Luna does not have Leukemia. Her heart isn’t irreparably damaged. We have FINALLY been assured that our wildest child is “normal” by the best of doctors. Yes, we are on the victory side of a mountain that most people were not aware we were climbing.
On April 11, my stalwart child who seldom cries, woke up in pain. I thought it might be lingering problems from a cold. Dr. Hanks happened to have an appointment that day, so I took Luna into her office for precautionary measures.
When we arrived, Luna’s blood pressure and heart rate were scary-high and could not be brought down without medicine. Within hours, we were in Tyler having an EKG, its results adding to our fears. She had blood work done, and many of the markers pointed to the worst of childhood diseases. Luna’s doctor even gave me her personal cell phone number “just in case” we needed it, which only fueled my fear.
I felt alone and scared. I prayed lots. I cried lots. Those closest to us knew what was going on, but as the mom, I still felt the sole burden of the possibilities tightening my chest and stealing my sleep. Even in the worst moments, though, I knew God held us, that His plan is best, that He is the painter of the bigger masterpiece, and He faithfully comforted this worried momma.
The first Hallelujah came when her pediatrician called to tell me that Luna definitely did NOT have Leukemia. The final Hallelujah came on Wednesday when a pediatric cardiologist ran tests on my girl’s wild lil heart and deemed it “normal”. Normal is good. SOOO good.
Other than Luna wearing an ambulatory blood pressure monitor for a day to record her stats, she was released to play sports and be the wild child that she is.
And then it was over. The “well-that-was-a-lot-for-nothing” attitude took over… and I forgot.
I forgot the prayers and the peace in the hardest moments. I forgot the fear and the weight of it all. I forgot to truly praise God for the victory. Moreover, I’m not sure I even really thanked God because my mind fooled me into thinking it was all much ado about nothing.
But it WASN’T nothing. It was terrifying. It was heartbreaking. It was devastating.
I don’t know the bigger picture. I don’t know why her EKG revealed “probable hypertrophic cardiomyopathy”. I don’t know how God worked in her little body during our unbearable wait for her appointment with a specialist. I DO know that He was faithful, even though the extent of His faithfulness won’t be comprehensible on this side of Glory.
So… THIS is my praise and thanks to my loving, faithful Abba Father, shouted from the rooftops of social media. That particular mountain is behind us. It won’t be the last one by a long shot. But we climbed that mountain WITH Him, and it made all the difference. The next mountain might make this one look like a mole hill, but He will carry us up that mountain too, and I pray that I will never fail to give Him the glory He always deserves.
UFOs. The California Wildfires. Odd aeronautical disasters. Our failing bodies resulting from vaccines. Hypnosis of the masses through subliminal advertising. Reptilian humanoids running the government. The Illuminati. (Is it even okay to acknowledge the word “Illuminati”??)
America funding our national enemies. A mass deportation that rips away friends and family. Resources being diminished by undocumented immigrants. Nazis. Growing catastrophic natural disasters. Another Great Depression. Another World War. The right wing. The left wing. Giant meteors hurling to earth (and with Bruce Willis out of commission, we are SUNK.)
Social media can be the worst. With the world literally in the palms of our hands through our mobile devices, we cannot escape the speculations that mutate from small sparks of supposition blazing into all-consuming nightmarish infernos. For me, those fears can be overwhelming. Sometimes paralyzing.
In times when I feel myself tumbling down a dark hole of shadowy tomorrows, I have my Bible bookmarked to Isaiah 8:11-13 with a colorful stickynote peeking out of its pages for rapid access:
11 “This is what the Lord says to me with his strong hand upon me, warning me not to follow the way of this people:
12 ‘Do not call conspiracy
everything this people calls a conspiracy;
do not fear what they fear,
and do not dread it.
13 The Lord Almighty is the one you are to regard as holy,
he is the one you are to fear,
he is the one you are to dread.’”
Life is hard. Sometimes impossible. There are SO many things we can fear. We scroll past posts that inject “what-ifs” – or erroneous lies – into our imaginations, thrusting our emotions into overdrive.
But truly the only thing we should fear is life away from God and His will for our lives. Living a life bent on ignoring God and His direction also shuns peace and joy and purpose and hope. And for me, that is terrifying!
In truth, our world still scares me. A lot. I don’t believe my fear makes me ungodly or unfaithful. I think it makes me human. Even King David expressed to God, “WHEN I am afraid, I put my trust in you.” (Psalm 56:3) Fear likes me. It visits so often that I have had to spend lots of time keeping it at bay while trying desperately to learn how to chase it away. I have learned from all those trials that my only hope for survival is to cheer on my shaky faith and trust God. By doing so, I strengthen that spiritual muscle that makes the next time fear comes a-knocking a bit easier to fight.
But do you want to know what makes me MOST afraid? Living life without God. Trust me. It’s not pretty!
Someone needs to hear the words ‘Don’t fear what they fear. Don’t dread what they dread’. Fear cannot keep us from dying, but it can certainly keep us from living.
2024 was the best of years. 2024 was the worst of years.
Illness and death. Life and love. Suffocating darkness and breathtaking beauty.
None of us will ever get over the loss of my sister-in-law Trayona, and quite frankly, I don’t think we should get over it. She was extraordinary, and if it takes the grief of all of us to keep her memory alive in our lives, then so be it.
My mother-in-law wore the worst of Trayona’s illness, but as I watched her give absolutely everything she was to Trayona these last two years – every last breath of her life – I was blessed to watch what the depths of love truly looks like. What it takes. What it gives. My mother-in-law poured out everything within her, and though it weakened her health and crushed her heart, watching that boundless love strengthened our whole family.
Love isn’t always warm fuzzies and flowers and foot massages and laughter and excitement for a better future with another.
But sometimes love IS about those things. Sometimes love is exciting yet peaceful, hopeful, right. This year, we got to experience that kind of love too.
2024 took Trayona from us, but it gave to us as well. Ben and Stefanie and Jo and Mason gifted our family beyond what we could have asked. God knew it would take the best of people to help mend our broken hearts, and with these four exceptional individuals, God showed off BIG TIME. We have known Ben for over a decade. We have known Stefanie for a moment in time. Both became family right when we needed them most. I love Ben and Stefanie and their little ones like my own. [PLUS I FINALLY get to pretend I’m grandma to two fantastic lil munchkins. ‘DeeDee’ is a much better name for me than “grandma”, don’t cha think?]
There were so many other blessings from 2024 too:
West and Opie found new purpose and great friends. Jay is growing into a good man and a kind person (though admittedly some ROCKY days spattered themselves across our calendar). Dante was gifted a tiny taste of being big-man-on-campus through a bit of football razzmatazz and a cute girlfriend. Margo is still my miracle child, focused and determined to learn and grow and love. And Luna? Well, we are struggling through some hard days right now, but she will never be able to climb giant mountains if she has no practice scaling the smaller ones. Plus, that little cutie is learning how weak we may be yet how strong God is.
The biggest lesson I learned this year was how powerful a mom’s prayers can be. I prayed and prayed and prayed for my children this year. I poured out my fears and my hopes into the heart of God like never before. God blessed my cries by removing obstacles, planting hope, gifting my kids with lessons learned, and showing up in miraculous ways in their lives. Oh, I realize my intercession didn’t make a single thing happen, but God allowed my pleas to entwine with His plan so that I could be a small part of His will in their lives. He listened to my cries for protection. He eased my worried heart. He answered my prayers.
Our family entered 2024 knowing it was going to be a rough one, wondering if we would survive. I leave 2024 choosing to see the best – and worst of it – as a gift. Life will never be the same without Trayona, but quite frankly we hit the jackpot long ago by being able to call her ours in the first place.
2025 brings lots of unknowns like each new year does. Lots of hopes. Some nagging fears. Only God knows the trials and the triumphs, the mountains and the valleys, the blessings and the uncertainties. People will stay, adding life and love to our world. People will go, leaving behind memories and lessons learned. Hopefully, we will choose to allow every moment to grow us into who we are supposed to be.
Our one constant, the ONLY thing we can count on though, is that God was with us yesterday, He is with us today, and He is already waiting for us in our tomorrows, longing to help us conquer this thing we call life.
Birthdays. I had one WAY back on Wednesday, December 13, 1967. I hear it was pretty great, but I don’t remember much about it.
When I was a little girl, I loved celebrating the anniversary of that day. When I was a big girl, I loved it even more. But this year, I dreaded it. A LOT. I wasn’t anxious because I’m afraid of growing old. I was apprehensive because I was gifted a year that I didn’t deserve.
You see, my extraordinary sister-in-law was supposed to turn 57 in October, less than two months before I would, but it didn’t happen. She will never be 57. Twenty-two days before her 57th birthday, her body stopped dying and her heavenly life started. Her work on earth was done, and that beautiful, young soul is now ageless and celebrating EVERY day in Paradise.
Because I tend to cling to limited, earth-blinders, I prepared for my 57th birthday to strangle me in a warped type of survivor’s guilt. While Trayona was sick, I asked God numerous times if I could trade with her. I know I’m loved and appreciated here on earth, but I’ll be honest: Most days I tend to barely survive rather than live vibrantly in my calling. On the contrary, Trayona lived well and spent every single day striving to mold herself into a better person. She deserved life so much more than most of us.
(To my concerned armchair therapist, I know truth. I trust God’s will. I love my people, and I know I am loved by lots of people, which I realize is a gift in itself. Moreover, I know Trayona is the real winner in all of this, and that trading with me would mean I would now be living in glory and she would still be fighting through this challenging existence on planet Earth. But unreasonable feelings are really hard to fight, aren’t they?)
I would love to tell you that a moment of revelation or a Bible verse shined brightly on my 57th birthday, morphing me into a much wiser person. That didn’t happen, but it was a nice day full of lots of love and affirmation, and when I laid my head on my pillow that night, I felt thankful.
What does it mean to me to be granted one more year on planet Earth? It means my work isn’t done. It means I am still needed here and I still have things to do, people to love, and hope to spread.
And apparently, you’re still here too, so guess what? You have things to do, people to love, and hope to spread.
On a visit to San Augustine, Texas, way back in our blissful empty-nester phase, Clay and I went to breakfast at a cute little cafe with my mother, my sister, and my brother-in-law. It was one of those endearing places where every spare inch of wall and floor space is covered in humorous sayings like “Practice thanking God for more than elastic waistbands”, pop art paintings of large-headed cows, and knickknacks of every type of whimsical fun.
San Augustine is a tiny town of maybe 1000 people so far east that it’s 23 miles from the Louisiana border. It is the type of small town where everyone knows everyone, and because my brother-in-law had returned to San Augustine after playing professional baseball, he remained the hometown hero. Entering that cafe with him was akin to playing the entourage of someone famous: invisible because of his presence yet important through association. We were escorted to a table quickly as he made his rounds shaking hands and kissing babies.
On the floor, not two feet from my chair sat the cutest decorative concrete pig. He was about a foot tall, he had a smile that warmed my heart, and out of his shoulder blades sprouted dainty angel’s wings. He was the very best companion while I ate my omelet, smiling up at me from his permanent place on the floor, and we bonded.
I don’t collect pigs on purpose. My very small pig collection was given to me by my sister and mother – one pig at a time – as a joke to remind me of the time Clay gifted me with a pot-bellied pig a week after we had replaced the flooring of our first home. I did NOT appreciate Clay’s gift as its hooves scratched across my new linoleum, and he (the pig, not the husband) was sent back before we could name him.
But that concrete pig with wings? I fell in love with that pig. Before we left the restaurant, my sister asked if we could buy it. It was not for sale, and the owner couldn’t remember where she had purchased it. I had to leave my pig friend, but that charming concrete pig had nestled itself into my heart.
For the next couple of years, I looked for a pig just like that one. It became a game with a bit of obsession sprinkled on top. The price didn’t matter (well, a somewhat REASONABLE price anyway). If a store we passed looked like there might be a remote possibility that they would sell concrete flying pigs, we stopped to ask. No luck. The online shopping world at my fingertips didn’t help, either. Amazon may sell live tadpoles but not my particular concrete flying pig.
When your family and friends know you’ve been looking for a concrete flying pig for two years, you are gifted all kinds of flying pigs. Flying pig mugs and socks and iron paperweights and Christmas tree ornaments and tote sacks. My mom even found me a flying concrete pig, and though it was adorable, he wasn’t “the” pig. Time ticked along, and the tug of that concrete flying pig settled into resolution: That chubby, smiling, winged concrete pig wasn’t mine to own.
The long journey from the first day I met Margo at my school until the day the kids moved into our home lasted almost two years too. I NEVER would have fathomed that she and her siblings would be ours one day. If someone had told Clay and me that we would start over with four children birthed by strangers, our reply might have been something like, “When pigs fly!” (but probably something much more colorful).
From the first “what-if?”-glimmers of the kids, the path Clay and I journeyed was done with the tiniest baby steps. We were clueless about what we were doing. We didn’t want to change our world. We didn’t want to give up the plans we had nurtured for years that started with the phrase “When our kids are grown and gone, we will (fill in the blank). In retrospect, the best way to describe it was that God placed a curtain in front of us, allowing us to only see, question, react to, be obedient to, and prepare for what was right at our feet at any given moment. Saying we inched our way forward would be inaccurate: We millimetered our way forward.
Can we handle four new kids? Do we WANT to forever change the trajectory of our lives? Do we really want to give up our current, peaceful, fulfilling life and pour chaos on top? Are we okay with the deaths of so many of our dreams? Moreover, are we the best parents the kids can get?
Our answer to every question could have been answered, “When pigs fly!”
The kids were living in their group home when the seed of maybe was planted within us. I was merely their old school librarian who brought them pjs and books. I knew there was no way they could come live with us. I had looked up home specification requirements for fostering, and though our house was large, we did not have enough bedrooms for legal foster care. God’s answer HAD to be “no”. Right?
But then, at the encouragement of the kids’ court-appointed advocate Kari, the kids’ lawyer Vicky called and asked if she could visit our home. I said yes, no harm, no foul. I told her that I had researched the rules, and my home wouldn’t work.
But she visited anyway, and she told me otherwise.
I told her we had no foster license.
She suggested approaching the court as “fictive kin”. Fictive kin has close, personal ties with uprooted children even if they are not related.
I reminded Vicky that I was only their librarian from a year ago. She brushed me off and said the court could decide.
I could have said “no” when Kari asked if I would buy them new shoes and deliver them to the children’s home. I could have said “no” when Vicky asked to visit our home. I could have said “no” when she mentioned fictive kin. But I did not. At that point in the process, Clay had left everything in my hands because, ultimately, that man is up for anything I drag him into. If I wanted to purchase a zoo, he would make it happen.
Every day I prayed for wisdom and for signs and for any solid answer I could embrace. More decisions came our way. The possibility of inviting those children to live in our home became more real every day. Clay’s opinions and decisions became necessary. GOD’S decisions became necessary
Please, God, show us! Scream your answer into my spirit. For the sake of these kids, I NEED TO KNOW your will! We cannot – we WILL NOT – let any of this go any further if you do not give us an answer! Give us a sign, God! A sign we cannot ignore!
About a week before the day the kids would eventually arrive at our home, my sister called me. The strangest thing had happened. When she opened the front door of her home, my winged pig – THE winged pig, was sitting on her porch, staring up at her with a smile. Two years after I sat beside that pig at breakfast, the owner of the restaurant – a complete stranger who I had never met – remembered how much Pam Winfield’s sister loved that pig. She left that pig on my sister’s doorstep for me and refused a dime of payment.
How is that for a sign? An unmistakable sign announcing to Clay and me that pigs were flying and that we were inviting four new children to live in our home.
The lazy days of summer don’t exist in my world. Never have.
When I was young, my parents would head off to work and leave my brother, sister, and me to spend our summer vacation as we wished. For about 8 hours every weekday, we would gather with the neighborhood kids and put on rock concerts for each other or tumble in the grass or explore the giant culverts under Belt Line Road.
Once we organized a neighborhood circus. My brother was the magician of our three rings. Steve, the hunky freshman down the street, was the strong man. My sister, who was in middle school at the time, of course played something “pretty” (maybe a trapeze artist without the trapeze??), and my bestie and I were the best clowns this side of the Ringling Brothers.
Our clown shtick was right out of a 70s comedy special. My friend and I would chase each other around with buckets. My friend would chunk the contents of hers at me – a bucket of water. I would then chase her around with mine, feign a comical trip, and the contents of mine would projectile at our audience. They would shriek as they prepared for a jolt of cold water when in fact they had been doused with a bucket brimming with homemade confetti.
We had SO much fun that day… until we lost track of time.
You see, for my parents, the one non-negotiable in regard to our summer fun was that the house HAD to be cleaned before my mother pulled into our drive after a long day of work. Usually that was no problem because we had speed-cleaning down to an art form. We learned that we could goof off until about 3:12. Then we would drop everything, my sister would race through the kitchen “throwin’ and goin’”, my brother would grab random clutter around the house and throw it into any available crevice, and I would grab the yard rake and rake our 70s gold shag carpet so it might resemble a good vacuuming and wipe down a few things with MR. CLEAN for that just-cleaned aroma. If we had enough time, we would light a couple of candles and dim the lights. Housekeeping magic!
On circus day, not only were we running late trying to bippity boppity boo the house, our yard was blanketed in a bucket full of tiny confetti.
Momma and Daddy were not happy. At all. Back then, we got in trouble as much (or a bit more) than the average trio of siblings, but that was the only time I remember WHY we got in trouble.
Looking back, I think the only thing I’d change about that day would have been to make our audience watch from our driveway to save our grass from the confetti that remained imbedded in our lawn until Thanksgiving.
I. Loved. Summer. Those days of imagination and laughter and tromping barefoot through the grassy white clover, daring the bees to sting cradle my favorite memories.
But sadly, along with drive-in movie theaters and indoor shopping malls and calculators and cash, the magic of summer seems to be fading into our yesteryears. The story of summer used to include imagination and innovation and adventure. It seems that these days, the story of summer revolves around video games and Netflix.
My kids have been on summer break for three weeks, and they are pretty upset with me, especially my 13-year-old. Why? Because we want them to jump on the trampoline and fish and turn cartwheels in the yard, but all THEY want to do is play Fortnite and Zelda and Mortal Kombat and that newly discovered Big Foot game. I seem to be an awful mother because I want them to make real memories while “every” one of their friends is leveling up on the latest gaming system.
Electronics VS Living.
As we have battled this in our household, conviction regarding my own use of my precious summer days smacked me right in the face. No, I am not planning to run away and join a circus, mostly because my house IS a circus, but I have taken action. I took a deep breath, asked God for strength, and I deleted every single game from my phone.
People, that’s a big deal for this girl! Social media is generally hit-or-miss for me, but I’m a beast at Candy Crush and Project Makeover. If I had all the time back that I spent playing those games, I could have earned a Doctorate or written the great American novel or created a TON of amazing memories. Those games are NOT invited to my summer. I vow to level up only on my memory-making skills for the next couple of months!
So, in lieu of digital fighting, we have battled with silly string. We spent time at the lake with great people. We raced to the beach to watch baby sea turtles scuttling toward the sea. A good start to the story of our summer, I think.
I signed up for a women’s Bible study at my new church. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but after a few meetings, I’ve got to be honest: My thoughts are in a mixed-up, battling jumble right about now.
The problem (if you’d call it a problem) isn’t the study itself. We’re trekking through the book of Philippians, and I’m learning tons. My favorite thing I’ve encountered so far? The Message version of the Bible translates Philippians 1:21 like this:
“Alive I am Christ’s messenger; dead I am His prize. Life vs. even more life! I can’t lose.”
Good stuff right there!
Another definite win is that I finally solidified the spelling of “Philippians” into my longterm memory. One “L” but two “P”s. Now if only I can learn to spell “definite” without spellcheck since I definitely use “definite” all the time (though, in all actuality, it’s really not that difficult to spell!).
The study is great. My soul-fluster surrounding my new Bible class arises solely from my own insecurity and anxiety of creating longish-term connections with strangers.
Most of the people in my life have been there for decades. Every so often, a new person is taken into the fold, but for the most part, my people know me. They know my strengths and like me. They know my weaknesses and like me anyway. I am quite good at setting boundaries between myself and those who stir up trouble, consequently, when I step out into my world, confidence in my relationships isn’t something I battle. I love my people. A lot. And they seem to like me okay as well.
When I signed up for the Bible study, I did so because there is something profound and powerful in studying God’s Word with a small group of seekers. The first week, I left the class floating on Cloud Nine from the study AND my new spiritual comrades. Those twelve-ish women are encouraging and inspiring and they love Jesus. They were so fantastic, in fact, that the hope of new friendships corded with God left me three-strand-gluttonous and (a bit too) excited and eager.
Time ticked on, and week one of Bible study unfolded into week two.
When I left Bible study that second week, I was… euphoric. Those women acknowledged me and my struggles, and they lifted me up in a way only a great group of friends can. It didn’t matter that the only one I heard call me by name called me Dėserėe instead of Deidre. New friendships showed shadows of beginnings, and my soul was happy.
But last night was week three, and I’ve got to tell you, I’m not so optimistic. Don’t misunderstand me. Those gals are great. They’re smart and godly and encouraging, but my hope of friend-hoarding went AWOL, and I’m kind of sad about that. The wall I felt between them and I was palpable.
Who put the wall up? Though I’d like to point fingers, I am sure it was unknowingly me: my wall of weirdness. I am well aware that I can be irritatingly odd, especially when I try in my own strength to make someone see good in me. I take up more than my fair share of space in this world. I try so hard to remain authentic and real, but my unchecked enthusiasm punctuated with my humongous, toothy smile is way too much for most, and some only see manufactured zealousness and swiftly label me a phony. Yes, I know how I come across. I tend to be a cartoon, especially if you don’t know me.
Blog posts in and of themselves don’t generally cure cancer or end wars or fix personality flaws, and I don’t feel pressed to have all the answers for you or for me. The only way I could convince myself to dust off the old blog is by reminding myself that putting my jumbled thoughts down into words often has the magical ability of unraveling some of my anxieties and unsurities and insecurities. I don’t expect answers here, and you shouldn’t either. But I think I have settled into some truth from this particular rollercoaster.
First of all, this sideroad of the past three weeks compels me to remember how many healthy, encouraging friendships I already have. To have even one good friend is a huge blessing in this broken world of ours, and I generally don’t take my people for granted. I truly am so grateful for what I already have. Why am I so greedy in the friendship arena? Because I’m human? And I like friends? I don’t see that changing any time soon.
Another profound revelation from my muddleness is that it’s not fair to place giant expectations (or even smallish ones) on others I barely know. Those poor women at the Bible study went there to learn more about Jesus with others who love Jesus. They did not sign up to coddle a needy, pitiful ruffian.
So there you go: Regardless of all of the miracles I experience daily, I am still a needy pitiful ruffian wanting more and more and more. God is working on that, and to help Him out a bit… I think I’ll go back to Bible study.
Because of the Silver Screen-sized dreams of my 16-year-old daughter, I am a member of way too many supportive “momager”-type social networks. Without exception, every one of them is littered at the moment with posts from moms of precocious youngsters longing to take part in the modern-day California Gold Rush called pilot season.
“Pilot season” takes place generally between January and April, and serves as the primary casting timeframe for actors wishing to secure a coveted role in network television. I have heard that there are approximately 20,000 actors in L.A. vying for these roles. The influx of pilot season visitors adds thousands to that number. For an actor, it’s an exciting time of the year. From what I see across social media, parents of child actors are not immune.
That is, except for ME. Am I REALLY the ONLY one dreading the trek to pilot season???
Why am I not thrilled about sojourning to Los Angeles?
It is lonely. Very lonely. I ENJOY my hometown. I love spending my weekends with my husband on our impromptu sushi lunches or our country-side cruising or our Netflix binge-watching. I love running into friends on the aisles of Walmart. I love brunches with my best girlfriends. I love the energy and life and love of home. Though L.A. may seem alive with life from afar, when it comes down to it, L.A. is just another city with MUCH more than its fair share of traffic.
It’s a terrible investment. Too many I know believe the fairy tale: that their sweet angel is going to land that $20,000 national commercial or network pilot on their first trek to Hollywood. But the reality is that even for the amazingly-talented, the well-trained, and the highly experienced, the odds of that happening are quite daunting. And the cost of the adventure is painful. Winning the Mega-Million jackpot MIGHT be a riskier bet, but it’s much cheaper too!
I am afraid of losing me. Living in the shadows of a child’s dreams and successes can be really exciting… for a little while. But children grow up. They leave us. They MIGHT invite us to their awards’ ceremonies, but chances are, we’ll be sitting on a comfy couch far, far away watching a television monitor when they accept their Oscars. When those days come, I want to be more than the mom of their yesterdays, empty because I have forgotten how to live. I am MORE than a mom, and I never want to forget that, even as I uproot my starlet so she can take on Hollywood.
I am afraid of people THINKING I am like “them”. Let’s face it: Parents of child actors have a bad rap for good reason. There are LOTS of crazies out there. Hollyweird Momsters, as I like to call them (though I’ve met quite a few dads who fly the banner high as well). Jealousy mixed with determination and amorality is a dangerous concoction, and I have witnessed parents lie, harass, and demean others’ children and those doe-eyed newbie parents in an effort to break confidence and cull the competition pool. And then there is that mildly crazy parent who I see way too often in the mirror: The parent who is willing to sacrifice all for their kid’s dreams. I don’t mind sacrificing SOME, but there are things that are not mine to sacrifice, such as the lives of my other children, the stability of my family and finances, and the strength of my marriage.
SO WHY AM I GOING ANYWAY???:
Investing in my kid is the right thing to do. Even if it’s a terrible financial investment, positively investing in one’s kids is NEVER a bad investment. That’s why we chose to have kids in the first place, isn’t it?
This is a huge facet of her upper education. My daughter, at 16, is in her second semester of college, and we are so proud. But though she will earn a business degree, she will also be an actor. I can make her wait to build her resume, or I can help her build it now, just like she’s attending college early; just like my friends who send their children to SATPrep classes or regional fall-ball leagues in any sport you can name. I believe parents should give their children all the tools they are able to help make dreams come true. What those children do with those tools is completely up to them.
There are some incredible people mixed in with the crazies. Because of our acting treks to L.A., I have REAL friends from Boston, Houston, Dallas, Seattle, New York, New Orleans, Tucson, Phoenix, Chicago, Ontario, and lots of towns I cannot find on a map. Remember the loneliness I mentioned? The beauty is that we parents of child actors tend to ALL be lonely, because most people don’t “get” us or our driving motives. We ALL want and need friendship in Hollywood. At home, we might not allow ourselves to open our hearts to new friends, but in L.A., it’s a survival technique. I LOVE these people and consider them my greatest gift in the midst of the madness.
My daughter is ready. This will be our third long-term stay in L.A., and our fifth acting trip. We have been in L.A. when we THOUGHT she was ready. We have been there when she was ALMOST ready. And now it’s time. During our last pilot season excursion, the mother of a well-known actor offered the best advice: Go home and exhaust every opportunity there. THEN come back to L.A. We did just that. My daughter is now SAG, she has secured highly motivated L.A. representation, and she has two very strong projects on her resume along with lots of less recognizable ones for support. None of these things guarantees even an audition, but they certainly help.
My daughter is READY! Along with a growing resume and great representation, she is ready emotionally. This past year could have been a rough year because the child found herself in the #2 spot in some incredible projects. She ALMOST landed a role under an Oscar-winning director. She ALMOST landed a role as the daughter of one of her favorite actors. She ALMOST landed a role in a 5-time Emmy Award winning series. The heartbreaks this year have been intense and real and sometimes a little ugly, and she not only survived, she walked away more determined than ever. If she handled the rejections poorly – if I witnessed that her spirit was broken – we would flee not only L.A., but the business as a whole.
Time, hard work, and determination have proven that my daughter is going to do this, with or without me. I could selfishly say no, dig my heels in the Texas dirt, and pretend pilot season doesn’t exist. But the problem is that I am even more selfish than that. If my girl is going to do this, I want to watch with my own eyes while I can. I want to be a teeny tiny part of her dream. And if she ever does win that bronzed statuette, I want her to be able to say “Thanks to my mom, who did everything she could to help make this possible.”
Life is not easy, though it probably should be for this gal. I am blessed with a loving, encouraging, CRAZY-FUN family. A roof protects my head. My bills are paid… at least until next month. I sleep in a comfy bed. There is way too much food in my pantry. Moreover, I’m not sitting in a chemo chair nor worried that ISIS will kidnap me because I love Jesus. Yet, anyway.
But I still find myself uncertain, worried, heartbroken, rattled, and, every-so-often, downright depressed. In those moments, I could tell you – the world – all about my heartache in hopes that your words of encouragement would pull me from the muck. But doing so would only make you worry, and worry plus worry does NOT equal peace. I could ask you to pray, but I’d rather you save your prayers for those battling REAL mountains.
So what’s a gal to do? Well, since I’m pretty much filtering most of my thoughts through God all day anyway, the poor Guy gets the good, the bad, and the ugly. And “pray without ceasing” tends to happen at 2:00 a.m. even easier than 10:00 a.m. I pray, and God is faithful to calm my nerves and help me to take a much-needed breath.
But long ago, I felt the urge to journal the best and the worst days, the mountains and the valleys. To pour all my prayers down on paper, writing in red sometimes because the words were as painful as if I were penning them in blood. Things I would NEVER include in a blog. Through them, I have a personal record of a life playing leapfrog. My mountains. My valleys. My victories. My hopes. My goals. My fears. My realities.
My journals wouldn’t help you at all. You probably wouldn’t even “get” them. (Plus I never include names, so they’re not even good for juicy gossip!) But they are good for me. For looking back on some darker days and facing the truth that I’m stronger than I realize, and God is much BIGGER than I will ever comprehend.
But your journal? Your journal might be exactly that very thing that helps you find a little more strength to leap over your next mountain, to get you through your day, to help you take your next breath.
Flying Pigs 