Skip to main content

Toasted

The other day I woke up to a text from one of my favorite people. One that there isn't much I wouldn't do for. And although this request made me equal parts honored and terrified, there was never any doubt that I'd say anything but yes.

Which meant I had a speech to write....becasue she was getting married...and I quickly agreed to do the toast.

This was their big day and I did not want to screw it up or disappoint so I looked online for tips, I asked for suggestions and feedback and the best advice I found was here:
The art of a wedding toast

Unfortunately #3 on the list of things NOT to do was pretty much my whole game plan. I mean, I'm pretty sure the last day of camp slideshow with Micheal W. Smith playing in the background would have made everyone break out their cute little packs of kleenexes.

Encouraged by some Chardonnay..I went off script a bit....but this is mostly what I said.

One of the last nights of her term....little Karly (about 12 or 13 with thick double French braids and the exact same smirk she has now) showed up at my bunk looking like someone had just run over her puppy.....just as I was drifting off to sleep.  She was sad, I was tired….but I did my best to try and diagnose the issue. Often in these situations (….cousenling tween girls)…it is something REALLY serious and Earth shattering ….like learning that a guy from N’Sync had a girlfriend (or boyfriend) or a friend spoiled the ending of whatever Harry Potter book had just come out….. Instead she spit out that all her friends were moving up to the next dorm and that next summer she’d be stuck here alone.  And by alone, she meant across the hall.
It seemed kind of silly at the time. She admitted years later than she was just made up an excuse to talk to me that night. She just wanted to be close. Heard.  Getting to hang out on a counselor’s bed past lights out was the sign of favoritism. Letting her stay…meant…to her and everyone else in that dorm that I liked her the best. (i did, just don't tell anyone).

I am almost 36 and I still do the exact same. Sometimes I  need to be heard.  Cared for. And valued and I still think I need an excuse. A reason. That I can’t just show up and ask for it. I still want people to like me the best. And to not need a reason to call, chat or just be loved.
I have been married for over a dozen years….and this is one of my favorite parts of marriage.  I might have to ask him to take the trash out, or empty the dishwasher…but I don’t have to have a reason for a little extra attention. I always have someone to love me the best. Even if I occasionally have to remind him of it!

One of my favorite memories of Laura….was down by the lake on the last day of camp.  She was sobbing a big ridiculous ugly cry as she said her goodbyes for the summer. Like the kind where your face gets all puffy, snot runs down your chin and you have a headache for the rest of the day.
I remember watching the scene play out with an ache in my heart but completely dry eyes….thinking….she should really wipe her nose…but also that I wanted to love like that. With that kind of passion. Knowing that there will be a last day at the end of July and not holding back anyways. That kind of willingness to be hurt or lost or broken.
Marriage means that too. Loving wild and recklessly without a safety net. Even when there are risks and complications.
And I know beyond a doubt that she loves Karly just like that.
These two girls ….taught me as teenagers….to love with my whole heart.
To not hold back.
To not need an excuse.
To be present.
To tell people that you love them the best.
To be passionate and willing and all in.

These girls aren’t teenagers any more…
And well, neither am I.
But they are still teaching me things.
Like the art of making the perfect mix cd.
How to get dance tights on a 5 year old without tears. Mine or my daughters. How to wake surf. Or at least try. How to light a cigarette.  What really happens during those triatholon races….  How to finish the race.
Some dance moves…that maybe after I have a few drinks I will let you see. I’m not as professionally trained as some of you….but get ready to take some notes….or at least have a good laugh.  I’m pretty sure my running man is better than yours.

But more importantly how to be a good mom.
How to be brave.
To take risks.
To listen to your heart when it is too loud to ignore.
Even all the way across  the country.

I have watched these teenagers become women that I admire and am proud to know.
I’ve watched them grow up. And I’ve watched them grow together.
I know that they will love each other wildly, protectively and passionately.
But I also know that I will love better for getting to be part of their love story.
I will also love more wildly and protectively and passionately.
Because of the teenagers who taught me how.
And these crazy bad ass women who keep reminding me what that looks like.

And then I proceeded to dance my face headdress off and eat four pieces of pie.
Best of luck KP and LL.
maybe just maybe some friends really are forever. (cue Micheal W Smith and some tissues)




Comments

Popular posts from this blog

pace yourself

Tonight I went running with a friend ten years my junior. I asked her how far she was running and when she said only about 1.5 or 2 miles, I teased her that I could go at least twice that far. And to just let me know when she needed to stop. I have been running pretty regularly for the last few weeks. It isn’t long but keep increasing my time and distance. I’ve stopped getting blisters. I don’t suck wind after five minutes anymore and I was feeling pretty good about myself. Thinking I might even be able to out run this girl who was so much younger and obviously in more shape than me. As we started to jog I told her that I run pretty slow. Like my husband used to walk beside me while I ran, slow. And she slowed her gait a little bit for me but it was still faster than I usually go. I was a little embarrassed and was not going to ask her to slow down again. So I just ran at her pace. I stayed close. And was fading fast. A little over a mile in I was ready to quit. Again, pride, which isn...

pursue something else.

Americans like the idea of happy. of pursuing happiness. It is even one of our inalienable rights at least according to the Declaration of Independance. But I think maybe we should pursue something else. like love or joy or peace or contentment. and leave happy alone. Don't read me wrong. I am neither bitter nor cynical. Even my problems are good problems. I am positive. Half full. And most days I laugh a whole lot more than I cry. And simple things like a dance party in the living room, an hour alone in Barnes and Noble, the yellow pajama pants my son picked out for me for mother's day, potstickers, clean sheets, someone surprising me with coffee, jeans fresh from the dryer, a good song on the radio, or squeals of delight when I walk in the door all make my heart sing. They make me happy. For a minute. But when the squealing turns to screaming, my new pants are dirty, the sheets are in a jumble on the floor or the coffee runs out....where does that leave me? And happy isn'...

my first dance

My wedding day is a little bit of a blur. And it was a great day. But so many people and so much going on and so many moments that it is hard to remember them all clearly without the help of photographs. But I totally remember my first dance as a bride. And it wasn’t with my husband. Or even my father, or brother. I had quickly kicked off my heels and hid them underneath a table. Said my hellos and hugs and smiled until my face hurt. Someone ushered us through the buffet line and I piled my plate with hors d'oeuvres and headed to a table. But before I could pop a single shrimp in my mouth someone grabbed me firmly by the arm and pulled me onto the dance floor and into a jitterbug before I could protest. It was my husband’s granddaddy. A man I had only met about a few times and heard say about as many words. So I was a little surprised when he spun me around the dance floor. Eventually that night I danced with my husband. And my dad. And probably even my brother. But my fir...