Dear Jonathan,

Dear Jonathan,

When I met you, I was a little lost.

I had finished college, but I didn’t know what I wanted to do, or where I was supposed to go.

I was floating along.  I took some part-time jobs; boring waitressing, serving (and spilling) coffee, cutting myself as a prep chef.

I decided to apply for tutoring.  I had a few students, but they weren’t very motivated, and I wasn’t very confident.  I considered quitting.

Then, I received your name.  I called your mom, and I set up a time to come and meet you.   I could tell by her voice that she was nervous—at the time I thought it was because I probably sounded even more nervous.  But the day I came over to meet you, I began to understand.

You were waiting for me at the front door—you were so small you were on your tippy-toes so that you could peek out of the window.  I met you, and you were quiet, but you said hello, and your mom showed us into the kitchen. 

She left us alone, but stayed close by, “in case I needed any help.”  I didn’t know what help I’d need with such a small, nice, quiet child.  That first meeting was very good; you listened, you smiled, you zipped through the work, and for the first time in a long time, I felt accomplished.  After we finished, I asked your mom to chat.  I asked her why you needed tutoring.  As your mom shared with me the difficulties you had felt at your school, my heart broke.  I could see that your mom’s nervousness hadn’t been for my inexperience, but instead that she didn’t want another person to misunderstand her beautiful child.

Jonathan, you are old enough now that I can say this; confidently and without pause—those people; the ones in your life that have not understood you, who have made you feel less than or different—they are IDIOTS. Real dumb-dumbs.  And boy did they blow it.  Because to know you, even for a short time, has been AWESOME. And that is because YOU are AWESOME. 

Do you know what I taught you that summer?  Not much. You were already smarter than me; we talked about calculating area, we wrote persuasive essays and practiced some spelling.  The only meltdown you ever had was over a math worksheet… do you remember what I did?  I ripped it up in strips. And we raced through it.  And you smiled after and said, “Well, that wasn’t so bad.” I almost passed out I was so relieved it was over. (Here’s another secret I can tell you, now that you’re all grown up—I stink at doing math. Like SUPER stink at it.  Don’t tell anyone.)

And I used to bring you tiny animal toys as rewards.  You loved animals, and knew so much about them it amazed me.  I still remember you telling me that the “little blue fairy penguin” lived in a warm climate.  I have to admit, I didn’t believe you! We decided to look it up online, and sure enough, you were absolutely right.  And to this day, it’s one of my favorite animals.

After working with you for a few months, it was time to go back to public school for you; and time for us to say goodbye.  You gave me a tiny stuffed leopard (I still have!) and a certificate.  And on the certificate, it said; “Thank you for opening up the world of learning to me.”

But Jonathan, I have to tell you, you had it all backwards.  I didn’t open up the world to you; you opened up my entire world!  In teaching you, I found what I had been missing.  I was able to anticipate your needs and meet them with my own style.  I could make you laugh! I could get you to complete your work with a smile on your face. I was teaching.  For the first time in my life, I was effectively teaching and it was paying off.  And my reward was your big eyes and smiling face greeting me each time I’d pull up at your house.  I cried the day I left your house, all the way home.  But I also smiled.  I had decided.

After that summer, Jonathan, I decided to go to graduate school for teaching.  After two years of hard work, I received my degree, and I jumped in with both feet and never looked back.

Since I taught you, sweet Jonathan, I have had roughly 205 students in my classes.  I have loved each and every one.  And because of you, my dear, I was able to make a difference in their lives as well. 

If I had never met you, I’m not sure what I would have ended up doing.  But I know that this is what I am meant to do.  From that first day in your kitchen, I knew that it felt really wonderful to make a tiny difference in your world.  And it was right there, in your kitchen, where my teaching journey really began.

So, Jonathan, saying I’m proud of you isn’t enough.  I am VERY proud of you.  I’m proud of you for graduating (YAY! WHOOO HOOO!)  I’m proud of you for being such a great son to your wonderful parents.  I’m proud of you for never giving up on yourself. EVER.

But mostly, I’m proud to have had the honor of being a tiny part of your life.  You changed me Jonathan, and for that, I’ll always be grateful to you.

Go out and do WHATEVER THE HELL YOU WANT                in this world because YOU CAN DO IT! Don’t ever let anyone tell you that you can’t do something that you believe in.

Unless it’s your mom.  If she says no, then listen to her. She’s a wise lady.

If there is anything I can ever do for you, please don’t hesitate to reach out to me. 

You will always have a very special place in my heart.

Congratulations Jonathan, and thank you for opening up the world of teaching to me. 

Love,

Jessica

 

Grandma Marie and Princess Jessica

Dear Julianna,

Please, sweetie, let me tell you about your Great-Grandma Marie. 

She died earlier this week, shortly after your first birthday.  I wanted you to meet her, sweetheart, but she has been sick and she hasn’t felt like herself in some time.  But since the day you were born, she collected photographs, clippings, and stories about you like a child collects seashells on a vast beach, keeping each one close by to display and admire.  She died, my love, because she was sick.  She’s been deep in my thoughts and heavy in my heart all week, and I’m so sad you won’t get to know her the way I did.  So, my dearest little one, I want to tell you about her and what made her so special to me.

Now, let me tell you about my relationship with Grandma Marie.

To me, Grandma Marie was pure magic.  We’d come through the door of her house, and BOOM! Energy right away. 

“My beautiful Jessica! Oh! I can’t believe you’re here!” She’d exclaim, over and over again.  “Wait until I show you what I have for you. Just wait!” Her voice was like a singsong of excitement.

And then we’d be off, up to her room, where she’d give me a treasure.

She’d save for me…

Lace doilies. poems, pins, earrings, dolls. Cartoons, Barbie furniture.

Bits of fairy dust.  Books.  Cut out photographs from magazines.

Even in the garage…

Miracle string!  A stray rose. A pretty vase. Gardening gloves. Scented soap.

And the imagining we’d do…

She’d teach me how to wave like REAL royalty. Some people will tell you all you need to do is act like you are screwing in a light bulb, but there was much more to it than that.  Chin up, eyebrows lifted, we’d wave, back and forth to all the subjects on both sides of the street; those thousands who would obviously flock to catch a fleeting glimpse of me, Princess Jessica.

And what of my awkward adolescent phase?

Bright red lipstick samples! Intoxicating perfumes! Pointy brassieres!  Girdles! Nylons!  Polyester blouses, patent leather shoes… underwear that went up to there! Grandma’s nervous laughter would actually put me at ease in these years.  I would later wear her “vintage” clothing to school dances, thinking I looked really modern in this retro fashion.  I thought I looked so un-cool that it was cool. Remember, my darling, that irony is never in style.

And later…during college…

Money for books.  Money for food.  Pretty candles and prettier chocolates that served as a meal or two in between my classes.

Love notes, articles, letters, and silly phone calls.  Grandma Marie sprinkled love and care into my life.

When her brother passed, I was given a tiny print that he owned. The artwork is a small image of silhouettes of a child and mother under a starry sky. Grandma felt that her brother and I were connected because he was a journalist, and I was studying Journalism in school.

This would be one of the few things I kept with me through college and beyond, and it currently sits atop your dresser, small one. When I look at it, I think of the generations before us, and those living a world away. It is a link to your Great-Grandma Marie’s family, and I treasure it. I hope you will too.

Every year since I met your daddy, on my birthday Grandma would send me two twenty dollar bills, one for me and one for your daddy’s birthday, even though his was six months away. She’d write that she wanted us to celebrate our special days together.  We’ve had many beautiful meals over the last decade with the money from Grandma.  What a special idea.

But do you want to know the REALLY remarkable thing about Grandma Marie? The most magical thing about her to me?

She didn’t have to love me.  She didn’t have to be my Grandma. 

No,but really! She didn’t!

You see, my Grandma Marie wasn’t related to me by blood. She was the mother of my stepfather, Ted.  Your wonderful Grandpa Teddy married my mommy, your Grandma, after she already had two children, me and my big brother.  Teddy loved us all, and he wanted us all to be a family; so he brought us to meet his mother, Marie.  

She first met me when I was very small, less than two years old.  Uncle Danny was around four years old.

And from that day on, without a second thought, we were her grandchildren.  Every holiday, every birthday, every achievement, Grandma would send a gift and a handwritten card, something funny and silly and poetic.  She was so proud of us. We’d visit her as much as we could, but many times we’d miss seeing her because we’d go visit the other side of our family with my dad.  Even though we weren’t there, she’d always send her love.  And though I knew she loved me, I’d always feel sad that we didn’t see her often enough.

And then, one beautiful afternoon a few years ago, she showed me her special book.

It was a book in which she wrote a page each time she had a new grandchild. She created the book when she met Dan and me, as at that point she didn’t have any other grandchildren.

And in the book, she wrote how excited she was to finally have grandchildren of her own.  She wrote of our beauty and what we were like.  Everything she instantly loved about us.  She made no mention of “step” anything, and our loving relationship needed no asterisks.  

When I read these pages a few years ago, it made my heart ache.  She really, truly considered me her granddaughter right away.  She didn’t just “take us on” because it was what was expected of her. She wrote pages in a journal that no one would have ever seen unless she shared them. Pages telling of her joy and excitement.  Pages that proved how much she loved ALL of her grandkids, how much she adored each of us. How proud she was to be our grandmother.

So, early this morning when my coworker asked me, “Which side of your family was she on?”, I wanted to say “mine.”  She was on my side. ALWAYS.

All these years of hearing my relationships reduced to degrees and percentages… I won’t allow it any more.  Teddy is more than a “step-father,” and the phrase “half brother” is my least favorite expression in the world.  Because family is FAMILY, damn it!  There is no “step” distinction in the ache in my heart I feel when I know I won’t hear Grandma Marie call me “my Jessica” again.  And that laugh, that cannon boom of surprise, delight, and instant restraint… like someone bursting out laughing in the middle of a silent library, and then realizing they’d better cut it out or they’d get in big trouble.  Knowing I’ll never hear that specific sound again hurts my whole heart.  

We loved each other. From the very beginning, she chose to love me and treat me as her own, and I was instantly smitten.

She was my Grandma. She was a cheerleader, someone who called me beautiful during my ugliest, awkward years. Someone who celebrated when I graduated from college.  Someone who worried she was bothering me when we spoke, even when I was the one who had called her.  Someone who hated keeping secrets, and wanted to know the exact date and time she could announce my pregnancy to the world. She was so proud to be a great-grandmother to you, sweet Julianna. Did it even cross her mind anymore that I was her “step-granddaughter?”  I don’t know, and to be honest, I don’t think it matters at all. Because Grandma Marie was someone who found a spot in her heart, in her family, and her life for a little girl she didn’t know, and made that lucky little girl into a princess.

And for that, I will always be grateful.

I’ll miss her, Julianna. But I will carry her with me always; and when I unabashedly open my own heart for our newest family members, I’ll think of Grandma each time.  And someday, when you welcome new family with ease and pride, I’ll know it was inherited from your Great-Grandma Marie, and your giant-hearted Grandpa Teddy.

Now let’s try that wave again, my beautiful Julianna. Keep your chin up, my little princess. 

Dearest Emma Leigh,

Your mom was around 15 months pregnant and was in labor roughly 100 hours when you came bursting into this crazy world. Ok, maybe my math is slightly off, but I know for certain that exactly one year ago today this world became a much brighter place.

I've known and loved your mom for nearly twenty years, but during this past year she has become a new woman; or better yet, the absolute best version of her I've ever known. You really do make her happy when skies are gray. You were this bright ray of sunshine that came in during some of the saddest days, and something that gave us all something to celebrate.

When I found out that I was going to have a girl, the first thought I had was that I know that she already has a friend, confidante and partner in crime in you, little sweetheart. Because if you are anything like your momma, and J is anything like me, you two will have one of the greatest loves of your lives in each other.

I've loved watching you grow, and I've loved watching you change your entire family for the best. 

You light up the world, Miss Emma Leigh-- and I love you so much it makes my heart ache in the best way possible. Happy first birthday sweet angel! I'll love you always!

Love, 

"Auntie"

Dear fifteen-year-old self,

Dear fifteen-year-old Jessica,

I’m sorry it took me so long to write to you, but I needed twice your lifetime to get this perspective.  I want you to hear me. Right now. Listen and believe what I tell you.

Your body is beautiful.  Right now, you have a bendy, healthy, chubby body. You have pink skin, twinkling eyes, and curly, albeit frizzy, hair.  You have curves and rolls and cellulite and stretch marks where your boobs grew super fast.  And I know that you look at yourself in the mirror and you think you aren’t good enough. You think that guys aren’t going to like you because you don’t wear single digit sizes.  And you hate that you can’t share clothes with your friends.  You are embarrassed to admit your actual bra size. You make silly faces in photos so that people won’t be able to see how you really look.  You begin the habit (one I am still breaking) of standing behind people in photos so that your body won’t show.  You are known as the funny girl, partly because you are quick witted and creative, but mostly so that people will like you despite how you think you look. 

 

I need you to know something, Jess—you are beautiful.  Really, truly beautiful. I look at pictures of you back then, and my heart aches for you.  I want you to see yourself the way I see you now, the way your mom sees you, and your dad, and your family, and probably some boys in your class—you are cute and pretty and happy and smart. Even with those weird blonde bang things! You are beautiful.

You will eventually gain weight, then lose it, then gain more, then lose more. You will struggle with your looks for years. You will date abusive sh!theads and boys with other girlfriends.  You will try every diet, see doctors and read books and cry and curse and take dangerous pills that make your heart skip beats trying to lose those curves.

And you will choose to date boys and men that are not worthy of you because they won’t embrace the real you. They will tell you they just want to be friends, or they don’t like you like that, or they have feelings for you but couldn’t date you in public because you are taller and thicker than they are.  You will meet these meek men, these wimps, these users and scoundrels and superficial assholes, and you will start to believe that these are your best options.  Losers who treat you like an afterthought. And you’ll put up with it because you don’t think you deserve better.

This will not only break your heart, but it will annihilate your self-confidence.

Why didn’t he want me? These questions echo in your head. Why didn’t he love me?

Listen to me, sweet girl, and I will tell you why.

Because. Just because.  Because they are selfish, or proud, or stupid, or weak. Because they are scared to take a chance, or they are hustlers.  Because they wouldn’t know a good thing if it slapped them across the smarmy face.  Because they are flawed humans who will eventually either become better humans or sh!ttier humans, but that’s not your problem, sweetheart.

It doesn’t matter why.  Those guys wanted you to change yourself, or hide yourself. And that never would have worked.

You can’t be happy being a shrinking violet, my dear.  It’s just not who you are.

Someday, sweet girl, I promise you that it will all make sense.  You’ll replace “I’m not good enough” in your head with “I’m pretty f-ing fantastic.”  And then, and only then, you’ll meet someone who LOVES you. All of you. You with stretch marks and You with unshaven legs and You with food poisoning. #diarrheaandvomitingfortwodaysstraight #heheldmyhairbackwhileIpukedandcried

And you know what? You will love him too! LOVE love. Not that “does he love me or hate me, Romeo and Juliet, I’m going to kill myself” bullsh!t love.  Your heart won’t hurt all the time—because love shouldn’t hurt!!! Damn it, Renee Zellweger and Julia Roberts and Pat Benatar and even Carrie Freaking Bradshaw, stop convincing girls that love has to be a tortured battlefield! It doesn’t. It can be easy, and peaceful, and good. Love can be light. And love can be deep. True love is like a tree that continues to root itself deeper and deeper over time while growing and spreading and blooming.

You will find this love, and you will be the healthiest you’ve ever been, mentally and physically.

Now, sweetheart, it’s not all going to be butterflies and rainbows shooting out of your eyes. Sh!t is going to get hard, but you’ll survive it, and you’ll come out the other side, walking hand-in-hand with your partner.  You’ll both giggle in bed when the dog toots.  And you’ll hold on to him like a life raft when you lose a friend.  He’ll support your crazy ideas and hobbies. He’ll ask you to marry him on a random Saturday at home in bed because he couldn’t wait another week until Valentine’s Day. He’ll tell you that you are beautiful while you are at your heaviest, and he’ll actually mean it. He’ll hold on to you during his toughest times, leaning on you, depending on your strength and dedication.  He’ll beam when he introduces you as his wife, and brag about you behind your back.  He’ll never ask you to hide who you are. Never. Not even once. Not even a little bit.

And, guess what? That weight thing won’t ever really go away. You will even gain twenty-five pounds in less than a year. But you know the difference? You’ll love every minute of it. Even when you only lose 5 pounds, 9 ounces, you couldn’t care less. Why not? Because you are a badass b!tch who just grew a freaking human being from the size of a poppy seed into the size of a watermelon. Except, instead of it being like a watermelon, it’s a FREAKING HUMAN. With teeth and eyes and fingernails and a brain and a heart and a soul.  From your body, that body you’ve cursed all your life, will come the greatest gift you could ever imagine.

And from then on, your stretch marks won’t be just hidden under your bra, but will travel up and down your sides and hips, like tiger stripes representing your fierceness and beauty.  And you will look in the mirror and see the pooch where your daughter twirled and stretched and grew for 37 weeks. And you’ll see the scar where she was pulled from heaven into this world.  You’ll know your “love handles” won’t ever slim down, and you are grateful because your daughter fits perfectly on the protrusions of your hips. You’ll see your vast bosom as the amazing parts of you that nourish your child and connect you to your ancestors.  Your body is beautiful, teenage Jessica. It is beautiful now, and it was beautiful then.  So stop worrying about how you look, and start doing some damn homework.  Seriously. I’m 31 and I still have to use my fingers to multiply by nines. Get on that, will you?

Love,

Future Jess

To all the moms who told me breastfeeding is wonderful and not so hard,

Why'd you lie?

I'm still nursing, and while it has become much easier, it was NOT EASY OR REWARDING AT FIRST.

My little one took two months to be able to successfully latch. I had terrible engorgement followed by mastitis and thrush and nipples that felt like they were being used as a pin cushion. Since she couldn't latch, I had to pump. I was told to pump both breasts every hour, all day and night, to keep my supply up.

A breast pump is similar to a medieval torture device, with the difference being it is electrically charged. It also makes noises that sounded to me an awful lot like someone chanting "you suck" over and over at 3 a.m.

I'd bring baby J to get weighed, and hold back tears as they would tell me she was too small.  I'd curse as I tried to get her to nurse, shoving my sore boob in her mouth as she screamed and cried too. I'd feel a dichotomy of relief and grief when she'd gratefully, voraciously take a bottle of my breastmilk from her daddy while I would excuse myself to get bullied by the pump again.

But because she wasn't nursing, my supply waned. Even my around the clock pumping, mothers milk tea, massage, showers and nipple ointment wouldn't help. She screamed out of hunger, and I was constantly terrified of running out of milk. I'd try to limit her intake to space it out, trying to give myself a chance to reload. I was only ever one bottle ahead of her, and when the growth spurts came, I couldn't keep up. She would drink every drop in the bottles and scream for more. I was failing. My husband and father begged me to give her formula, but I was scared that she'd have a bad reaction to it. She barely weighed five pounds... I was terrified she'd lose weight if she got sick.

I saw the lactation consultant many times, called and texted her with my concerns. She practically begged me not to give up, and I pretty much hated her for it.

Finally, one night at 2 a.m. I tearfully woke up my husband and asked him to come downstairs with me. I popped open a canister of formula and cried as I prepared two ounces for my screaming girl. I sniffed it- it smelled awful. I hesitated, feeling like a failure, worried she'd break out in a rash, or vomit. I made James give her the bottle as I watched, holding my breath.

She gratefully drank it down in a matter of minutes... And then it happened. She stopped crying. Sure, she pooped something fierce about ten minutes later, but then she slept. For four glorious hours, she slept-- the longest stretch she'd ever gone. The sleep magic didn't last just then, but she wasn't hungry.

Supplementing with formula wasn't my first choice, but it took so much pressure off of me. Even so, I was ready to quit breastfeeding so many times!  I was in this cycle of pumping and then not having enough milk to nurse, so giving a bottle, then pumping to relieve the new letdown. I was frustrated. I read portions of a book called "Making More Milk." It helped a bit but I kept waiting for this "joyful" part of breastfeeding I kept hearing about. There was no joy in Mudville this day.

  I then discovered I had something called Dysphoric Milk Ejection Reflex, which basically means that every time I'd have a "let-down" of my milk I'd also have a brief panic/anxiety attack. At first I didn't know it was at all related to breastfeeding, but I finally made the connection and through research and my lactation consultant I realized it was an involuntary reflex. I would suddenly feel dizzy and sick and anxious and guilty while breastfeeding or pumping. Although it didn't go away, at least knowing it was an involuntary physical reaction to the let-down reflex helped me get through those moments much easier than before.

Even despite all of the previous fun, I didn't give up. J started latching better, and I set aside a full week to work on feeding and naps. That week turned into two, and by three months in, I was nearly exclusively breastfeeding-- very rarely pumping and only about 6 oz. of formula a week.

Now, I've learned to let her nurse as often and as long as she likes. I don't let myself get tempted to give her a bottle to give my nips a break because it will cause my supply to suffer. I also have decided that I will nurse when I go out in public... Covered up usually, yes, but I won't apologize for it. And in my home? I have begun nursing uncovered in front of most guests. The baby nurses better this way, and I just ask people to avert their eyes if it makes them uncomfortable. Would you like eating dinner with a blanket over your face and head? Me neither.

So now breastfeeding is much easier! I have not had to give the baby any formula in months. She is growing fine and she doesn't cry from hunger anymore. She's seen me and her dad through three or four bad viruses and hasn't gotten sick. She's an awesome latcher and nurser now. I am glad I stuck with it. And those joyful moments that previously evaded me? Once in a while, while she is nursing, baby J will look up at me and flash me a big gummy smile. 

Believe it or not, it makes all of this worth it!

Now, ladies who told me that nursing was the best thing ever...

Did you forget about teething?!

Sincerely, 

The reluctant lactator 

My lap immediately following nursing, and twenty minutes before an important meeting... Twenty minutes away.

Dear Julianna Rose,

It has been just under four months, and I just couldn't love you more. I mean, I'm sure I will, because each day this feeling in my heart just stretches and grows into this gorgeous pain and tearful adoration that I feel every time I look at your smile.

And each day I can't believe I could love something so, so much. Just pure love, love without words. I've only known you for four months, and I'd eagerly lay down on train tracks for you, old black and white movie style.

It was a year ago Sunday that your life started, a moment of conception and magic and miracle. The most hopeful moment in my life. For this child I have prayed, and God answered my prayers. I love you little one, and I'll love you every day of your life.

Love,

Mommy

Dear Karin,

It's been a month since I saw you die.

I didn't want to be there when you took your final breaths in this world. It felt too intimate. Who was I, who were we to surround you as you let go?

We were your friends. We were the ones that held your hair back when you puked in high school, held your hand through heartache, held you in our embrace as you started each chapter of your life, held you close as you dealt with your diagnosis. But you held us too.

You held us captive with your beautiful words, held us accountable in our silly shenanigans as teenagers, held our smiles as we watched you blossom and change and grow. You held us in the palm of your delicate hand, and kept us safe and loved.

Through all the bullshit you went through, all the pain and heartache and trauma and terror you experienced, you didn't complain.  When I hear someone complain about a work deadline or a headache or a bad day, I can't help but fantasize about grabbing them by the shoulders and shaking them, screaming "you don't know how goddamned lucky you are!"

But I won't do that, because you taught me better. You taught me to treat every person's battle as an important one. And I take this to heart.

But here is the problem I'm having. It's been a month and I'm not doing well. I'm sad all the time when I think of losing you. I feel like I lost this huge part of myself when you died. All these years, a part of my own identity was intertwined with you and our other friends. And when your life was severed, I think we all absorbed lots of damage. 

And I'm really fucking angry. You didn't deserve this. You didn't ask for this. You never wanted to be the goddamned poster-child for cancer. Or for tragedy. Or for death.

You were one of the most beautiful souls I've ever known. You were a bright shining light in this world of shadows. And you didn't deserve to be taken from us. This world didn't deserve you, and I'm pissed that this world let you down.

I didn't want to be there when your light went out. But I'm grateful I was there to hold on to you, grateful we could all hold a part of you and share our love for you.  In those last minutes, we promised you that we would be ok, that we would carry on and take care of your family. And though it broke my heart to see you go, I take a little comfort in the thought that maybe you heard us, and maybe that is what you needed to hear to let go and be at peace.

Thank you for allowing me to take up room in your amazing, extraordinary life. I will love you for the rest of my life, and I'll never forget you.

Love you,

Jess

P.S. Thank you for smiling at me that day in Kindergarten. You were truly one of my first real friends in this world.