Be Impressive

I felt a trickle of salty anxiety slip down my shoulder blades as Logan eased our home into a ten-minute parking space. I’d either get this done or I wouldn’t, no point in drawing it out, so I leaped from the truck repeating the directions in my head the whole way.  Alone in an electronics store in Argentina, I managed to explain my urgent need for a new hard drive for a 12-year-old Dell, entirely in Spanish.

Our First Home

Our First Home

My husband raised his eyebrows in question, I nodded casually and held up our technological lifeline as if I did this sort of thing all the time.  “That was impressive,” he said. Every day on the PanAm was filled with monumental victories just like this (Exhibit A).

Our victories look a little different today and it’s sometimes hard to recognize them. We almost never need a GPS. Our vehicle no longer doubles as our living room. And our party cups are now filled with imaginary tea which makes our toddlers nearly as giddy as the mezcal we once poured.

Nine loads of heaping laundry and two dozen rounds of nose-to-the-wall do not feel impressive.  It’s hard to believe their little minds are absorbing any of the things we want them to in these sometimes torturous daily routines. Along with the circadian trials, there is the constant, mandatory concession that we are imperfect. Every angry moment, every too busy to stop what we’re doing minute, every frustrated flash, these parental blunders will haunt their tender hearts as well.

Typically on RanchNotes, this is where I’d wrap it all up with a tidy little moral or at least an attempt at a humorous bright side. Here’s the truth, this stage of life is hard. We flattered ourselves thinking the PanAm was any kind of battle to be conquered. The challenges ahead of us are incomprehensible and the rewards even further beyond those unknowns. All we can do is grab onto those golden souls who lift us up, who see the laundry, the struggle, and the moments we’re not proud of but make us feel impressive anyway. Hang on tight to these people and learn from them. Do your own lifting at every possible turn, be who you needed when you struggled, and know, to be impressed, is the most impressive of all.

Super Pearl

Tonight, and many nights, Pearl wears a purple constellation nightshirt. We’ve finished our stories and turned off the lights so I lay my palm across the heart of the cosmos. Orion’s belt, the little dipper, a shooting star, they all thump soft and steady beneath my fingers.  Her eyes are closed but it’s an obvious fake, the kind only a child can pull off; quick breath, tiny smirk, inevitable giggle.

Nearly every night since she was born, Pearl has instinctively grabbed for my hand as she falls asleep. She starts with my thumb and moves across each of my fingers, methodically smoothing the pads of her fingertips over each nailbed. When the sun sets I wonder, will this be the day she decides to fall asleep without holding my hand? She knows I’m clinging to this and she’s so damn clever she’s turned it into an emotional bedtime filibuster. We both know the twisted politics and yet it works, every single time.

In all other capacities, Pearl is fiercely independent. I have to constantly remind myself that she’s three and that while she provides a compelling argument, no, she probably shouldn’t chop the onion with our sharpest knife. No, she probably shouldn’t drive our car to the store. No, she definitely shouldn’t swim in the pond behind our house, by herself, in the dark. She believes herself capable of all these things already.

I would only be slightly surprised if she produced some yet-to-be-seen superpower. I imagine she will take flight at any moment. So as long as she pretends to need my hand at night, I will give in to the pull of her tiny universe.

 

 

Rhondie

Everything in my immediate vicinity was perfectly normal: sunshine, dogs barking, children squealing, Pearl digging to China in the sandbox.  But my voice felt foreign and clumsy as I spoke because a few hundred miles away, at the other end of the phone line, everything was not normal.

I followed the effortlessly positive lead of my aunt Rhonda, chatting about kale smoothies, the girls, and our upcoming trip to France.  She said softly, “I wish we had traveled more.” Over the course of many months and phone calls, this single statement shocked me the most. She moved on quickly, the moment gone before I could catch it. It was a brief glimpse into an otherwise persistent determination to beat liver cancer.

Common Life Regrets:

  1. I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others had expected of me.
  2. I wish I hadn’t worked so hard.
  3. I wish I would have had the courage to express my feelings.
  4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.
  5. I wish I would have let myself be happier.

It’s easy to make mistakes each day and, over time, watch them snowball into immense regret. Cancer took my aunt from this world ahead of schedule, but I can say with confidence that this list held no place in her brilliant life.

She was so positively genuine she damn near sparkled. Although she always worked, her identity was never tied to a job. The 9-5 hustle enriched her life, it never defined it.  She had this graceful way of expressing herself so that you knew where she stood without harshness or offense.  A purposeful giver of love and kindness, she was always present for the ones she loved, celebrating life’s happy moments at every opportunity. Her beautiful heart was a gift to all who knew her, friends, family, and the random strangers who had the luck to encounter her.  If we could all tackle this list the way my aunt did then #5 seems to take care of itself. Happiness comes easily and shines with an undeniable radiance when you prioritize the way she did.

In the end, she had no common regrets, only a desire to live and experience more. I wish I’d had more time to ask more questions of this amazingly uncommon woman.

She was always there to celebrate the happy moments, even when they happened way out in Imperial, NE.

 

Prairie Susan Pribbeno

At 7:45AM on Wednesday, July 5th, the forms had been signed, the IV applied, and in less than one hour our second daughter was scheduled to arrive. While I sat wrapped in warm blankets, Logan read aloud from the journal of Mary Stenger, recounting tales of her own mother, Logan’s great-great-grandmother, Susan McCoy.

Harold was born in December. Had him at home (sod house) with a midwife. Afterbirth didn’t come and Grandpa rode a horse to Elsie (27 miles) to get a doctor…Susan was holding Harold and saw a rattlesnake in the rafters.

128 years later in the comfort of a sterilized delivery room in a newly renovated hospital with the assistance of two doctors, one anesthesiologist, and two nurses, Prairie Susan Pribbeno was born. Despite these conveniences, I was worried. We had learned I was pregnant just six months after radiation treatment for thyroid cancer. I agonized silently for nine months over the medications I was required to take and the effects my damaged body had on her growing one.

At 8:22AM, the only thing I could say was, “Is she ok?” Although we never really talked about it, Logan knew what I meant. We had both held fear close to our hearts so he just said, simply, “Yes, she’s strong.” 7.1 pounds and 20 inches of strength and beauty, to be specific.

She may not have been born in a sod house with rattlesnakes in the rafters but, so far, I believe she has more than lived up to the gritty determination of her namesake.

For my girls

I grew up with two, slightly rowdy, brothers. As a result of their example and my own predisposition for introversion, I spent a large portion of my youth attempting adolescent invisibility. I was a freckle-faced, red-haired, braces and glasses wearer in southern California, so it hardly ever worked out as I hoped.

1,284 miles away, Logan was crafting a very different teenage existence. They laugh about it now, but I’m certain that at the time, his parents were less than thrilled by his political column (Nouveau View) in the county newspaper and likely even less impressed with his band’s decision to perform sans clothing. When I asked him to clarify the boxers-only performance I’d heard so much about, he asked, “Well, which time?”

I watch Pearl on the playground now with an intense curiosity. Will she amble toward anonymity or sprint for the spotlight? Yesterday she scaled the rope ladder with astounding speed and grace and then raced full toddler force to the big slide. She skidded to a stop, waved to a neighbor kid, then pointed to the slide and said, “Be careful ok?” This combination of daring tenderness is alright with me.

Eventually, we won’t be pinpointing the inherited characteristics of our small daughters. Experience will mold them into women we hope and expect to be strong, intelligent, and kind.

But for now, for my girls’ sake, I hope they channel their father’s natural instinct to be wild. I hope they ask the uncomfortable questions and then really listen to the answers to discover their own conclusions. In what can feel like the endless catastrophe of youth, deciding to be different, especially in a town like ours, will be a monumental challenge but will serve them well in so many ways.

We’re just a week away from becoming a family of four, plus one deranged Chihuahua. And years from now, when our girls decide to read mom’s boring online journal, all I ask is that they please, please, ask their father when their band decides to play homecoming in just their skivvies. That’s all him.

 

The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Pearl is almost two, fearless, a little reckless, and has a secret recipe for energy I’m attempting to decipher and trademark. Logan and I recently reached one of those cute parenting milestones where we believe we know exactly what to do, but in a much more real way, have no idea what we’re doing, ever, at all. Last Friday at midnight, this became incredibly apparent because we were sitting in the ER waiting room, trying to pretend it was not our daughter whose faint cries were drifting down the hallway.

Pearl and I had just discovered that we could use Alexa to enhance our kitchen dance parties. She was so excited she ran for the living room, singing all the way before tripping and slamming her face into the couch. Somewhere between the trip and the slam, she bit down on her tongue so hard and deep I couldn’t look at it without erupting in tears. Why didn’t we go to the ER then? I’ll probably ask myself that question until the day I die. I think all parents have their fair share of totally unnecessary ER visits. We are well acquainted with the patient, if slightly annoyed smiles of the nurses who gently tell you, your kid is fine, it’s time to go home now. Plus the internet, the internet is stupid. Never, ever listen to the internet, I beg of you.

After a couple days we decided it might be kind of nice to see the polite smiles of the nurses and doctors, let them evaporate our fears with a hefty bill and send us happily home. But they didn’t send us home, instead, they gave us a tiny hospital gown decorated with puppies and balloons and six dissolvable stitches in Pearl’s tongue. A few hours later, when all six stitches popped out several weeks ahead of schedule, I felt the tiny screws keeping my sanity in place burst forth and ricochet into space.

And that’s how our demented story returns to an emergency room two hours away, waiting for the doctor to complete Pearl’s second round of tongue stitches in less than 12 hours. At this point, we had spent nearly 72 hours riding a carousel of guilt and regret, spinning in slow, exhausting circles of disbelief. We’d visited the ER plenty of times when we shouldn’t have and then didn’t visit the ER when we definitely should have. No big deal though, two months is enough time to get this parenting thing all squared away before the second kid arrives, right?

 

The Perfect Myth

Over the last year and a half I’ve had a good, long laugh at my pre-kid self and all the things I said I would absolutely, never in a million years, ever, do. As an example, Logan and I have taken a certain amount of pride in being anti-TV for nearly a decade. Yet here we are today, reciting the lines from Masha and The Bear from memory because that’s what happens when you watch all 17 episodes 47 times each with your kid. Thanks, Netflix. No seriously, thank you so much Netflix, I love you. There’s a long list of unplanned for transgressions but there’s a really big one I need to address today.

Myth.

I call it The Perfect Myth and it lives on Facebook. Have you noticed? My hair looks awesome, I’m wearing actual eyeliner, and my clothes are astonishingly unstained. Pearl is beaming with dimples that will make your heart soar and somehow, my husband looks oddly pleased to be in a field or grassy expanse in the middle of a work day. This is not real life, this is The Perfect Myth.

Myth.

Before our daughter was born I had grand plans, I was going to be a real mom, honest and genuine about all of it. And that’s the beauty of real life, I get to be that real mom every day. Turns out real life is tough, messy and immune to my controlling tendencies. So Facebook is my perfectly manicured lawn, my award-winning rose garden, the calm, beautiful facade I maintain as a reward for the reality I tend each day. It contains those moments that happen either purely by accident or in that five-second window where preparation, prayer, and bribery pay off with the help of a professional photographer. I feel like I’ve earned this carefully crafted social existence. By now, we’re all in on the social media joke, aren’t we? We know that Facebook is whatever we want it to be and the punchline doesn’t actually matter which is why I’m not sorry about The Perfect Myth, not even a little bit.

 

Fact.

 

Fact.

Fact.