I'll Be the Change (I Want You to Make)

Beloved children, because I know you to be kind and thoughtful people, I begin each day assuming good intentions. If my harmony was less developed I might regard your daily trail of gum wrappers, clothes, and empty mechanical pencils as a calculated attempt to fray my last nerve, but I refuse to invite negativity into my life. I reframe it, choosing instead to take it as a sign that your attention is on more important things.

Perhaps you're thinking deeply about what to do for Mother's Day this year, or which would delight me more on a Saturday morning - waking up to a new book propped against a fresh pot of coffee or a vase of dewy daffodils on the counter.

This works really well until I come downstairs to (find once again) a sink half full of dirty dishes that weren't there when I went to bed the night before, and I see you merrily eating, drinking and melting your brains on Pixel Gun, without a care in the world.

When my inner harmony reminds me that you're not rotten little slobs, I wonder how, then, this can be (again). And it hits me. Gandhi was right. I should be the change I want to see. Of course! I'll be the change I want to see (in you).

And you, seeing me changed, will no longer do the things that drive me to the brink of despair. Like that thing you do when I'm in the bathroom. With the door closed. How you say things like, "Mom, is my blue hoodie clean?" and I say, "I'm not going to talk through a closed bathroom door. But yes, it's clean." Yeah. Not doing that anymore.

And how you bellow to me from 2 floors away to ask if I can drive you and your friends to the skating rink and I yell back, "Don't holler to me from 2 floors away! And yes, I can drive you!" Not doing that anymore either. I'll be the change.

I'm done separating your underwear from your pants when I'm doing the laundry. If you peel them off of your body together, that's how they'll stay, unless you pull them apart.

Maybe I'm a dweeb, but I love packing your lunch. I love the Mom-ishness of it. Even so, I'll no longer ask more than once what kind of sandwich or drink you want. If you can't be bothered to construct an intelligible answer about what you want to put in your body, perhaps an empty lunchbox is just what you need to get that gray matter firing.

Now that I'm getting warmed up, you should know I'm done driving too fast to get you somewhere on time to make up for the 27 times you Face Timed your friends about what they're wearing.

I will no longer set an alarm on my phone to hatch an Enderdragon egg, open a golden chest, wash a Boo, feed a mooshroom, declare a siege, or do any other thing so you don't Lose a Level while you're at school.

Not gonna swelter with the heat up to 89 in my car because you're too hip to wear a coat. In New York. In the winter.

If you ask, "What is there to eat?" I'll no longer sigh and say, "Child, I'm not a waitress. Look for yourself. Whatever you find is what there is." (5 seconds later) "I made a fruit salad this afternoon. It's in the fridge, bottom shelf, left side. And there's hummus in there. Or how 'bout that vegan bacon you like? There's some in the freezer. Pretzels and crackers in the pantry....Do you want something hot? I'll help you heat up some lasagna."

My loves, it's not all about what I'm not going to do. I'll still kiss you good night. I'll still ask about your day. I'll smile when I see you and cry when you sing. I'll share my clothes and hear your prayers and slip special treats in your backpack. I'll seek you out. I'll notice your efforts. I will still begin and end each day with gratitude for you. That will never change.


Sally Bacchetta - Freelance Writer

Soul Food

I'm pretty sure this is all I need today.

Musings on a Middle Schooler

The same kid who laughs to the point of tears at YouTubers making absolute fools of themselves for millions of strangers will die a thousand deaths if I quietly hum along to the radio while driving carpool.

Comments on a Middler's appearance - even positive ones - will be met with suspicion and a change of clothes.

Every school day is a 7-hour competition. For everything.

When summoned to help un-freeze a Chromebook, shrink a pair of black leggings, inflate a basketball, confirm a spelling, sign a permission slip, or write a check, I will be dismissed the very instant I'm no longer needed.

Most days your brain and your body don't speak the same language.

Feed, hug, praise, question, expect, reassure. Repeat.

What do you notice about your Middler?

You on a Crack Pipe

I get up early every Thanksgiving morning. No, not to cook. To run a 2.5 mile Turkey Trot with you. Regardless of the snow, the holiday, and the fact that I am no kind of runner, I rouse you (sleepy, regretful you), stuff power bars in my sleeves, smile, cheer, and act like there's nothing I'd rather be doing.

I shiver in long lines for my turn at a smelly port-a-potty and prick my freezing fingers on our race bib pins. And even though you sand bag me every year and kick it on the final stretch like a terrified gazelle, I know I'll do it again next year and the year after that and the year after that. Because I never want to find you on the end of a crack pipe.

I've sorted, collated, and stapled nearly 10,000 pages of Scholastic Books fliers. I have convincingly feigned interest in My Little Pony, Star Trek, Minecraft, and Logan Paul. No one can tell I'm fake laughing at those not-at-all funny "Try Not to Laugh" videos you love. I've smeared enough peanut butter and sunflower seeds on enough pine cones to feed all the birds in all the world for the next 50 years. I once wore a hand painted macaroni and yarn necklace to a job interview because you made it for me. And homemade Slime. Yeah...

You asked me to join Kuk Sool Won (Korean martial art) with you, so I parked my pride on the shelf and became an adult newbie in a class of 8 year-old black belts who could take my head off if they wanted to. The only one in class with a bursitic shoulder and a torn up knee. The only one with hips, whose dobok fits snugly across their butt. Because I never want to find you on the end of a crack pipe.

I have researched whether or not jelly fish have eyes (they do), elephants can jump (they can't), and if the outer shell of a jelly bean is made from the same stuff as the inner bean (it's not). I have filled entire spreadsheets with detailed cost-benefit comparisons of different Nerf guns.

I've lost sleep over finding black pants for your school concerts - black pants that aren't denim, aren't leggings, aren't a polyester-elastic-waistband reject from the Grandma factory, and don't look like something your father or an LPGA pro would wear to work. Because I never want to find you on the end of a crack pipe.

I have solemnly dug graves for road kill frogs. Examined rabbit poop under a microscope. Pureed bushels of leaves for baby caterpillars. Tracked slime trails along the kitchen cabinets to find the snails you liberated from the fish tank. (Speaking of fish, I once spent a guilt-ridden week babysitting a few hundred newly hatched goldfish the size of eyelashes and flushing them one ladle full at a time as they fell victim to my inability.)

All this I've done of my own free will. I invest myself in you because I'm your mom and I love you. And you don't owe me anything in return. Regardless of how much you love me and no matter how close we are, most of the decisions you make in your life will be made with your interests in mind, not mine. I knew that going in.

What I mean by all this is I hope I've given enough. I hope you know you belong. I hope you've felt my strength and cultivated your own. I hope you see how much you matter. I hope you realize that the collective existence would be diminished without you in it. I hope I've shown you how to create enough of what's beautiful and true that you never fall for less. I hope you understand that you have within you everything you need.

Being your mother is an honor and a joy that takes my breath away. And I never want to find you on the end of a crack pipe.


Sally Bacchetta - Freelance Writer