Passport

My new passport came in the mail yesterday. The picture that I decided to submit was not the first photo that was taken. It was the second from a second retailer. I wasn’t happy with the photo that Staples took so I went to CVS. When I got home and compared the two pictures, I actually liked the way I looked in the Staples photo, but it was too dark. So, I went with the brighter light of the CVS photo, even though my mouth has a smile that belongs on a Muppet.

I hate this passport.

Despite the challenges of my photo submission, the picture is not the reason for my dissatisfaction with my United States passport.

I am horribly offended.

Other than me, there are no women depicted on any of the twenty-six pages, nor on the inside front or back cover. The images that have humans all display men – white men. The drawings and representations are probably supposed to characterize our history and our origin, our beginning. There is a prominent bald eagle, mountain ranges, steamboats and steam ships, and a glimpse of the top of the page of the Declaration of Independence. There are a colonial ship, buffalo and cattle, and men working the land.

When does anything “new” ever make it onto a government document? How about anything from the last 100 years? Mount Rushmore was completed in 1941, less than 100 years ago, but:  MORE MEN. This country honestly was built upon – and sustained – by more than that. We have a total of twenty-eight pages of old American images showcasing a pathetic and insulting reality:  the United States government still does not want to reflect upon, nor give credence nor validation to the other people that have helped build this country.

History has its place in the manuscript of our certificates, buildings and monuments. We gain insight into where we need to go by remembering where we came from. The past was not just a step towards the current time, it was the blueprint for moving forward, and more importantly, it was the lesson of what not to do again. Our story has come a long way. The pages of a book that afford us the freedom to enter a new land rich with its own history, and then return home to our present roots, should represent more than just the beginnings of our growth.

The story this passport tells excludes women. It negates all people of color, whether they were forced to come here or decided to arrive of their own volition. The current passport story blatantly and disgustingly ignores the native people of this country from whom the land was stolen, stripped, and marginally reallocated, before dismissing them once again as unworthy humans. Most of the people that toiled and taught, created and invented, or envisioned and prophesied are not represented in these pages. The book is not a document that reflects all or some. Instead, it focuses on the most of our culture and heritage and those that are clearly still in power.

From the plains to the mountains, the United States is also home to beautiful cities ripe with culture. From saguaro to palm tree the land bears greenery, flora, and fruit. Our National Parks preserve and showcase caverns, canyons, rivers, lakes, and wildlife, far more than just the bison. Over three and half million square miles of earth is claimed as the United States of America. Within that expanse is the equal number of images, milestones, constructions, progressions, and peoples, from which to choose defining symbols of our life as Americans. The Statue of Liberty can stay. The Liberty Bell can stay. The Declaration of Independence can remain. The saguaros, the palm trees, one mountain range, and the last image from space can stay. Everything else needs to go.

Men brought their families here and women worked hard alongside them. People of all colors have poured their souls, as well as their literal blood, sweat and tears, into the folds of the American batter. A mixture of old and new, the past blended into the present, should grace the pages of a legal document designed to take you home again. That home should be adequately represented for the person entitled to bear it.

What Do I Know? Part II

When I started my blog over 12 and half years ago, I didn’t even understand what a blog was. My friend Erin kept telling me I needed a blog. Like Glennon Doyle’s response when her sister Amanda told her the same thing, I was forced to Google the word blog…multiple times. It finally started to sink in…but not really. I took a huge leap of technology faith and prayed that I was doing it right. I put all my x’s and o’s into Google’s BlogSpot platform and hit publish.

It was exhilarating! I was literally sweating, nervous about having my words out there on the web. At the time I did not have any social media. I was not, and still am not, on Facebook. I hadn’t even signed up for Instagram yet. And today I have only added Twitter to that forum of interaction. (I almost never check it, so it kind of doesn’t count.) For me, that day was a jump into the shallow end of the pool of reality. Only, picture me carefully stepping onto the first step, s-l-o-w-l-y. It was one small step for mankind and one giant leap for Heather.

What I knew then and what I know now are drastically different or exactly the same, depending upon the subject matter. I first shared some of those thoughts almost exactly twelve years ago, on September 16, 2011. I still show up to share what is on my mind and what makes me grab my journal and pen. This is where I tell you what I know.

I know that the world changed three years ago when the 2019 Novel Coronavirus began sweeping across the world. How to treat it, stay protected from it, and whether to fear it, is all largely dependent upon what political party you align yourself with. The treatment of the virus was handled publicly as a political issue and remains to be viewed as such.

I know that my marriage is not a stable, secure environment for love and trust. It is a foundation in our lives that has been shaken with a severe magnitude of pain, dishonesty, blame and denial.

I know that I have tried everything possible to save my marriage. Whether Ed ever wants to admit it or not, I will always know that we have lasted this long because I refused to give up, because I asked for another chance every single time Ed brought up divorce, and because I kept looking for ways to bring faith in each other back to our marriage.

I know that even though I have already had to do one of the hardest things in my life - say goodbye to Jakob when he went off to college at St. John’s - I will not know how to deal with the pain of saying goodbye to Miranda when she moves into the New England Institute of Technology on September 29, 2023.

I didn’t know that I could enjoy a 7:05AM goodbye hug from Kendra as she leaves for her senior year of high school on her own. I knew that the autonomy she would have after getting her driver’s license would also afford me some independence, but I never imagined it would give me a feeling of relaxation and freedom as I start my day. I never realized how anxious I was in the morning to have to get up and get dressed and drive her to school.

I didn’t know that I could go five months without therapy and not feel like I was losing my mind. I didn’t know that I could be 100% willing and ready to say “goodbye” to Cynthia. For now.

I know that I have acquiesced to my husband’s desire – and need – to give his children the best of everything that he could provide. I know that it is time for me to gently remind him that just because he can, does not mean that he always should. (Thank you, Michele.)

I know that I am discovering a part of me that is an introvert. The me that used to hate being home alone, now looks forward to it and embraces it. I know I am still largely an extrovert, gaining my energy and reboots from time spent with people, my people. I also know that I now find joy in being alone and doing things for me.

What I know now will remain the same and evolve from this day forward. What I know will be able to be stamped in stone and what I know will need to be reevaluated, erased, and washed away. What I know fills a shot glass and what I know overflows the riverbanks of my life. What I know is I am changing, still growing up a little every day, and becoming the person I was meant to be. I am afraid, I am resilient, I am willing.

This much, I know.

Buckle Up

Today was Kendra’s first day of school back after summer vacation. It was her last first, and the first of many lasts that will be ticked off over the next 180 days.

Today was the first day of Kendra’s senior year in high school.

She came to me at 6am to tell me she was leaving at 6:30am to meet up with her friends so that they could get a “good parking space.” If I had known that getting good parking was motivation enough to get her to leave the house fifty minutes earlier than I dragged her out of the house last year, I would have pushed her harder to get her learner’s permit and license.

In 2014, Jakob decided he wanted to transfer out of Tantasqua Regional High School and attend Worcester Academy, a private school in Worcester, MA. He reclassed to get all four years of high school on one transcript and assure that he completed important foundational classes that WA required of all freshmen. We literally bought ourselves another year with Jakob.

Kendra was sixteen in January 2022 and if she had completed all requirements on a strict timeline, she could have earned her license in July 2022. Therefore, she could have driven herself to school for her entire junior year. For some reason, Kendra showed no serious interest in getting her permit. She took the test once, and like many teenagers, she didn’t pass it the first time. She would put off re-applying and re-taking the test for over a year. She never seemed unhappy about not having her license when many of her friends were driving into the lane of independence around her.

When Kendra was four years old, Ed used a bunch of his American Express points to buy her a navy blue, battery-operated Jeep. She mastered driving that Jeep in the vein of Vin Diesel in any one of the Fast and Furious movies. She circled the cul-de-sac in front of our old house, doing her best to keep up with her brother and sister and some of the neighborhood kids who were on bikes. The day I saw her slam on the brakes and let the Jeep fishtail to a stop, before slamming it into reverse, I knew that she was going to command being behind the wheel of a real car. Even as a tiny preschooler, she was confident in her skills. She looked over shoulder and turned the wheel of the Jeep, put it back in forward and resumed her chase. Kendra could drive!

As a baby and toddler, I carried Kendra around the house a lot, and held her on my hip every day at the bus stop when Jakob and Miranda headed off to elementary school and then came home in the afternoon. I like to believe that Kendra purposely procrastinated herself into another year of being carted around. There was no rush to gain too much independence. She would be ready when she was ready.

I have often tried not to look in the rearview mirror of my life and be sad about the world I have left behind. I was all too eager to leave diapers and tiny baby food jars on the side of the road. Through most of my children’s development I was perfectly satisfied to move on to the next stage. When Jakob got his license, I was ecstatic. I didn’t see my little boy driving away from me down the road. I saw a responsible driver who could pick his sisters up from practice and run to MickNuck’s for a last-minute dinner ingredient. So, I am trying to look at Kendra’s senior year as something other than, “How did I get here?!”

Rather, it is the Surreal Senior Year!

My baby girl is a baby no more. I am proud and overjoyed at the amazingly smart, and beautiful young lady she is today.

I may no longer be driving Miss Daisy, because now she’s driving, and not making me crazy.

She is growing and going…going to school, going places, and going towards her goals.

It will assuredly kill me a little bit each day with each Last that senior year has to offer. She is my youngest and represents the onset of the empty nest, regardless of whether her older siblings are still at home. With that comes sadness. I may not languish in the loss of my children’s childhoods, but I am also not devoid of feelings and deep connections with them, either. This year, I hope that I can keep my reflection and bittersweet joy for this phase in her life contained at a level that doesn’t make her feel bad for the steps she’s taking to move on and away.

This senior year, Kendra will be killing it!

Feeding My Soul

I didn’t write yesterday. I had a 9-day streak that I hadn’t rivaled since last November. I am happy with the progress I have made lately, so I forgave myself when I didn’t have the energy to sit down here and get some words on the page.

I can honestly say the biggest reason I have been able to get “arse in chair, words on page” in the last nine days was because Ed was cooking dinner. He prepared a new home-cooked meal every night for eight days straight. No takeout, no repeaters, no sandwiches. It was real food, and there was a variety:  chicken, steak, fish, pasta. We had it all! He was proud to say that he used all the major appliances, as well:  oven, stove, microwave, air fryer, Insta-Pot, and slow cooker. The man was on a roll! This run as head chef has never happened in our twenty-five plus years together.

Everyone knows I hate cooking. I have not kept it a secret, faked it or denied it. For years I longed for Ed to find the time to take the lead in the kitchen and prepare the evening meals. He is, after all, a lot better at it than I am. He is more creative in the kitchen, as well as more daring. He is willing to try new things and if it doesn’t come out the way he hoped, then he orders take-out and commits to making appropriate changes for the next attempt. We approach cooking in two completely different ways. I address it the same way that a Black Ops team approaches an extraction:  move in, clean sweep, accomplish the objective and get out. Ed arrives in the kitchen with the spirit of Jula Child on his shoulder and the bravissimo of Emeril in everything he touches. “Bam!” Yes, he just did that.

Not having to cook gave me HOURS back into my day. Even on the nights I cleaned up after dinner, I was still able to get more done than I have achieved in the last six months of evenings. Jake jumped in on Monday and prepared the entire meal for the family and I had yet another night of personal accomplishments. Not having to prepare dinner is the heftiest task off my To Do List, and it rarely actually makes its way onto the list because it’s usually just a given. For the last nine days I had mental clarity, focus for me, and an opportunity to feel less burdened by what I needed to provide for other people. That doesn’t mean that I didn’t take care of my family. Instead, I managed to clean the entire house, order groceries, and continue to take Miranda to work and pick her back up. Jax and I got our outside time, I got my work done for Matt and I got my writing done. The mental anguish of what to prepare each night is enough time out of my day that it interferes with the rest of the housework I must finish. Cooking dinner on a nightly basis really has been the bane of my existence.

In the last few years, I have stopped beating myself up for not liking to cook, and for not being able to do it seven nights a week. I was much better when the kids were little, but as they got older and everyone’s schedules shifted away from the family unit because of sports and jobs, I found satisfaction and a sense of accomplishment in cooking four nights a week. One night was leftovers, one night was take out, and one night was “You’re on your own. Figure it out for yourselves.” It wasn’t a perfect system, but it worked for me. I hoped it worked for my family.

So, I didn’t write last night. Why? Because I cooked dinner and I cleaned up the kitchen afterwards by myself, like I’ve done most nights of the last two decades. This was after doing the housework and work for Matt. After picking Miranda up from work. It’s that simple. I cannot do it all. Something’s always gotta give.

That is why it is 10:15AM and I am sitting here to get the thoughts in my head out now. It’s about priorities. I wish that Ed would cook dinner for the rest of our lives, but I am not sure that he has that long of a run in him. I am delirious with appreciation over the last nine days! I will keep my fingers crossed and hope for more. But in case the duty does fall primarily back to me, I will have already gotten my writing in for the day. It just means that maybe the dusting doesn’t get done today.

Hot In Here

 

“It’s getting hot in here, so take off all your clothes!”

-Nelly:  “Hot in Here”

Anxiety Sweat and Hot Flashes:  Why I always stand with my hands on my hips.

The Secret brand deodorant commercial references the difference between anxiety sweat and regular sweat. Anxiety sweat is wetter and quicker to flow than the sweat of a hot day, a Tabata workout or great sex. Fortunately, anxiety sweat doesn’t smell like the rest of them, at least not initially. The body, heated up by physical exertion and performing manual labor, produces sweat that exudes from the pores and combines with the air, the atmosphere, and the fibers of our clothes to create a scent that is usually not very appealing. Anxiety sweat on the other hand is 80% water and 20% fat and proteins, forced through the pores of our skin in a rush of “Holy shit! This sucks! I must get out of here!” Sweat is literally escaping our bodies like the body and the mind would like to do in an anxious situation. Anxiety sweat leaves your shirt – and underwear – full of sweat. The sweat itself is largely odorless. The smell arrives when the sweat meets bacteria. Anxiety sweat, because of those fats and proteins, is thicker than regular sweat, so it takes longer to evaporate, giving it more time to mingle with any local bacteria.

I suffered through so many anxiety sweats in my life I could never attempt to catalog them, chronologically or alphabetically. They appeared when I presented oral reports in class and again when I interviewed for prospective jobs. I was sweating on my wedding day in a sleeveless gown on a bright, January afternoon the day after an ice storm, with snow on the ground. Anxiety and its salty shadow forced me to wear a long sleeve shirt with cotton sweat catchers in the armpits when I attended my first in-person writing group, and any home-sales parties hosted by a neighbor.

I don’t remember when anxiety sweat became a thing for me. I have had anxiety my entire life, so I presume that sweat was a part of that life, as well. I know that I have never been an overly smelly person, so that has been a saving grace. My older sister Candice had to deal with heavy sweats as frequently as my younger sister Kelli had to deal with heavy periods. I was fortunate enough to have four and a half day periods before children, and three and a half day periods post child-rearing. In my later years, I finally traded an easy menstrual cycle for the hot and heavy drenching of profuse sweating.

I remember being at a book club meeting one night in the early fall and had to ask my hostess for a clean t-shirt to replace the shirt I was wearing. She asked me if I was having hot flashes. I was in my early forties, so I replied, “No, they’re not hot flashes. I just get sweaty, very quickly.”

With a firm and honest tone, she replied, “Honey, that’s a hot flash.”

It took me a few more years to admit that I was having hot flashes. I suppose that is a pattern with me. It took me several years to admit that I had anxiety. Imagine that…it took me a long reflection to admit to the two different things that left me feeling hot, flushed, tired and wanting to run away from whatever I was encountering in the current moment.

Like understanding that I fall asleep easily in a moving car, or recognizing that patience is not my virtue, I finally accepted sweating as a fact of everyday life. Menopause has elevated not only the frequency, but the annoyance of sweat in my everyday life. If hot flashes are the result of hormonal changes in our bodies, and we don’t take hormone replacements, then it would stand to reason that the hot flashes are here to stay with me. At least until the hormones decide to stop dancing about in my system with abandon.

A few years ago, my therapist recommended that I adopt a “stance” for when Ed and I get into uncomfortable conversations. She explained that if I had a go-to stance, I could relax into it, despite the challenging environment, and find comfort in the stance, as well as not appearing antagonistic to Ed. At first, I thought the casual “hands-held-loosely, clasped behind the back” was the most inobtrusive, yet assertive. One casual disagreement and I found myself having to change my shirt because clasping my hands behind my back kept my arms close to my body. That meant no air to the pits. The same happened when I clasped my hands down low in front of my body. For obvious aggressive-appearing reasons as well, crossing my arms across my chest was not an option.

I settled on standing with my feet just a little wider than hips-width, with my hands on my hips. I felt it offered an air or confidence, but not superiority; casual, but not unconcerned. And yes, it gave my body air. BINGO! I had my stance!

The irony that a hand on the hip is also the best way to avoid looking like you have a side of beef for an arm in a photograph, makes this stance my go-to in just about any situation. I have prided myself on the tone and firmness of my biceps and triceps for most of my adult life. What I lack in height and boobs I make up for in arms and shoulders. But the older I get, the harder it is to keep them looking muscular and lean, not just big. When the camera clicks, a breezy hand on the hip camouflages the breadth of the muscles.

So, if you see me standing with my hands on my hips, you can discern where I am emotionally and psychologically with just a subtle distinction. Both hands on my hips? I’m probably feeling anxious, and you might want to keep your distance until the moment passes. Once hand on my hip and I’m ready for some pictures. No hands on my hips but I look like I’m ready to pass out? Then please hand me one of my pink fans. Sometimes it gets too hot in here too quickly, and no one really wants me to take off all my clothes.

Stand Up

I have been under-tall my whole life. No matter what stage of development I was in, I was always a little shorter than my peers. There is a picture of me at fourteen months old, sitting on the couch in my great-grandmother’s house in Philadelphia. My older sister, Candice, is seated next to me. My younger sister, Kelli, was only a month old at the time. She is draped across my lap, looking up at me. I appear to be struggling slightly to hold the baby. Even at just over a year old, I look smaller than the infant that is perched on top of me. My younger sister would grow into the sister that was always taller than I was, even though I was the older sibling.

Maybe that is why I have always been fascinated with tall people. They draw my attention and I find myself staring at them. I know it’s rude, but I’m hoping that as a shorter person, I’m somehow also regarded as “cute” and certain social indignities are forgiven. Probably not, but I’ll keep rolling with it. Ignorance is bliss, after all.

The problem with being fascinated with tall people goes beyond my impolite lack of a quality poker face. My boorishness is evident when I sidle up to tall people, with or without their permission, to measure myself against them. And in case you’re wondering, my fascination with the height-advantaged in our society is not gender-specific. I am in just as much wonderment with tall men as I am with tall women. It’s about the height, not the person carrying it.

Unfortunately, there is one aspect of my gender-neutral fixation that may be a problem for the human monolith in front of me:  boobs. My petite stature puts me chest level with anyone over the height of five feet six inches. I can’t help but stare at a woman’s boobs! I know I’m supposed to cast my gaze upwards, but it’s hard when those things are right in front of me. Again, maybe it’s based in an “I-don’t-have” fixation.

What I lack in height and mammary glands, I certainly make up for in vocal ability. No, I don’t sing. Ask my husband. About six months into dating, we were riding in his car, headed somewhere, and I was singing along to the radio. While we were stopped at a traffic light, he looked over at me with a small smile on his face. I shifted in my seat to face him a little better for the serenade. When I finished, he simply said, “Geez, when I met you, I thought you sang like a lark.” And so ended my own personal car-karaoke when we were together.

So that thing about me that is larger than most, and not easily contained is my voice. I am loud! I have a voice that bellows and begs to be heard. I don’t need a megaphone for people to listen to me and I probably don’t need this microphone. I’m pretty sure if I wanted to, we could seat people in the parking lot, and if the doors are open, they’ll be able to hear me just fine.

For some people it’s a curse. Ask anyone that has sat next to me at one of my girls’ basketball games over the last eleven years. I choose to see it as a blessing. No one strained to hear me say, “I do!” at my wedding. People don’t sit at parties and question, “What did she say?” No one has ever said, “Can you please speak up?”

I like to think that these characteristics, among other things, make me someone that is a bit of an anomaly. Like a mullet that is all play in the front and all business in the back, I am understated on the outside and stentorian from within!

With that sort of skill, I could be my own MC, introducing myself wherever I go. But it would be nicer to hear other people welcome me into a group or a room.  Particularly any of those tall people that I encounter. I can hear it now. They would take a firm, assertive stance, and channeling their best inner Tony Montana, they would exclaim, “Say Hello, to my Little Friend!”

 

This piece is not called “Stand Up” because of the obvious subject matter about height. Instead, it is inspired by a variety of thoughts. Last weekend I learned there is Open Mic every Sunday night at The Stomping Ground in Putnam, CT. Since then, I have been considering doing an open reading from the novel I completed last year and am currently still editing. But I also wondered what it would be like to do stand-up comedy. I thought back to Cindy from Worcester Academy who was pursuing her comedic side by participating in Open Mic nights around Worcester. I thought of Kelsie’s boyfriend who is doing the same out in San Francisco. And before I thought about what I could even say that is funny, this concept came into my head. I pictured myself on stage, and I heard myself deliver it, and I thought it actually had some funny components to it. I cannot imagine ever doing stand up with this piece, or any other, but I am glad that I tried it out, at least from a theoretical point of view.

So, thank you very much! I will NOT be here all week. Good night!

Timeline

Today Miranda found out that the school she would like to attend in the fall, New England Institute of Technology in Rhode Island, has granted her accommodations to bring her cat, Autumn, to school with her. It was a surreal moment as I congratulated her on the success of her appeal to the school to address her needs. She made progress on the path she has been carving out for herself for the last several months.

If all goes as planned, Miranda will move into NEIT on September 29^th, 2023, and begin classes on October 2, 2023. The school operates its academic programs year-round, with intense eight-week terms that run nearly back-to-back-back. Miranda will begin in the Allied Health Sciences program to address the preliminary math and science courses she needs to be eligible for the program she is gunning for. A successful first semester in some core courses will mean she can transfer into the Veterinary Technician program for the winter term. She can complete the Vet. Tech. program in a year and a half if she successfully passes all her courses and attends school in their year-round offerings.

That’s not bad for a kid that didn’t have a high school (3) years ago; not much hope of graduating on time (2) years ago; and who felt lost and like a “loser” (1) year ago when she decided to take a gap year.

Three years ago…Miranda left Worcester Academy at the end of her sophomore year, at the beginning of the pandemic and in the middle of her high school career. We spent the summer searching for schools for her to attend. Her search into other private high schools was fruitless, as we all decided it didn’t make sense to pay for any school that was still doing any remote learning. School Choice options were limited due to transportation challenges. At the suggestion of a friend, we investigated Dual Enrollment. As a private school, Worcester Academy could not recommend her, so it diverted back to her home district school, Tantasqua Regional High School. They refused to recommend her for the program because their analysis of her WA credits still placed her as a sophomore, not a rising junior. I appealed to the director of the DE program at Quinsigamond Community College and my sixteen-year-old daughter who did not want to be a drop-out was allowed to enroll.

Two years ago…It was a tense and precarious start to a new academic year. She had been tested each semester the previous year as a Dual Enrollment student with the trials of remote learning. Mental health issues compounded the pressures of the pandemic and Miranda struggled to stay focused and engaged. She started her second year at QCC in a different division of the DE program. She had strict expectations and pressures to pass all her classes for two semesters to meet the requirements for finishing both her junior year and her senior year of high school in one academic year.

One year ago…Miranda was accepted as a Psychology major at Lesley College in Boston. She was also accepted into the Journalism department at Salem State College. Neither option felt like the right move for her. She couldn’t imagine starting a new school and a new program after such a rigorous previous year to complete her high school program. (Miranda got a 3.78 in her fall semester and graduated with three classes of college credit on her transcript.) Like most high school graduates, she found a summer job. Sturbridge Veterinary Hospital offered her the job as a part time receptionist during the time they interviewed her. At the end of the summer, she finally made the difficult decision to take a gap year and continue to work at the vet, despite feeling like she was missing out on the most important transition of her life. All her old friends from Tantasqua and WA were heading off to college and Miranda would still be living at home, in Sturbridge.

The veterinary field was never anything Miranda considered as a part of her path in life. She has always loved animals and makes a very special connection with them. She has owned two guinea pigs, connected immediately with our dog Jax, a half-Burnese Mountain, half-Black Lab mix, and her connection to Autumn is palpable. Working in the vet has offered her an insight into a field that is in desperate need of caregivers from all levels. There are not enough vets in this area to care for all the animals that need to be seen. The techs are constantly busy, and the wards are not far behind. As a receptionist, Miranda does not have down time where she can play on her phone or do a crossword. The office is busy and in constant motion. She has seen dogs have seizures in the waiting area, and she has had to steel herself to the sadness and pain that comes with the difficult choice clients must make to euthanize their pets. Firm as she must be about payment and pick up, her concern and compassion has never waned. Every day she has worked, Miranda has regaled us with stories of procedures, amazing animals, sweet and friendly owners, and of course, the annoying sides of any job. With each day she became more involved in her position she was finding her path.

It was late winter of 2023 when she decided that becoming a Vet. Tech. was what she wanted to do. She researched the schools, wrote her essays, completed the applications, and waited patiently to see if The Universe was working with her. NEIT conditionally accepted her into Vet. Tech. in the early summer and she has not stopped beaming ever since.

Five weeks to say goodbye…It will take every day of the next month for me to prepare to live without another one of my children while she is off growing, living, exploring, and developing into the independent person I know she can be and wants to be. I will need to not only say goodbye to Miranda when she moves into school, I will also have to learn to live without her literal shadow and companion. It is comforting that Miranda has listed me as Autumn’s emergency contact.

Nineteen years, seven months…We have travelled almost fifteen hundred miles from Plantation, FL where Miranda was born to this time in her life. I know I should be ready. I am not.