Rapid Fire Recs: March 2023

 I have actual grown-up type tasks to complete (on the computer!  Freelancing!  Like a person who persons!) but sharing funzies and happies is so much easier.

Here are some mid-March must-shares:

1.  TV: Daisy Jones & The Six on Prime

I listened to this as audiobook, and immediately read most of Taylor Reid Jenkins' books.  If you like a 70s aesthetic, might want to put on some flare jeans in your 40s, or just have watched a Laurel Canyon documentary, this is a good show for you.  Sure, there's some light drug use (easy breezy pill-popping, amirite?) and your usual rock n' roll hedonism (but tastefully done!), but it's a good yarn with a great soundtrack. Plus Elvis' granddaughter as the title character is pretty perfect.

2.   Memoirs:  Spare by Prince Harry (ghostwritten by J.R. Moehringer) and All My Knotted Up Life by Beth Moore

Well.  I plan on printing out a few pages of each and using them to teach memoir.

This is probably my favorite type of writing as people are endlessly fascinating.  I borrowed Spare from the library as it felt a bit over-indulgent (even as a royals reader) to spend the money on a "royal tell-all". It did tell, but man did it SHOW as all young writers are exhorted to do.  It was masterfully curated by the author J. R. Moehringer, so much so I've reserved his memoir. The book is surprising and sad-- how a true family business affects children and how it warps familial love and loyalty.  I tore through it. And well: Team Harry.

MS. BETH MOORE.  Put some respect on her name.  I tease, but this woman has been through the social media fire and walked through some very vocal misogyny and just plain bashing like... a Christ follower.  Like someone with grit and integrity and humor and foibles and love.  Her memoir reads like a non-fiction novel: the details of her childhood are evocative and tangible.  She does not recount the unspeakable details of her molestation and abuse, but leaves no doubt of her scars.  I plain love her as a mentor in the faith and if you don't like it, I'll fight ya, bro.  (I'll hold my piece and my pocketbook and just root for her, but know I'm writing a strongly worded email in my mind.)  She is especially tender and candid as she talks about her marriage and the effects of PTSD on her husband.  Man, the gospel HOLDS in her life.  May that be true of me.

3. Yum yums: Snacks are a love language.  No new discoveries, but I'm enjoying Dot's Pretzels and Justin's Salted Dark Chocolate Caramel squares.

4.  My spring soundtracks are Ben Rector and Dave Barnes-- sunny optimism with a touch of snark and nostalgia.  Listen to the acoustic version of Ben Rector's song "Range Rover" for giggles.

5.  Cute clothes: As the mother of a 13-year-old daughter, I've re-entered American Eagle.  I snagged some light wash flare jeans for $20 on their app and even got the ship-to-store option.  All the tiny baby 000 sizes are sold out, but some woman (me) wanting to hop on the trend can still snag some 90s throwbacks.

I hope you are wearing your own equivalent of high-low fashion on this cool St. Patty's day.  I've got my $6 kelly green Target tee under my well-worn Old Navy cami and some fast fashion dangly daisy earrings and I'm feeling rull good.

Mothers

My mom made things.  She made my life beautiful.

 

She has been gone almost 3 years, and only now can I see looking back how she colored every detail of my life.

 

My own daughters are now 13 10, and 4. My oldest, the free spirit. She inherited some raw artistic ability to create. She’s tenacious and single-minded in her pursuits, be they cookie sales for her band class or a strategy to start a small online business of her creations that she would love to invite you to jump into this exciting ground-level opportunity.

 

All these big ideas can exhaust me as they typically are presented around 9:30 p.m. and require my immediate action the next morning around 7:30 a.m.  That is, when I’m attired in my faithful #fuzzypinkrobe and socks, before the first restorative sip of a hot beverage.

 

So.  She’s me, and I’m my Mom.  Hi Destiny.   I’ve been expecting you.

 

You see, Linda Anne Creed Campbell did say you’d introduce yourself to me in the form of a version of my younger self.

 

Linda, Melissa, Sarah.  Gang’s all here.

 

As I was saying: the big ideas.

 

I was trying to attend to my dreamer’s big plans and offer some guidance—then I remembered a fall weekend decades ago when my mom painted us girl each a pink, decorative shelf.

 

My dad took his Dawg daughters to the big game (FL-GA weekend; the Dawgs won in this late 80s Dooley reign) and Mom stayed behind and painted.

 

She got us a small, pegged wooden shelf; a place to hold and hang our treasures.

 

Mom painted them, shined them up with lacquer, and added our first initial and affixed a wooden heart.

 

They were simple, and ours.

 

I accepted mine with mild apathy I'm sure, but did allow it to be placed on my bedroom wall where I hung my honor roll medals and house key.  I was about ten with all the sophistication that accompanies the age.

 

I was a fairly happy and secure kid, and had no idea that not all kids had moms who would devote an afternoon making something beautiful for her daughters.  She did it because she could—because it made her happy.

 

I don’t have my mom’s exact artistic skill, but my daughter does.  And it makes me miss her and wish she could be the one to encourage my 13-year-old’s passion. 

 

My mom poured out her life for us.  I knew it a bit then, but I wish I could tell her today. 

 

So I’m telling you.

 

Bite you tongue (just a bit) when your mother has some advice to share.

 

Stand back and let her mother you.

 

You are one of the lucky ones, to be so loved.

 

Mom and the child with her middle name, Sarah Anne in 2012

Daughters

 

 My oldest daughter is thirteen, and I helped her get ready this morning. We both tend to be hibernating bears in our approach to the morning hustle, but she was already dressed and eager to get on the bus.  Today is her chorus field trip, and she was decked out in her formal dress: black, sequined and sweeping the floor.

 

She permitted me to pull back her hair into a clip and accepted my offer of large, faux diamond studs.  I dabbed an extra bit of concealer on her nose, shared an almost-dried out mascara wand, and dug around for my natural color stick, the one that will help her chapped lips.

 

We’ve tentatively brokered a new way of interacting with each other in the last few weeks.

 

This daughter, like any child, holds a unique place in our family dynamic.  Second born, oldest daughter.  Artistic, creative, independently minded.  Like one of my favorite chocolates—firm shell with a melting center.  She’s old enough to have some bruises from others and as a fully-fledged adolescent, surprisingly observant about the foibles of human nature.

 

Sarah is a separate entity from me.

 

It’s wonderful and leaves me vulnerable.

 

This young woman, my child; this one is my worry stone.

 

I fear she is the child that didn’t get the full measure of my adoration.

 

She is wedged between the complete immersion that comes with a firstborn and the caboose babies that received a bit more undivided attention from their mother.

 

She is my smack-dab in the middle of (near-crippling-but-don’t-exaggerate it-be-cool) postpartum anxiety and ignorance that my toddler son was not developing on track.

 

I have one core memory of Sarah as a baby.

 

She is on my lap, her full head of hair on end, and we are singing and laughing.  That is my default memory of her babyhood.

 

That year with two children under 2 was just hard.

 

Nothing earth shattering about it.  Fact.

 

Now, she is thirteen.  I’ve grown, too.  I joke that my bandwidth has stretched to the levels of Elastic-Girl from the animated movie The Incredibles.  I can make my body into a parachute and catch anyone and almost any disaster.

 

Last year stunk emotionally for our merry band of travelers.  It just did.  Puberty and autism are challenging and confusing and a bit sad in moments.

 

It’s a new year.

 

Life gonna life no matter what, but we have taken it in stride.

And I can see my kid.

 

Our quiet times together, usually before bed, have often been neglected or rushed in this new season.  But with some persistent chiseling, she’s shown me some of her cards.

 

I’ve gained a bit of relational capital.

 

And she let me fix her hair.

 

And I let her borrow my shoes.

 

And she’s not the 4-month-old on my lap any longer.

 

But we can still make each other laugh.