“Mom, can I color my hair pink?” She held up the package with the hot pink comb and the hair crayon that promised to add colorful streaks that wash out in one shampoo.

“Yes,” I answered. There was no hesitation. It spilled out effortlessly—with a smile. No analyzing what kind of mess it would make, if it was age appropriate, if it would set her up for more image-altering wants. Just “yes.”

She smiled her satisfaction, reminding me, “Don’t worry, it washes out,” diffusing any possibility that I might change my mind. I pulled out six wrinkled one dollar bills from the bottom of my purse and handed them to her—my ticket price for the show of childhood delight that followed. Sheer happiness—the quick wave of pride that accompanied the independence from a parent-free transaction with the cashier and the ten-minute countdown on the ride home for the transformation that was to come.

No sooner had the garage door opened, and the comb was out of the package, scraping blond strands and depositing thick hot pink greasy wax that weighed down her hair, turning feather light cornsilk into heavy icicles the color of a Bubble Yum wrapper.

A three-minute mirror gaze followed with facial expressions that could be easily matched to candy conversation heart sayings: OMG. 2 Cool 4 School. Awesome. She was thrilled.

“Can we do Nella’s hair?” she added.

“Yes.” Again, it rolled off my tongue with ease, and another smile followed.

Soon, two hot pink-headed girls were dancing in the hallway to our summer anthems, stopping periodically to catch a glimpse of their new dos in the mirror.

A “yes” to pink hair ignited a full wild card day—yes to cushions off the couch, yes to Slip n’ Slide, yes to that clearance best friends necklace at Target—the one with two halves of a rainbow, one she’ll give to her friend and one she’ll most likely lose next week.

Yes to S’mores at lunch and burning old mail in the firepit out back to roast our marshmallows. Yes to glow sticks. Yes to Katy Perry turned up to an annoying volume in our driveway while they rode scooters one-handed, holding popsicles with the other. Yes to the beach and dragging that giant stinkin’ inner tube with us. Yes to all of it at once and admittedly just as much for me as it was for them.

We were having fun. I loved how happy all these yeses made them, and for all the “Not Today”s and “I Said No”s  that accompany parenthood, it felt good for one day (ahem–or two) to say yes to everything—especially considering that at this age it simply means temporary color combs and a second popsicle; not permanent dye, a dragon tattoo or hopping on that motorcycle with that guy.

I remember yes days from my own childhood—we knew they were special, and we didn’t push the limits. Like the time my dad told me I had to wait to get my ears pierced until I was ten but then pulled a fast one on me at Oakland Mall three years early when he looked at me all wild card starry-eyed and asked, “Hey, want to get your ears pierced?” Pierced ears were followed with a new skirt. And a soft pretzel. And a cherry icee. And staying up past my bedtime.

These crazy days don’t necessarily set a course in parenthood or seal a fate. They’re just fun. Random. And everybody knows it.  Maybe they subliminally represent something—some parental need to overcompensate, be the fun one, fill in the gaps for where their childhood might be lacking. Maybe they’re simply a response to our overwhelming love for them and fulfilment in seeing them overjoyed. Whatever the case, it smooths out, and kids come out just fine—I’m sure of it.

And, hey. At least we’re a wild card united front right now. Call it summer spontaneity.

“What do you think about getting some neighbors together to rent a bounce house for the weekend?” Brett asked this morning. “You know, to celebrate summer.”

“Yes,” I answered. With no hesitation. Because I’m on a roll with the yeses, and it feels good.

Happy Weekend!

(climbing up to finish someone’s soup)

It’s been a long week, and I have a plane to catch later tonight to head to a friend’s wedding (I’m not packed!).

This week, I strongly felt the intensity of motherhood—a surge of all the dormant emotions and a nice song and dance from the ones that tend to stay steady.  The worries, fear and guilt swelled, but so did the love, celebration and gratitude, so I guess it evened out in the end.

Next week, it will have been seven years since my “I want to be a mom when I grow up” dreams came true. I used to think about being a mom a lot—probably more than most kids. When other teenagers were hitting Gadzooks for some midriff-bearing shirts, I was circling what stroller I wanted someday in the JCPenney catalogue. I knew what I wanted to name my babies twenty-five years ago—Crystal, Star, Stacey and Scott. Hey, things change.

What I didn’t realize was what happens behind the storybook pages—underneath the strollers and the names and the “Mom” title. I didn’t know how deeply love could hurt, how much I’d be changed by it. I didn’t understand that there was a another character that complemented my mom’s feed-us, take-care-of-us, do-fun-stuff-with-us side we saw every day. That at night, she sometimes cried for us, prayed for us, worried about us, planned for us, examined and reexamined her choices, wondering if they were the right ones for us. As my kids get older—and really, probably more likely as I get older and learn more about the world—I understand this more. That motherhood is so much more than reading books and going for walks and having tickle fights on the bed. But the best way for me to process the intensity and the hard parts is to read books, go for walks and have tickle fights on the bed. We don’t draw chalk rainbows and hula-hoop in the driveway because we think life’s a big unicorn. We do it because we know it’s not. We accept that it’s hard, demanding, sad and lots of times confusing, so we bring the rainbows and hula-hoops.  And we color and twist our hips like it’s our job.

The same goes for motherhood.

It is hard, it is exhausting, it pushes our limits, it pulls our emotions. So we lean in to all of it and draw fuel for the Ebb from the excess of the Flow.

Every time I face challenges in motherhood, whether it’s exhaustion, frustration or sadness, I run for the hula-hoop. Hitch up the stroller for a walk, cue the music for a kitchen dance, watch them chase each other around the kitchen island in fits of giggles, play airplane from our bed, sketch hopscotch squares in the driveway, pull them into my neck and smell their cheeks, kiss their foreheads, feel them breathe. It doesn’t make the challenges go away, but it smoothes the path to go through them.

Our mothers went before us and their mothers before them. And through every generation, each of them worried about their children, the world that awaited them and all the things that could happen. Look at us now. We’re here. We’re mothers. We made it. We’ll make it.

Happy Mother’s Day to all of you who ever loved someone, hoped for someone or picked out baby names years before they were due.

Happy Mother’s Day to the loving friends who support the moms.

Happy Mother’s Day to my own village—the beautiful women I am lucky to call mine.

And to my babies—Crystal, Star and Scott.

I love you so.

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There’s a lot of changing diapers and running out the door for preschool drop-offs in motherhood. But then are others–the moments that bring us to our knees. I’m over at BabyZone this week sharing some of those: 21 Raw Moments of Motherhood that Bring You To Your Knees.

This Sunday is Mother’s Day. In celebration of mothers everywhere, some poetry to start your day:

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Annie Flavin is a new friend of mine. I met her at Doe Bay–more specifically, in Anacortes, at the ferry station while we waited to board the boat and head to Orcas Island. Nobody knew each other. Hesitant participants emerged and introduced themselves, Annie one of them. She brought her husband and children with her (and later described, as in the first poem shared here today, how her babies made her feel more secure in a new setting) and instantly earned herself the title of the warm one, the smiley one, the one to make everyone feel at home.

She read the first poem here to the group that weekend, and it resonated with many. Talking later with her about her writing goals, she told me about how she fell in love with writing simple poems–most about motherhood–and her commitment of writing one poem a day. I wanted to read more and somehow became lucky enough to be a recipient of each poem, sent via text at the end of the day. I’ve been reading these poems for two weeks now and look forward to waking up and finding another one on my phone. Many times, they’ve been exactly what I needed to hear–simple reflections scraping up the exhaustion, worry, demands and mundane tasks of motherhood and magically spinning them into powerful truths to which so many can relate.

I’m honored to have Annie in this space today. Her poems are gifts–the kind of words you print out and tape to the refrigerator or forward to a friend after a long day.

Thank you, Annie, for sharing them with us.

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My Gifts
by Annie Flavin

They are my woobies.
My baby blankets,
my favorite stuffed animals,
my lovies,
my pacifiers,
my protectors,
my good night songs and
my good luck charms.

I don’t know when
what I am supposed to be for them
became
what they are for me.

I don’t know when
their spirits started
filling the cracks
that were in my own.

When “she’s beautiful”
became
“I’m beautiful.”

When “he’s brilliant”
became
“I’m brilliant.”

I don’t think
it’s good or fair or right
to use their lives
as caulking for my own.

But, what do you do
when their life’s spirit
is the most beautifully brilliant piece of work
you’ve ever created?

You give it to the world.
They are them.
I am me.
Each life unique.
Each its own.

Sentimental
by Annie Flavin

on our chest.