A love letter to my daughter, before she is born

My dearest daughter, my sweet Maggie, my last baby,

Right now, I hold you safe, nestled under my heart, where you are patiently waiting for some secret signal that will let you know it's time to meet the people in this world who are already so madly in love with you, face to face.

(Either that, or mama is having you officially evacuated on May 25th. Your choice, sweetheart.)

I have spent the past six years dreaming about you, and the past nine months in awe as you formed into reality. I know the biology, but love, when it is happening, it always feels like magic, pure and simple. And after six long years, and nine short months, I will be holding you in a matter of days, and even as I write this, my heart beats faster at the thought, and I cry.

Your brother calls you "darling," and your daddy? I fear he is already a lost cause, fallen at your feet before he even sees you.

I've thought a lot about what it will be like, raising a girl. How I should handle that. What I will tell you. But there's really no planning in parenting, and I know that how we raise you will depend a lot upon who you are, what kind of girl you grow to be...what kind of human you become.

And I realize that, although I dream of you, I cannot and will not dream for you. Your dreams, like your heart, will be your own.

We do want you to have values. We want you to always be true, and genuine, and remember those less fortunate than you. We want you to love others and to love yourself, because what we want for you, our daughter, our only girl, is for you to grow into the woman God intended you to be. We want you to find your voice, your own voice, but we want you to use it for your purpose, not ours.

I want whatever you do to ring with authenticity and purpose, whether that purpose seems grand or seems small. Because if it matters to you, it matters to us.

If you are born to lead, we will cheer you on, and if you tend towards serving, we will help you find an outlet for that, too. If you are born to teach, we will love your confidence. If you are born to learn, like your brother, we will stand in awe of your curiosity - and hope that, even as you learn the science you leave room for the magic, too, because there is room for both. If you are, like your daddy, a born warrior, we will embrace your determination and strength, and if, like your mama, you are made to nurture, we will praise your heart - and help you learn to protect it as well as we can.

And if you are born to breathe fire, my love, we will celebrate your fierce spirit and watch as you set the world ablaze.

But no matter what, wherever you go, whomever you become, you will always be greeted with open arms and parents who will always welcome you home, where you will always be loved, just for being.

Also, no hurry...but you can come at any time. We are ready.

Sort of.

Love,

Mama

To Our Son, While You Are Still Our One And Only

Our sweet boy,

Mama and Daddy are counting off the days until your sister gets here...and at the same time, we are savoring the time we have left with you, while you are still the whole entirety of our universe. We are trying our best to cut out the "not now!" and the "hold on!" as if those sayings are part of a reservoir we may need to draw from later...because I know we will need to draw on it later.

But first, thank you.

You were the one who made me a mama. It was you that first laid in my womb, snug under my heart, and then later, laid on my chest, but still, snug, under my heart and always in my heart. I was scared, and clumsy, and clueless...

...I still often am.

And you made Daddy into the man he is. The first time he held you in his strong arms, those arms grew even stronger, and somehow more tender, and he turned to me, and said, "He's so perfect, honey, you did such a good job, we have a perfect boy," in a voice choked with emotion.

And we do.

And although we have made a lot of mistakes - God knows we have - we know that we've managed to succeed in one area. You are confident in the love we have for you. When we first told you that you would be a big brother, you asked me if I would grow a second heart, for the second baby, because you were so certain that you occupied all of the one that I have.

And you are right.

But my heart will remain singular, as will Daddy's. So let Mama explain something to you.

A parent's love is elastic, and grows rather than shifts. I need you to understand that, especially once Sister gets here, and it seems as though she may have more of our attention.

And it will seem that way because she will have more of Mama's time at first, my sweet boy, and that's just a fact. Newborns are messy and needy, and she will keep me busy. She will have more of my time, but she will not have more of our hearts.

It's important to us that you know that.

We are so excited to see you become a big brother. The love you show for your sister even now, before she is born, delights us. You've been wondering how to convert the house to solar power since Christmas, worried that she may want to play with cords. You've asked that Daddy remove all magnets from the house, since they are such bad choking hazards.

You've also threatened to lasso her if she gets "too sassy" with you, but I suppose some of that is to be expected.

And so, in these last weeks, when it's still just us, we want you to know something else.

We would have never been brave enough to do this again, if it weren't for our love for you. The pregnancy, the delivery, the breastfeeding and sore boobs and sleepless nights and the worry, my goodness, the worry...the late nights and early mornings and the midnight ER runs because of fevers, the strict adherence to a nap schedule because of a tiny tyrant and the fount of projectile vomiting little ones have a habit of morphing into at 3 a.m. We couldn't do the agony of scraped knees and lost teeth and the first time a child comes home with hurt feelings...

And this time, we can't claim ignorance. We actually know what we're getting ourselves into.

But we know that all of that, all of it, is nothing compared to that first, wide-mouthed, gummy kiss. Or chubby arms outstretched from the floor, asking to  be held. Or the first time she will say "Mama..." Did I ever tell you about the first time you said it? I remember it so clearly because, you see, my heart stopped.

These last seven years are an endless string of those heart-stopping moments. Moments that made our breath catch, moments where we laughed until we cried. There has been 7 years of dancing in the kitchen and blowing bubbles on the deck, of bubble baths that ended in tidal waves and watching your perfect face as you sleep.

Some nights, your daddy and I lay together, holding hands, and we ask, "What's your favorite thing that he is doing right now?"

There has been seven years of you, son. You came along and made us a family. We need you to remember that. You delight our very souls.

You've made us brave enough to do it all again, because when we look at you, our own sweet boy, we know it's all worth it.

Thank you.

With all of our love, from our singular but growing hearts,

Mama and Daddy

To The Mama Who Decided To Medicate...Or Not

I know.

I didn't used to know, of course. I used to be one of those smug, privileged moms who could shake my head sadly, cluck in faux sympathy and wisdom, and say, "We over-medicate our children." (See how I said 'we' and 'our'? That's to take the some of the sting out of it...but not all of it. No. Because my child was certainly not in those numbers.)

But I know now.

I know you've done it all. You've gathered up all the courage in your sore, sad heart and taken your precious little one to the doctor and have spit out the words, dry as cotton, hard as lead: "I am concerned."

And you have followed up on that concern. I know you have. And when the concern is finally pinpointed, when you've learned to shrug off all the smug "Why do we label our children?"-ers (I was also one of those) and "Well, he/she doesn't seem XYZ to me"-ers and go for what you need in order to help your child, I know you've followed up on that, too. With therapies. And books. And more books. And more therapies. And school meetings. And support plans.

I know all of that.

I know, too, that it's been a journey both joyous and grieved. I know you have watched your child's hard-earned progress, celebrated that...only to realize that while your sweet one has finally mastered a skill or a lesson, his or her classmates have continued to progress, too, and are light years ahead, and suddenly, and again, that gap seems insurmountable.

I know the joyous text you send to your husband, your mom, your whomever (and Lord, I hope you have a whomever) because your child performed some life skill or made some new connection and you are amazed and excited and know that person will be, too.

I also know the 3 a.m. Googling and the harsh bark of a sob that comes unexpectedly when you watch the small, straight, brave back of your child as he gets on the school bus because that courage - where did he get that?

I know what it feels like, to remember that this is not "just a phase" or a stage your child will outgrow, and to be reminded that all the support and therapy in the world will still not make this world easy for him. And that, in many ways, the older he or she gets, the more apparent his or her differences may get, and it doesn't seem fair.

And I know what it's like to spend years working with the same doctors, the same therapists, and to trust them. And what it is like to realize you have insight and instinct, too, and although you don't have any fancy letters behind your name, you are an expert on your child, and your input is valuable. I know how empowering that can be, and scary, too - especially the first time you look one of those trusted, valued, respected doctors in the eye and say, calmly, "No. I don't agree with that."

And finally, I know what it's like for one of those trusted, valued, respected doctors to look you in the eye and say, "We need to consider medication."

I know you were expecting it. I also know it hit you in the pit of your stomach and the center of your being.

You weren't excited. You weren't throwing up your arms and saying, "FINALLY! I HAVE WANTED TO MEDICATE THIS CHILD OF MY HEART FOR YEEEEEEEARS!" You didn't think it was a magic fix-all, or that it could replace the hours of therapy, or the days and nights filled with that hard-hewed patience that you've learned even though "patience" was never before in your nature.

You didn't once sigh with relief and think, "Good. My job here is done."

Instead, you shook with the enormity of the decision. You listened to both the pros and the cons. You discussed it with your partner, if you are lucky enough to have one, and the other caregivers in your child's life...but you didn't discuss it with anyone else. Because you know that you would be flooded with the faux concern, the smug "Medication isn't always the answer" moms, the moms who are suddenly full of homeopathic remedies and suggestions of more activity - the moms whose children are neurotypical and progressing well and the women who don't have children at all but still have all the answers, and the moms whose children have children of their own and like to remind you that things like autism didn't exist back in their day.

I know about the flood of judgement. And I know you don't need it.

What I don't know is what you've decided to do. I don't know whether you decided to medicate or not. And I don't need to know.

Because I know whatever decision you made, you made because it was the best one for your child.

So keep it up. You are doing fine.

I know you are, even when it feels like you aren't.

My Annual Before School Freak Out...You're Welcome.

We bought Junior's school supplies on Friday.

I have such a love/hate relationship with back-to-school shopping. I love it because there's just something so satisfying about buying that brand new box of Crayola crayons (or 3) and the pre-sharpened #2 pencils and the new raincoat because this year, he has to walk to the bus stop. But I hate it, too, because here we are again, my baby is not a baby and each year as I cheer him on towards manhood, he inevitably leaves his babyhood further and further behind.

Guys, sometimes I think I am not cut out for this parenting gig. Like, my heart is simply not flexible enough for all the stretching with pride and love and all the quick contracting with fear and sorrow that comes with mothering.

He's going into first grade this year. He weighs 50 pounds now and has lost two teeth and can cast his own fishing pole and bait his own hook but dear Lord, I bought  him pants that snap this year and I hope he can handle it but I am just not sure. Snaps are hard and I still have to cry out to him, "Please, son, keep your pants on until you are in the bathroom!" to prevent him from running through public places with his britches at half-mast.

I only cried once while getting his school supplies this year. I ducked into the aisle with the protein powders, my chest tight and painful, knowing  how absurd I must look, snuffling over the composition notebook with kittens on it that he picked out. My son, though, he's so used to his mom being absurd, and he's totally casual about it as he asks me if this is a good cry or a bad cry, bless him.

"Oh," I say, but it sounds more like I've been punched, because it hurts to breathe and I really do not want to completely blow what little cool I have, hidden in an aisle at Walmart. But I don't even know if it's a good cry or a bad cry.

Will his teacher be patient? Will she be kind? Will she be a she? Can Junior handle a he if she is a he? Will he be in class with that one kid who tried to pull the teeth out of his head last year? Will his teacher read his plan? Will she implement it? Will he be teased more this year? Will his teacher recognize his struggles, which are many, and meet them head-on, while also celebrating his strengths, which are also many?

And did I do enough this summer? We practiced what occupational therapist recommended, even as Junior threatened to "have Miss Bev arrested" but probably I didn't do it enough. It's never enough. We read out loud, a million books, but still, I didn't push him to sound words out, I'm not a good pusher, I should push more - is there still time left to push? Has he lost skills? Even typical children lose skills over the summer, but it takes him longer to regain them, and how do I even measure that, and he recognizes the words Texas, Atlantic, Pacific, Virginia, ocean, Italy, New Mexico, Lake Victoria, Missouri, Kansas, Nebraska...but we still cannot handle the sight words. The sight words make him cry, and while I was excited that he was willing to write out river and septic pond and reservoir, doing his letters top-to-bottom as I reminded him, again and again, but now I think I should have buckled down more for the both of us and pushed the, them, they, fun, play and it, but I'm not good at pushing. Have I mentioned that?

This was the summer that his imagination seemed to take off, and his days were filled with the type of play I have never seen from him before. "I want to be a police officer!" and so he has been a police officer and I have spent untold hours looking for the police badge he loses every single day. "I want to be a kitty!" and so I have taped a thousand black paper triangles to a black headband. He has drawn people with features and fingers and that is huge. He painted and he did clay and he built rivers and drew maps and really, when you look at it that way, he learned a lot!

The knot in my chest eases some and I look at him and give myself a mental fist bump because non-traditional learning is still learning and we nailed that...right? Maybe? In a way?

But still, we struggle with reading and math skills and I don't think I struck the right balance between indulging him in the direction which his mind naturally and joyfully goes and those things which he needs to learn and I glare at the stupid labels on the stupid protein powders in the stupid aisle in the stupid store and I worry that I have failed him before school even starts because I am so stupid.

"Is it a good cry, or a bad cry?" he asks me, standing there with the gap in his bottom teeth and his sandy blonde hair like a bush around his head because he needs a haircut but we are putting it off until a few days before school starts because haircuts are hard. "Which one, Mom?" he says, with the mosquito bites on his skinny brown legs that are impossibly long - when I pick him up now, they dangle at absurd lengths but still, I insist, because I know the day is coming when I won't be able to hoist him onto my hip and I already mourn that, already cry about it, even as I cherish the young boy he is becoming, even as I say, with absolute truth and certainty, that each age is the best age and celebrate it, but because each age is the best age, I miss the age he was, too (except for three. I do not miss three. Three was awful).

But do you see what I mean? The material of my heart isn't stretchy enough for this constant swelling and contraction.

"It's a good cry," I finally eke out, but I don't know. It feels neither good or bad, but simply inevitable.

"It's just a good cry," my son announces, loudly and confidently, to Walmart at large. "My mom is just having a good cry."

I hugged him and kissed the top of his bushy head.

"I knew it was a good cry," he told me. "Because remember? I can read minds, and yours is easy."

And I laugh, because that is what he told me the other day, while "working" in my office with me.

"Mom," he said from my elbow, casually jigging the fat on my arm because kids always grab onto the least attractive part of you, right? "Mom, guess what? I can read minds."

"Oh yeah?" I said. "What am I thinking?"

"That's easy," he said, laughing. "Your mind is so easy for me to read!"

"Well?" I challenged him.

"Your mind just says, 'I love you, Bubby, I love you, Bubby, I love you, Bubby.'"

"You're right!" I said, completely delighted in his confidence.

"Yeah, only you're not supposed to call me Bubby anymore," he reminded me. "I'm Justin."

"Oh, well, my apologies, Justin." I said. "Can you read Daddy's mind?"

"Oh yeah," he said, shrugging casually. "His is easy, too. Same thing, only also 'fishing.'"

So he pretty much nailed that one, too.

The thing is, if I had pushed him harder on sight words and math facts, I'd be mourning the loss of play and the lack of brown on his face from time in the sun. I'd be worried that I burned him out before school even began. Even if I had nailed the absolute perfect balance between work and play, something else would crop up, both valid and absurd. That's the mom life, right? We are simultaneously completely justified and absolutely ridiculous.

I have so many hopes for him this year. I hope he has friends. I hope he learns, and I hope he plays. I hope his teacher is kind and patient, and in turn, I hope he is kind and patient, as well. I hope he remembers to keep his pants on until he gets inside the restroom and I hope he loses no more than 3 lunchboxes and returns all his library books this year.

And most of all, I hope he keeps that confidence, that all the time, every day, his daddy and I are thinking about how much we love him.

Will You Still Love Him When He's Big?

Will you still see him when he's big?

Like any parent, there's a whole stream of stuff that keeps me up at night. School. How many fruits and veggies qualify as enough. Doctor's appointments. Bullies. Whether my kid's tattered sneakers can make it through the summer since I know any new pair I buy will just become mud-encrusted threads before school starts again because have you met him?

But mostly, what keeps me up at night is wondering if you will still love my son when he is big.

Junior still gets a pretty big pass in public, because people still think he's so much younger than what he is -- four is the age that most people guess, although that blows my mind because the child has gotten huge. I used to simply think that people would say, "How old are you? Are you four?" because he was a peanut, but as he hits growth spurt after growth spurt, officially leaving toddler sizes behind and with no end in sight, I have realized that it wasn't his size, because still, people ask, "Are you four? Or are you five?"

"He's six," I say out loud, tacking on the "and-a-half," in my mind, because at this age, six months still makes a difference and I know they think he's younger because of his speech, because of his mannerisms, and because right now, he's still small enough to be, well, small.

But he won't always be little. And I worry.

Will you manage not to laugh or dismiss him when he begins to monotonously repeat the phrase, "I'm a little torso," or counters what you say with, "My muscles are blue," or gags over the texture of something that brushes against him, or misinterprets something you said because he is so literal when he is a gangly, pimples-erupting, braces-wearing, awkward 15-year-old?

Will you still think he's quirky and precious when he's preseverating on a topic at age 17, when other kids his age are dating, and he can't stop obsessing over ocean depths? When other kids are going to concerts and to dances and he's at  home, watching an endless stream of documentaries -- will you still stop to listen to him as he breathlessly tells you every single piece of information he knows about hornets when he's a junior in high school?

Will you still be gentle when he finds himself in a situation that is too stimulating, and he struggles to get his words out because overstimulation causes him to stutter so badly that it renders him nearly inarticulate, when he's 20? Will you have the patience, then, to listen to a grown man try to speak, even when it's clearly painful for him to try, and certainly painful to listen?

Raising Junior has made me so aware of the men and women on the fringes of society. The odd ones. The ones who wear weird clothes but not in a cool way, who mumble to themselves as they shop, who may be stimming in the parking lot, who shuffle rather than walk, who make odd statements apropos of nothing, the ones who are making it on their own, who have their independence...but remain on the edges because we make a wide berth around them. Because they are different.

But because of Junior, I am acutely aware of them. I ask a question - do you know where the soup is? What kind of phone is that? It's really hot today, isn't it?

But what I am saying is, I see you, I see you, I see you.

Because I worry. I worry that, as Junior grows bigger, he may actually grow smaller.

Will you still love him when he is big?

Because a mother's love, while deep, is narrow, and I worry it won't be enough. I know it won't be enough.

That's what keeps me up at night.

On Losing 160 Pounds in 10 Months, or, "Does Your Husband Like Your Surgery?"

No. He hates it. He misses my chins.

It's been 10 months and 3 days since I had gastric bypass (and it's been 10 months and 17 days since the last time I had my ginormous "last" meal - a massive bacon cheeseburger with an egg on it, an order of onion rings, and an order of fried pickles, thank you very much, and I remember every glorious bite) and I've lost about 160 pounds.  (I say "about" because I stopped weighing myself religiously a few months ago when I started to strength train and learned that lifting weights is amazing and awesome but that amazing awesomeness doesn't always reflect in the scale short-term and I kept throwing my scale down in an absolute fury over a half pound gain.)

I've been open about my surgery, because I felt I had to be open in order to be successful.  I know lots of weight loss patients keep it private, and I understand that, as well.  Me, though -- I put my faith in my friends and family, that they would be supportive of my decision and new lifestyle.  And they have been.

Also, as much as being a morbidly obese woman chowing down on a huge plate of delicious food made me feel self-conscious, being a morbidly obese woman eating a mere 2 tablespoons of food per meal (because that's how it was in the beginning) made me feel even more so.  Like, I would fan myself dramatically and say, in a Southern accent, "Why, I've always eaten like a bird! It's how I maintain my slender figure!"

(Fat people are often funny.  We have to be.  It's self-defense.)

So, today, a picture popped up in  my timeline.  It was a picture of my husband and myself, a shot we had snapped (repeatedly, because "Oh my God, look at my double chin in THAT one!") before going to a friend's wedding.  I remember the day so clearly.

I had gone shopping at a plus-size store, and found a dress of stretchy material, in the biggest size the plus-sized store carried.  It fit, thanks to the stretchiness, but, being a specialty store, the price was tremendous...and I called my husband from the parking lot, after I had bought it, to confess what I had spent in case he wanted me to return it.

"No, babe, I'm glad you got it," he said, like he always does when I overspend.

And then I went to Walmart and bought a shrug even though it was June because the dress was sleeveless and my upper arms were reminiscent of Christmas hams.  And then I bought an off-brand Spanx thingie.  And a necklace and heels, because my wardrobe basically consisted of yoga pants in a size 4x and T-shirts in a size 5x, and shoes that I could slip my feet into easily, since bending over and tying laces was a challenge.

I got ready.  I did my makeup and my hair and shaved the wide acreage of my legs.  I maneuvered my body into my cheap Spanx and smoothed my rolls down with Spandex and told myself that the mirror wasn't very flattering and that no one at the wedding would be paying much attention to how I looked, surely.  I'd tell some jokes and my kid would be adorable and maybe I'd have a drink so that I could pretend I wasn't as fat as I knew I really was, deep down, but kept denying.

And my husband ironed his own shirt and shaved the amazing beard he had amassed over the winter and got his haircut and took a shower -- the man version of primping.

But you see, I was getting ready for the wedding, but my husband?  He was getting ready for me.

And since I was all fancied up and looked about as good as I could, I asked my husband to take a selfie of us, and then again, and again, and again, because with each snap, I thought, "Surely that's not how I really look."

And my husband patiently retook the pictures, and then told me how beautiful I looked.  And y'all, he meant it.

He has meant it every time.

He meant it when we first started dating and I was a relatively svelte size 22, and he meant it the day I told him we were going to be parents and my boobs ballooned to massive size overnight and I had to get my wedding dress altered, and he meant it that day, too.  And he meant it the day I gave birth, when I weighed in at 348 pounds and the nurse, completely careless of the fact that I HAD JUST GIVEN BIRTH TO A HUMAN AND WAS A RAGING MASS OF HORMONES suggested I consider gastric bypass.  He meant it when I dropped back down to under 300 (thanks, breastfeeding!) and he meant it when I gained all my weight back and then some (thanks, Sonic!).

He meant it when he took me to the emergency room over a year ago, when I weighed closer to 400 than I did to 300 and couldn't breathe because I had pneumonia and I was a smoker, and suddenly I had gone from  being "really fat but pretty healthy" to listening to a doctor tell me I had diabetes, needed to have a chest X-ray to rule out COPD (it was clear, thank God), and had high blood pressure and was actually in a lot of danger and needed to get my health under control right away.

It was at that point my husband listened to me when I said I should look into weight loss surgery.  Not because I was a size 32/34 and weighed well over 300 pounds and he was ashamed of me, but because he didn't want me to die young.

And that's what began my journey.  And because I had to quit smoking to get surgery, I quit.  And because I had to go on an all-liquid diet for two weeks that was just absolutely horrendous, I did that, as well.  And then I went and allowed a surgeon to physically rearrange my stomach and intestines in such a way that I have a much better chance of being successful - not just in losing the weight, but keeping it off.  And because the results have been pretty rapid and dramatic, I pretty much tell anyone who asks, or anyone I am going to be around a lot - I had weight loss surgery.  I can't eat much. Some foods make me sick.  Some foods I cannot have.

And because I'm open, people ask questions.  I don't mind.  I like questions.  I think it's interesting and weight loss is a big focus of my life and I don't mind discussing it, or swapping diet plans or workout plans because yes, even  though I had surgery, I still have to eat right, and I still have to work out - probably even more so, because when you lose that much weight, you are in danger of losing a lot of muscle, and so I have to work at that.

And when someone reaches out because they're considering surgery - that's my favorite.  I had someone nice enough to answer my questions, who cheered me on and told me I wouldn't regret it, that it would change my life, and she was right.

But I think my favorite question of all is, "Does your husband like it?"

And I always say, "Well, yes.  Of course he does."

And the reason why it's my favorite question is because it makes me think.  It makes me remember how my husband has never seen me as less than anything beautiful.  That even at my heaviest, he still thought I was beautiful, and so of course he thinks I'm beautiful now.

He thinks that I'm beautiful still.

The reason why he likes my surgery isn't because I look better, but because I feel better.

It's because instead of laying on the couch, watching Netflix and eating potato chips and fried chicken, I'm like, "Let's go take a hike!" or "Let's go fishing!" or "Let's go do something, anything!"

It's because instead of taking two different diabetic medicines twice a day, along with a cholesterol pill and a high blood pressure pill, all I take are multi-vitamins, instead.

It's because when I went to the doctor to see about a minor surgery, she casually said, "We'll do it in office.  You're young and healthy!" and I asked her to repeat the "You're healthy part," and she looked at me and said, clearly and firmly, "Your labs are perfect, your blood pressure is great, your heart rate is below 70 beats per minute, your oxygen level is at 100, and I wish all of my patients were half as healthy as you," and I cried.

It's because the ObGYN said she believes our fertility issues have resolved, and we can start trying for a baby soon.

It's because I have more confidence at a size 14 than I did at a size 32/34.

It's because I'm happier.

So yes, he likes my surgery.  He likes it because it means our odds of growing old together are much, much, much higher today than they were less than a year ago.

And yes, of course he meant it when he said I was beautiful yesterday when I, once again, pulled on my old pair of pants that were a size 34 and fit myself into one leg of them and stood there in the hallway while my husband smiled at me and said, "Yes, that's crazy, how amazing, I'm so proud."

And yes, I'm sure he thinks my butt looks a lot better, too.  It's just that it's all the other things I think about when people ask me, "Does your husband like it?" because I was lucky enough to marry a guy who loved me and believed in me even when I filled out both legs of the pants - who looked at me when those pants were actually a bit snug and I was starting to wonder what I would do when I was too big for even the biggest size at the plus-sized store and told me then that I was beautiful, too.

It's why I keep him around.

I'd Let My Kid Keep His Participation Trophy If He Ever Got One or, I'm Pretty Sure That Crappy Ribbon Is Not Why A Kid Grows Up To Be A Jerk

Apparently, it's a thing now to not let your kid accept participation trophies and ribbons.

I know it's a thing because I keep seeing this one video being shared, and this dad just loses his mind over his daughter receiving a participation trophy.  And I read an essay that has been shared like 103,000 times that somehow connects transgender rights to participation ribbons, and America is doomed, y'all, because your child's second grade PE teacher handed out ribbons for the kids completing their mile run.

(I run.  Sort of.  Well, I move my legs in a rather rapid-for-me fashion in short spurts over long distances.  That's a class of running, I suppose.  I would love it if someone handed me a ribbon for doing it.)

Anyhow, I guess I understand the sentiment.  We are in danger of raising a generation of coddled, entitled Americans.

But I can guarantee you that if someone grows up to be a horrible adult, it's probably due to a series of actions and inactions and parenting decisions and life circumstances and the receiving of a medal for participating in the class spelling bee is probably not one of them.

I honestly don't know if my child has ever received a participation award, because if he did, chances are, it ended up wadded up and forgotten, perhaps trampled upon on the bus or stuffed into the wrong cubby at school, like so many other things that my kid could care less about.  And I truly think it's fine and even understandable, to an extent, if you decide that your child is not to be the recipient of such awful, character-shredding stuff as a participation ribbon.

But let's get something straight.

That is one tiny, minute, minuscule decision that is a speck of sand on the infinite beach of parenting decisions you will make and if your child turns out to be the kind of human being you are hoping he or she will become by withholding such dubious honors, then 1) good job on that and 2) your child turned out that way because of a long string of good parenting decisions you made and the whole "no participation ribbons!" thing probably had like .00000000000000012% impact on that.

And let me tell you how it is for those of us who are lazy enough to allow our entitled, precious little losers to keep their ribbons and trophies that will, I imagine, end up wadded up somewhere forgotten, collecting dust like so many other macaroni projects and report cards.

Sometimes participation is as good as it gets.

Sometimes a kid just can't.  Somethings are beyond some kids' abilities, and no number of inspirational posters and "try harder next time!" and dangling of carrots in the shape of 1st place ribbons will change that.

So when you say, "Kids just need to try harder so they appreciate the victory!" you are making giant assumptions.  Because I have some hard -- and for some of us, heartbreaking -- truth for you.

Sometimes a child can try like hell and still not win.

My child's classroom teacher utilized something called "mastery cards" as a carrot to dangle in front of her kids.  And again, I 100% understand this.  I understand this because I understand that kids will work harder for a reward.  So this is not a criticism on the theory at all.

Here's what I know about mastery cards.  I know there were mastery cards for different sets of skills. I know there were mastery cards given for recognizing letters and sounds and sight words and math facts.  I know that all the skills tied to mastery cards were timed skills.  I know my son does not perform well on timed skills.  I know that my son's buddies all got mastery cards.  I know that it seemed, to  my son, that everyone in the whole world had received mastery cards.

I know what it's like to watch my kiddo beg me to drill him on his math facts because he wasn't fast enough. I know what it's like to watch him scan my face for comfort and "of course that's fine!" comments when asking if it's okay when maybe not every kid gets a mastery card.  I know what it's like to listen to him pray about getting his mastery card.  I know what it's like to reassure him that he will still be allowed in first grade even without a mastery card.  I know what it's like to see his face crumple when he hits two minutes and still hasn't "mastered" what we were trying to master in time.

What I don't know what a mastery card looks like, because my son never got one,  Not once.

Do I begrudge the other kids for getting theirs?  Heck, no.  That's great.  But I can guarantee you that there were a lot of kiddos who didn't work half as hard to get their mastery card as my kid worked in not getting his.

Should my son been given a mastery card for his sight words?  Nope.  He hasn't mastered them.  But my mama's heart would have appreciated a mastery card designed for perseverance, for trying, for participating at his fullest potential, because he gave it his all.

And would I have let him keep it?

You bet your ass I would have.

So, by all means, make that parenting decision in not allowing your kid to accept a weak, country-dooming entitlement in the shape of a cheap silk ribbon with "PARTICIPATION" stamped on it.  We all make different parenting decisions, based on our what works best for our families, for our children.

But when you hold it up as a banner of parenting triumph, it seems like it's a lot less about encouraging your child to strive harder, to learn to lose gracefully, to savor achievement and a lot more about believing your kiddo is too good for mere participation.  The first half of that is full of great lessons to learn.  The second half is kind of sad.

I would never have felt driven to even write about this if not for the fact that in the past few weeks -- I'm guessing due to Field Day and class graduations and baseball season gearing up -- I haven't had to see so many people post and re-post videos and essays and statuses about their own parenting choices.  And I'm not criticizing the choice parents make on whether or not they agree with the whole philosophy behind participation awards.  I actually get it.

But maybe that decision is one you can chat about with your kiddo while in the car, or at the kitchen table, privately, and explain the reasoning behind it, rather than grandstanding about it.  Because honestly, it seems to me that when you force your child to hand the ribbon back in front of other kids, you aren't really teaching your child about the value of working hard to actually win, but how to lose badly, enforcing that "all or none" mentality.  You aren't making a private statement to your child about the values you want to instill, but a very public statement about how you feel about other's values.  

Personally, whether or not my kid is able to "win" something outright is not the only factor driving my belief on this.  Because if I have a second child, and he or she is somehow gifted with, say, athletic prowess by some freak genetic mutation, I'll let him or her keep the participation ribbon, too. Because I don't believe in an "all or nothing" mentality.  Because I have enough faith in a child's reasoning to know that he understands that there is a difference between a first-place blue ribbon and the participation award.  Because I don't want to be the parent of the kid who turns his or her nose up at the only type of ribbon that other kids may be capable of getting, and have those kids wonder if there is something wanting in them.  That's just bad sportsmanship.

And I'm pretty sure that's not the sort of attitude that's going to ruin America, or that I am endangering the moral fiber of the universe.

Because sometimes, for some kids, participation is a victory.  Sometimes, that's as good as it gets, and it's good enough for us, and I can promise you that a lot of kids who never "win" are trying every bit as hard -- perhaps even harder -- then your kid may be trying.

And maybe instead of forcing your kid to return that ribbon to the coach, you can ask your kiddo to hand it to another kid who tried really hard, or maybe improved a lot, or was really positive during the competition, and have your kiddo recognize his or her peer. 

How cool would that be?