Moments in Montclair: The Land of Docken Part 1

 

When I turned seven I was informed by adults of all sorts that I was now the Age of Reason.  Supposedly, I could discern right from wrong. I took this very seriously and thought through the morality involved in everything.  Rules became complicated, reasons for decisions became layered, black and white became gray.

My parents were patient and talked important things through with me, the reasons why we needed clean rooms, why green beans were more important than jelly beans, why David’s bed time was nine o’clock and mine was seven-thirty.  Generally, I found peace with all of these decisions. But there was one reason that I could not come to terms with:  the reason why Mrs. Docken was employed as the second grade teacher at school.

The night before second grade began, I lined up my extensive collection of holy statues and prayer cards on my bed side table in the shape of a cross. I laid in bed with my glow-in-the-dark rosary and prayed as hard as I could that I would be placed in 2-A the next morning. I longed to be among the chosen who would spend their year with Miss Faith Daley.  Not only was her name a fitting Catholic teacher name, she was perfect. And lovely. And soft-spoken.

In the weak morning light, I donned my plaid jumper, smoothed my blonde hair into place with matching blue plastic barrettes, and climbed into our white station wagon with my three older brothers and traveled the short distance to school in a mild panic. David, Timmy and Todd all joked about my upcoming incarceration to 2-B. They had all traveled through the land of Mrs. Docken, why shouldn’t I? I had heard the stories ad nauseam over the years, how she made Todd sit in the waste can one afternoon, how Timmy had to stand with his nose to the black board. How she would ask her students to tattle on older boys who had bullied them at lunchtime and then send for them to be yelled out in front of the room. But surely, my brothers hadn’t bothered to pray so fervently in their rooms the night before the school year began.

We arrived at Immaculate Conception Elementary and my brothers dispersed in a burst of jagged laughter. I took my mother’s hand and walked, with my new book bag, past first grade to the end of the hall where the two second grade classrooms sat on either side. The class lists were typed on crisp white paper taped to each door.

A happy gaggle of smiling faces stood in a straight line outside of 2-A. Surely I would be among them.  We walked over and scanned the list.  I took my chubby index finger and pointed to each name listed in alphabetical order…  Anderson, Billings, Carson… and so on until I got to the H’s.  What??   No H’s???  I looked into my mother’s horrified face and then together we looked across the hallway to a quivering pack of students with glazed eyes and knocking knees.

The bell rang as I took my place at the end of the line outside of 2-B.  The door swung open and there she stood, a mighty block of woman in black orthopedic shoes and a patterned dress the mottled colors of a bruise.

“Straighten that line!” she bellowed. “You’re in second grade now. Act like it.”

I glanced over my shoulder at my mother’s grimace and returned her final wave. Off we shuffled in absolute silence to The Land of Docken.

Valentine’s Day

To my Valentine, my husband, my partner in crime. I love you!

(I know this is a bit long for a blog post, but if you are married, or have been,  you just might enjoy the ride )

Valentine’s Day

I placed a hesitant hand on the smooth metal door handle of the Hallmark store and pulled it open to the sound of tinkling bells. Ruby hearts hanging from the door jamb brushed the top of my head as I stepped inside and headed for the Valentine section, an explosion of pinks and reds.  Crowded with last minute lovers like myself, we had to jockey for position as we searched for the perfect card.  Studying people’s expressions with secretive sideways glances, I longed to hear the running commentary inside their heads.

I have always been a last minute Valentine shopper because I dread it.  I can only bring myself to buy something simple that says “I love you’.  All of the other cards in the store are stupid.  With every card I read, I have to add one more sarcastic sentence in my mind.  Or at the very least, a clarifier. I can’t leave it alone.  It’s very stressful.

After a quarter of a century of marriage few of them ring true.  Can we all please admit that many of these sentiments are, at the very least, stretching the imagination? I have long considered designing a line of Valentine cards that are grouped according to the number of years you have been married.

I long for little ditties like this:

Loving each other has been a long, hard road, but I still think you are cute.

Or:

Can’t wait to celebrate our love at Donovan’s Steak house because we got a $150.00 coupon from your client.

Or:

Let’s stay up past 9:00 PM and make out for eight minutes straight.

Love is damn tricky.  An enigma.  So much has been written about it that I dare not add to the rubble.  But if I had to, if Cupid put a gun to my head, I wouldn’t waste time composing an essay as it would never capture the layers, the nuances. I would take a thousand noble words and nestle them in pairs with their less than noble opposites. Then I would shake them in my cupped hands like dice and toss the whole collection off of Juliet’s balcony and watch them scatter and bounce on the cobblestone streets of Verona until they landed in a mish-mash mural of the language of love. Maybe I would even take a photo of it and sell it to Hallmark for next year’s selection.

“Excuse me,” I said to a young woman with a sparkly diamond ring. She smelled of lavender and caressed a card like it held the whereabouts of the Holy Grail.  “Just reaching for this one.” I grabbed one depicting a romantic table set for two. It unearthed a memory.

My husband and I became engaged at Papa Pirozki’s in Atlanta on the anniversary of Pearl Harbor.  Who chooses to propose to his bride in a Russian restaurant on December 7^th?  Looking back, I think he had a subconscious yearning to personalize the Cold War, to plant it as a seed in our relationship.  Though the rest of the world was evolving beyond such ideology, it was apparent that he was some sort of fan.

I hadn’t expected it to be a night unlike all other nights as we were rekindling a relationship that had been on a long hiatus. Neither of us expected the marriage proposal to play out the way it did.  But maybe that was a good thing.  Perhaps it’s the couples who do everything according to the Prince and Princess Handbook who don’t survive when the magic wears thin.  In retrospect, I think it was better to start this union with our gloves on, in a boxer’s stance. One needs to understand strategy and battle maneuvers. It is vital to appreciate humor and build camaraderie in the unexpected foxhole. These are the necessary skills that keep a marriage alive.  Flowers and chocolate are useless.

I remember sitting alone enjoying the candlelight and crystal that adorned our table for two as I held a thumb-sized glass of fruited vodka, icy and thick with raspberries. I loved the way the color matched my fingernails, the stark contrast of them against the white linens reminded me of the raspberry and cream popsicles I ate as a child. Feeling relaxed and elegant I took tiny sips as I gazed around, nodding to other couples nearby who were beginning to notice that my date had disappeared.  I wondered what was taking him so long as he had excused himself to go chat up the chef, whom he said was an acquaintance.

A black door to the kitchen swung open and Tim burst back into the room, all smiles.  At 6’8” he wasn’t known for quiet entrances.

“Ivan’s going to send out a few freebies.  Said he’d take care of us.” Tim plopped into his chair and smoothed his blonde hair into place.  He downed his fruity vodka like it was Kool-aide and motioned for the waiter to bring us another round of drinks.

“Great,” I said picturing all sorts of exotic Russian delights appearing on plates that were once served to the Romanovs.  “So how do you know this guy?”

“Met him at a radio event.  He’s from uhm,” Tim snapped his long fingers as he recalled the information, “Moscow.  Yea, that’s it.  Moscow.”

“What was the event?”

“Does it matter?”

“No.”

“So what’s with all the questions?”

“It was only one question. Why are you getting agitated?”

“I’m not agitated.” He picked up the second fruity vodka and downed it. “Would you finish your first drink already?”

“Fine.”  I threw it back like a pro.  Then I picked up the second one and saluted him.  “Let’s just relax and enjoy this. We only have two days before I fly back. I missed you.”  He took a deep breath and exhaled through flared nostrils.  I put my hand over his drumming fingers.  Something was up. “Are you okay?” I asked.

A young waiter with Ricky Riccardo hair swooped over, handed us menus and then gave a run-down of the night’s specials.  We each chose an entrée and Tim asked for another round of drinks.

“Tim. Maybe we should slow down on the drinks.”

“No.”

“Fine.”  What was wrong with him ?  It seemed as if he had left his usual joking demeanor in the kitchen with Ivan. I threw back my second drink in one gulp and choked daintily into my napkin.  We could take a cab home.

“So how are things at the airline?” Tim asked as he took a piece of bread from a silver bowl.  Thrilled to have some normal conversation, I started into an elaborate story about a new dad who tried to change his baby’s diaper on a fold down, jump seat. As I got to the part where the dad laid the baby on her back while he held the jump seat down with his knee, Ricky Riccardo came back and placed a small salad in front of me.

“Zees is from Ivan,” he announced as he stood back from the table.

I nodded to him and smiled.  “Thank you.”

“No problem.”  He beamed as he retreated to the water station.

It was ugliest, driest looking salad I had ever seen so I pushed it to the side as I continued my story.  Tim stared at the salad and then back at me.  “That’s your salad,” he said.

“There’s no dressing. And what is this stuff?  It’s not even lettuce.  It’s cabbage or who knows what?”

“Have some salad.”  His voice held an edge.

“I don’t want the salad.”  I calmly stated, the words evenly spaced and heavy on my tongue.

“Eat the salad,” he whispered through clenched teeth. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow. I gave him my most powerful defiant stare.

“Eat – the – damned – salad.”

“Fine.” I pulled the salad over and started to pick at it with my fork suddenly feeling other people’s eyes upon me.  I looked around and noticed them, whispering in hushed tones.

“What is up with you?” I could barely conceal by growing rage. “I thought we were going to have fun.”  Blood was pumping through my veins, banging in my ears.  I took a bite of one of the bitter greens and held up my fork as I chewed it. “This is disgusting. I thought Ivan was your friend.”

Then I saw it.  A velvet box of midnight blue half hidden under shreds of carrot and radicchio.  Panic gripped me like a giant hand and squeezed tight. No, no, no.  I did not want this to happen here. This was not what I had choreographed in my ten-year-old heart as I picked at my chenille bedspread on sleepless nights.  I could see our waiter going from table to table alerting the others to our impending moment.

“Honey,”   Tim leaned on his elbows and bore into me with blinking eyes, “Stop blinking your eyes like that. Take the box out of the salad.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Open the box, Susan.”

“People are staring.”  I attempted another defiant stare but it was difficult to pull off with tears plopping onto the table.

“Open – the – damn – box.”

Though I don’t remember willing them to do so, my shaking fingers pushed away the vegetables and picked up the small velvet cube.  All eyes in the restaurant were on us.  I opened the box and a diamond solitaire caught the candlelight.  I looked up at Tim and stared as his lips moved without sound.  I glanced at the staring eyes to the left and then I glanced at the staring eyes to the right, distorted faces like funhouse mirrors.

“Well?” Tim asked with a face so vulnerable and earnest that I suddenly couldn’t imagine a life without him. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes.”

The room ruptured into cheers as Tim handed me a third vodka and held up his.  And we burst into laughter, toasted each other and cheered along with them.

The whole experience did not play out the way either of us had imagined.  It was not the traditional down on one knee sort of proposal on the beach at sunset, nor was the ring magically unveiled on a covered silver dish as he had hoped.  It was clumsy, unexpected, and filled with nervous emotion on both sides. It was real and heartfelt and awkwardly expressed the way marriage often looks on a daily basis. In retrospect it was the perfect engagement.

“Must be a funny card,” Ms. I Smell Like Lavender commented as I giggled to myself.

“Just brought back some memories,” I sighed as I put the card back in its place, “But it’s not the one I’m going to buy.”

“I think I’m going to get this one,” she confided as she held up a photo of a sunrise on which was printed ‘Every sunrise means another day of loving you’.

I forced myself not to add a sardonic comment and ruin her choice.

She opened the card and pointed to a wall of poetry five inches long. “This poem says it all for me.”

“How many years?”

“One.  Well almost,” she said with a shy smile.  “You?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Wow.  So, what’s the secret?  What have you learned?”

I plucked a simple white card with a simple red heart and opened it for her to see. “This is the card I get for him every year.  Because after awhile, you learn that these are the only three words that matter.”

A Mother’s Silhouette

To all of our mothers.  Thank you for your love~

 

A Mother’s Silhouette

I awoke for a moment in late afternoon, the hospital room spare and efficient.   I looked over and saw my mother sitting with a rosary in her hand, a cool dark silhouette before a window fiercely illuminated by the hot desert sun.

“You don’t have to talk,” she said noticing I was stirring. “I’m just going to sit here.”

Thank you.  It’s exactly what I needed.  An immense, familiar peace filled me, her profile eliciting early memories as I continued to drift in and out of sleep, my body ridding itself of the anesthesia from an early morning surgery.

I dreamed of sitting tall beside her as she drove the white station wagon with two sure hands on the wheel down bright summer streets, and squinting up from my canvas raft to see that she still sat in the striped beach chair in case I needed her to rescue me from the crashing waves.   Then I was suddenly spinning on the old brown naugahyde covered stool in the kitchen as she prepared dinner, her black wavy hair in sharp contrast to the fading glare of a snowy afternoon through windows over the kitchen sink.  I felt the weight of her as she perched on the edge of my bed saying prayers with me, the hall light streaming behind her into my room cloaked in night. Her slight frame in the living room window as I pulled up to the house in an old blue Ford with my first boyfriend.

All of these memories, backlit, glowing.  A mother’s silhouette.  Anchoring, soothing, solid.  As an adult, going about the daily routines, I had forgotten about the calming, restorative effect of having my mother simply sit in my presence.  I looked to her as I always have.  My mirror, my friend, my ever present reminder-er that my hair cut is all wrong and my weight is too low.  All these years she has been the constant in my life.  Now sneaking around the edges of my heart is the knowledge that she will someday be gone.  It is an unbearable knowing. Where will she be when I need her?  Who will be backlit for me then?

The ability to have children may end, but mothering endures.  It is a singular and beautiful calling to become the silhouette to God’s light here on this earth.   In this room, helpless and still, I saw clearly that my position in the chain of motherhood would remain unchanged.  A child doesn’t stop needing his or her mother simply because he or she is turning fifty, and a mother’s instinct to love her children never ends.

My thoughts turned to my son and daughter, young adults trying to find their way and make sense of their circumstances.  I wonder if my silhouette holds the same power. If I was there when they needed to peer from their own darkness and look toward the light. If I understood when they were young that love shines brightest during the simple moments of mothering that become so routine that we perform them without thought.  I look forward with a new understanding to the many years I have left  with them.  Even if that means just sitting in a chair in a shadowy room by a sunny window, a chance to remind them of the immense, familiar peace of a mother’s love in this often harsh world.

I awakened again, my head pounding.  She was there in a second with ice chips and a cool cloth.

“Do you want me to turn off the ceiling light?” she asked as she leaned over me.

“No, leave it on,” I replied adding one more image to my my treasure box of silhouettes.

Sheets smoothed, pillows adjusted she stood searching for some other detail to attend.

“Thanks, Mom.” I said as I felt the tug of sleep once more.

“I’ll just sit over here,” she whispered. “You don’t have to talk.”

Ben’s Bells and the Power of Kindess

~Deliberately seek opportunities for kindness, sympathy, and patience.
Evelyn Underhill

This morning I had the priviledge of participating in the “belling” of Phoenix.  All over the valley, volunteers hung Ben’s Bells to spread the message of kindness and remind us of its power to soothe broken lives, create hope, and affect positive change.

My friend, Diane, and I were entrusted with twenty hand-made bells, twenty pieces of wire, and a rough hewn map on a blue index card. As we walked to the car, I carried this bundle with reverence for it wasn’t just an old grocery bag crammed with ceramic  flowers and bells, this was a bag filled with hope. And hope is the most powerful force on the the planet.

We drove carefully to our designated area and began to choose unlikely spots: a tree in a parking lot, a vacant playground, a bench along a bike path.  We understood that our role was to deliver the kindness, and it would be someone else’s to receive it.  With each bell that we tied to a random location, we knew that it would become a bridge to hope to the person meant to find it.  Each bell would become a chapter in a story of healing.

When I returned home, I began to check the Ben’s Bells webpage where people will often post their story about finding a bell, or how a bell found them in a dark moment of their day.  A few of the stories were about bells Diane and I had placed. The circle of kindess complete.

Here are a few of the stories:

Jackie writes…

Thank you for restoring my faith in… well, faith. I have been feeling so alone since losing my husband to cancer last year and now raising three boys. Some days are just so long and hard and on this night I was rushing to my son’s baseball game after working a 12 hour day. I parked the car and as I walked past a tree on the jogging path, I caught a glimpse of a yellow flower hanging beautifully from a tree. I remembered reading about Ben’s Bell’s a while back and wondered if maybe I had found one. As I read the card and happily untied it, I felt such a connection to the heavens. Someone was watching over me! I truly felt that this daisy bell (my favorite flower) was put in my path for a reason. Thank you Ben’s family for making my heart lighter and putting a spring in my step. I will be sure to spread the kindness in honor of Ben (and Bill.) My husbanded loved Tucson dearly, but ironically the bell found its way to me in Scottsdale.

aurelia b writes…

Today I woke up missing my daughter, Violet. She died almost five years ago. As I often do on days that I feel a bit more overwhelmed and unsure. I performed my own random act of kindness this morning in honor of my daughter. My day was long and griefy. I got home and my boyfriend(Violet’s dad) gave me Ben’s Bell. Someone had left it in a tree near his truck. It was just what my soul needed. Thank you for allowing me to know your son and be a part of this kindness.

Julie writes…

I found myself having somewhat of a stressful day today at work (I am a RN in Phoenix) so I decided to head out and get away during lunchtime. I caught a glimpse of something colorful hanging in a tree by my car–a beautiful Ben’s Bell. I read the tag attached and later looked up the website. I was so moved by this project, especially the story behind it, as I, too, have lost a child. It’s almost as if the bell found me instead of me finding the bell. I immediately knew where this bell would hang – 9 years ago we had planted a gorgeous, flower blooming tree in our backyard to honor our son Trey’s memory and it would be perfect for this bell! So after work today I told my family about this bell and tonight we hung it on a branch. Thank you a million times for making me smile today and reminding me that kindness does go a long way.

Jeannette and Dean, Ben’s parents and the founders of Ben’s Bells tell the story of their son and the meaning behind the bells.  Please take a moment to read about it here.

Our simple acts of kindness to strangers as we go about our days are as important as those shown to our loved ones. As you travel through life remember that your choice to be kind will light a dark day for another.

Peace and Kindness to you~

 

Wabi Sabi Love

Wabi Sabi

In 1987 my husband, Tim, and I won a trip for two to Japan. It was our first real adventure together, two young kids, just married, off to see the other side of the world. West meeting East on an unexpected first date.

We landed in Tokyo, bought two tickets for the Bullet Train and raced at top speed into the past, discovering an ancient culture that spoke deeply to the places within me that my Western soul had yet to discover.

Now, years later, when I lie awake on sleepless nights, I sometimes travel back there in my mind remembering the moments and characters that illuminated that adventure: an elderly man in a sedge hat, his back bent with the weight of time sweeping the already clean path to a temple in Kyoto; a cab driver with white gloves driving us up a steep hill to an address we pointed to in a travel book; the sand dunes piled high against the Sea of Japan; millions of peace prayers written on tiny origami cranes strung together in strips along the narrow streets of Hiroshima like giant paper Man o’ War floating to heaven.

One night, as Tim and I sat in a tiny bar in some tiny village, we struck up a conversation with a khaki clad man on the stool beside us. His English was impeccable and he turned out to be Jordan’s ambassador to Japan. I don’t remember his face but I remember the conversation. He spoke to us for hours, revealing the beauty and culture of the Japanese, comparing and contrasting Eastern and Western philosophy. It was a brilliant evening in a brilliant setting. One of those points in time that I look back upon and realize that it wasn’t chance. It was a moment of grace. A moment of revelation. A seed.

One of the philosophies of which he spoke was Wabi Sabi.  The name made us giggle, or perhaps that was the sake we drank from tiny cups, but I took in its wisdom and chewed on its power. Though more complicated than I can explain, Wabi Sabi is the art of finding beauty in imperfection. It is an aesthetic ideal that results in an inner serenity and acceptance. It can be life changing. How interesting that twenty years later I would be invited to share our love story in Arielle Ford’s newest book, Wabi Sabi Love: The Ancient Art of Finding Perfect Love in Imperfect Relationships.

Arielle Ford, a pioneer and leading figure in the personal growth and contemporary spirituality movement and the bestselling author of The Soulmate Secret has written a powerful and hopeful book. She believes that with a simple Wabi Sabi shift in perception, couples can discover the beauty and perfection in themselves and their partners leading to a deeper, more loving and fulfilling relationship.

As Deepak Chopra deems “Wabi Sabi Love weds ancient wisdom and modern concerns to create the formula for a sustainable, loving relationship for years to come.”

Sometimes, a shift of the lens through which we view our relationships and our circumstances can alter our relationships in unimaginable ways.  My husband of twenty-six years and I can attest to that!  Don’t miss this path to deeper love~

A Letter to My Son Upon Graduation

A letter to my son upon his high school graduation. So proud of him!

Dear Matthew,

Love is not easy to put into words, especially a mother’s love, the depth of which is unfathomable.

When I look at you now, tall and strong, I don’t just see an eighteen-year-old man, I see you in all of your life’s stages at once.  I see you as a newborn in my arms in the shadows of midnight, a blur of blonde hair racing down the stairs in Barney pajamas on Christmas morning, the navy shorts and pressed white shirt of a first grader not sure why he has to go to school, the tender realization in your eight-year-old blue eyes that stealing the puck was okay in roller hockey. (Who knew that sharing with others didn’t apply in sports?)

I remember the white pooka beads and Hawaiian shirts that heralded the onset of middle school, basketball and volleyball uniforms, a well-worn back pack and a handful of snacks on trains through Europe,  the royal blue gown of an 8th grade graduate, the proud captain of your high school volleyball team, and now, a man.

As much as a mother raises her son, so does a son raise his mother.  You have taught me many things as I have watched you grow.  From you I have learned the power of a tender heart as I have witnessed your quiet kindness to others all of your life. (Though there was that rough patch when you were three and almost asked to leave Debbie’s Daycare when you knocked over the boy who kept stealing your matchbox cars )  Your teachers throughout grade school always remarked about your concern for the feelings of other children. You attract friends wherever you go, and you are loyal to them.

You taught me how to find joy in the moment. You have the gift of turning the mundane into amusement.  You see subtext and comic irony in the world around you. Your wry humor is a constant source of delight that lightens our days.  It reminds us to relax and not take everything so seriously. I will miss this tremendously when you go to college. Who will alert me to the new, must see, You tube videos?

And you taught me about courage.  Our family life has been marked by transition, and you have endured many relocations from a young age.  In your 18 years you have had seven homes and attended five schools.  Change has been constant.  Anyone who has moved knows that it is never without trial.   You have navigated these changes with elegance, courage, acceptance, and again humor, when all else failed.  It has been remarkable to watch.  You are stronger than you know.

You have a natural tenacity and ability to accept life as it unfolds.  This is a skill that will serve you well in the years to come, because life is about transformation, a decades long process of becoming. There are chapters, but no destinations. And if you are able to visualize each stage as having a beginning, middle, and end  it will be easier to recognize God’s plan for you as He chooses to reveal it.  His plan is rarely the same one that we envision for ourselves, so, in the years to come, as you are surprised or sidelined unexpectedly or sent in directions unanticipated, remember that it is unfolding as it should be.  That’s when you will appreciate your already sharpened abilities to navigate change.

Each chapter has a specific lesson that God, in His all knowing wisdom, sees that you must learn. Painful chapters draw us near to Him, and joyful chapters illuminate the glory and wonder of our world. Both are important.

Matt, I love you. You are the son that every mother dreams of having. I could not be more thankful for you and proud of the man you have become.  Your character and integrity are important to you.  You are finding your voice and moving forward in positions of leadership.  God will rely on you to use that leadership to model the qualities of a good, honest and loving man.  You have been blessed with height and people will have to look up to you during your lifetime, the important thing is to make them want to.

A faith journey is a daily one.  It is vital to see our moral choices, both grave and not, as turning points.  Your choices will lead you closer to God or further from Him.  Lead you down a path toward a peaceful heart or a troubled one.  No choice is made in secret as God is always with you.  Choose wisely and you will live without regret, because real and lasting happiness has nothing to do with material possessions, it is a result of living your values, even when it is difficult. Even when choosing to stand for what is right means that you will lose friends or perhaps a job/position.

This gift of clear sightedness, to recognize the path that supports your values is the prayer that I will pray for you every day as you move forward into the world. Sometimes it is not so easy to discern.  We live in a world that rewards bad behavior in order to boost media ratings. A world that teaches athletes and leaders that there is some private permission to behave immorally because of their position. The temptations that come with success are real. The fallout of those lifestyles ruin families and deeply scar those closest to them. The most powerful leaders, the ones who affect real change, are the ones who choose to lead their families in the ways of love that strengthen the home and thus the community.

Senior year is a year of letting go, when motherhood becomes a complicated mixture of pushing you forward and holding you back. Every day I cry a few tears as I get used to the idea of your moving on from our home, but at the same time, I am so excited for you to embrace this next phase of life.  Have fun, work hard, and enjoy every single day.

I am in your corner, your loudest cheerleader, and proudest Mother at Brophy College Prep  ~ Love, Mom

(Posted with permission!)