I’ve always liked driving.  Growing up on a farm, my folks always had 2 lawnmowers going at the same time if both were working, which was one of the jobs I liked. They taught me how to drive their suburban, in case there was ever an actual emergency.  I enjoyed the rarely working snowmobile, go carts, motorcycle, tractors, and other random vehicles, (with the exception of a skid loader- one close call to a barn wall is secured in my mind as the carny ride from hell.) 

My parents took us on many road trips as kids. A family of 6 makes more sense to drive than to fly and rent a car, so my grandparents’ home up north, regional ski hills, Rocky Mountain ski resorts, Lake Wabana, and family in North Dakota were frequented regularly on 4 wheels.  I have strong memories of looking at maps, figuring out the route, and sometimes writing the names of the towns and crossing them off after we drove through.  And my Walkman with batteries playing a Beastie Boys tape too loudly.

I remember getting close to acquiring my driving permit, daydreaming about the freedom of the open road (which at 15 likely consisted of a few miles to Whitewater State Park.). My parents were able to use the power of said impending freedom to require behavioral changes in my rotten 15 year old self.  And the slow release of freedom was glorious. My parents allowed me to explore, with conditions, fairly often.  I have fond memories of visiting friends, mini girls’ trips (I still love those) roller rinks, parks, and 4-H events around the state, but they took that freedom away anytime I stepped out of line.  I knew it was a beautiful privilege.

I still enjoy driving, although my old lady right hip doesn’t have the stamina of the rest of me.  My kids and I have driven through many states, exploring the open road together.  Sometimes we invite my parents, because it’s fun with them, too. The kids ask me about my memories growing up. We listen to music, sing too loud, and laugh. When they were younger I usually had DVDs in the van, and when I needed a break from the million questions about the meaning of life, I would put one in. They would watch, I would listen, and we’d have some meaningful discussions.  The characters, were they kind humans? Were they good friends? Did they handle situations wisely? And my sweet girls’ tender hearts would cry when someone was left out, treated cruelty, or made fun of.

Both of my kids somehow have a strong desire to save money for their own cars.  They have a few more precious years to dream.  Maizy wants a jeep, Layla a Bronco. They might change their minds, who knows.  But they save their pet sitting money and babysitting money hoping for their own 4 wheels of freedom in a few years.  And it makes me so proud.  And yet, a bit sad.

I am in the thickets of the chauffeur stage. During my relaxing summer days, I often wrote out my driving schedule on a post it, so I didn’t forget a kid somewhere.  They were usually headed different directions.  When I get to drive just one of them, it’s extra special.  If I don’t have too many bags or stuff in the front, the lone kid rides shotgun.  Those meaningful conversations we used to have about movies?  Now they are real life. What kind of friend they want to be, insecurities, new goals, things they want to try, talking through moments of feeling left out or inferior, handling situations wisely, being a good teammate, and (my favorite) sharing some of their favorite memories- some brand new ones, too.  I know I’ll only have this for a few more years, and I do soak it all in.  I will absolutely, undoubtedly miss this chauffeur stage.

A couple of weeks ago, Maizy got to drive the lawnmower for the first time.  I would have put her on it years ago, but it has a safety seat, and she just hit the magic number on the scale to activate it. I know the law says 16, but, come on.  I could see the excitement on her face- the joy of that slow release of independence. Footloose, fancy free.  And cheered on by her sister, who was almost as excited as Maizy.  For Layla, she gets to watch for a bit, learn by observing, and then feel like a pro once it’s her turn. 

I know they’ll still love traveling in the few short years that they’ll be grown.  I won’t join their “girls’ trips,” at least not for a while, and that’s okay.  But I hope that once in a while they’ll invite me along on their family road trips. I hope we still have the meaningful discussions. And when Maizy and Layla’s babies ask about their memories growing up, I hope they tell them about the magic we shared on 4 wheels and the open road.  It’s one of my greatest joys and privileges.

12 years ago, I was driving home from Target. I had spent a little more time in the store than planned (super typical) and was annoyed to be later getting home. I had promised to make Aaron some stuffed manicotti-one of his faves. It takes a while to make, and I still had to grab a few more ingredients at Hy-Vee on the way back. The parking lot at Target is tough to get out of, I was irritated with drivers who weren’t moving, and every light I hit was red. I was finally approaching a green one, and just before my right turn, it turned yellow. The car in front of me stopped, so I had no choice. I made an audible noise of frustration. Clearly, my time was just too precious to sit at a light for one more second. The car in front of me took its time, but finally turned. I rolled through the light and felt shivers. As I finally got moving, I saw brake lights just over a hill. People parking and running, holding up their hands motioning traffic to stop. No police, ambulance, or sirens. Frantic humans, running to help others. I hadn’t seen anything, but the car in front of me, the one who stopped for the red light, pulled over and I did the same. The car in front of him had been hit hard by another vehicle, and was waiting for EMTs, which we could now hear coming. I didn’t see the crash, but it looked bad. I rolled down my window to see how I could be helpful. I smelled a strange burning odor, maybe tires. The Police, ambulance, and fire trucks were there quickly, and routed us off the street. It appeared that both drivers were injured, but coherent.

I got to Hy-Vee and let myself sob. I was shaking from the situation, shaking and crying. There was no math needed to know where my car would have been, if not for the car in front of me. If the car hadn’t taken its time. If I’d hit just one green light. I zombie walked to get the manicotti, which suddenly seemed so unimportant, and when I got back to my cute little blue car, which was very much intact, I stared at it, and told myself that I’d never turn into such a brat over red lights again. It just might save me from a crash. I’ve needed to remind myself of this over the years, as I seem prone to bratty behavior when things don’t go as planned. But I’ll never forget. I shivered beforehand, but didn’t know why. Sometimes, I’m not meant to be where I want to be.

Today, this beautiful Thanksgiving, I’m home with my girls. They were supposed to have a sleepover at my parents last night, I was supposed to run a 10k in Faribault this morning, and then to Holly’s for Thanksgiving dinner. Sometimes, things don’t go as planned. Instead, I’ve set out stuffed pork chops, potatoes to mash, and corn to thaw. I’ll go to Kwik Trip in a bit to see if they have anything pumpkin flavored. I was sad when I went to bed last night, knowing that today would not go as planned, but I woke up mostly content and thankful.

I know that I don’t avoid a big crash every time plans change. I know I’m not some spectacular human that is magically spared death on a daily basis. But I also know that I don’t need to act like a pill every time things don’t go my way. So, instead of pouting, today I’ll count my blessings.

I’m grateful for plenty. Here is a short list:

• Maizy and Layla and their very bizarre antics and their very sweet, tender hearts
• Grocery stores
• A warm house
• Intact vehicles
• Food
• The ability to buy the things we need
• A job that pays many bills
• Activities that create said bills
• A career that often allows me to feel the magic of children
• My folks and siblings and their families
• A strong faith
• An incredible group of friends (even the ones I rarely seem, but randomly send me mildly inappropriate memories or jokes)
• A capable, mostly strong body
• Nice shovels
• Solar lights
• Electricity
• Our weird cat, who somehow enriches our lives when we least expect it
• Shady trees
• Running shoes and the ability to use them
• Incredible neighbors
• Manicotti

Happy Thanksgiving, friends. Thanks for reminding me all that we (all of us) have to be thankful for. Xo

The word that comes to mind when I do any type of research on what my daughters’ future looks like, is defeating. I’ve probably read 15-20 books, countless articles, and discussed with several (4? 5?) therapists what I should be looking for, how to help, how to cope, but mostly how to be proactive.

There is a term (and a pretty cruel one at that) called “fatherless daughters.” It’s slang/humorous/non-PC term is girls with “daddy issues.” You can Google it, but it’s terrible, stupid, and hurtful. In the 4.5 years that I’ve been navigating this crazy journey, I have met some incredible people who have inspired me to ignore these terms. Besides, there is a huge difference in all of our stories, we can’t lump all gals who are growing up without dads in the same group. Some girls have never had a father, raised by a fearless woman who knew she could do the job alone. Some started out with a dad, and he changed his mind. Some have minimal relationships with their father, often forced by the court. Some had really bad dads, and the choice was made by another to keep them away. And some have been raised by 2 mothers, showing their children what a healthy relationship looks like with no testosterone in the parental front lines whatsoever. So many different paths. The one I’m most familiar with: the girls who knew a loving, involved, amazing father, who was taken away far too early.

My girls remember Aaron exactly as he was. Loud, funny, loving, charismatic, and full of life. He truly was the fun parent, and we both knew it. It’s okay, I know I’m pretty fun, too, sometimes. But he just exuded joy. Layla’s memories aren’t very strong, she was just 3 when he died. Maizy remembers a lot, and she misses it so much. Out of what nowhere, or what appears to be nowhere, she’ll get choked up and ask “why did he have to die?” And Layla once asked (when she was pretty young) if there was a city that just has moms that we could move to, so she wouldn’t feel jealous every day when she sees dads.

The both have issues, which they may have had anyway, who knows? Maizy has difficulty with change. She has cried on the last day of school every year, knowing that she will miss her teacher, class, friends, and this moment in life that she won’t get back. She has wished she was “more normal,” so she was “easier for people to like.” She feels left out. That’s probably the biggest issue for her. She is at a tough age where she sees friendships changing, and she feels so sad. She gets nostalgic, she cries, and wishes that her life was easier. I’m sure all kids wish for that. She is an empath, and has a really big heart, probably because of her experiences. She is so funny, so helpful, and usually really kind.

Layla can be so stubborn, likely a need/desire to be able to make some choices in a world where not many were/are given to her. I don’t battle on some (wanting a Donald Trump hairdo on picture day) but hold strong on others (wearing shorts when it’s 38 degrees.) Layla is blunt, honest, and often too raw. She gets jealous. She loves being sassy, and loves when she finds people who appreciate the (in good taste) sass. She has the most infectious laugh, and her dad’s zest for life.

Over the last 4 years, they have insisted on knowing what will happen if I die. They ask a lot of heartbreaking questions, but this was one that they really needed to know. At first I told them I hoped that would be until we were all little old ladies, but they responded with “We hoped the same about daddy. What would happen? You’re our last parent.” So I told them that they would stick together. They would not be put into different homes. There would be a meeting with my siblings and parents, Aaron’s sister, and our closest friends to figure out a plan. They would still spend a lot of time with all family and friends, but they would live with one. A few weeks later, a good friend of ours had them over to play. On the ride home, they told me how much fun they had, and asked if I died if that family could “go to the meeting.” This was early, maybe a year after Aaron died. They have had other ideas for this hypothetical meeting in the last few years. Recently, Layla was at a friend’s house and had a great time. On the ride home, she asked if that family could go to the meeting. I started thinking, and realized that all of the families they had requested had both a mother and a father, the way their own family started out. Then I cried, because when their little hearts ache, mine does, too. Tenfold.

Looking ahead, the books tell me what to watch for: higher risk of depression, low self-esteem, ptsd, self-medicating, eating disorders, body image issues, etc. For now, they have none of those. I’ll keep my eyes wide open for sure. When I taught middle school, there was a place to talk to the right staff about students with new concerns… and I remember very clearly one of the first questions asked about the female students we brought forth: “Is her dad in the picture?”

If you know of a single mama (or dad), of boys OR girls, and want to be helpful, let them know you are here to help, not to judge. And let them know how you can help. Do you like to rock babies? Can you take her kids to the park for an hour so she can cry into her pillow? We know it takes a village, how can you be part of that village? Help create memories with their babes. Boost those kids’ self esteem by letting them know their are delightful enough to spend time with. That you want them in your memory bank. That you see them, and you want them to know they are loved and appreciated. Kids are resilient, but they are not unbreakable. Their hearts can be so fragile, often protected by a tough exterior. Adults often don’t choose the path that lead to single parenthood, but kids never choose the path. All kids deserve love. Let’s all laugh with them, learn from them, and love them.

There was a time that I would have met another young-ish widow, and after hearing her say that it had been four years, I would have assumed that she had most things figured out. I rarely feel that way, and I should warn new wids that while we move forward and develop new patterns and traditions, it never becomes easy. I struggle with second guessing a lot of decisions I make. Without having your spouse to talk with about everything (finances, activities, vacations, parenting, appliances) it all falls on one set of shoulders. I used to tell Aaron all of the funny things the kids said and did, and we would laugh so hard. Nobody else really cares to hear daily stories like that. When one of the girls does something awesome in school, sports, or other things, they just have one parent celebrating. Not knowing if I am making the right choices can be hard, but I have learned to trust my gut and use my heart as a compass as much as I can. Loss is hard for us. I see it easily with my kids. They cry when the school year ends, when their grandparents leave, and especially when they learn others have died. We have stuff that we will have to work on more than others. The part that I hate the most is the math- it just really sucks sometimes. At four years out we have been in our home longer without him than we were with him. Layla has lived longer without her dad than with him. And this summer, I’ll celebrate our anniversary for the 5th time alone, exactly half as many as with him. I hate that the further away we get from 2018, the more and more distant some of our memories become.

Looking back, there might be a few things that I have kind-of figured out. I can easily mow the grass, shovel the snow, and start a fire (on purpose.) I have figured out how to budget pretty well. I have an idea of who to call for help in various situations, and I would say the normal ins and outs of parenting often come somewhat naturally to me.

Sunday, February 13th, 2022 marked four years since Aaron died. Normally when the 13th falls on a weekday I take the day off and do whatever feels right to me. I almost completely unplug, and honestly just follow my soul for the day. Aaron loved that part of me: spontaneous and free. I don’t get to honor that as often as I once did. I am a teacher, a mom, and a mostly responsible adult. This requires schedules and a lot more organization than I prefer. This year the 13th fell on a Sunday. The kids had a 4-H meeting and later the Superbowl game. Other than the game, we unplugged for the entire weekend. I am not sure if the girls would admit this or not, but life is usually a lot more meaningful when we aren’t connected to devices or tv. They completed a 500 piece puzzle, they played together, they read, and I heard so much laughter that it warmed my soul. Of course, I cried. I remembered. I laughed.

I took the next day (Valentine’s Day) off from work. I need the day to fall apart without the girls around. I can swear loudly if I choose, the cat doesn’t really care. I brought the kids to school, and followed my soul. It turned out to be just a really cool day. I sprayed some cologne on one of Aaron’s shirts (today: a pirate shirt from a visit to St. John or St. Thomas, and Paco Rabanne Invictus) and went for a drive. I have done this before. No destination, and sometimes nowhere important. Maybe a tool store where we went once, an antique shop, a restaurant that we visited often, past old dives and haunts, or places we used to live. The plan is typically to see where the day takes me.

This year it took me to to Diamond Jo Casino in Northwood, IA. Aaron and I went there just once in 2016, and when we arrived we realized the Marshall Tucker Band was playing. We were excited for a casino buffet, and were somewhat underwhelmed- I think we had spent too much time in Las Vegas buffets to compare to small town Iowa. Anyway, we laughed and danced and had a good time.

This year, on my solo trip, I smiled at the memories. After arriving I wandered around inside for a while. I love the slot machine lights and sounds, and although typically I am not a fan of the cigarette scented air, it does seem to fit in with the rest of the casino ambiance. I found a machine to do with fishing that I was willing to pay my gambling dues to and I sat down. I played for a while and walked away with a loss. I found another one, called Pirate’s Loot or something like that, and took a seat. I won a bit, I hit the “extra bonus” a few times, and I cashed out at a really good time. Way up, but not enough to pay taxes on. I found another machine, and this one spoke right to me, too. On the screen was a mustached Latino fella with milk-chocolate eyes and a goofy smile, who would play the guitar, and his donkey would kick some bonuses at me. I played there for a while, and walked away with more than I started with. I left with a happy soul, and drove back to MN.

I approached the city of Albert Lea, and although I had no reason to stop, went to the “mall” there. There was only one store that I went into- Dunhams. Aaron and I had been to one in Red Wing once many years ago and bought some ski accessories. I didn’t buy anything this time but had fun looking at stuff. Then I drove toward Austin. I pulled off the interstate, and remembered a really great place that I hadn’t thought of in years. I didn’t know the name of it, nor exactly where it was located, but those are small things on a day without destination and plans. I drove almost right to it: Kenny’s Oak Grill.

I must have gone there with my family many years ago, because I have a very faint memory of all of us being there. Some years later, Aaron and I went to visit my aunt/Godmother, Margaret, and she requested Kenny’s for dinner. We loved the small town- family owned business, and the décor was so fun. Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, and other jukebox-esque décor lined the walls. Aaron and I talked about how if we ever hit the jackpot, we would open a roller rink in Rochester and showcase the same theme of yesteryear. There is just something about it that is good for your soul.

In 2007 when Aaron’s mom (Sue Dubé) was battling cancer, she asked us to bring her to visit Margaret, who was also battling breast cancer. Margaret had already tried a few different treatment options, but decided that she was done fighting. As we visited, she happily told us all about the meal she had chosen for after her funeral, and she smiled as she spoke of her late husband. She laughed as we talked about the Vikings, and she told us about how much fun she had at our wedding earlier that year. She hugged us all a little extra tight as we left. We all knew that our visits were numbered. After we left, Aaron drove to Kenny’s, and I think we all had shakes. Sue talked about how much she admired Margaret and her decision to enjoy her last days, instead of fighting.

In February of 2013, we attended the funeral of one of Aaron’s grandfathers, Jim Schuster. By this time, Margaret and Sue had both been gone for about 5 years. We had a beautiful new addition to our family, our sweet little Maizy, who was less than 2 months old. The funeral was in Wells, a small town not far from Austin. Aaron was so proud, as family members were meeting his baby girl for the first time. She giggled and cooed at everyone, and radiated the magic of new life. Aaron truly beamed with pride. His dad (John Dubé) had ridden with us, and although the roads were questionable, Aaron brought us all back to Kenny’s again. It was worth the risk. He knew his dad would enjoy the nostalgic ambiance, and he was right. The simplicity of the good old days is such to remember. I brought Maizy to the restroom to change her diaper, and had to ask another gal to watch her for a quick second. She was on the changing table, and had a massive diaper blow out. It was at least a 2 man job, and I had to run out to the dining room to request assistance from Aaron. He held our wiggly gal down in the ladies room and distracted her while I took care of business, then ran to the car to for a change of clothes. Good times.

This year I walked in and was seated in a booth by a sweet gal named Cara. There were older men drinking coffee at the stools who were talking about the football game. One didn’t understand why his guy didn’t win, and the other was trying to explain that the Chiefs weren’t actually in the super bowl. An older gal sitting near them was cackling with laughter. Hearing didn’t seem to be in their favor, and I enjoyed their banter. I assume the whole place did. The smell of grease, the charm, and the noise was the medicine I needed. After ordering food that turned out to be enough for three meals, I waited and listened. There are moments that I can feel Aaron’s spirit, and this was one of them. Two songs played while I waited. The first was a favorite of both of ours. The Beach Boys “God Only Knows.” We played a video with photos of us together as our wedding reception, and this was the song that played. The next was James Taylor’s “Fire and Rain,” (but I always thought that I’d see you again.). I felt goose bumps and tingles, but I didn’t cry. I just appreciated the moment. And gosh, I love that song!

Just after I paid (a very low price for three meals) I went to use the ladies room. I looked at the changing table where Maizy had been as a tiny baby 9 years ago, and I felt the sting in my eyes. It was too late to stop the sobfest. So many that I remember eating with at Kenny’s have died. Margaret, Sue, John, and Aaron. I thought of all of them, laughing, smiling, and living. I buried my face in my hands and convulsed for a few minutes. And I remembered that it has been a really, really long time since I have cried like that. But four years ago, I was sobbing like this regularly. Many times each day, and for a very long time. I’m grateful that the acute pain has lessened so significantly in the last few years.

We’ll always miss Aaron. We talk about him, we laugh about how loud he was, and we keep pictures up on the walls. I’ve worked really hard to build us a good life, and despite more loss in life than I would prefer, we do have an amazing life. We are warm, safe, incredibly well-fed, loved, and very happy. I have an incredible tribe of family and friends, and I am in a really good place with those relationships. I know that Aaron would not want anything but every joy and happiness for us, and I choose accordingly.

Aaron’s cologne I sprayed on his t-shirt is called Invictus, apparently after a poem by William Earnest Henley. I didn’t know the poem until a few hours ago. Here is the last stanza:

“It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate
I am the captain of my soul.”

Thank you, Mr. Henley.

Anyone else find the whole “Living My Best Life” craze interesting? I see it on social media every single day. Not “today was really fun,” or “I had a great time this weekend,” or “my kids truly enjoyed the park.” Everyone is just out living their best life. Don’t get me wrong, I love the positivity, and seeing all the fun that everyone is having. Especially pictures of people making memories (multiple selfies of a slightly different smile/angle don’t do it for me.) Show off those pics of your brave babes jumping off the dock!

We get exactly one life. It can’t be compared or ranked. It’s absolutely your best life. But it’s also the worst life you are ever going to get. It’s the calmest and the wildest, the loudest and the quietest, and the happiest and the saddest.

Me, personally, I just can’t get caught up in the hoopla of sharing pretenses of a perfect life and never ending euphoria. It’s just not reasonable, and it’s not who I am. I’ll never pretend that my happiness scale rating is always at a 10. Of course we all share some fun things that we do with our families, we photo dump the best stuff, because that’s what we want to recall- that’s what we know will make us smile later.

But I can’t discount the sad days. The days that heartbreak makes it hard to get out of bed. The days that I have to remind my kids 6 times that it’s not worth fighting over who said something first (or anything of equally low importance.) The days that nostalgia leaves a lump in my throat all day. The days I worry about the world, and what we are handing to our children and grandchildren. The days that I wish I could time travel: 2 years, 10 years, even 35 years back (disclaimer, I’d have to skip over the late 90’s to have any chance of keeping my liver intact.) The days that I question things I have always believed to be true. The days that my head hurts from the moment I get up until I fall asleep. The days I wish certain things came more easily to me. Those days, and those emotions, they exist, too. I seek out positivity in the tough days, but I can’t pretend they don’t exist.

I choose happiness and I choose joy as much as possible. Nobody in their right mind would choose anything else. I love laughing, sometimes until I can’t control my face, and I turn red and sweaty and I struggle a bit to breathe. But I know that no matter how hard I try, I can’t force a 10.

I live through the days where I peak at 5, and I find as much as I can to appreciate about each day. On days that my garage feels too small, I remind myself that at one time I had no garage, and at one time a garage like this was a dream. It’s really easy for me to do with my kids. As much as they pester one another, they spend more time laughing and just loving each other. There was a time (which feels like a really long time) that I would have given anything to become a parent. I can work through the bickering, knowing that a dance party is just around the corner, which will leave all of us laying on the floor laughing together.

You may see a lot of smiling pictures that I share, but know that I soak up the average and less than average moments, too. Honestly, I imagine that there will come a time that I’ll miss the sound of bickering in my house. Without feeling the lows, I can’t really feel the highs. As much as I love the feeling of a 10, I know that there’s no way that I could possibly appreciate it, without making it through a 2.

I’m going to get out and do what I can to enjoy my only life. The best parts, the worst parts, and everything in between.

Sixteen years ago I met this fella. I knew immediately that there was something special about him. I told my friends the day I met him that I was going to marry him someday, and I did. He was an incredible person, friend, husband, and father. The most incredible father. He taught me so many things about love, and he showed all of us what love looked and felt like.

I’d mad that he’s not here. I miss him as my husband and as my parenting partner. I hate how scrambled my brain gets, I hate that I can’t keep our schedules straight, I hate that I get distracted and forget what I’m talking about mid conversation, and I hate feeling exhausted. I hate knowing that I’m so much older than I was three years ago. I hate not having his lighthearted jokes about being busy parents, laughing at our failures and high fiving our wins, I miss his hand on my shoulder letting me know that it’ll be okay. I miss seeing pride in his face after finishing something cool: taking down a tree, mowing the lawn just right, fixing something on the vehicles, power washing the driveway, or grilled the most perfect t bones on the grill. I hate doing all of his jobs knowing I’m not even close to doing it right. I hate that both kids ask questions that I don’t know how to answer. I hate that I don’t remember what being relaxed feels like.

If I could take a day or a month and write down the long list of things I’m mad about, I’d still forget a few. If I took that same time, and wrote down a list of all the gifts Aaron gave me, and the things I’m grateful for, I’d probably forget a few of those, too. But the list would be, without any doubt in my mind, a million times longer than the things I’m mad about.

Along with many other gifts, Aaron gave me the ability to believe in myself. He believed in me more than I did from time to time, and his pep talks just planted into my soul. There have been times that I’ve tried, really hard, to alter my principles, and I’ve heard his voice. “You’ve got this one right. Maybe not everybody else does, and that’s okay. Keep your footing, Mama.” And there have been times that I’ve needed to bend, and I leaned on him to help me with that.

There are times that my parenting isn’t perfect. My kids say mean things to each other, or do naughty things in general, and I add more to my giant parenting to-do list. But every once in a while they do or say something so profound, that I know that they still feel his love, too. They have his amazing heart and beautiful soul, and I see their pride when they tackle something hard. They love strong like him, they work hard like him, and they are true empaths, just like him. I hope that I can foster in both of them the incredible gift their daddy gave me. I hope they are able to believe in themselves. I hope they can be strong enough to be true to themselves, even if it’s against the grain. I hope they always feel gratitude, and appreciate many of the blessings in their lives. I hope they tell and show people how important they are, and how meaningful their relationships are. And my goodness, I hope they sing, dance, and laugh as loudly and shamelessly as Aaron did.

Just like all of you, my life has changed significantly in the last 4 months. Gone are the days of high-fiving strangers at music festivals, wandering through amusement parks, shopping centers, and flea markets (okay- I made that part up- do they still exist?) completely unconcerned with how many times things had been sanitized and cleaned. Gone are the days of encouraging my children to share their bikes with new friends at parks, hopping in the car for a last minute trip to a family friendly restaurant to avoid cooking and cleaning at the end of the day. There are so many things I’m missing terribly, and so many things to complain about (and trust me, I do.)

My children and I went into self quarantine on March 25th. Our neighbor was diagnosed with Covid, and our kids had recently played together. They rode each others bicycles and scooters, and of our 5 kids, it’s likely that at least 3 of them had a loose tooth at the time, which means fingers constantly and shamelessly in the mouth. No soap, no sanitizer. So, we shut our doors. I remember dreading the 2 week window of being glued together, but as every parent does, we do what’s best for our families. And then, those 2 weeks turned into 11 weeks. Until June 9th, I was away from my daughters for about 3 hours total, while I was visiting students in their driveways.

If you had asked me one year ago how I would like to be grounded with my kids for 11 straight weeks, you’d have seen some pretty big eyes. I know that I need a healthy break from them, as much as they need a minute away from me. While we certainly love each other, there are times we drive each other a little crazy. They are needy. I am needy. I won’t pretend that I loved every minute of it, especially while I was juggling distance-teaching, and parenting my kindergartener and first grader, encouraging them to stay focused, hoping they were completing their work, and helping them understand new concepts. Ugh. Gosh, we missed other people! We often changed from one pair of pajamas to the next, skipped a few showers, I pretty much gave up on make-up, and our overall ambition was lower than normal. I didn’t hate it, and I tried to make some fun activities that we wouldn’t normally get to do. We watched mass at home, we created our own crazy Easter fun (including an abstract cake they decided on together) and they organized, created new games, new weird activities, and then eventually we started going out in public. We went hiking, biking, picnicking, and enjoyed the beautiful outdoors that summer allows. We still haven’t celebrated Layla’s birthday (March 18th), and there are plenty of other things that we feel sad about missing.

Here’s the thing. If you asked me a year ago what I wish I had more of, I would have said time. Mostly time to give to my girls. Maizy and Layla lost their dad when they were 3 and 5. They already got half of their parenting team taken away from them. And they are going to be angry about that forever, obviously. You guys- I got 11 straight weeks with those little miracles, those sweet babes that I begged God to give me for YEARS before becoming their mama. So, although I am annoyed that I don’t get to do some of our regular fun stuff with them, I am forever grateful for the 11 goofy weeks we had to ourselves. We still have a lot more time together than planned, but I have managed to escape a few times. Those days, I find myself plugging away at my to-do list, sitting in a coffee shop (like right now), going to the gym, and doing some solo grocery shopping, which is heavenly. For real, I love the time I have away, and I love that they have some time without me.

I know the future looks pretty foggy. We have no idea what the school year, athletics, public places, travel, etc. will hold. We will have plenty to complain about. We will be frustrated with whatever politicians decide for us, for our children, and for our freedoms, with people who have crazy opinions, and random things that annoy us for no particular reason. I need to put this in writing so that I remember: Enjoy this moment. The one right now. We have all learned in one way or another that tomorrow won’t come for everyone. This moment is the one to savor, and I hope that I can remember that when things get too foggy.

I just had a crazy person revelation. I miss writing so much, and so often I wish I had the time to do it more. I know I just need to make time. I swear, it’s the therapy I need… sometimes I don’t really understand my emotions, my reactions, or my own thoughts until I dissect them with a pen or keyboard. I have truly been in the thickets of survival mode for over 2 years, and so many things I love had to go to the back burner. It was the right thing to do. My girls needed me, and I needed to spend any extra time paving the way for my changing family. But, I need to get back to it, and the timing feels right. I’ve learned there are a lot of things I can live without (ahem, new shoes and clothes every few months) but to be at my best, writing needs to be on my to-do list. I know it’s not January 1st, but here is my new resolution:

Write. When it feels right, when the words are flowing. When I need to share, when I need to remember, when I hope to record things that will get lost in the jumbly mess of life. When I need to feel, or hope to heal. When I need to express gratitude, remorse, or hope. When I need to reflect. Write.

That’s all.

There was a time in my life that I would have considered myself a solid 7 emotionally on a scale of 1-10. I had friends who experienced a 2 and a 9 on the same day, and that just wasn’t who I was.

Of course, there were times that my number dropped, as I learned that loss and grief were a very real part of life. When I was 5, I was hospitalized and had my appendix removed. I went home after a few days, but another girl who was also hospitalized didn’t. A few weeks later, my mom brought me to her funeral, and I remember seeing the guilt and sorrow on my mom’s face, and I could feel the sadness and torture from Melissa’s mom.

In high school, I lost a 4-H friend with a heart of gold to cancer, and I recall that first taste of “why can’t the good ones live forever?”. A classmate, a track friend, and acquaintances dying too young, they all shocked me and left me remorseful.

Knowing my parents had lost infant twins taught me the importance of not taking life for granted. We always felt their presence in our family, and always wondered, and still do, who they would be today. Losing three of my grandparents, all of who I loved very much, was very difficult and sad. I struggled with wishing I had one more day, to say I love you one more time, to hold their hands, to hear their laughter. I know in my soul, one more day would never be enough.

In my profession, July is probably considered the most relaxing month for many. School is out, the end of year stress and craziness has slowly dissolved, but we are not truly gearing up for the next school year yet. Teachers often take family trips, complete house projects, etc. in July.

I’ve come to terms with July being my biggest emotional rollercoaster of the year. Bittersweet doesn’t come close to describing the highs and lows I feel during the month. Obviously, February will probably be the worst from here on out, but July is different.

On July 4th of 2006, came the happiest surprise of my life at that point, when Aaron asked me to be his wife during a lull in the Rochester fireworks show. I spent the rest of the night beaming, and the next year planning the wedding we had dreamed of. The evening before we were married, his mom and dad hosted the groom’s dinner at their beautiful home, and as he often did, Aaron lit up the world with fireworks and laughter.

On July 7, 2007, Aaron and I were married, and we shared and celebrated our marriage with our families and friends. It was truly a day that represented who Aaron and I were, and we loved everything about it. It was a joyous and love filled day.

2 years later, after an ectopic pregnancy early in our marriage, and struggling to conceive, I was elated to find out I was pregnant. Aaron was working, and when he came home to celebrate our second anniversary, he found me sobbing, as earlier in the day I lost the pregnancy. After a long and miserable road filled with three more losses, in 2010 Aaron and I had made the decision to try in vitro fertilization. After one failed attempt, we learned were were expecting in early 2011. In the spring, we were all kinds of elated to learn there were 2 babies.

We bought cribs, bedding, clothes, supplies, and were looking forward to the anatomy ultrasound, which was scheduled for July 1st. I was driving myself crazy with anticipation, and was overjoyed when the day arrived. We saw the beautiful heartbeats, perfectly developing organs, chambers of the heart, and brain. And finally… one girl, and one boy. We were in 7th heaven for about one minute, until I saw the look on the ultrasound tech’s face. She told me not to move. A doctor came in, I was dilated, needed surgery, headed for prep, anesthesia, and a cerclage, to hold the babies in. It’s a spinning blur, but I remember that day being the only day that I hit a 10 and a 1 in my whole life. I was put on bedrest, and later hospitalized in hopes that both babies could stay put long enough to survive.

Apparently, God had other other plans, and for reasons that I will never understand or be at peace with, on July 28, 2011, our beautiful twins, Savannah and Charlie Dubé, were born. Shortly after their birth, they were baptized, then called back home to dance with Jesus. They were held, loved, sang to, and truly cherished for every second of their existence.

I know today that they get to celebrate their birthday with their daddy, for the second time. I know that their grandparents and mine, are singing, dancing, and celebrating in a way that we won’t understand until we get there. I only wish that that enormous celebration was here.

Eight years ago, two tiny souls were born, and made a huge difference in many lives, and many huge changes in my heart. I cry more, I love more. My perspective is different. I try to celebrate everything… every milestone, every friendship, every blizzard, every rainbow, and every thunderstorm. I try to cherish the times that Maizy and Layla are driving me crazy, because I know in 8 years, I might wish I had this moment back.

July is the 7th month of the year, but I’m no longer a solid 7. I feel more. I hurt more, and I love more.

Savannah and Charlie, you were here, you existed, you mattered, and you changed my world. You taught me more in your tiny lives than I could ever have imagined. You are always in my heart, and the power of my love for you is immeasurable. Thanks for the house-shaking thunder this morning, I felt you. Give your daddy a big hug, and then another. He loves being squeezed tight. Happy birthday, my beautiful angels. Love, Mommy

It’s hard to believe that 14 years ago, I was freshly 26 years old, recently graduated from Winona State, ready to start real life. I was mulling over the 2 job offers I’d received, one in Texas, one in Colorado. I’d been busy researching cost of living, apartments, and looking at online classified ads looking for roommates. I was ready for adventure, but wasn’t sure which was the best fit.

Ultimately, I was headed for the biggest adventure of my life, but the best fit was right here in Minnesota- Mr. Aaron Dubé. On May 21, I celebrated my recent graduation with my family and friends at my apartment. My dad grilled some hot dogs, I made potato salad, and bought some beer. After spending the day chatting with everyone, 2 pals and I went out for some more beer and pizza. These are the last pictures I have of my life before Aaron.

My friends and I were sitting at a table near Aaron’s friends, and two of our friends were chatting with another person. We ended up chatting, laughing, and exchanging numbers. Walking home later that night, I told my friends I should marry him someday. He called the next day, claimed he would be in my neighborhood, and stopped by. We ended up grilling, sitting outside, talking, and laughing from that day on.

Most days I try to do what I can to honor Aaron, to keep his laughter, his kindness, and his generous spirit alive. Some days I do better than others. Today, I did plenty to reminisce. I heard a song that made me sob, then intentionally listened to it 3 more times, and sobbed each time. I miss so many things about him, and I just happened to think how differently my life would have been if I had gone to Texas, Colorado, or had just stayed home on May 21st, 2005. The answer is simple. If I had never met Aaron, my life would have been worse. If I’d never known his smile, his laugh, and his love, my life would have been worse. I have so many memories that still make me belly laugh, and I hope they still make me laugh when I’m 90.

Whenever Aaron would order a drink, he would puff out his chest and say “Bacardi Coke” and a strangely macho way because he knew I would cry from laughing as soon as the waitress turned around. And because we both knew he’d rather have a rum punch or painkiller, but the manly-voice won.

Aaron was the kind of person you’d want in your corner. He was helpful, fearless, and made you feel like you were the most important person in the world when you were with him. He is loved, he’s missed, and he truly made the world a much better place.

I added a few silly home videos below in hopes that his joyful demeanor still brings joy to all. Xo