it just a regular Facebook status. That night, when I went to bed, I was thinking about it and smiling and then thought, Damn! Why didn’t I save it for next week’s Moment?

Because sometimes Moments happen that aren’t tangible. They’re just in-depth feelings. That’s what this week’s Moment is about, and when I sat down to write it, I thought again, Damn! Why didn’t I save that moment with the Amish woman for this? It’s hard to get across how special a quiet Moment can be.

But here goes.

I’m at that part of my retreat where things begin to switch from peaceful to panic. This is Thursday, and I go home on Saturday. By Monday, my schedule is back in full swing. My thoughts have gone from “I have all day, all week, all two weeks, to write and sleep and read and enjoy!” to “Ohmygod, I only have three days, two days, one day!” I begin to hurry my relaxation. Quick! Quick! Get that story written! Get that book read! Sleep! Don’t get up now, by next week, you won’t be able to sleep this late! Pack it in! Pack it in!

Which sort of defeats the purpose, donchaknow.

Yesterday, I planned to take a break and drive to one of my favorite spots in La Crosse, Granddad’s Bluff. It’s a beautiful drive up the bluff (especially when you’re in a convertible) and the view of three states and all the rivers is breathtaking. There is also a lovely little outbuilding there, with fireplaces on either end, and every time I go up, I stand in it and imagine giving a reading there. I will, someday.

Normally, when I’m in this area, I stay in La Crosse. But this time, I’m in a lakefront cottage on Lake Onalaska. When I put Granddad’s Bluff on my GPS, I was disheartened to find it was a half-hour away. Which meant my break would end up including an hour of driving, plus the time up there to really make it worthwhile, and I wanted to stop at Starbucks too, and I needed to pick up a few things at Walgreens. And I really, really, really wanted to get to the end of a first draft of this new story/chapter so I could figure out what it was supposed to be about. So in my new hurry up and relax and get things done mode, I nixed the trip to Granddad’s Bluff. But the day before, I saw an overlook that was close by. I decided to stop there.

I’m so glad I did.

Sunny the Sunfish’s overlook, besides having a huge statue of Sunny the Sunfish, has a gorgeous view of three different bodies of water. The Mississippi River, the Black River, and Lake Onalaska are all there, side by side and blended and just stunning. I got out of my car, sat down on a bright purple bench donated in someone’s memory, and just looked. I can’t say it was quiet; the overlook is right next to a busy highway and cars and trucks were zipping by. But a quiet descended upon me anyway. I just looked and admired. I remembered how, years ago, I had a wonderful client who lived on the gulf side of Florida. When I asked how you could possibly tell when the gulf became an ocean, she sent me a photograph of the two bodies of water, side by side. The colors were different. The ripples were different. But they sat peacefully together. I was amazed. Just as I was amazed at the three bodies of water in front of me now.

Obvious metaphor, right? Three bodies of water, each with their own agenda, going about their businesses, but working together too.

While I sat there, two other cars pulled up at the overlook. The drivers didn’t get out. They just sat in their front seats and looked.

What smart people. They took the time. So did I.

Just like the bodies of water, the three of us sat there. Two in their cars, me on the bench. The noise behind us. The quiet upon us. We each had our own agenda. But we shared this space.

Can I just say it was a sacred moment without trying to describe the life out of it? Because it was. Shared with two people who were strangers, remained strangers, and who I’ll likely never see again. And shared with the quiet strength of three bodies of water.

I was the first to leave. The other two cars were beyond mine, and when I walked to Semi, I smiled at the drivers. They lifted their hands to me, then returned to looking at the water.

That’s it. That’s all there was.

But it was glorious.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

(Be home soon.)

Hello, everyone,

This isn’t a Moment, but I’m asking for one. For the last several months, we’ve had a very special young man living with us. I’ve started a GoFundMe for him, to help him out of his situation. I would really appreciate it if you’d go to GoFundMe, read his story, and donate if you can.

You can see the GoFundMe at

https://www.gofundme.com/f/a-little-help-for-patrick

And yes, everything helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

I’m on retreat this week and next, and so right now, my world has shrunk a bit. There’s just me, in a little house. This current little house (I’m moving to a different place tomorrow) is plunked smack dab in the middle of the middle of nowhere – and yes, the repetition is intentional. There is nothing here, not within a good half hour to hour drive.

Heavens, people, there isn’t even a television. Thank God for Netflix and Hulu. There is wifi.

So my first thought when I arrived here was, What in the hell am I going to do? I’m used to living in a city. My back yard is Walgreens, my front yard is a bus depot and parking garage. A block away is one of several fire departments and sirens can be heard any time of day or night. When I sit on my third floor deck to relax, it’s to the music of people singing in the bus depot to hear their own voices echo, the rumble of buses and trains, whackazoid city birds who call and call and never sleep and I have to tell you, I love it.

But here – While I’ve been here, I’ve looked up from my little writing table to watch Amish carts pulled by horses go by. I’ve wondered about their lifestyle, their quietness, and when I saw them in the only coffee shop for miles, their posture and their stride which just exemplifies humility and confidence all at once. I’ve laughed at a rooster who crows every day at six in the evening. The evening! There have been bleats from a goat or a sheep. And the constant sound of crickets and other bugs. One middle of the night, I couldn’t sleep, and I bravely ventured out to the front porch to sit in the silver dark of moonlight. When I heard a clip-clop, I wondered why the Amish would be out at three in the morning. But instead of a horse, a deer strolled down the road. She was more ghost than real, and she turned her head toward me and bowed, then kept on going.

The silence here is just as noisy and chaotic and wonderful as it is at home.

But it gave me something else too. I hesitated to write about it, because I was afraid it would make this post too writer-centric, but truly, I think anyone who becomes too busy to be mindful of dreams will get something from it.

My tenth book is coming out. Let me repeat that. My TENTH book is coming out.

I don’t remember a time when I didn’t want to be a writer. I remember when I was writing, but didn’t know that you could be such a thing, that it was possible to be the one who was putting those words down in books that I loved so much. I traced the pictures in my picture books with carbon paper and rewrote the stories my way, but I didn’t know that what I was doing was writing. My 5^th grade English teacher told me I was a writer and it was like putting on a custom-made jacket. It fit.

I was!

My whole life has been devoted to writing and to writers. And now my tenth book. I hadn’t really stopped to consider it. Ten.

There have been some rough spots. I’ve taken on some really difficult subjects, and as a result, while I’ve been called a brave, honest, edgy writer, I’ve also been called dark and disturbing. Which has always disturbed me. I’ve never seen my work as disturbing. I see it as redemptive. My characters always come out the other side. But still, the dark and disturbing tattoo stuck, and I’ve actually had the experience of seeing someone pick up one of my books, read the back, and put it down. When the person standing next to this woman said, “No! You have to read that!”, she shook her head and said, “Too heavy. I don’t want to be depressed.”

I have never intended to depress. I’ve intended to lift up.

And so there have been some dark moments for this “dark and disturbing” writer.

And then a switch began two years ago.

When In Grace’s Time came out in 2017, for the first time, I was called “delightful.”

Last year, when Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News came out, the book I never intended to write, and the book I didn’t write as a book, it was called “an absolute joy to read.”

And now, book #10. If You Tame Me. A novel. My fifth. This week, I received a 5-star review that proclaimed, “Above all, it is about doing something about your situation. Don’t feel powerless, whether it be at work, in a relationship or with whichever rather disappointing government you happen to live under – go and do something, big or small, go and live your life.

Yes, I loved this book. It is a joyous, life-affirming read.”

Joyous. Life-affirming.

That is all I’ve ever wanted. THAT IS ALL I’VE EVER WANTED.

“Oh my god, Kathie. You’re a writer,” my fifth grade teacher said.

Yes, I am.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Well, okay. I’m going to write about my daughter again. She’s on my mind a lot right now, and my moments of brightness and sadness are coming simultaneously from her as she starts on her college years.

You know, when you have a beautiful young baby, a child who arrived fairly late in your life (I was forty, and didn’t think I’d be having any more babies), and you adore her, and then you’re told that she might not ever speak and she might not ever see you as anything other than a “block of wood”, it’s so beyond devastating that there aren’t even any words. I will never forget that day, sitting in Olivia’s pediatrician’s office, Olivia’s wonderful pediatrician who loved Olivia too and loves her still and admires everything she’s done. But on that day, he told me we needed to have Olivia screened for being on the autism spectrum. And he spoke those words, “block of wood.”

At exactly that moment, Olivia, who was sitting on the floor, playing, placed her hand squarely on my shoe and looked directly up into my face and she smiled.

She was not smiling at a block of wood. She was comforting her mother and she was letting me know that she was there. She was also reassuring herself that I was there. And I was. I always am.

I’ve said that phrase countless times over the last 18 years. I am always here. I said it again last week, and featured it in last week’s Moment.

After that block of wood day, we just moved ahead. We moved through Olivia’s teaching herself to speak by memorizing lines from television programs and commercials. We lived through that frustrating time of script line after script line being thrown out in growing frustration as each one didn’t get her what she wanted, what she wanted to say. God help me, there were times I had to put her in her room while she cried so I could sit on the couch and cry too. We fought through touch-sensitivity issues (did you know that jeans could hurt?), connecting words with meaning (the reasnatolive was hospital, as we figured out when a commercial for our health care provider came on, accompanied by a song with the words, “I’ve got a reason to live”), irrational fears (loud noises), and so much more. We fought, we celebrated, we fought, we celebrated. She spoke. She grew a phenomenal vocabulary. She began telling stories, which she told us every night, flat on her back, legs, feet, arms, hands, flying in stimming behavior which helped to get the words out.

Now, she works on the second draft of her novel, sitting quietly at her computer.

Through it all, I was not a block of wood.

Are you there, Mama?

I am always here.

So now she’s in college. She’s won scholarships and grants to get there. She’s worked hard at her job, stuffing aside paychecks, to get there. And today, we found out that she’s won yet another grant, this time from the Department of Vocational Resources.

Moment of happiness? You bet. Moment of blow-my-mind pride too.

But not “the” Moment. That moment came from tears, which were hers. And later, mine.

On Olivia’s first day of orientation at school, she texted me at lunch, telling me that things were going well. Then five minutes later, she called me. Wailing. She’d returned to the orientation room, left to go to the bathroom, and then somehow gotten turned around. She was lost. Somehow, she’d ended up in the basement where there is an antfarm of tunnels, leading to all the different buildings on campus. She was lost. She was alone. She knew she was supposed to be in orientation, mandatory orientation, and she didn’t know where she was.

Are you there, Mama?

I am always here.

While I was talking to her on the phone and scrambling to get my car keys, frantically figuring I’d have to drive to the college (about 20 miles away), dive down those tunnels and start searching for my girl, two sophomores showed up and saved the day. They got her where she needed to be, and by the time I hung up the phone, her tears were gone and the shakiness in her voice was dissipating. She was welcomed back into orientation; everyone gets lost at least once.

So then it was my turn to cry. To sit on the couch and cry, much like I used to when I’d have to put her into her room to give us both a chance to calm our frustrations. But I wasn’t crying because of frustration.

I was crying because the first person she called when she was lost was me.

She listened. She knew.

Are you there, Mama?

I am always here.

I am not a block of wood.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

My daughter Olivia left for college yesterday. I use the word “left” lightly – her college is about 20 minutes down the road. She’ll be coming home every other weekend to work. Thanks to Facebook and texting and other ways of staying in contact, I will likely still be talking to her every day, at least for a while.

But still, she left.

Olivia is my fourth child. Well, technically, she’s my fifth, because I miscarried a baby at 12 weeks gestation before I became pregnant with Olivia. I never know quite how to count that little one. But I am grateful to him – somehow, both Michael and I know he was male – for stepping aside and giving the space to Olivia.

There is a significant age difference between Olivia and my three big kids. Christopher was 16 when Olivia was born, Andy 14, Katie 13. Christopher and Katie attended college at the University of Wisconsin – Madison, about an hour away, and my own alma mater. When I left each of them for the first time, I cried all the way home, and wandered the house aimlessly for days afterwards. Andy tried college at the University of Wisconsin – Waukesha, but found it just wasn’t his thing. He already had a part-time job, so he asked for full-time, got it, and moved out of the house to his own apartment. I remember that leave-taking too. While he and others unloaded the van, I put a comforter on his bed, set up lamps, put away dishes neatly in cupboards, hung things on the wall. Making a home for my boy who was no longer at home.

And now, Oliva. It’s an adjustment when your child lives under a roof that isn’t yours. Olivia was a by-my-side child from the get-go. With the first three, I was primarily a stay-at-home mom. With Olivia, I hadn’t created AllWriters’ yet when she was born, but I was up and teaching, approximately 65 hours a week. I drove myself the hospital, I drove myself home, and then went to pick up her sister at dance class. I was on the computer within an hour of Olivia’s birth, checking on my classes. Olivia spent her early days in a little seat in the middle of my classroom table and she was passed around when she fussed. When I started the studio, she had a special place in a room off the classroom, with her toys, drawing supplies, a television, a VCR, a Little Tykes train set. She called the studio Mama’s Building. Eventually, we bought the live-where-you-work condo, which means my business is on the first floor and we live on the second and third. I was simultaneously mom and business owner, a hybrid of the working mom. I was at work, but I was at home, and Olivia was right there.

And now she’s at college and I’m here. It’s as it should be. The natural order of things.

Yesterday, we arrived in her dorm and found her room, a blank slate with a bed, desk, dresser, refrigerator and microwave. By the time we left, almost ten hours later, it was Olivia’s room. There were VW Beetle posters on the wall (and a white VW Beetle named Snowbug in the parking lot). There was a bright pink-spackled comforter on the bed, pink tables holding her television and CD player (she prefers CDs – so do I). Her pink music stand was set up, there was a pink flamingo piñata devoid of candy hanging from the slanted roofline, her instruments were carefully stored in her closet. Pink towels, red carpet. Pink bungee chair bed, mottled and fuzzy pink footstool. Plants on the windowsill and on her desk. And you can’t forget the blow-up green alien with a mustache who seemed to just bop around the room, not really settled in any spot yet.

And of course, Olivia was in the room, which made it the Olivia-est.

Before we drove away, I waited in the parking lot and watched her walk back to the dorm. I watched her go until she disappeared. And I cried.

But we talked last night, via the miracle of Facebook. She told me she was going to bed around ten, but then chattered until 11:15, at which point I reminded her she had orientation at 8:30.

She said, “I wanna text you. Well, Mama, I miss you. It feels really odd being on my own.”

And I said immediately, as I always have, from every moment since the day I went on the computer an hour after her birth, her sleeping in the little isolette by my side, “I am right here. I am always right here.”

Do you know how to tell if you’ve been a good parent? It’s something I’ve worried about since day one. It’s not about the kids’ accomplishments. It’s that they don’t want to be rid of you. Even as they move ahead, as they should.

I am always right here. So is she. All four of them are.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

I know I posted yesterday. But today deserves its own moment.

The thyroid cancer scare is over. The biopsy came out benign. When my doctor sent me the test results on MyChart, before he even called me, he inserted into the first line of the report, YEAH!!!!!

Oh, yeah.

I had two biopsies in 2017. The first, on my left breast, indicated Stage 2 Invasive Ductal Carcinoma. The second one, on my right breast, was benign, but the radiologist inserted a little clip so that the spot could be watched. It made me feel banded, like those animals I used to watch on television’s Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom.

Then there was this biopsy, on my thyroid. My red flags started waving pretty quickly, with the ultrasound results shouting the words, “Highly suspicious!” Then, during the biopsy itself, I heard the doctor say, “Oh, here’s something.” He didn’t expand on what something was. I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know, but it sure led to a mighty sweaty and sleep-deprived 48 hours.

When you hear the word benign, it’s like a cleansing occurs. Particularly when your body has been tainted before. You already feel like a sinner being punished. With the first malignant, I created a humongous list in my head of everything I’d ever done wrong in my life that was now bringing me to justice. When the cancer was removed, I felt reborn.

But then this next biopsy. Maybe I still had penance to pay. And again, I went through the list of all my possible sins. The things I’ve said. The things I’ve done. The things I’ve thought about doing, but didn’t.

And now, benign. Whew.

But what a horrible mindset. The mindset is what’s malignant. I am…well, I’m benign.

I don’t want to feel like I’m going into the confessional booth every time I go in for my now routine bloodwork and alternating mammogram/MRI. I want to get over feeling like everything in life (and death) is set on a reward/punishment system. Sometimes, nice people get sick. Sometimes, bad people live into their hundreds. The good or bad that happens to us doesn’t have anything to do, really, with who we are. It’s wishful thinking at its best; it’s self-flagellation at its worst.

I can say that. I can feel it, when I apply it to others. I need to learn to apply it to myself.

And I will. But tonight, I’m just going to breathe easier. And I’m going to have a wonderful sleep. I won’t wake up in a panic attack, as I have for the last two weeks, especially in the last 48 hours.

I’m benign. I really am. I’m packing away my list of sins.

For now. Hopefully forever.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.