Thank you.

Me, circa 1998. They hadn’t really invented hair straighteners yet, at least not ones that worked on my hair.


There is always a spot for the “middle school me” in my head. The girl with the thick black hair and big eyebrows who is trying, like a lot of 13 year olds, to learn how to love herself. It’s almost like she has a little room up there, one that she has decorated with rodeo print curtains and a white cotton bedspread. She has Breyer horses up on her windowsill and stacks of books everywhere. Instead of a teddy bear or a special blanket, she sleeps with whatever book she is reading curled up in her arms. Because that makes her feel safe and also reminds her that there is a world she can escape to, through reading, that will take her wherever she wants to go.

As I get older, that middle-schooler’s room occupies a little less space, and the rest of my brain is taken up with more important things like my job, my family, my happiness. But, she’ll always be there, and I’m grateful. You wanna know why? Because she is like a measuring stick. I can’t tell how far I’ve come if I don’t see her, don’t know her, and remember where I’ve been.

Last night, Saturday, we had my book launch party for my middle-grade novel, When the Stars Lead Home. I had a mixed bag of feelings leading up to it this last week. I threw up on Wednesday, I cried on Thursday, I ran to the store and bought 100 plastic cups on Friday (but what if only 10 people show up?!!!). Part of the anxiety was being the center of attention, and part of the anxiety was the unknown. Seriously, I invited every single member of my family with a “p.s. you have to be there and stay the whole time because you might be the only ones” added at the end.

But what happened was this. It was awesome. It was beautiful. It was a reminder to me that the world is good and kind and full of amazing people. People who I know through work, or life, and people who I met last night. I kept telling myself (and everyone around me) that this was even better than a wedding, because I was old enough to really appreciate it. Weddings are amazing, but they sort of fly by and I had RSVP cards so I knew 120 people would show up. Book launch parties make you throw up 3 days before and you have no idea what to expect, until it happens and you realize there was really no reason to throw up at all.

Me with all of you wonderful, wonderful people at my book launch party.


Two things really stand out from my party. The first is that while I sat at the round table with a line of incredible people patiently waiting for me to sign their books, I kept looking down at my wrist. In fact, I would look at my right wrist, lift it up with the pen in hand and then shake it until my new bracelet slid back down to where it sat comfortably.

Yesterday morning, Isla came to me with a blue bead on a silver string. She must have found the bead somewhere and got the string all by herself, cut a piece, threaded the bead on and then gave it to me.


“A necklace,” she said and smiled at me. We tried to fit it around my neck but it was a little too small. “Maybe a bracelet?” she asked.

Danny came in to tie it for me. “A double knot, please.” I asked him.

I wore it all day yesterday and then when the time came to put on my “party outfit”, I looked down at my wrist and smiled. It would stay. Because she made it. And I loved it.

As I sat in this total dream-come-true moment last night, I kept looking down at my string bracelet and it kept doing its job. Reminding me that the moment I was in was hard fought for, required a lot of time and sacrifice over the years that it has taken me to get this book published, and that really, at the end of the day, I am simply grateful. Grateful for this book, for these people and for my family. Without them I would just be a girl that wrote a book. That means tiddlywinks to me. My family makes me, and the silver string with a blue bead reminded me of that every time I looked down.

Isla’s gift to me.  A beautiful, hand-made bracelet.


The other thing that really stands out for me last night was something I overheard my mom say to a guest. I was sitting at the table signing books when I heard her voice, they must have been talking about libraries. “Laura has always loved libraries,” she told the lady, “growing up she always said there were two places where she felt completely safe. At home with her family and at the library.”

She’s right. I’ve mentioned before that I have anxiety, I have since 3rd grade. It went untreated until I was about 19, mostly because we didn’t know exactly what it was and I was always too scared to do anything about it. I didn’t really even understand what specific type of anxiety disorder I had until I was 26, so for 18 years of my life I treated it with books. It’s odd and it’s true and it was my saving grace. I remember my mom surprising me with Janette Oke’s book, The Tender Years, while I was somewhere in my mid-teens and on a day when I was particularly struggling.  I read it again,  just a couple of years ago, loved it equally as much, and laughed when I realized that this book explains my love for all things prairie, frontier, Canadian, simple and Janette Oke. Honestly though, this is the perfect example of how books could reach me, in just the right moments.

Books took me out of my head and into a wonderful place. What my mom told that person last night was exactly right, books and the library made me feel safe, like I could really breathe. I’ve spent years of my life sitting on the floor between the stacks at the Richmond Beach library, totally absorbed in the mystery Nancy Drew was solving or in the adventures of the three girls that made up the Saddle Club.

That is why I’ve always wanted to be a writer. I want to create places for others to go, where they can learn, smile and rest. I wrote When the Stars Lead Home with both my daughter and my middle school self in mind. What do I want Isla to read in 10 years? What did I need to find on those bookshelves 20 years ago? This is the book.

And last night, with all of you around me, with my family nearby and a dream literally coming true right before my very eyes, the middle school Laura in my head did a little cheer. Her room got a little smaller, because I was able to actually see who I had become. All of my friends, customers and family were a tangible example of who I had grown into. They say that you are who you surround yourself with, and if that’s the case, this 13 turned 32 year old has learned to love herself (because of you).

Thank you.

The girl with thick black hair and now medium sized eyebrows


Yoga makes me want to scream.

Downward-facing dog (mommy style).


I can’t tell if I like yoga or not. I want to. I try to, but sometimes something weird happens in yoga or on your average Monday, or Tuesday or Wednesday…..all of a sudden it feels like there is not enough space in whatever room I am standing in. When I’m doing yoga, it’s almost as if all that stretching makes me tight. I know, I know, I’m a living oxymoron.

Everyone I’ve talked to, everything I read, says that I should practice yoga and meditation to help with my anxiety. So, I tried. I went to a meditation class with my husband (he was my boyfriend then) about 11 years ago. It was just Danny, me and one other girl in the class. The class began and then all of a sudden I “woke up” and it was over. I couldn’t believe it. When it was time to leave I followed the other girl out of the class and onto the stairway landing. I was a little in a daze and on about the third stair I fell and bounced on my butt all the way to the bottom, chasing our fellow classmate out of the meditation hall. I’m pretty sure I made the building vibrate. I haven’t been back since.

I’ve done yoga a bit. I did one hot yoga class. Seriously, I was totally unaware that my shins could sweat. It was crazy. I haven’t been back since.

I’ve taken a couple of regular yoga classes. They were OK, but they were indoors. Which is sort of hard for me. My anxiety makes me feel claustrophobic, and being in a small classroom makes me claustrophobic, and definitely when I am supposed to be calm and quiet and stretching, I feel claustrophobic. I haven’t been back since.

The other day at work, I was feeling claustrophobic (I swear it doesn’t happen that often even though reading this makes that hard to believe). I was working on the espresso machine when all of a sudden, I felt like I needed to get out. I had the strongest urge to just run out of the shop, into the fresh air, tear off my shirt and run screaming down the street. Really, it sounded so nice. And scarily, it sounded like a good idea. That was when I did a little self-talk, “Laura, don’t do it. Do. Not. Do. It. You have bills to pay so, no matter what, you’ll have to come back to work on Monday, and trust me girl, if you tear off down the street without your shirt on, YOU WILL NOT WANT TO COME BACK ON MONDAY.” My talk worked. I didn’t scream. I kept my shirt on, thank God, and I’ve been back to work since, so all is well.

And now, here we go again, it’s been a crazy day, I’ve got two girls that want me to play “kitty” with them, I need to go to the store to by plastic cups and I should probably fold the laundry that is undoubtedly, by now completely wrinkly. Instead, I think I’ll stand up, do some stretches, breathe in, breathe out and give it another shot. Because, I’m pretty sure, every sentence I’ve written above is evidence that I really need to do yoga. Or, I’ll just stick with what I’ve been doing, which is running down the street (with my shirt on) really fast until I can’t run anymore, and then I’ll feel better. Maybe, I was just meant to be a runner.

Always and Forever,

Stiff, Tight, and Claustrophobic

Confessions of an auntie.

Its 4:11pm, I’ve completely sweated through my t-shirt, I’m having stomach cramps and I can’t tell if I’m going to laugh, cry or pee my pants. It sounds like I’m going into labor or something, right? No. I’m just getting over a traumatic experience. This is the text that I sent at 3:41pm to my oldest sister. “I screwed up big time today, please don’t be irritated at me.”

Let me start at the beginning (which began at 3:06pm) when I picked up my oldest nephew from school today. Isla and I pulled up out front and I watched as my cute little baby (I’ll always think of him as my first baby) saw my car, grabbed the straps of his backpack and started running to us. He hopped in and I asked him how his day went. “Good.” He said.

Ok, I’m going to fill you in on a few things, a couple about my boy and a couple about middle school in 2017. My boy is the sweetest, nicest boy that ever graced the age of 13. He’s not a dork, he’s a pretty good athlete and has a lot of friends, but he is sensitive and so genuinely nice, which can sometimes be a little difficult for him. “Why?” you might wonder. Because middle school is still the same. There are still mean kids and nice kids and cool kids and kids that are obsessed with horses and therefore not so cool. My boy is still pretty young on the middle school spectrum of innocence and he sometimes has a hard time understanding why kids do and say the things that they do. I’m not claiming that he’s perfect, he can have an attitude and press his mom’s (my sister’s) buttons, but he is unfailingly kind, and sometimes that is hard.

Here is the perfect example. My boy has thick hair and it’s kind of hard to do anything with, but like every other boy he has ideas of what he would like it to look like. For probably the past 3 or 4 years, my two sisters, my mom and I have been trying to figure out how he is supposed to do his hair. It’s really thick so it kind of sticks out when you cut it short and it kind of sticks out when you grow it longer. We’ve been using Pinterest to send pictures to each other of teenage boys with his hair type. Our Pinterest boards are full of country style home décor and pictures of Zac Efron, it’s actually kind of embarrassing.

So, today when my boy hopped in my car, he told me that he “kind of wanted to get the sides of his hair trimmed,” (because they stick out). I instantly told him I would do it. He thought about it for a second, thought maybe he would wait, changed his mind and then told me he wanted me to do it. I’ve cut his hair before, lots of times. In fact, I gave him his first haircut. But I don’t do it as much anymore because a boy’s hair in middle school is important. It’s sort of all they’ve got to work with so my sister sends him to the local barber.

Now, the beginning of this problem started because I thought I could actually do it. But the thing is, I can usually sort-of-at-least-kind-of do most things. If you want a sign made, I can draw it. If you need a good running partner, I’m your gal. Need someone to sew you a set of cloth napkins? I’ll have them made in 20 minutes. I can sort of do a lot of things, which doesn’t mean that I can ACTUALLY DO a lot of things. What I learned today, is that just sort of being able to do something doesn’t mean that you should.

We got home, my boy sat on the stool and I pulled out my husband’s hair trimmer which I use to cut his hair. I always cut his hair, he hasn’t paid for a hair cut in ten years, which is why I thought I could do this. And this is exactly the moment where I wish I had a friend at my side that could have pulled a lever that would have sent me flying down the block and broken an arm so I couldn’t have gone any further. But I didn’t, (shed a tear for me in advance).

I tried the #3 guard but it didn’t even touch his blonde hair. I was looking for the #2, but he just kept saying that he was pretty sure they used a #1, so I grabbed it and popped it on. Danny’s trimmer is a little old and a little crooked so I noticed that it might be a little short on one side of the blade, but I always do Danny’s hair and it turns out good so I thought it must not matter.

I made the first cut. Then it began, or ended, depending on how you look at it. The very first cut was so stinkin’ short it made him a little bald in one small spot. My eyes bulged out of my head. I made another swipe, because I had committed, and almost died. Then I had to keep going because I didn’t know what else to do. I just cut around the bottom half of his head, then tried to fix it, then tried again, then realized I couldn’t fix it.

He looked in the mirror, we both did this weird hysterical whimper/laugh thing and looked at each other. I tried to fix it again. He was so horribly nice and smiled at me. I was worried he might cry. “Oh my god,” I stared at my cute boy. “Get your shirt on, were going to the barber shop.”

He, Isla and I ran to the car. I texted my middle sister to go pick up the other 2 boys from school in 15 minutes, I didn’t have time. The conversation went like this, word for word (I’m looking at my phone now):

Me: 3:30pm “I just disaster cut his hair and now I’m taking him to Tom’s barbershop for an emergency fix”

Me: 3:30pm “Emergency!”

Me: 3:36pm “Oh my God I’m going to cry”

Linds: 3:40pm “Oh no what did you do”

Linds: 3:41pm “I’m sure it’s not that bad”

She had no idea.

On the way to the barbershop my boy put the hood of his sweatshirt up. I told him it would be OK no matter what, that they would be able to fix it. He told me that he might just wear a hat to school tomorrow, especially if he had to get it cut shorter, which I knew they would have to in order to fix the horrible mess I had made. I asked why he didn’t want short hair and he told me that his friends would tease him. That if he wore a hat they would probably just pull it off. I told him that he was so handsome and good looking and everything would be fine if he would just “own it.” That no one would tease him if he acted like he didn’t care.

I felt like such a pathetic, hypocrite for saying those words, the ones that are so much easier said than done. Telling a middle schooler to just rock a horrible haircut is bad….and sad….and just doesn’t work. But he just smiled at me. So then I did another bad thing, I went into crazy aunt mode where I said a bunch of things I shouldn’t have said about other stupid middle school boys that would tease someone for their haircut. How that made them pathetic, etc., etc, etc. Not my best moment, especially on the day I turn 32. I’m sorry.

We walked into Tom’s, he with his hood up and me trailing with my little girl. When he took his hood off the barber actually gasped, no joke, and said, “What happened?”

“Oh you know, haha,” I rushed him to the seat, “he just needs you to fix it.” The two hairdressers exchanged looks. “Just fix it,” I added. “Please,” I looked at them both, “just fix it.”

The lady got started and the other stylist looked at me and asked, “Who did that to him?”

“His friend’s mom.” I didn’t even blush. I. Just. Couldn’t.

My boy looked at me and smirked.

Thank God the lady worked a miracle. It’s shorter than he would have wanted but I swear, if you could have seen what I did to him, you would know that those ladies at Tom’s Barbershop are hair geniuses. I stood nearby him, hovering over my little 7th grader, giving him the thumbs up and telling him he looked like a 9th grader with his new do.

When it was all over I gave the lady a huge tip, honestly I would have tipped her my car if I didn’t need it to get to work tomorrow. We walked outside and my boy turned to me and said, “Well, I guess we learned a life lesson today.”

“Oh yeah?” I asked.

“Yeah. Just go to the hair cutting place when you want a haircut.”

I swooned. This boy is smart and nice and totally handsome. And he’s right, we did learn an important lesson, I should never, I repeat never, cut another person’s hair in my entire life.

P.S. I just talked to my sister, who had talked to her son. She told him she was really proud of him for handling the haircut the way he did because I had felt so bad about what I had done to him. He said, “Oh, I feel really bad that she feels bad.” See, I told you he was that nice.

❤ A lucky aunt that gives HORRIBLE haircuts

P.P.S. There are no photos for this post, I just couldn’t document this one. They say that whatever you put on the internet stays there forever and I just couldn’t do that to him.

We’re the lucky ones. I mean you, moms.



The other day someone told me that I was a really good mom. I was shocked. Me? Laura Weigel Douglas? The girl that still thinks of herself as a girl? The girl that asks herself several times a day, “Am I doing this right?” I almost died with relief.

I know I’m a good mom, it’s just that sometimes, I’m not sure if I’m a really good mom. I mean, I think I am. Am I? Agghhh, it’s so hard to know. Some moments it seems I have it all down, and the next thing I know I’m having to bribe my 4 year old with a chocolate bar in front of the last-person-in-the-world-you-want-to-bribe-your-daughter-in-front-of (I know that’s a long name but I had to get my point across, those people exist out there, the ones that judge you because your daughter has dirt on her face and chocolate on her cheek and I just couldn’t brush her hair this morning because I was too tired and I haven’t brushed my hair in a week).

What I’m learning, is that motherhood is a lot of little things mixed together, and doubt about how you’re doing is one of them. Thankfully, it’s not the biggest part. It’s more like a “pinch of salt” in the dough. For me, motherhood is a pretty basic recipe on a day to day basis. It has 3 ingredients: Choices, Time & Affection.

Choices:  Every single day, I’m faced with a bunch of choices. You are too, I’m sure of it. It starts early, the alarm goes off, and I lay in bed and decide if I actually have to wake up or if I can wait until my next alarm. I usually decide that I don’t need makeup today and I won’t care if I look like an 11 year old girl all morning with frizzy hair and rosy cheeks, so I press snooze (p.s. always by noon when I’m still the girl with frizzy hair and rosy cheeks I wish I would’ve just spent the extra five minutes with a hair brush, but oh, the extra sleep always wins at 5:00am). Then I have to decide what to do about breakfast, about my attitude, about what to do with the 2 hours I have before I pick up Isla from preschool, what to make for after school snack, etc. etc. Sometimes, just the idea of all the decisions I have to make is overwhelming, and I think part of that is because of the pressure I put on myself. I hold this little’s girls life in my hands. If I don’t sign her up for ballet next year am I going to destroy her chances  at adulthood? No, probably not, but weirdly my irrational mind sometimes takes me there.

Time:  I work full time. I write this blog and sometimes books. I watch Hallmark movies and horse shows. I read a lot (or at least did before I was a mother). I selfishly (and humanly) crave alone time because I am always with other people. Here’s what I have learned. We all have only 24 hours a day. We each get to choose where and how we spend it. I fight with myself every single day, trying to find a balance between motherhood, wifehood, myselfhood. I haven’t found an answer. I just know that on my last day, I’m not going to be excited that I watched one more episode of a horse show on Netflix, but I will remember that day Isla and I fed the ducks at the pond down the road. I am always trying to make that right choice, but I don’t always do it.

Affection:  This is what I do best. I’m the girl that will tell you I love you 17 times just to make sure you heard it. I’ll say it first and I’ll say it the most. I say it every single time I get off the phone with any member of my family, because it’s the truth. It’s that simple. So it’s easy for me to be the mom that is constantly kissing my sweet girl’s cheeks, because why wouldn’t I? She has the cutest cheeks ever. It’s natural, and I think it’s important. Affection is the way you show someone you love them and kids need that more than anyone.

I don’t always get the balance right, but I try to mix these three ingredients together in a somewhat even and responsible way. And you know what? Every day, what I am rewarded with is a PRIVILEGE. That’s what motherhood is. A privilege. We’re the lucky ones people. Let’s not forget that when we’re folding clothes or have to push pause in the middle of a horse show to read “When You Give a Mouse a Cookie” for the tenth time.

Let’s not get lost in the busyness and lose ourselves.

Let’s be the ones that remember how very blessed we are to have little ones that laugh and run and look at us like we’re still cool.

So this Mother’s Day, let’s be thankful, not perfect. Let’s spend the day proud that someone calls us mom. Today is our day to realize how very lucky we are. And then tomorrow, when I wake up and I’m tired,  I’m not going to care if I’m the frizzy haired girl at work because I have an amazing girl at home and I spent those extra five minutes cuddling in bed with her….yep, summertime she sleeps in bed with us (choices)…….but you know what, I just don’t think I’ll ever regret that.

❤ A work in progress

P.S. Happy Mother’s Day mom! You showed me what it means to put your girls first, every step of the way, every single day. I’m thankful and I’m privileged to be yours. In this equation I’m pretty sure I’m the lucky one. Love you!


What is blue and black and black and brown and beautiful?

This is a game that Isla and I play. This game has saved me from many tears, both hers and mine, and it has also given me a lot to think about.

When Isla was just 2 years old, she could tell you the eye color of every single person in our family and a lot of our friends. It started with her just saying, “Auntie Cole has blue eyes. Sisi has blue eyes. Daddy has brown eyes.” On and on. She began it on her own and then, when I realized that she was some sort of eye color savant, I began to quiz her. “What color are Uncle Jesse’s eyes. What about Uncle Brad?” She was right. Every. Single. Time. It was weird, but I didn’t really think too much about it, I took it for what it was, that she was noticing our eye color. Looking back now, I can see that she was noticing our differences.

A couple of months ago, Isla (who is now 4 ½) and I were in the car when she pointed out that I had blue eyes and she had brown. This wasn’t really anything new, like I said, she has noticed this for years. But this time she wasn’t just telling me my eye color, she was explaining to me that my eyes were not like hers. She began to cry, sob actually, and told me, “But I want blue eyes like you.”

You probably can’t imagine unless you were there and I’m not good enough of a writer to really explain what it was like at that moment, but my heart broke. She was noticing that we were different, and she wanted to be the same.

I told her I wished I had brown eyes, that brown eyes were my favorite, just like hers and daddy’s and that brown eyes were beautiful. She cried for a while. My heart cracked into tiny pieces. Then I was finally able to distract her by playing a game of “I Spy”.

This is how we roll:  Isla is doing some sort of bunny ears thing and I’m wearing a zip tie necklace she made me, because that’s the sort of thing you do when you’re a girl and a mom. 


This happened several times over the next few weeks, almost always when we were in the car. Then, the other day we were driving home through Bothell, I remember the exact moment, she was again saying that she wished she had blue eyes like mine and I was again saying I wished I had brown eyes like hers. I looked in my rearview mirror at the cutest, most adorable face in the world and said, “Isla, I spy something that is brown and beautiful. What is it?”

She thought for a moment and then a smile spread across her sparkly face as she giggled, “My eyes! Me!”

“You’re right, sweet girl.” The pieces of my heart superglued themselves back together.

“Mom,” she said, “what’s black and blue and beautiful?”

“Me?” I guessed.

“Yeah, because you have black hair like me and blue eyes.” We played a few more rounds and then on Isla’s turn she asked me, “I spy something that is blue and black and black and brown and beautiful.”

“Us?” I asked.

“Yeah!” She screamed.

We play this game all the time now. It’s her favorite and its mine too, because it always has the perfect ending. We’re different, but we’re the same.



Half of something that is blue and black and black and brown and beautiful

Curtain rods….90 minutes of pure joy.  Kind of.  

Today I did something totally wild and crazy……I hung a curtain rod.  Really though, I hung the brackets, the rod and the curtains and I had to use a power tool (a drill counts, right?)  

Last year we had installed the cheapest, worst vertical blinds ever.  They barely closed, then they fell apart, then Danny half ripped them down in frustration, and then for the rest of the year our poor little sliding glass door had nothing to show for it but the leftover hardware still hanging on the wall.  So, today I went to the Home Depot to redeem.  It’s kind of weird when you realize your in a battle with a window treatment, but that’s how it feels.  

After buying new drapes and a curtain rod, I came home and took down the pointless-eyesore-brackets from our old blinds.  That alone was the very beginning and it was almost my undoing.   The screws were close to stripped and it took all my strength and a good 30 minutes to get 6 screws out.  

I read the instructions for hanging the new brackets, tried to put those drywall-screw-anchor-things in until I realized that there was a stud right where I was working, which bent the drywall-anchor-thingy.  I Googled “what do I do now….” ( lucky stars it was 2017 and we had google), discovered I needed to drill a pilot hole and then had to call my husband, ugh…….ONLY because I didn’t know where the drill was.  I had wanted to do it all by myself. Ugh, again.  

This is where things went most like expected.  I told him what I was doing, he wondered if maybe I should wait for him, I had to admit that he might end up having to re-drill and patch holes, but I hoped not,  and he told me where the drill was and how to attach the bit.  I measured, measured and then I measured some more.  I’m not good at math and I was praying that I would miraculously somehow figure this out in my head and that they would be level.  

Frizzy hair for the win! Hey, I told you I was working hard.

Then ….. ta da!  I did it! It worked out perfect!  It took me 90 minutes……to hang a curtain rod.  Ugh, for a third time.   

But, the point is, I did it by myself, this little house on the shoreline is cuter for it, my family won’t be blinded by the setting sun at dinnertime, and again, I did it by myself.  

I can understand that this might sound silly, that maybe there are other people out there that can hang a curtain rod in 20 minutes, but I swear, last year it would have taken me two hours.  I PR’d by like 30 minutes!  All I’m saying is those HGTV’ers better watch out, I’m becoming quite the handywoman.


The girl who now realizes she should have gone to construction camp… there such a thing?

P.S.  Later in the day I saw my girl hammering the nails down on the deck.  It reminded me of how important it is for her to see me doing these things, however small (and however long it takes me) on my own.  Just so she knows that she can too. 

The kind of mom who waits.


This is my view this morning.  Sitting in front of the closed door to my daughter’s ballet class…..for the next hour…..because I can’t move…..because she’s crying……and I’m her mom.  Here’s how this happened, not the me being her mom part (that happened about 5 years ago) the part where I’m stuck sitting in a little, teeny, tiny hallway for the next hour staring at a closed door.

I have worked Saturday mornings for about the last 15 year’s.  Until one month ago.  My schedule magically changed and now I’m a Monday through Friday kind of gal.  That means that I’m free Saturday mornings which is a total dream come true because now I get to take my girl to her ballet class.  I get to pick out which pink tights she wears, put her hair in a bun and slide in a couple of sparkly bobby pins.  I’ve done this once so far, here’s how my little beauty looks.  

This was a couple of weeks ago and I told Danny that it was one of the best mornings of my life…..I didn’t have to work, I got to play dress up with my sweetie (which I never get to do because I leave for work at 5 in the morning), I dropped her off at class and then I walked down by the waterfront and drank a coffee.  It was simply wonderful.  The next couple of weeks we were gone in vegas for one of her classes, I filled in at work another day, and so today is only the second day I get to do the ballet routine.  

I was so excited to do the whole magical thing all over again.  Buuuuuut, this morning when we got up, Isla was surprised to see me because it’s still new for me to be home in the mornings and everything went downhill in a 4 year old kind of way, from there.  We woke up early, couldn’t find her pet purse, then couldn’t get dressed without a million tears because isla Did. Not. Want. To. Go.    I had to literally pull the jammies off her, stuff her cute little legs into tights, and slick her hair back into a frizzy pony tail, no sparkly bobby pins were going to make it today. 

My poor baby cried the whole way to class, but the worse part about it is that she always tries so hard to be BRAVE.  It’s one of the things I both love love and hate about these moments and here’s why.  My girl loves dance class, she never cries, and I know she’s not crying because of going to the class, she’s crying because her mom is with her and she doesn’t want to leave me.  I remember having the exact same feelings for my mom. 

In fact, in 1st grade, I remember playing in my classroom by the door and hearing my mom’s voice in  hallway.  She was chaperoning my older sister’s class on a field trip, and hearing her voice and being apart from her was more than I could bear.  I looked around, saw my teacher across the room, and ran for it!  Out into the hallway, up the stairs, and into my mother’s arms.  Thankfully my mom was the best kind of mom, the kind that took her crying girl into her arms and instead of sending her back to class, let me skip and go to the flight museum with her.  I’ll never forget it.

So today, when we finally got to ballet, with my brave, quiet girl who had teary salt stains on her cheeks, I sent her in and hugged her.  I kissed those tear tracks, and went to stand in the hallway.  I had my running outfit on because I had thought that I would take these 45 minutes and enjoy the fresh air and use it for training for this ridiculous marathon I signed up for, but instead I stood in the hallway for just a minute.  

Then, just like I had expected, I saw my baby peek around the doorframe looking to see if I had left.  I smiled at her and then sat down on the vinyl couch right outside the door where she could see me.  

And here I’ve been.  They close the door once the class starts, but I said I would stay here, and stay here I have.  I’ve listened to Caspar Babypants sing “Sleepyhead” (their recital song) about 36 times, right now I can hear 18 little tap shoes going like crazy.  I didn’t run, I didn’t get a coffee or see the Puget Sound in all its glory on this sunny day……I just saw this white door that leads to classroom B.  But I know, that at 10:00am when it opens and I see Isla’s face, I’ll know that this door was the best view in the world this morning.  Why? Because I’m trying to be the kind of mom that stays, just in case my girl checks.  Just like my mom.  

♡ A rather lucky mom