There aren’t enough eloquent expressions in the vocabularies of the world to define a mother, to create in words the way I feel about my Mom. She is every piece of my childhood and my womanhood, in flickering lights across a lifetime that shine with unconditional love, fierce support and relentless nurturing. My brothers and I watched her care for every elderly member of her family, care for her own children, adore her mother who lived around the corner (our other keeper), her animals, love my Dad, and now delight in her grandchildren as Mimi, her artistic soul feeding our hearts, minds and ambitions with the fiery love of her selfless Irish/Italian genetic code of gold. She runs as Mrs. Walker, Johnny Walker that is, to those who love her best, at all parties, happy hours and casual conversations that call for finer things, which is, all times. She’s taught me how it feels to be loved and guarded as a daughter, a woman and a mother. She’s known every version of me and despite it, still shows me how to be truly, eloquently, whole heartedly loved. She’s my best friend since the day I saw her in our hospital room after I put her through hell to enter the world. God chose me to be yours, Mom, and then it all made sense. No one else could have tolerated or loved me like you. I love you, whole heart, my divine Mom.
Friday, August 8, 2025
Mom Mom - She Rises
It’s been the kind of night (s) where I say goodnight to her in my mind, then out loud, because I feel her in the air. It’s the kind of morning today where she is still here, profoundly here. I haven’t dismantled the poster photos from her service yet, so I can be with them, to avoid putting them in a place tucked away. I haven’t sent the eulogy to requested love ones (I will
, promise) only because I am putting off permanency, I think. This poem came published this week, after long delay, right on time. I wrote it after we were at Wyncote for dinner together watching the sunset. It’s about her now…That’s the story I’ll tell myself. She rises…everyday, simply from a new place, where I can feel her triumphant light. 
Leo Rides a Bike
“Mom, will you go on a bike ride with me around the block and then go look at the beautiful view?” Documenting so I have the memory stored forever and ever of what if feels like to be included in his 8 year old world. My Leo
. #OneBeautifulLife
The Pediatrician's Office
I met Jack at the doctors office today, the pediatricians office. He drove himself there. The first time he could drive himself to a physical, in his own car, and we do this now, meet each other places.
I’m still getting used to it.
It was his last physical as a child, as he turns 18 in April.
It was his last physical at the pediatrician's office.
Like most things required, this moment was not in the ‘What to Expect When You’re Expecting’ book I read cover to cover multiple times. Why did no one warn me about this - the place where mothers are needed desperately - and the feeling of the rapid transition to when you are no longer required here? When your child ages out of the place?
I walked in the door with my dashingly handsome 6’3” and 180lb son, into a sea of small children and smiling nurses in cartoon scrubs. I wanted to tell them he was 9lbs 4oz when he was born, always tall and this beautiful, as they stared a little too long. I didn’t.
I signed the electronic forms. I approved the required vaccines. For the last time. They handed me a paper of doctors offices in the area to call, as the pediatrician's office will no longer be his primary care physician. I was hoping they’d give me a paper next for support groups for mothers who are struggling with the emotion of simultaneously experiencing excruciating pain and joy in this stage of life. They didn’t.
I sat in the waiting room. I watched the tiny babies being held as the Mom’s scurried them out of the office in tiny bundles. I wanted to tell them to savor every second, but I couldn’t. I put my sunglasses on instead to hide the tears streaming down my face.
You go with your child to every doctor's appointment for their entire childhood. You track their metrics from the moment you know you’re carrying them. You count inches, then feet,every pound and development milestone with the analytical prowess of a statistician in percentiles and line graphs. You smile as you place them on the tiny scale, then watch small feet stand on the big scale, and the measuring stick of growth reveals celebratory progress. You ooh and ahh and marvel at their tiny, growing frames. At every cough, rash, fever, you talk to the nurses, snag the first available appointment, and hold them in these rooms of the pediatricians office, a place I didn’t call sacred, a place that didn’t seem fleeting, until now.
Because, suddenly, unbelievably abruptly, they’re grown. They don’t require you there in the annual place of nurturing where they needed you most. Where you read to them, packed extra snacks, changed their diapers, held their hands, hugged them for immunizations and soothed them through sickness. Their childhood is, well, it’s past.
Jack believes I’m ridiculous and he is right. I tried explaining just a bit of my tears to him as we left today, and I stopped. 17 year old boys aren’t equipped for this kind of crazy. Nor should they be. Jesus, is anyone? I tried to grab a photo because… that would help? It didn’t. He hid on the floor of the elevator.
He’s still in the 98th percentile for height. He grew beautifully this year and every year of his magical childhood that he gifted to me. His percentiles are perfect and heart, absolute gold. He has grown into an extraordinary young man. A gift that may just always leave me stunned.
Thank you for your childhood, my first born son. Even every trip to the pediatrician I’ll hold in my heart as the highest honor.
He’s always my first born and walks me through each new door, whether I’m ready or not. He’s been so patient with my learning, my own becoming, as I learned motherhood through him. Turns out, I wasn’t ready for the pediatrician’s door to close today. But as it did, as he always will, he’ll be carrying my love with him. He will always know that.
I’ll be ready next time, I tell myself. But, I won’t.
You can expect a “What to Expect When Your Kid is a Senior in High School” publication from me after this year is complete, if I survive it. I’m looking for contributors, confidants and support beams. Mom’s, how do you do this?
Sunday, April 6, 2025
Jack is 15
Happy 15th Birthday, my Jack. You’ve grown to new heights this year. I hug you and barely reach your heart as you tower over me. It’s odd to see you this way, my small one, but to now be small next to you, and to be hugged by your large frame. I wonder daily if I will ever adjust? You seemingly walked out of the kitchen as a young boy one night after a late night snack, then back in as a young man, to devour your next meal. I’ve watched your always creative, captivating, kind, cautious, beautiful soul, align itself to the world around you in awe-inspiring ways this year. You’ve always carried maturity beyond your years. I see now how you’re using this power to draw in your passions and interests to bring you joy, and eloquently avoid being pulled in where you don’t want or need to be. You will stay this course, no doubt, and the world will continue to open its arms for your heart, creative genius and ambition. I will be here, awestruck, at your pure awesomeness and will power. You’ve remained my companion in deep conversation, and you care for my heart in unearthly ways as you always have since the day you arrived. I am filled with gratitude for this gift. It is written now for me as a mother, straight from the gaze of my first born son, that my children will indeed not stay forever young. But you’ve shown me the ways a mother is needed change slowly, and then seemingly all at once. I’ll always be here adjusting my sails. Keep soaring and exploring, Jack, as the humble, brilliant, hilarious, loving and kind person you were born to be, and that the world needs. In this #OneBeautifulLife, you keep leading the way, for me as a Mom, for your siblings and family, for all of us. Happy birthday my baby boy. I love you, whole heart. -Mom
Jack is 14
April 6th, the day I became a Mom, and the day Jack Mason arrived in the world and stole my heart. From the moment I meant him, 14 years ago, he's captivated me, challenged me to be better, and forged the way of the first born on my Mama heart.
