This Is the Part Where You Save the Day (Again)

A couple of Friday nights every month, Stanton, the girls and I have Family Movie Night. We borrow this cozy idea from friends of ours, who do it with their own three children. Probably other families (maybe yours?) have made it a tradition in their homes too.

One Friday recently, the four of us settled in together on the couch and turned on “Frozen.” The girls have watched the Nordic-inspired story many times before; Stanton and I haven’t seen it that much, but we pretty much can harmonize on “Let It Go” by heart. Still, it’s a good movie, and we didn’t mind watching it again.

At one point in “Frozen,” (our) Anna smiled and said, “This is the part I love.” The part, of course, was when Elsa hugs an ice-cold Anna, and the sisters’ love for each other saves them both—and saves the day for everybody.

“‘This is the part I love'” made me smile. Favorite movies, favorite traditions, beloved people and places—they’re what make life sweet.

Sometimes Grace will tell me how much she likes different teachers at her school, some of whom she hasn’t had yet. I’ll ask why. Every time, she’ll reply, “They know me.”

To be known—it’s a beautiful thing.

Favorite movies, favorite traditions, beloved people and places—they’re what make life sweet.

Many a weekday morning, I hustle Grace outside, my hair still wet from my shower, and watch as she walks down the block to the bus stop. I wait in our yard until I see her get on the bus. Anna, meanwhile, often is tapping on the front bay window from inside, saying she’s hungry for a second breakfast before her school starts, 30 minutes later.

Approximately 9 a.m., Monday through Friday: always a fun time.

I bump into various neighbors almost every morning around this time. Possibly nobody really knows you until they’ve seen you standing outside your house at 9 a.m., hair still wet, yelling for your younger daughter to just get an apple, or a cheese stick, or “Fine, leftover Halloween candy is fine!” from the kitchen while watching down the block to confirm that your older daughter has safely boarded the school bus.

For better or worse, there are a handful of people on this earth who really know me. 😉

Once I said to one of these people, “For the record, I realize I look crazy every morning.”

“I’m not judging you if you’re not judging me,” he replied, which struck me as both kind and wise.

Possibly nobody really knows you until they’ve seen you standing outside your house at 9 a.m., hair still wet…

One morning recently, Stanton was heading out a little later than usual. I felt less rushed, having him around, another adult in the house. I was in the kitchen making the girls’ lunches, sipping some coffee, when I overheard him amiably ask them, “So, what time does school start, girls?”

My.heart.nearly.stopped.

Did my husband—their dad—really not know the answer to that question?

I peered into the family room. “Honey…are you serious?”

Stanton held up his hands. “What?”

Thoughts began tumbling across my mind, one after the other. Nothing can ever happen to me. I can’t die, ever…or at least not until Grace and Anna have graduated from high school. If anything happens to me, they’ll never get to school on time…or soccer practice…or doctors’ appointments…

“Mel, just tell me, and then I’ll know,” Stanton said.

“Stan, how could you not have known?”

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This wasn’t, however, the hill I was going to die on, friends. It was a difference between Stanton and me, and possibly many other moms and many other dads. It was a difference, perhaps, in the same way that I never lock the bathroom door—just last week while I was showering, Anna pleasantly announced, “I’m barging in, Mom!” before barging in—while Stanton locks the door every time.

On the other hand, giving credit where credit is due, Stanton excels in other areas that aren’t my strengths. For example, he plays games all the time with our daughters. Actual games, like Crazy Chefs and Trouble, and make-believe games such as cops and robbers.

I, however, am not a big games person. Go to a park? Yes. Read stacks of books at the library? Count me in. Walk to a coffee shop? I’m there.

Break out the Pete the Cat Groovy Buttons board game, or you-pretend-to-be-Elsa-and-I’ll-be-Anna? Oh…only because I love you.

Grace and Anna have also (already!) shared they want their dad to teach them how to drive, about a decade from now. “Because you don’t know how to parallel park, Mom.”

I mean…truth. I haven’t parallel parked since the day I got my driver’s license. Thus, on numerous occasions over the years, I’ve deposited my car many blocks away from my destination to avoid parallel parking.

“Totally fine if you’d like Dad to teach you how to drive.” I’m not much of a games person, and not much of a car person either.

…just last week while I was showering, Anna pleasantly announced, “I’m barging in, Mom!” before barging in…

I’ve had my car, a Honda CR-V, for nine years now…and I’m still not exactly sure what all the buttons are for. I know how to start my car (not sure if this goes without saying… 😉 ). And turn on the radio, and click open the fuel tank—all the top-priority stuff. Some of the other dials and gauges, though…yeah, not too clear on all that.

This past Tuesday, Grace had her after-school performing arts class, as usual. I had been working from home all day, so hadn’t driven anywhere yet, which meant there was still ice on my car windshield from the particularly cold morning. “I really thought the sunlight would have melted this by now,” I told the girls.

Ask anybody: Sometimes I overestimate the power of natural sunlight.

I hadn’t defrosted the windshield since last winter, and was pretty sure but not positive which buttons to press. I pressed them, and not much happened.

“Mom, am I going to be late?” Grace wondered.

“Sweetheart, I promise, everything here is under control.” I frowned at the dashboard.

Anna laughed. “Everything is not under control, Mom.”

Who doesn’t love a backseat driver?

Stanton was at a meeting in Boston. I called him. He didn’t answer. I called him again. Still no answer. So what did I do?

Exactly, I called him a third time. Eventually, a husband will answer his wife’s hammer call. And this time, mine did.

I explained what was happening. Stanton listened and confirmed I had pressed the right buttons. “Just wait,” he said, “and the windshield will defrost.”

Suddenly, the windshield wipers began swishing back and forth. What the heck? When had I turned those on? Grace and Anna started laughing. “MOM!”

But the windshield had defrosted, and the girls and I were good to go. Problem solved.

Eventually, a husband will answer his wife’s hammer call.

I do my best to stay calm, solve problems. Sometimes I even save the day. Like this past Wednesday, less than 24 hours after the windshield situation.

“Whoops, Mom, I have a problem,” Anna called.

“What’s wrong, honey?” I was looking through notes, preparing for a conference call.

“I just went to the potty and accidentally dropped my bracelet in the toilet. Can you get it?”

Why? Why do things like this happen, and at the worst possible times?

No worries, friends. I’ll spare you the details of my heroics with the bracelet-in-the-toilet situation. That story ended, however, with this quote:

“Thanks for saving the day, Mom!”

But I mean…that’s what moms do, right? Time after time, over and over. We all know how the story goes, our own recurring Family Movie Night.

This is the part where you save the day (again).

Photo credit: Pixabay

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Like what you just read? Then check out Melissa Leddy’s newest short story, “Backtrack.” An engaging read that’s can’t-put-it-down good.

When You Find Yourself Double Fisting Cotton Candy (and Other Stories)

How is everyone’s fall going? Fun? Festive? Fast and furious, perhaps? Yes, mine too—fast and furious, that is.

October was a whirlwind of apple picking, pumpkin picking, multiple Halloween events and Saturday-morning soccer games. All good fun, but…I am fall-festivities-ed out, and secretly delighted soccer season is over. To celebrate, I might stay in my pajamas until lunch time tomorrow.

Livin’ it up, friends, livin’ it up. 😉

On Halloween night, I was at the neighborhood fire station with the girls. They kindly host a party complete with balloon twisting, a bounce house, and treats galore. Stanton was tied up with a situation that is too convoluted to tell here, but he was on the way, he said.

Grace and Anna seemed oblivious their dad was MIA. Their trick-or-treat bags were overflowing from our lap around our street, and now they were in line for cotton candy. The firefighter operating the cotton-candy machine was wearing a white, head-to-toe poncho-type covering over his clothing.

It’s a sticky job, he told me.

I’ve heard, I replied.

I watched as he spun a huge cone of cotton candy for Grace…and kept spinning it. “Wow, that’s probably enough,” I said.

He shared with me that he had been having some trouble stopping the cotton candy from spiraling on the cone.

Got it. A common Halloween-party problem, I imagined.

Eventually, the gentleman pulled Grace’s cone away, presenting her with a fluffy pink sugar rush twice the size of her head.

Twice the size of my daughter’s head. I’m not exaggerating, friends.

“Yes!” Grace dug in.

Then Anna got hers, which was also outrageously big.

After a few bites each of cotton candy, the girls wanted to get into the bounce house. “Here, Mom!” They handed me their cones.

“Don’t eat mine,” Grace added.

I wasn’t even close to being tempted. “Be careful,” I said, as the girls clambered in to the bounce house. “And have fun. Also, I’m a little concerned you’re bounce-housing so soon after eating…try not to throw up.”

Be careful, have fun and try not to throw up—words to live by, one might say.

All good fun, but…I am fall-festivities-ed out…

I watched as Grace and Anna (dressed as a witch and monarch butterfly, respectively) ricocheted around the bounce house. “Hi, Mom! Woo-hoo!”

It was at this moment I realized I was double fisting cotton candy—cotton candy that wasn’t even mine.

Also at this moment, I realized the cotton candy was disintegrating. “What the heck?” I watched as the pink fluff began clumping up into tiny wet balls, which then slowly but steadily dripped onto my hands and wrists. “AHHH!” Halloween was getting crazier (and stickier) by the minute.

Somebody explained to me that the moisture in the air was causing the science experiment I was holding in both my hands. I think my neighbor, who’s a super smart geologist, is the person who told me this. The night had become such a blur, though, that I can’t say for sure—I’ll have to ask them. The bottom line is, I was ready to wrap things up.

Soon after, the girls and I began walking back home. We turned the corner and bumped into Stanton. “Dad!” the girls cheered.

I looked at my husband. “Hello there.”

“I’m so sorry,” Stanton said. He sighed as he hugged the girls and kissed me. “I know you can’t tell, but on the inside, I’m very frustrated with the situation tonight.”

For the record, friends, when I am frustrated with a situation, you can tell. You can tell on both the outside and inside.

Again, just for the record.

The four of us walked the rest of the way home together.

…I realized the cotton candy was disintegrating.

On Saturday morning, two days later, Stanton, Grace and I headed to New York City with Grace’s performing arts group. Her wonderful instructor had organized the trip so that the students could see a Broadway show and meet with the actors afterward.

This was Grace’s first time in the city, as well as her first Broadway show. When we began walking around Midtown Manhattan, I watched as Grace took in the skyscrapers, the iconic yellow taxi cabs, all the glitz and activity. “What do you think?”

“New York City is amazing and so busy,” Grace said. “I can’t wait to come back with Anna.” (My mom and dad were back at our house taking care of her.)

We’ll come back, Stanton and I promised.

We were seeing “Beetlejuice” at the Winter Garden Theatre. Before we arrived, I told Stanton and Grace to stop and turn so that I could take a picture against the backdrop of the Theater District. As I did, I bumped into another woman, and quickly apologized.

“Here, I’ll take a picture of the three of you,” she said, and she did.

“Thank you so much,” I told her, as she smiled and disappeared back into the crowd.

New Yorkers can get a bad rap for being rude, but in all my experiences, they’ve been incredibly kind and helpful.

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At the Winter Garden Theatre, Stanton, Grace and I found our seats in the mezzanine. We were in one of the front rows, and had an amazing view of the stage. I pointed toward the orchestra level below.

“When I was younger, like maybe in middle school,” I told Grace, “I came here, to this theater, to see a show called ‘Cats,’ and sat over there with Pop, Nona, Josh and Jared. Jenna was still little, so she stayed home with Poppy and Grandma.”

“Like Anna,” Grace said.

I smiled. “Yes.” Ah, the poor youngest siblings among us.

“Cats” went on to become one of the longest-running Broadway shows, and was the longest tenant at the Winter Garden Theatre, spanning more than 7,000 performances across nearly 18 years.

As a child, I had no idea I was watching musical theater history in the making. I also never could have imagined that nearly 20 years later, I’d be back in that same place, in the mezzanine, sitting alongside my college-sweetheart husband and the older of our two daughters. In that moment, waiting for “Beetlejuice” to begin, I felt a sense of wonder at how life can come full circle.

How life can bring you back.

Maybe the people are different, and the time surely is, but the place still stands as beautiful as it was back then. And now, like then, you feel lucky just to be there, to be part of it.

I was very grateful for that day.

 …I felt a sense of wonder at how life can come full circle.

Monday was the last day of the book fair at Grace’s school. I hadn’t made it any of the other days, so this was my last chance to join Grace during her lunch period to eat together and then pick out books. (“Everyone else had someone come, Mom.”)

First, I had to pick up Anna from preschool.

“I don’t want to go to the book fair,” Anna grumbled.

“Come on, honey,” I said. The school secretary printed off “Visitor” name tags for both Anna and me. I stuck mine on my jacket.

Anna threw hers on the ground.

“Really?” I asked her.

I can’t make this stuff up, friends.

Grace, Anna and I bumped into the principal, a lovely lady. “I didn’t know you had books published,” she said.

“Well, some of my stories have been published in magazines, but I self-published all my books,” I explained, not wanting her to be unnecessarily impressed.

“Still, that’s wonderful!”

Later, Grace noted, “Mom, you’re basically famous.”

“Awww, Grace, you’re so sweet, but…no, I’m not.” I hugged my daughters. “Do you know what makes me truly happy? Like, happier than being basically famous?”

“Dad, Anna and me,” Grace said.

“And Pop and Nona,” Anna added.

“And Josh and Jared and Jenna…”

The list went on. And the answer was yes, to every one of the names.

Be careful, have fun, try not to throw up, and stick together (even during the sticky-like-cotton-candy times).

Because when the curtain closes for the last time, that’s pretty much what it was all about.

Photo credit: Pixabay

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Like what you just read? Then check out Melissa Leddy’s newest short story, “Backtrack.” An engaging read that’s can’t-put-it-down good.