On Marriage

My Sammy Boy:


I don't know if you'll ever remember this, but you've maintained, for several months now, your intention to be a bachelor for life. The way you see it, marriage is disgusting: the last thing you need is another female in your life.

"What good's some girl, mom?"

"Well," I pause, "You know I'm just 'some girl,' don't you?"

"Well, yeah," you roll your eyes, "but I mean some random girl who thinks I'm just gonna kiss her all the time."

"What if you like kissing one day?" I ask and you fake a gag.

Then you shudder, shrug and say,"Sorry, Mom. No wife for me."


Explaining why one person would choose to live with another through this life is strange. And it isn't logical, is it? It seems improbable that two people could maintain a healthy, functional relationship "for as long as they both shall live." What can I tell you, man? It defies logic and, in some cases, just doesn't work out.

You're at an age where some of your friends come to school and talk about weekends with Dad or Christmas with Mom this year, and the whole thing is confusing.

The truth is, your Dad and I are just two people doing the best we can to journey through this life. We're choosing to journey together, not because we promised to ten years ago, but because we chose to this morning when we woke up. We will choose it again tomorrow. In every moment, we have to make a choice - am I alone in this or are we in it together?

I know this explanation may not satisfy your scientific brain, but we got really, really lucky fourteen years ago, standing outside a party on a brisk October night. Your dad forgot his coat but didn't want to leave the sidewalk, afraid to say goodnight to me without making some kind of move.

He's alot like you, Sam. His thoughts swirl and he's slow to speak. I offered to share my coat, and the rest is history.

We've fought and cried and there have been times we both forgot to choose us.

And we've remembered again and again.

I've heard it said that marriage isn't for the weak or faint of heart. And, through the years, I've had moments of great fear.

But I've never regretted my choice. Not once.

I can't tell you what life will look like when you read this note. I'm no fortune teller. But I hope you'll see love in these lines. You'll see I have no formula for this marriage thing. And if it isn't in your cards, I won't lament. I love you for now and always, regardless. I know you'll always have love in you life, because as long as I'm living, I plan to be the "some girl" who is always there.

But if you meet someone who makes you feel lucky to choose a journey with her or him, we can share a knowing embrace and rejoice at our blessings.

On Yelling

My little baby darlings:

Right now, you know I love you, but mother of God you both yell so much. In the bathtub, at the park, at the dinner table, in the CAR, you both only have one volume and it is LOUD. You yell and scream at me, at each other, when you're angry, when you're happy, when you're breathing, you yell.

I used to think it had something to do with day care, but you both are in schools where yelling is quite frowned upon. Anna Claire, you even talk about your inside voice and using it with your friends.

I've seen both of you in action at your respective schools.

Samuel, I've watched you through your school window before picking you up early from school.

Your little school desks are in a U-shape around the classroom. You and the other 18 students in Ms. Bott's Kindergarten class all work silently on your afternoon math. You're sitting in your usual pose, with one leg under your bottom as if you're ready to jump up at a moment's notice. With one hand on your forehead and the other laboring away at fractions, your little eyebrows scrunch and you pursed lips are just that: closed. And you're so busy you've got nothing to say.

Anna Claire, through the many times I've watched you from your preschool doorway, I've never seen you silent. But quiet? Yes. You speak with your friends in a voice no louder than a whisper. You're so quiet, in fact, from the doorway I can't even hear your sweet little voice. I see you, with your friends in a semicircle, pointing at the copy of  Brown Bear, Brown Bear you've strategically placed in your lap so the other children can see the pictures as you point to the words. The teacher tells me you're the little reader in the class. You'll pick up the books, the kids will sit around you, and you'll ask them questions about the text.

So I've seen you quiet. I've seen you both - focused and attentive. You're both in your elements and you're serene.

I'm not sure what happens but from the class to the car but some transformation takes place and within five minutes, you're max volume.

It used to make me wonder if there was something wrong with me. What was I doing or not doing to make you think all this noise was necessary?

I began to think about times I yell (which is not often). I yell when I'm hurt. I yell when I'm startled. I yell when I'm excited.

I yell when I'm most alive. And so do you. And you'll learn not  to yell out of anger at one another because I'll be sure to teach you how that hurts and doesn't help. But as for the rest of your noise? I'm realizing it is all the noise of life. And you both are so fully alive right now - so full of energy you're unable to restrain yourself when you see something new or fascinating or funny or good.

And it's how you should be.

 Somewhere along the journey of life, we adults are taught to tone it down - to find life mundane. And we begin to believe people and experiences should earn our fascination, our laughter, our noise. Gaps and cracks form dividing lines between our souls, our bodies, and our minds.

All of the sudden, we must always criticize, critique, judge, and filter. We experience everything through a sophisticated lens designed to temper our responses. In some respects, this is a beneficial. If I elbow jabbed as a gut reaction every time someone offended me, you'd probably only see me in orange through a plexiglass window.

But constantly filtering all experiences through the mind? All experiences?

Here's what I'm finding: in intellectualizing all experiences, I lose. In deeply spiritual moments, in intensely physical moments, something gets lost and while I'm in my head, measuring the appropriate response, the moment passes, and I'm too distracted by my own thoughts to truly live.


So, I'm going to do my very best to let you yell - to let you run like crazy and scream your head off. And instead of stopping you (unless you're running into oncoming traffic), I'll run and scream with you. And we'll experience life together.

On Making Plans

Samuel:

At six, you're a planner. You like to know, as soon as you awake, where we're going, what time, with whom, and what's next. That's your usual question - "What's next, mom?" And you ask many times before we even begin transitioning from one activity to another.

So, since it's summertime, I'm your live-in travel agency. Our mornings (I'm sure you won't remember), look a bit like this:


"Sam, come eat your oatmeal."

And you run for this breakfast, every time, because by 6:00 in the morning, you're starving again. You hop up onto the barstool and stir your peanut butter, honey, and oats yourself (you like to make sure I've put in the correct amount, lest we have an unacceptable peanut butter and honey to oat ratio).

First spoonful still in your mouth, you ask, "What are we doing today?"

"Well," I sigh (because I'm not even through my first cup of coffee yet), "I thought we'd go to the park, then turn those library books back in, and head back home to start our chores."

You mull over the day's agenda in your brain and ask, "Why not go to the library first?"

"I just figured we'd do the park first so we can hang out there a little before it gets too hot."

"But then what?"

"Well, after our chores and your sister's rest (and she, now next to you, reminds me that she no longer, in fact, requires "rests") we'll go to the dog house and walk some dogs."

"Then what?"

"Then, we'll go get dad and we'll come home."

"Then what?"

"Then we'll hop on our dinosaurs, ride them down the highway and feed them bananas." And I smile because you smirk in that "you're an idiot/you know what I mean" way.

"Mom, I love you. You're ridiculous."

And Anna Claire calls me "reedikleeus" and you both finish your breakfast.

Sam, you're a planner. You are. You want to know - need to know what will happen. Planning gives you great comfort; outlining lends you stability. You're constantly aware  of time, speed limits, street signs. These directions are safe for you.


So, when you ask me really rigid questions and I don't have the answers for you, you struggle. Once, you asked me, "Is it okay if I'm not an astronomer when I grow up?" And I answered, "Is it okay with you if you're not an astronomer when you grow up?" And you said "yes," and I said "yes," and we moved on.

But here's a truth with which I've been struggling: I don't have plans for your life.

Why? Because you are six. You are not twenty-five. I don't know you at twenty-five, so I can't make plans for that person, because that person doesn't exist. Only you exist. You're just six-year-old you, just as you are, just right now.

Twenty-five year old you is an illusion. And to focus on or plan for an illusion is madness. It robs us of this present moment, and it's just another subversive means of control.


Many parents would disagree. They'd say it's natural and healthy and even prudent to jump at any sign of giftedness or interest, fuel into it, and speed off in one direction. And I don't have any problem joining a swim team or taking some painting classes, if that's what six-year-old you wants. But I won't talk about how swimming early means one day you can get a college scholarship or how if you keep up this painting, you can get into a special high school program for artists.

And maybe I should. Maybe being "future-minded" is helpful. But I can't do it. Because I'm afraid what that really does is tell you we do what we love now so we can benefit from it later. That following our passions really matter a whole lot less than making investments for a future we can't see because that will keep us safe. And really, it serves only to make me feel better. See, because if I can put a  piano under your fingers, an instructor by your side, and push push push push push, maybe I can convince the artist in you to commit to the life I choose for you. And, as you know, mommy knows best.

But you know me and you know I really don't know best. I'm just feeling this life thing out for myself. I can't possibly do that well and make future plans for you.  I just won't do it. Because if, at twelve, you realize you actually hate all those years you spent sighing through piano lessons, and you decide to just give it up, you'll certainly worry about what mom thinks. And you'll begin to navigate your life either out of a fear you're a disappointment to your mother or with a sense of guilt for crafting your own life.

Here's the truth: you can't disappoint me because I haven't appointed you to anything. Fear of disappointing me should never be your motivator, at six or thirty-six.

So you do what you love at six. Instead of wondering if it'll come to something someday, honor what it is today. And look around: because we're all honoring this present moment with you. We're not looking forward to what happiness it might one day bring. We're simply loving you in this moment. Nothing more, nothing less.

Here's my piece of advice (and I didn't make it up): in all you do, in all the choices you make, act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly. Start from love. Move with love. The ends and the means should look like mercy, justice, and love. Begin there, and you won't go wrong.

One day, you may be grown up. And you'll have a chance to make some really beautiful choices.  Right now, I honor the future you that may be by loving you right now, just as you are, without worrying about any plans I could make for you.

When you were in my belly, I did my best to picture your little face. I I tried to envision your frame, your little body sitting in my lap, arms around mine. I wondered at your little mind: what you might think or say or love.

And even in my very best attempts to craft you out of my own imagination, I fell so short of the miracle you've been.

So I won't lay plans for you. I won't choose for you or push you in one direction or the other. And if there is a you who reads this at 25, all I'll desire is that you still call your old mother once in a while and let her marvel at your current adventure.

On Shame

Anna Claire:

You're 3 now, which means you have no shame. Really. None. And I'm so glad. But you are experiencing the first pangs of guilt. You haven't expressed it really, but I can tell. It's a pouty look here, a hanging head there, and a retreat into your room when you're admonished. 

Only Sunday night, you hit me. On purpose. It went a little like this:

It was bed time and Anna Claire, you wanted your bear.  What you really wanted was to sleep, but you didn't know that, I guess. But you thought you wanted your bear, the brown and blue one. Only when I brought the brown and blue one you raged and fought just kept screaming, "That's not right! That's not right!" 

"Anna Claire, I'm not crazy. This is brown and blue and you only have one brown and blue bear."

"I want the old one! Not the new one!" You bellowed and furrowed your brow.

I sighed. "Anna, I love you. Here's your bear. Goodnight." And I bent down,  kissed you on your scrunched forehead and as I got up to walk away you slapped me. Hard. It made a sound and left a mark across my arm. Stunned, I stammered, "A-anna, you hit me." 

You couldn't believe it. It's as if you flipped your lid (as Sam likes to say) and you lost control of your extremities. You didn't look sorry, but your eyes looked to your chin and you sighed. 

"Anna, what do we do with the mad that we feel?" It's a question I stole from good old Mr. Rogers. 

You didn't look up and you didn't answer. 

So, I asked again. 

And you replied as in rote and in a monotone voice,  "We take a deep breath and we talk about it."

I breathed a deep mommy breath. The kind that comes at the end of a hard day when you just don't want to mommy one more minute. I wanted to tell you to say you were sorry and end the whole thing.

But we'd spent four uninterrupted days together and I realized you were as tired of me as I was just plain tired. And telling a 3 year old to say sorry is just as moot as telling her to say thank you and pretend it is real gratitude. To you, being made to say sorry is like telling you those words just fix it all. And it doesn't. So, I refrained. Instead, I  just said this:

"Anna. You hit mommy. And you want your bear. And I need more help finding your bear. So, tell me what your bear looks like."

"My bear is old. And it has darker blue. And it is scrunchy. And it is big, see?" And you held up your hands to show me exactly what size the right bear was. 

"Okay. I can find that bear." 

So, I went into the playroom and dug through the stuffed animal tub and found your old, dark blue and brown bear that was bigger than the last bear, the wrong bear. 

And I brought it to you. Only you didn't smile. You said "Thank you." You snuggled your right bear and threw the other bear on the floor. 

"Goodnight. I love you." I turned off the light and began walking out the door.

"Mommy?" You whispered.

"Yes, Ann?"

"I'm sorry I am mean." You wouldn't look at me.

"Ann. You're not mean. You made a sad choice. And thank you for saying sorry. It makes my heart happy." I came and gave you a huge hug. 

And we said our goodnights and you went to sleep. 

Ann, there is a difference between being mean and doing something mean. It's the difference between shame and guilt. 

Shame says "I'm wrong." Guilt says "I feel terrible about something I did." And I'm no expert, but Brene Brown is. In  I Thought It Was Just Me: Women Reclaiming Power and Courage in a Culture of Shame, she explains “Shame corrodes the very part of us that believes we are capable of change.” 


You weren't and you aren't mean, Anna. You just did something unkind, which just makes you human. And I refused then and refuse now to let you begin telling yourself that you are anything less than good. 

Shame is the lie we tell ourselves. That lie that says "I cannot grow. I cannot decide differently. This is just who I am." When we choose to be any less than our potential, we live in a state of shame. And we allow shame to choose our paths for us. 
Your guilt made you feel regret. And even at 3 you attempted to spare yourself the obligation of saying "I was wrong and I'm sorry." 

Because it's a whole heck of a lot easier to just  say "This is who I am" than to say "This is not who I am and I can do better." The latter obligates use to choose change the next time. It obligates us to at least remember our past indecencies and make that choice to do what is right. Even if we don't choose it, we're obligated to relive our iniquities. Shame tells us to own the trait. This leaves no room for growth, no room for change. 

Since it happens at 3 and 13 and 30 and so on, I know it is going to happen to you and to me again and again. 

So, here's my hope for you - May you always wrestle with your guilt. Allow it to challenge you. Allow it to show you ways to love better, to live more in harmony with others and within yourself. 

And anytime that shame sneaks in, may you find a way to reach down deep and find your voice. The one that says "I am good." The one that tells you "This is not who I am." 

And may you have the courage to change. 

On Lying

Samuel:

Yesterday, you asked me a really important question. You said, "Mom, I should always tell the truth, right?"

And I knew you were about to give me skinny on the truth campaign at your school. First, they taught you about manners, then about bullying, and now they were tackling honesty. Which is a lovely pursuit. I'm glad you're hearing these messages at school. And I wanted to talk to you about tact and subtlety and opinion. I even thought about delving into the whole "what is truth?" existential conversation, but you're six, so I spared you (or more likely, myself) the confusion.

Instead, I did what Jesus did (a rarity for me). I told a story. And it sounded a bit like this:

Once upon a time, there was a boy and he loved his mother very much (transparent, much?). His mother was very pregnant with an adorable little sister just waiting to meet her smart big brother.

Now, this very smart little boy had a very smart daddy, who also loved the boy's mother and little sister so much. The sweet family made plans to go to a really lovely party.

Now, the father and little boy were dressed in the very nicest party clothes and they were waiting for the mother to come out of the room, ready to go.

Only the mother wasn't coming out. So the father went into the bedroom and asked the mother what was taking so long. The mother was crying. Her belly was so big and her clothes were all so small, the only party dress the mother had looked more like a circus tent. So the mother asked what all expectant mothers eventually ask.  She stared her teary eyes in the mirror past her huge belly and asked the father, "Do I look fat in this?"

I didn't finish this obviously true story. Instead, Sam, I asked you, "What should the father say?"

"I don't think he should call the mom fat." You're a smart boy.

"Well, isn't she fat, though?" I questioned.
"Yeah, but she has a baby." You responded.
"So do you think the father lied?" I pushed a bit further.
"Yeah, probably."
"And is lying wrong?" I was really pressing you at this point.

You sighed and looked sideways at me.
Then you said something I can't forget.

"If the father thinks she is fat, he should say so. But the father doesn't think she is fat, he thinks she is carrying a big baby in her belly. And maybe the baby is fat."


We laughed and didn't talk about it anymore.

In The Adventures of Tom Sawyer Tom tells what the Judge calls a Noble Lie. He saves his love from a lashing from the teacher at school and takes the lashing himself. It's the best part of this book, I think. By the way, if you're an adult and you're reading this and you HAVE NOT read this book, shame on us both. Stop what you're doing and read it. Right now. Go.

But back to my point: I like this. I like the idea of telling a lie so magnanimous and brave it brings out the best in everyone who hears it. A noble lie tells all children they can be anything they want to be when they grow up. A noble lie tells a loved one everything will be alright, even in the face of death. A noble lie tells the pregnant mother she does not look fat - she's never looked better.

Here's the thing - some lies are really just lies at the time. They will be true. The children who grow up nurtured and in healthy environments and choose professions that actualize them - fuel their strengths and creativity, they can be anything they eventually want to be (which is usually something totally within their set of skills). When a loved one dies, things aren't ever the same and they are really terrible for a while, but life has a way of making everything alright, even when all seems lost. And pregnant is beautiful. It is radiant. And, yes, it is fat. But the kind of fat that makes a human being. And that kind of fat is just the best kind.

A lie to protect your own ego, a lie to endanger or threaten someone else (or their virtue), or a lie lending strength to a greater evil - those are the kind you shouldn't tell. Not just because they hurt others but because they steal small parts of yourself. The parts that are hard to get back - your sense of integrity, your moral compass, your ability to see beyond your own needs. And those kinds of lies lean into larger, more destructive kinds - they grow a monstrous life of deception and isolation.

I wanted to tell you all this then and I hope I do tell you all of this as you grow - through my words, through my actions, even through my failures. And I'm telling you now, because this, my dear, is the truth.

On Waiting

Sammy and Annie:


So, yesterday I began my Friday ritual of preparing meals for the upcoming week. Since you guys and that daddy of yours are all carb addicts, I make about two loaves of bread a week. And this week, I planned on having two nights of bun-donned meals, turkey joes and black bean burgers, so I needed about ten cups of wheat flour. And ten cups is a lot. I figured I had enough, but I ran about 2 cups short.

And I know this sounds like the makings of a math problem, but I promise, it isn't. I left for the store around 1:00, thinking I'd have plenty of time to come on back to the house and finish before picking you, Sam, up from school at 3.

Only traffic in Baton Rouge on a Friday afternoon is an absolute nightmare, and I knew we needed to take a used battery back to Auto Zone for a 10% rebate. And I also knew I needed to go to the UPS to get ripped off for some shipping (it's a 58% mark up - don't do it. I had to, but if you've ever got a choice, opt for the Postal Service. It's slow and the lines are insane, but you don't feel like you're getting ripped off, and that's worth the time, I think).

So, I left my half-finished dough on the counter and took off. And instead of coming home when I had about an hour until carpool, I decided to take a run.

And I forgot about the dough.

My run was glorious, my grocery shopping was effortless, and with my $16 rebate in pocket and packages shipped, I headed my sweaty self to the elementary school and brought my Sammy home.

And when we opened the door, the smell of yeast wafting in the air, we found this....

In case you're wondering,  why yes, there is more on the floor.

So, laughing, I picked up the would-be bread and buns off the floor and counter, added the necessary flour and YES, in case you're wondering, made my weekly carb quota with the whole darn mess.


You ate it, you lived, and you smiled, so don't freak out.

It's funny, though, because it really made me think - this expanded dough rose out of control because it sat, unnoticed and unkept for way too long. Don't get me wrong: letting things wait can be really important in life. But other things - other things just can't wait.

So, I thought I'd give you a short list of the things I've learned can wait and the ones that just can't.


THESE THINGS CAN WAIT:

• SEX. Oh, come on, you knew this was coming. I'm your mother, for God's sake. I'm not going to tell you that sex can wait because of diseases and unplanned pregnancy and all the other slew of reasons people will tell you. I'm not even going to mention the emotional pain and toil and complication that happens once you have sex with somebody - anybody. I'm going to tell you the plain truth. Sex can wait because it's a mess. And likely, you won't be any good at it for the first few years anyway. You'll be clumsy and not at all comfortable with your own body and you need someone there with you who you can count on. Someone who won't laugh at you too much or take you too seriously. Someone who you can stick with and practice with. Because Lord knows you won't get any better switching up teammates. Wait on sex because you're going to wish you hadn't shown your bare ass to someone who will later pretend not to know you on the street. 
• DRIVING. I know, I know. This one seems like a real mom thing to say, too. But the truth is, driving sucks. Paying for gas sucks, traffic sucks, it's all a real pain. And you think you're going to have more freedom behind a wheel and at first it really feels that way, but you'll find pushing those pedals means you've got a whole new world of rules to follow. And Sam, once you can drive you'll act as family chauffeur, so don't think for a moment you'll be hitting the road alone. Better to wait. Trust me, there's a real freedom and richness and honesty you get from riding your bike around instead. You can pretend to be a kid in a world that seems to always try to push you into adulthood. 
• CHOOSING A CAREER: Sam, your teacher asked you what you wanted to be when you grew up. And do you know what you said? You said you wanted to be happy. You said you wanted a family. You said you wanted to be a dad (also something that should wait). And I was so grateful she accepted your response. If you choose college, they'll ask you to declare a major. And everyone you meet on campus will ask you first your name and then your major. Please don't feel pressured to answer straightaway. Because whatever you choose at 18 years old is probably not what you'll do when you're 50. And making a life-long decision isn't something anyone should trust an 18 year old to do. Ever. So when they ask you (and they will), feel confident and proud to tell them you don't know. Or lie. Because telling a great story about wanting to save whales as a marine biologist might just be fun. Or a great pickup line. 
• HOME OWNERSHIP. I know this is a real fast-forward, but mortgages are a real drag. Rent for a while. I know it isn't the most financially profitable thing to do, and a lot of smooth talking investors are going to say you're throwing money down a drain, but once you own a home, you're solely responsible for every brick and every wire. And you have to sign a lot of paperwork promising a lot of people you'll pay for something for the next 30 years. And who in the world knows what the next 30 years holds? 

THINGS THAT CAN'T WAIT: 

• ORAL HYGIENE. If you're in bed at night with fuzzy teeth and a lingering sense of guilt, get up and brush. You won't regret the two whole minutes you spent preventing cavities. Seriously, who wants to be 25 and told she has a cavity (I may or may not be speaking from experience, here.). 
• SAYING I LOVE YOU. This may surprise you. When you're young, you may find yourself overcome by intense emotions. If you love someone, tell them. Don't hold back. And if they don't love you back, fine. If you scare them, who cares. Life is too short not to speak your truth. I tell you I love you everyday because I know you and I may not have tomorrow. I knew I loved your Dad when we were 18 years old. And I knew I wanted to marry him. And I told him and it worked out. I'm just saying, it can happen. Don't let fear keep you from honesty. 
• BEING THERE FOR SOMEONE. You'll have times in life when you'll have to decide between giving your time to others and keeping it for yourself. And it's really okay and necessary to choose self-care. But sometimes, we do things for people because they need. You'll have these times, these chances, to show love. Please take them. When you've got that deep, gut-nagging draw to call someone you haven't spoken to in ages, call them. When you know one of your neighbors lost his job, don't just pray for or avoid him, invite him to dinner. Don't wait to love people who need love. I don't imagine you'll ever regret it. 
• HUGS. Hugs can't wait. Give them often and freely. Studies prove people who are avid huggers live longer, happier lives. Go on, be a hugger. Even the non-touchy feely types will hug you back...most of the time. 

Kids, I'm no genius. To prove it, I just used spell check because I can't even spell the word genius. Nailed it that time, though. I'm not brilliant. But I love you. And you have to do these things, because I'm the mom. Sure, I'm the mom who feeds you bread made from dough off the floor, but I'm the mom. And I said so. 

On Heartbreak

"Chloe doesn't really even like me" you explain when I ask who you play with at recess. I ask these things because I like to picture you at school. I like to envision who you run with, what you're chasing, if you're a good guy or a bad guy, that kind of thing. We have these kinds of talks driving home from school, mostly when you're sister's asleep back there and we don't have much else to do.

And since this seems out of sorts, I ask, "How do you know?"

"She never laughs at my jokes." you respond, and I have to catch myself, because as much as I love you, you're still working out "punch lines" right now, so I can totally see how this might affect your audience's reaction.

And at first I think I'll just redirect and talk about something else like whether or not you liked the lunch I packed today but when I look in the rearview mirror, something in your eyes makes me hesitate. You're not crying, Sam, but your eyes - they're so sad. And I realize you're experiencing something from which I cannot shield you. You're feeling rejected.

Sam, man, rejection is the worst. To know that someone else in the world sees you and knows you and still doesn't like you is the worst feeling in the world. So, as your mom, I want to ridicule this Chloe-monster. I want to call her a sassy little brat who wouldn't know funny if it pulled her frizzy pig tail. But I don't, because Chloe really is a cool girl at school and she doesn't have frizzy pig tails. She's actually really smart and funny, and so I can see why you'd want her to like you.

"Sam," I respond after a big, deep, mom breath, "What is the very best thing about being you?"

And you don't reply straight away because this is a weird question. You stare down at your hands folded in your lap and you shrug.

"I mean, when are you most happy about being Sam Halpin?" And I over articulate your name like you're a news reporter or a famous musician. And you've still got your head down but I can tell you smirk a bit.

Then your head shoots up and your nose scrunches as you smile and say, "I really am pretty funny."

And I laugh too loudly as you make goofy faces at me in the mirror and then you remind me to "shh!" because Anna is still snoozing away. And we make it through the traffic talking about other things, like Harry Potter and how you wish you had a wicked scar like him.

I'm so glad you still think you're funny, love. Because rejection can make you feel things about yourself that you know, deep down, are untrue. It can make you feel unlovable, unworthy, inadequate.

I will guarantee you rejection in your future - it is inevitable and unavoidable. The beautiful thing about choosing to love others is there are so many lovely people with whom you will choose to do life. And the frightening thing about this is they've got to make the same choice - to choose to do life with you. I'm beginning to realize the greater mystery isn't that we're rejected by one other. Rather, it seems an unlikely mystery to me that it actually happens: people commit to one another. We do it, everyday, and so everyday we're part of a tiny miracle.

When two people decide to get married, when two friends share a commitment of truth and closeness, when a parent chooses to raise a child, all these interactions, all these choices, they are the miracles in our lives.

Right now, you can't imagine that anyone wouldn't choose you. Because you're human, because you have a really great sense of self, and because you can't imagine someone not enjoying that much awesome.

And having someone reject you seems like a stab to the heart - especially from the likes of a Chloe. The Chloe's of the world (in my day, they were Ashley's), they can make you feel like you're just not worthy of time and attention. And if you listen to them, if you choose to trade what you know for how you feel, you might agree with them. And you might forget that you are chosen, everyday, by so many people who adore you.

And we don't just think you're funny. We think you're hilarious. And kind. And hard working. And creative. And so many, many other things.

The rejection (and the Chloe's and the Ashley's) will always be out there. But love? It'll always be out there, too. So my dear, in moments of like these, when someone doesn't choose you, know this:

We see you.

We know you.

We love you.