Other moms tried to warn me, but I wasn’t concerned. I had my emotions under control. Yes, my oldest was leaving for college, but I had no reason to be sad. Was I excited for her? Yes. Proud? Absolutely. I would miss her, but I wasn’t going to have an emotional meltdown like those other moms. Then I watched her say good-bye to her puppy – and it nearly ripped my heart out. Perhaps I underestimated the power of my emotions.  

The two-and-a-half-hour drive to school wasn’t much better. I tried keeping the mood light, chatting about stupid stuff and singing with the radio. Then Taylor Swift came on with a sappy song that made me feel like a boa constrictor was clenching my heart.  

I tried reasoning with myself. Kids grow up. It’s a natural part of life. I always knew this day would come. It’s the ultimate goal of parenting. But every rational thought felt illogical. I’m her mom. From the moment that “plus sign” appeared on the little white stick, it’s been my job to take care of her. Something felt very unnatural - and just plain wrong – about leaving her.

Meanwhile, my husband was fine. Annoyingly fine. He wasn’t an emotional mess. He was calm, cool and collected.  

The weekend flew by in a blur. We moved Emily into her dorm, helped her get settled, bought her books, went to church, grabbed some lunch and before we knew it, it was time to go. Hugs. Tears. Laughter. Pictures. Good-bye.  I love you. See you soon.

The ride home was long and quiet. Not in the mood to make supper, we went out to eat.

“How many?” The waitress asked at the door.
.
“Four.” My heart lurched a little. At lunch, we were a party of five. By dinner, we were down to four.

Later that night, Curt and I sat in bed, reading. My phone buzzed.

You guys make it home?

Yep. I smiled as I texted her back. Just getting ready to go to bed. My phone buzzed again.

Okay, I wrote you and Dad a letter. It’s under the left side of my mattress at the top.

I flipped back my blanket, hopped out of bed and hustled into her empty room. There were no pillows or blankets on the bed. No clothes on the floor. Just a few knick-knacks on her dresser that didn’t make the cut to accompany her to college.

I reached under her mattress, found the letter and plopped onto her bed.

Dear Mom and Dad …    

Over the next few minutes, I read Emily’s sweet words as she poured out her heart, specifically thanking us for everything we’d done over the past 18 years. Her letter was beautiful. it was obvious she had put a lot of thought into it. Clearly, this girl had her momma’s letter-writing skills.

Suddenly, the boa constrictor was back. This time it attacked with a vengeance. It grabbed at my throat, tightening its grip on the relentless lump growing inside.

But to my surprise, I didn’t cry.

Maybe it was because I had already drained my emotions over the weekend. Maybe the joy finally outweighed the tears. Whatever the reason, no doubt my husband would be glad his blubbering wife was finally getting off her emotional roller coaster.

I walked back to our room and handed Curt the letter. “From your daughter,” I said.

I snuggled under the covers and closed my eyes. I was ready to put the weekend behind me. Just as I drifted off, an abrupt noise came from the other side of the bed.

“Sniff.”

I looked over as Curt wiped his eyes. Thank goodness, I thought. I couldn’t help but smile.

It wasn’t long before Toby became a regular visitor at our house. Every day, I spotted him sitting in the sunshine on the front steps with at least one of my girls. Someone always fed him, played with him, and showered him with attention.
 
We checked with neighbors, hoping to find his owner. Everyone knew about the “friendly, orange cat,” but no one knew where he came from.
 
By the end of summer, our next-door neighbors decided to adopt him. It was the perfect arrangement. Each day, he came by for a visit. Every night, the neighbors brought him inside. They even called him Toby.
 
While Toby charmed his way into our hearts, he also wanted to make his way into our home, especially on cold, dreary days.
 
“I think we have a stalker.” I smiled at Madison and pointed to the window. Toby propped his paws up against the glass and gazed into the house.
 
“It’s freezing out there,” Madison said. “Can’t we bring him inside?”
 
Toby peered in hopefully. I shrugged. “I suppose,” I said. “Just keep him on the rug—and be sure to vacuum when you put him back out.” 
 
Madison arranged a blanket on the rug and made him a bed. Toby snuggled in, his paws pushing in and out with a slow and steady rhythm. “See,” Madison whispered, “he’s not hurting anyone.”
 
“If Dad sneezes during supper, this is the last time Toby comes in.”
 
Dad didn’t sneeze, so as the temperature turned colder, we became bolder.

Can we take Toby downstairs while we watch a movie? I’ll keep him on a blanket. I’ll even vacuum later.” Madison held Toby next to her cheek and gave me an exaggerated grin. Outside, the wind howled.  
“I suppose,” I said, crossing my arms. She and Toby disappeared downstairs. I followed later.
 
About halfway through the movie, Madison jumped up and pressed the mute button. “Is that the garage door?”
 
My middle daughter gasped. “Dad’s home! Put Toby out!”
 
Rather than boot the cat outside, Madison scooted him into a closet just as we heard footsteps coming down the stairs.
 
“Hey, I’m home,” Curt called out. I pictured Toby, confused and stuck in a dark closet.
 
Please don’t meow. Please don’t meow.
 
Curt walked across the room, stopped by the closet and leaned against the door.
“What’s for supper?”
 
“Um… chili,” I said. “It’s ready. Let’s eat.” As Curt turned toward the stairs, a little white paw reached out from under the door. But Curt hadn’t seen it. Madison and I looked at each other and exhaled in relief.

Then one night, the girls and I went to a school program. Just as the sixth-graders kicked off their version of “Hot Cross Buns,” my phone vibrated. I glanced at the text message on the screen:

“Why is this cat running into our house?”

Uh-oh. My phone buzzed again.

"Obviously someone has been letting it in the house. It acts like it owns the place.”
 
I leaned over to Taylor. “We’ve been busted. Dad knows we brought Toby into the house.”
 
“What? How?”
 
I shoved the phone into my purse. “Let’s just say that Toby let the cat out of the bag.”

My girls and I had done a good job keeping that little family secret. The only problem was, we forgot to tell Toby. In the end, we learned a valuable lesson: Tell the truth—or someone will tell it for you. Even if that someone is a friendly, orange cat.

Free books! Free books! Did somebody say FREE BOOKS?

Why, yes I did. It's that time again! I am celebrating another story published in a Chicken Soup for the Soul book - and I'd love for you to join me. This time the stories are all about cats.

Cats.

Funny thing about cats ... seems like most people either love them or hate them. In our family, my girls and I fell in love with the sweetest stray cat you'd ever hope to meet. He charmed his way into our hearts and home. Only problem was, Dad did not like cats. So, bringing kitty in the house became our little secret. But, like most family secrets, the truth eventually came out. In the end, you'll never guess who let the cat out of the bag. I'll share the whole story next week on my blog.

In the meantime, I'm giving away TWO copies of Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Cat Really Did That? I'll give you FIVE ways to enter before Tuesday, August 1. Feel free to be an overachiever and do all five if you'd like. Then I'll enter your name in the drawing and choose two random winners which I'll announce next week.

Good luck!

FIVE WAYS TO ENTER THE GIVEAWAY ...

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We had the typical struggle to get three girls out the door. Someone couldn’t find their shoes. Someone else was wearing her sister’s shirt. Amidst the chaos, Curt called over to me. “Did you grab the camera?”

Emily groaned. “Can you please do me a favor? Can you not videotape me this year?”

“What? Why?” I didn’t try to hide my disappointment. “We have every piano recital since you first started lessons.”  

“Well maybe this year you can just listen – and not video it. Okay?”  

“Fine.” I shrugged. Anyway, I still had my cell phone if she changed her mind.

Like always, recital began with the youngest, most-inexperienced musicians first. Some could barely reach the pedals. One-by-one each kid took their turn playing their masterpieces.

We heard a quick version of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. Then the ‘ol reliable, Hot Crossed Buns. Then a heartfelt rendition of Ode to Joy. Each kid ended their songs with a little grin and a big sigh of relief.

A girl played the first couple of measures of The Entertainer. Curt and I looked at one another and nodded. How many times had we heard a girl plunk out that song from the piano in our basement?

I leaned in toward Emily. “Are you sure I can’t record you? I promise I won’t videotape. I’ll just record the sound on my phone.”

Emily shook her head.

“But it’s your last recital, Em. You’ll never do this again.”

She smiled. “I know.”

She was glad it was her last recital. I was tired of “lasts.” This year has been full of them. Her last volleyball game. Her last homecoming. Her last performance in the school play. Her last senior banquet. Her last day of school.

It feels like I’ve been desperately grasping to hang onto something that's impossible to hold. It occurred to me, this was a “last” for me as well. My last attempt to hold onto this season of motherhood with my first little girl.

The piano teacher called Emily’s name. She walked to the front and began playing a song called, Butterfly. I was tempted to record it on my phone. But I didn’t. Instead, I honored her wish and just listened.

“Butterfly” was a fitting name for the song. As she played, I imagined a little caterpillar emerging from its cocoon. I pictured its crumpled wings slowly straightening. As the tempo fluctuated, I thought of a delicate butterfly fluttering gracefully in a summer breeze. Its brilliant colors sparkled in the sunlight. Butterflies have no idea how beautiful they are. Neither does my daughter.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. I really hate change.    

But I also know. Caterpillars have to go through a change if they’re going to become a butterfly. And Emily has to go through her own transformation as well.

All I can do is release her. And let her fly.

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Most of the phone chargers in our house are falling apart. The problem? Too many teenagers have twirled them around and / or carelessly yanked them out of their phones. Wires are exposed and beginning to fray. A couple of them don’t even work anymore. Strangely, frayed wiring reminds me of my latest neurological appointment.

The doctor held a metal instrument against my ankle. “Can you feel this?” It vibrated. I nodded. He moved it to my big toe. “How about this?”

“Um … no …” Did he shut the thing off? Across the room, I gave Curt a questioning look.

Is this guy messing with me?

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the doctor. It was MS.

Multiple sclerosis is a disease that breaks down the protective covering surrounding the nerves. Basically, this makes it difficult for the brain to communicate with the rest of the body. My brain sends out signals, but those messages get disrupted.

So, I have a communication problem between my brain and my body. No wonder I feel like my body is short-circuiting sometimes! MS affects different people in different ways. One of the main ways it affects me is my balance and coordination.

Before MS, I could walk across the room without giving it a thought. Now – especially if I’m tired – I have to think about my every step. Most people probably don’t even notice, but I am always concentrating on walking without tripping.  

Balance is also something I can’t take for granted. One time my doctor asked me to close my eyes and say which direction he was moving my big toe. I couldn’t tell, so I took a wild guess. I guessed wrong.

Again, it’s a communication problem. Somewhere between my brain and big toe, the message gets lost.   

Another issue I have with walking involves spasticity. When my doctor first used the term, I thought he was insulting me. (Remember junior high? “Oh, he’s such a ‘spaz.’) It’s not a flattering word. But spasticity is a real problem.

I first noticed it while walking on a cold winter day. My right leg tensed up. I couldn’t walk normally. My muscles felt stiff. Tight. Painful. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t walk without limping. Turns out, my leg was having involuntary muscle spasms. It happens – especially in cold temperatures.

On a positive note, MS has done one thing for me. It has forced me to ponder the amazing design of the human body. The incredibly creative and miraculously complex way my brain sends billions of messages to control every move I make … every breath I take … (I know. Sounds like a song from the eighties) Anyway, it is amazing the way the brain controls every part of the body – all the way down to the flicker of an eyelid.

I can’t wrap my head around it.

And so, I am reminded of all the miraculous things my body can do. Like breathing – without even thinking about it. And seeing this big ‘ol colorful world around me and smelling the fresh-cut grass and taking walks with my husband. And making and delivering beautiful babies. And smiling and laughing and reading and typing. And lifting my hands to praise God and thanking Him for all of it.

Even if I do limp a little.

I’ve always liked to shop. Not for groceries, mind you. I’m talking about clothes. Shoes. Purses. Those kinds of things. When my girls were young, I used to daydream about the four of us shopping together once they all became teenagers. It was gonna be great. I imagined the four of us, talking and laughing as we strolled through the mall. We’d check out the latest styles. Shop for shoes. Bond over pretzels.

Boy, was I delusional. Allow me to introduce my three daughters.  

First, there’s Emily. Emily likes to browse and inspect every rack when she shops. She tries everything on, then carefully weighs the pros and cons of each item.

My next daughter, Taylor, also likes to shop. But Taylor is very goal-oriented. She knows what she needs. She finds it. We buy it. There’s no need to aimlessly wander or waste her sweet time. When she tries on clothes, it’s quick and painless. “It fits. Let’s go.”

As you may guess, shopping with both of them creates quite the challenge.  

Then there’s my third girl, Madison, who hates shopping altogether. Typically, if her sisters and I are headed to the mall, she and her dad will go see a movie.

But I had a dream! Shopping ... laughing ... shoes … pretzels ...

For years, I tried to make my dream a reality. If only Emily would hurry up. Or if Taylor could be patient. Or if Madison would just visit one store in the mall besides Chick-fil-a and Cinnabon.  

Eventually, I faced the facts. If I’m going to enjoy shopping with them, I need to do it individually.  

Now I know. Before shopping with Emily, I need to rest up because it’s going to be a marathon. When going with Taylor, it’s best to stick to the plan. And Madison? Let’s just say, I’ve discovered other ways to bond with her – and thank goodness for hand-me-downs.  

Just as I’ve learned to have a flexible shopping approach with each of my girls, I’ve also learned to adjust my parenting style.

Every kid is different. Different personalities, temperaments, interests, strengths and weaknesses. It would be easier if the same parenting strategies worked for every kid. But parenting isn’t a one-size-fits-all kind of job. The goal is to figure out what floats their boat – and meet them there.  

After all these years, I’ve found only one thing they all have in common – whether it’s the girls who like to shop, or the one who really hates it. All three of them look in their closets and swear they have nothing to wear.

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The middle school years can be tough. Tough on kids – and tough on moms. Today I’m sharing a story about my soon-to-be-high-school-graduate during some of her difficult days of middle school. Hopefully this will be an encouragement to all of the middle school mamas out there. This too shall pass. I’m sure of it.  

Emily slammed the back door and flung her backpack to the floor. “I am so tired of being the shortest kid in my class.”
 
“What happened?”
 
“We picked teams for volleyball in PE today,” she said. “Like always, I was the last one picked.” 
 
Normally, I’d say something about “being a late bloomer” or maybe remind her to “be patient because everyone grows at their own rate.” Instead, I tried a lighter approach.
 
“Well, that’s what I call saving the best for last!”
 
“Seriously Mom, I can barely reach the net – let alone spike a ball over it!”    
 
“You know, it doesn’t matter how you look on the outside. It’s what’s on the inside that counts.”
 
Emily sighed. “You always say that.” She picked some pink nail polish off her finger. “I just feel, you know, like nothing special.”.
 
A week later, Emily was discouraged again. This time we were at the mall.
 
“I don’t like it.” Emily stared in the department store mirror, shaking her head.
 
“I think it looks cute,” I said, tilting my head to the side. 
 
“Mom, I’m not wearing ruffles or bows to my Christmas program.”

I couldn’t blame her. Most of her friends wore trendy clothes from the junior department, but Emily couldn’t fit into those sizes yet.
 
I glanced down at the shoes she had snatched from a display. “Oh Em, those heels look tough to walk in.”
 
“They’re fine.” She took a couple of wobbly steps. I exhaled. This girl would try anything to look taller.
 
The school year went on, Emily worked hard on her schoolwork. She was respectful to her teachers and kind to her classmates. Every now and then she still had bad days, but I did my best to encourage her. 
 
“Em, you’re a good student and a great kid.” Emily rolled her eyes but I kept talking anyway. “You just need to be the best Emily you can be. You're going to accomplish great things.”
 
I know she heard me; I just wasn’t sure she believed me. Then one day, toward the end of the school year, Emily’s principal called.
 
“I’ve got some exciting news,” she said. “Emily was chosen to receive the Illinois Principal’s Association Student Leadership Award.”
 
“Okay?” I began, “I’m actually not familiar-”
 
“It’s a program our school participates in every year. All of the students vote for one boy and one girl based on behavior, strong character, leadership skills and academics.”
 
I couldn’t help but smile. “So, Emily’s classmates picked her?”  
 
“Yes, they did. It was actually a landslide.”
 
I thanked the principal and hung up the phone. How about that? Emily’s classmates saw something in her she didn’t see in herself.  
 
Later that day Emily dashed through the back door. “Did you hear, Mom? Did my principal call?”
 
“Yes, she did,” I said. “And I am so proud of you!”   
 
Emily’s face beamed. It didn’t matter if she was the smallest kid in her class. On that day, she finally realized that her classmates looked up to her.

There's something very strange about sitting in the passenger seat while your fifteen-year-old drives. No doubt you’ll have flashbacks of teaching them how to hold a spoon or sit on the potty. Now suddenly, that same kid is operating a motor vehicle and passing oncoming traffic at 55+ miles-per-hour.

How does a mom keep her cool during such stressful situations? I'm still learning how to do it. But with the my second kid behind the wheel, I can share a few tips that I've found helpful.

Check out my post over at the Quad City Moms blog ... Five Ways to Keep Your Cool When Your Teen Starts Driving.

Normally, I’m not one who climbs onto a soapbox to complain about stuff. I’m a laid-back, go-with-the-flow kind of gal. Unless it’s an issue that hits super-close to my heart.
 
So, what’s close to my heart?
 
Well, for one … raising three girls to the best of my ability.
 
And when something (or someone) comes along and tries to undermine me in that mission, I feel the need to speak up. So here I go … speaking up.  

Dear Hardees,
 
I want you to know that I haven’t eaten at one of your restaurants in a very long time. Decades, actually. And I want you to know why. Your commercials make me want to lose my lunch.
 
Let’s start with the fact that they are so ridiculously unrealistic. Seriously. I’ve eaten a lot of cheeseburgers, but not once have I felt the need to throw on a string bikini, bend over in some awkwardly provocative position and pretend to seduce my sandwich.
 
I mean, seriously. Who does that?
 
I have to wonder, is that really the best you’ve got? Is your advertising staff so lazy and uncreative that they have to resort to inappropriate ads to get our attention? I know, sex sells, right? Well, I’m not buying it.
 
I can already imagine what you are thinking. Lighten up, lady.
 
Let me explain why I won't take your nasty commercials lightly. Emily. Taylor. Madison. My three daughters. For the past 18 years, I’ve had the monumental task of raising them to be confident, self-respecting, strong women.
 
And I take that job very seriously.
 
Then you came along and tried to annihilate all my hard work. Your commercials contribute to so many struggles that girls face today. Poor body image. Eating disorders. Feelings of inadequacy. Depression. Obsession with diets.

I understand that the models you use aren’t actually as perfect as they look on TV – but little girls don’t. When they see your commercials, they see an impossible standard of beauty. A “beauty” they could never attain – because it isn’t even real.   
 
Little girls grow up believing they need to dress or act like the women in your commercials. They mistakenly believe the only way to feel important or valuable is to draw attention to their bodies.    
 
And here’s another thing that really annoys me. One minute my family might be watching the Super Bowl or the Olympics, the next minute, we've got women hanging out (literally) in skimpy lingerie and chatting about three-ways. By the way, thanks. That wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have with my eleven-year-old.
 
I remember the model in your commercial … staring seductively into the camera while saying, “It’s called a three-way burger. What did you expect?”
 
Well, Hardees, I expect you to show some courtesy toward women. I expect that, while watching family-oriented shows with my kids, I won’t be bombarded by images of bare breasts and sexual innuendoes. I also expect you to actually promote the product you’re selling. Remember? Hamburgers.
 
Selling burgers doesn’t give you the right to treat women like a piece of meat. Your commercials aren’t entertaining or clever. They are disgusting and I want you to stop it.
 
Stop undermining what I’m trying to teach my daughters. Stop lying to women. And for heaven’s sake, stop grossing me out.
 
Do I sound a bit harsh? I hope so. After all, I am the mother of three girls. What did you expect?