I had this friend who died almost two years ago at the age of 41 teaching people to body surf in the ocean.

I had this friend who made fun of me even as I sat in the hospital with cat bite fever. He sent me a bouquet of flowers. The card read: "Suck it up."

I had this friend who lived life so large it scared me sometimes, because I am small.

He has been gone for nearly two years, and part of my young adulthood died with him.

I had this friend, and I will not forget him. May we all live such a life that leaves a mark on everyone we touch.

Ani DiFranco was wrong to try to host a gathering in a Southern plantation, but she also taught me a lot about life as a writer.

"I am struck by the mediocrity of my finest hour."

"I don't know why red fades before blue, it just does."

These two sentiments have colored my career as a writer.

I struggle to be taken seriously, mostly in my own head.

The anger I feel always fades before the shame that I am not better. The knowledge that we all die alone doesn't stop me from wishing someone would remember what I said before I went.

And then there is the horror that I care.

I start out slow, every time. My feet tend to cross over. I have the uneven soles to prove it. After a stress fracture, I realized I was doing it, so now I force my feet what feels like miles apart but is really just normal as I strive to feel my feet hit straight on their balls. Thwap, thwap, thwap.

My neighborhood is hilly. The first hill always burns, but my thighs warm then on the downhill and the run starts to even out. I feel the blood rush to my legs. Hello ladies, who is here? Roll call.

When the sweat comes, it tickles first. It itches. I scratch my head under my hat until it starts to flow, soaking into the short hairs at the nape of my neck. The sweat trickles slowly at first until it runs strong and is just part of me.

When the humidity is close, I feel it try to strangle me. I breathe carefully, siphoning the air. It comes only with effort, and my legs scream for what it brings, oxygen. Relief.

The uphills now, they're like biking. After I met my husband, he taught me to conserve energy, to shift down with the same energy. Running is like that. The humidity is a hill, and I have to shift down just to keep moving.

The heat is an animal looking for my jugular.

I turn away.

Sometimes, when it's so hot, I realize I could go down. I'm forty, and it's over 90 degrees, and my husband is traveling on a job. There is nobody here but me to take care of her. You can't run through heat.

But I want to. I'm annoyed I didn't start this when I was young and stronger. But I'm her mother. I can't go down. I slow.

Last weekend I caught a break and caught a good eight miles around a lake in my hometown at 73 degrees. The aged farmers gathered for the tractor parade stared me down as I went lap after lap. They didn't understand why I would do this run. I didn't understand why they would do that parade.

Maybe we all just wanted to feel young and relevant.

On Sunday, my wonderful Tante Sue passed after a long struggle with Pick's disease. I remember most about her that she loved to socialize. Pick's stole her speech. It makes me very angry. It doesn't make sense.

I hate you, Pick's.

On Monday, my daughter's buddy Ka'Vyea Tyson-Curry left Children's Mercy Hospital after two months of recovery from multiple gunshot wounds. He's ten. He likes books. He did not deserve any of what he got. It makes me very angry. It doesn't make sense.

But I love you, modern medicine. Thanks for saving Ka'Vyea.

I miss my aunt. I'm glad Ka'Vyea is doing so well.

Life. It's complicated. You just have to hold on. None of it makes sense. Maybe that's not the point. Maybe the point is just to ease each other's pain in any way we can.

The little angel's betta fish, Simon, went down the toilet, where all streams go to the ocean, last week. I bought Simon on a whim as a surprise one day, because I had fond memories of my own betta fish in college and because I think every child needs a fish. My daughter hadn't even asked for one; it was just one of those impulse things I do as a mother because I can. When she came home from school that day, I showed her Simon, and I think I was more excited than she was, but she grew to love him and shed a tear when we made the decision that anyone who has fungus growing on his side and who has eaten part of his own tail is probably on the shady side of the tree now. RIP, Simon.

We made a trip to the pet store and came home with a new tank and a new betta fish, which the little angel named Serendipity without really knowing what that name meant. I promised to buy more distilled water so we could take better care of the tank, even though Simon did actually live for three years through his murk and that is pretty good for a betta fish. It's been a week and it's time to start switching out half the water like the man at the pet shop told us to do. The man who also looked at us with his jaw dropped when we admitted we never turned out the light on Simon's tank and said, "You know they don't have eyelids, right?" and made me feel as though we had strapped Simon to a chair and played The Cure and showed him non-stop video of the bombing of Hiroshima. So now we turn out the light for Serendipity at night. 

That fish is so spoiled.

---

New on Surrender, Dorothy: Reviews -- Time, Inc.'s Big Book of When

Today is Beloved's and my thirteenth wedding anniversary. Yesterday he was in the shower while I was putting on makeup in the bathroom mirror, squinting at my reflection with annoyance.

Me: "So ... do you still think I'm hot?"

Him: "Sure. But you'd be way hotter if you handed me the new bottle of conditioner."

THAT WAS EASY.

Love you, babe!

I've caught up with a few friends with kids lately, and the conversation inevitably turns to what activities our kids are participating in during [insert season]. As usual, my kid isn't doing shit.

We started out strong. We put her in Twinkle Toes ballet class starting at two, and she followed it through up until last December, when she hung up her leotard after class went to twice a week with an hour-long round-trip commute. She took gymnastics for a year, long enough to convince me to buy the expensive leotard she ended  up wearing maybe five times. It was easier when she was wee -- all I had to do was drive her to wherever and we'd sit through an hour of music class or tumbling or what have you. Now she's older and opinions, she's got them. 

She just doesn't care.

We've lined up another mom to watch her while I work for the majority of summer vacation. She'll be with two of her best friends doing whatever it is kids do when their moms are off during the summer. There will be gaps, and I tried to interest her in drama camp or robot camp or basketball camp, but she had zero interest in any of them, and at the end of the day, paying hundreds of dollars and driving halfway across the city when I'm supposed to be working for something she'll protest seems ridiculous.

I dangled swimming in front of her yesterday, but she flipped over in the pool and demonstrated that she already knows how to swim with non-race-worthy proficiency, point taken. 

And then I asked myself for the hundredth time why I care. 

It's probably because I shit you not every single other mother I know has her kids in at least one sport or lesson each, usually multiple leagues of multiple sports all happening at the same time. When I was growing up, I myself took dance lessons and drama lessons and drum lessons and any camp I could get my hands on. I was spending a week at sleepaway horse camp once a summer by the time I was her age.

My daughter doesn't care.

On the flip side, her complete and total lack of involvement in any extracurricular activities has left her available to go visit her friend Ka'Vyea in the hospital. She's played quite a bit of pick-up cul-de-sac kickball. Her dolls are all currently in the doll hospital for various broken bones she lovingly wrapped with gauze and signed like casts. We spent all day this past Sunday and Monday at the swimming pool, floating lazily on our backs and eating Starburst. She made paper lanterns for our Memorial Day cookout of her own volition.

I'm ambivalent. I spent my whole life ambitious, and sometimes I feel like I've lost my ambition when it comes to trying to get my daughter to participate in things. I worry I've been worn down by this working-mama gig to the point where I'm taking the unnecessarily easy way out, that I should force her to get more involved.

I absolutely insist that she behave and wear age-appropriate clothing and her seatbelt and eat her vegetables. But I've been letting her completely self-direct on most activities. Beloved and I agree we'll make her take band or strings for at least a year, because MATH and ART and CULTURE, but if after that year she wants to chuck it, I'd let her.

But then I find myself justifying it. It's not like she's sitting around cooking meth while she's home. And when I start talking to the other mothers I question whether I shouldn't be pushing her harder to do something that requires sign-ups and special shoes and schedules. People say over and over they think it's so great she's all Free-to-Be-You-and-Me, but then I look at their kids and see eight different uniforms and a piano practice book and a calendar full to popping and I think they would never ever let their kid opt out of all competition.

I hope I'm doing this right. The sad thing is, at ten, she's already past the point of no return for a lot of sports. Fifth grade is too old to start anything that could be played as league starting at age four in a suburb my size. 

Sometimes it feels like there's no which way but loose when it comes to modern parenting.

Today's Lessons Learned essay comes via Susan Petcher, a mom, music teacher, blogger (at Learned Happiness), and advocate for women's mental health:

My five-year-old daughter bounded into my bed this morning, dashing my hopes of a few more winks of sleep with her Tigger-like enthusiasm. And as I returned her hugs and kisses, I cherished the small moment of happiness between us. Because there was a time when I could not return her love, when the gift of bonding was stolen from us both.

You see, from the moment she bellowed out her first cry, my world fell to pieces. She was very much wanted (and planned for meticulously) but her arrival heralded the onset of a frightening case of postpartum anxiety with side servings of OCD and depression. I suffered from a menagerie of symptoms, ranging from panic attacks to rage, and eventually a numbing depression.

I spent my first six months as a mother afraid of my baby and terrified of motherhood. Every interaction with her was an opportunity to confirm what I felt inside so deeply: that I was a failure and that I would never be the mom she deserved.

One in seven mothers experience this same struggle, yet I felt alone and isolated. Even after I began treatment, in the form of therapy and medication, and started to feel the depression lift, the stigma and shame weighed me down. Though I was working furiously to heal, the PPD had taken my confidence and my power.

When I stumbled upon Postpartum Progress, it was as if a hand was reaching into the dark, pulling me back up into myself. I marveled at each of the amazing women who wrote about their postpartum mood and anxiety disorders, admiring them for their strength and courage, never once thinking less of them for their struggles. And then one day, without warning, it hit me: how can I admire their courage yet fail to see it in myself?

This community of survivors -- of Warriors -- gave me their stories and their hope. Through their support and understanding, their emails and their tweets, I found a new identity. Instead of a sufferer, I became a survivor. I reclaimed my power. And with it, I found the strength to bond with my daughter and to love her despite my anxieties. Now, as an advocate, I speak for those who have lost their hope. And in a weird way, I find myself grateful for the postpartum anxiety and depression that led me to the Warrior Mom community. Though I would not wish my experiences on anyone, I wouldn't change a moment of my journey.

This June, I get an opportunity to give back while celebrating my recovery. I'm climbing a mountain with a team of survivors and their support networks as a part of Postpartum Progress's Climb Out of the Darkness awareness and fundraising campaign. On June 21, I'll be climbing Mt. Washington and while I anticipate it to be a challenge, it'll be nothing compared to what I faced back in those early days of motherhood.

Bring it on. I'm a Warrior now. And you can be too.

+ + + + +

Editor's Note: Local moms can join or donate to Susan's Mt. Washington team or Candice Brothers' Walden Pond team. To find a climb near you, visit the Postpartum Progress's Climb Out of the Darkness page.

For more in the Lessons Learned series, see The Practice of Kindness, Sibling Acceptance. Do you want to submit a Lessons Learned essay? See submission guidelines here.

Image credits: 1) Postpartum Progress; 2) Susan Petcher

My heart has been hurting for the past week or so. Two Fridays ago, my daughter's friend Ka'Vyea Tyson-Curry was shot in the parking lot of a gas station. So was his dad. His dad died. Someone walked up to their car and unloaded eight rounds, killing Ka'Vyea's dad and paralyzing Ka'Vyea. The bullet hit his hand, lungs and spine. He's in the pediatric ICU. He's having trouble breathing. He has a breathing tube and a feeding tube. He's sedated. I've said just a little bit about it because it isn't my story to tell, but now there's a website and a way to help, so I'm asking for help. 

The mountain for Ka'Vyea and his mom, Tanesha, just seems so high to climb. Rehabilitation, a wheelchair, a wheelchair van, the hospital bills (she has insurance, but, yeah), the emotional and physical and mental energy needed to just deal with the reality of what has happened. Two weeks ago, Ka'Vyea was playing with my girl and their group at recess. Now he can't walk or breathe. I just can't even.

If you'd like to contribute to Ka'Vyea's fund (from the website) (Ka'Vyea's family nickname is "Buddha"):

We've been swarmed with inquiries of how to contribute to his recovery care, so an account has been setup in his name at Bank of America. You can go to any branch just tell them you want to contribute to the Kavyea Buddha Tyson-Curry Fund.

Ka'Vyea also loves to read. He's a very smart kid and likes facts, history and science. If you'd like to send books for him to read during his recovery, here is an address: 

Ka'vyea 'Buddha' Tyson-Curry Foundation

4435 Prospect Avenue

Kansas City, Missouri 64130

email: buddhatysoncurry@gmail.com

 

If you can't contribute financially, please just send up a prayer or good mojo or however you communicate with your maker/the universe/God. We can hold up Ka'Vyea and pray his lungs heal and he is able to wake up from his heavy sedation and feel the love we are all sending him.