Coming of Age

There are so many things that can’t be put into words and so many other things that I wish I never had. 

Maisley kept asking where Poppi was when we were celebrating his birthday dinner. She asked if he was going to come down from the sky now. I got halfway through my beautiful explanation about how we can’t feel the wind but we know it’s there when she started asking for a french fry. 

Yesterday she asked, “What’s money?”

It’s hard to explain something when I don’t really know the answer myself.

This year has been my coming of age story. I’m not going off to college or leaving the house for the first time.  I’m not young and getting drunk with my crew of friends to ease the pain. 

It’s raw and awkward and I’m 32. 

For the first time in my life I have been forced to truly separate from one of my parents. The person who made me feel safe in the world. 

I’m a mother and I’m learning how to grow up, to find interdependence in all of my relationships, all the while raising two girls. A journey of coming to terms with all of my selves – past, present and future. A time where I question if some of the words I say are even mine. Where anger explodes to mask sadness or vulnerability. 

Maisley spent the first half of her first soccer practice picking her nose and the second half with her hands firmly on her hips, refusing to move or speak because some punk knocked her over in the goal. 

Sometimes we smile when we want to cry. Sometimes change, even when right, feels wrong. Sometimes, words are overrated.

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