These two little words emblazoned on my brand new hot beverage holder have spoken volumes to me today. Keep growing. Keep. Growing.

My new coffee mug holds LOTS of steaming hot magical bean juice and has 3 of my favorite flowers on it too! I love daisies because I think they are silly and friendly looking and are all of the things I’m not. We’ll save that story for another day, though.

My new mug was a gift from a precious little lady at work. We have a lot in common because of our home life, and we like a lot of the same things, now that I think about it. This year has been hard for the both of us. Really, really hard and we have leaned on each other more than most people know about. Come to think of it…I’m not sure she knows how much I have depended on her in the past year. Well, if she ever reads this, she will know. I can’t tell her to her face because she’ll tune up and cry on me and we just can’t have that. She’s tender under that tough and rowdy exterior but we can’t have people knowing that either.

Those quick chats in my office about how to get rid of a body or what the sentence for murder would be have been important to the both of us. Now, before you start dialing 911 to report us, Karen… understand that we aren’t actually contemplating murder. At least not too seriously, but suffice it to say…we’ve had a rough year, and venting has been therapeutic for both of us. Besides, if you dial 911 around these parts one of us will likely answer the phone, so there’s that.

She said wanted me to have the mug the minute she saw it. So, she bought it, wrapped it in the bubble wrap with the BIG bubbles (which is my absolute favorite kind), stuffed it in a box and packaged it up in really neat snowman wrapping paper and gave it to me today. “Keep growing” says the mug, “keep growing” as the three little daisies dance above that encouragement.

Now, to someone who didn’t know what we know about each other it might seem that this is a tribute to my awesome gardening skills (hahaha….<sigh>…yeah), or that it looks kind of primitive with it’s speckled pottery in that almost handmade style that I love so much. But I know what she meant when she picked it up and thought of me. I hope she thought of herself too, in that moment because we both need the message. Keep. Growing.

Amid the challenges of this year, and all my attempts to “count it all joy” and “just trust the process” and “accept the refining you’re going through”…and all that well meant advice I’ve been giving myself to negate all of the nonsense…I forgot how much I am growing. I’ll bet I’m not the only one who tends to lose focus through the chaos. It’s consuming sometimes isn’t it?

Meeting all the demands at work, school deadlines, needy spouses, kids hopped up on too much sugar and the never ending piles of laundry and dishes in the sink…it’s exhausting. I see you. Every woman needs a tribe of sisters behind her that get it.

So, to my overworked, under appreciated sisters…you are my tribe. I see you. I get you. We got this. Keep growing.

That little phrase that signals the end of most job descriptions…the catch all-end all-fine print that we normally don’t think about until it applies to us…ahhh yes….those other duties.

It means different things for different folks. For teachers it may mean bus duty, lunch room duty, staff meetings after classes, playground duty, or a myriad of other assignments that are unpaid but considered part of the job. For doctors it could mean phone calls from new parents terrified of their newborns hiccups, comforting family members after the loss of a loved one or extra time spent explaining a new medication. For clerical staff it might mean making another pot of coffee, sending a fax for an elderly client, serving on another committee or making sure the bulletin board in the lobby is visually appealing. For each person those extra parts of the job are different. My job is no different…well…to be perfectly honest my job is very different, but the added duties exist for me too.

My extra assignments include things most people would really rather not do. Heck…most days I’d rather not do them to tell you the truth. But like any good employee…I do them with little to no complaint because they are just part of my job.

Things like listening to a string of profanity without getting offended and still providing excellent customer service are part of my job. Doing one thing, while talking about another, and listening and responding to a third thing is nothing unusual. Dealing with frantic, hysterical folks are an everyday occurrence. Making sense of complicated and sometimes conflicting information is a skill I have developed over the years. This is my normal. This is normal for the thousands of others like me.

Hearing the anguish in a child’s voice as they describe the fight Mommy and Daddy are having…again tonight…and telling them how brave they are for calling is a routine situation for me. Ignoring my shock when speaking to someone describing their friends body after a successful suicide is not an uncommon occurrence. Listening to the grief stricken sobs of an elderly person as they try to explain that the neighbors dog is chasing their beloved cat again today is not an extra duty. The excited shouting of a bystander telling me about a fight, or shouted commands on my radio are the song of my people. I am a 911 dispatcher.

I hear your screams and I take them home with me. That ‘s extra. You’re welcome.

I see a vivid mental picture of what you’re reporting to me. I usually store those little gems in my dreams. It’s horrifying. That’s extra. You’re welcome.

My heart breaks, and my tears flow like rain over your sorrows and your hurts. That too is extra and you are welcome.

You can call me names, curse and shout, threaten me and demand unrealistic service and I will do my very best every time. Later I will blame myself and secretly wonder if I did enough, typed fast enough, or could have done better when the worst happens. That’s extra, and you’re welcome.

I will answer the first and every time your child calls 911 because you allowed them to play with your phone again. I will be professional and polite and try to educate you about how serious this is even when you don’t take it seriously and hang up while I am still talking. That’s extra…and….<sigh> you’re welcome.

The helpless feeling I get because I can’t physically come and help you is extra too, and you know what??? YOU’RE WELCOME, FOLKS! YOU. ARE. WELCOME!

I understand that you don’t call me when you’re having your best day and living your best life. I know you can’t say “Thank you” because you are handling your worst minute-worst day-worst life-worst things. You. Are. Welcome.I know it’s not personal, but gosh it sure feels that way sometimes.

I am probably just as exasperated with your noisy neighbors as you are. Maybe more.

I am right there in the trenches with you. I know your name. I know the sounds of your sorrow and fear. I know your secrets. I grieve with you. I am a 911 dispatcher. I am a telephone, radio or computer operator that connects people in need with fire, police and medical emergency services and other duties as assigned. That’s really my job description…but it sure feels like so much more most days.

Someone told me last week that pastors and dispatchers were always in need of prayer. I don’t think I have ever heard a more true statement. For me and for the thousands of those like me I covet your prayers. Please pray for us. Pray for our mental health. We get PTSD too. Pray for our physical health. The continuous stress is not good for us. Pray that others will rise up and want to do what we do. Most centers are shockingly understaffed. Pray for our spiritual health. We need Jesus. Lord, I don’t know how anyone could do this job without Him. We are sitting in the chaos, waiting to be of service. We are 911.

Although I try each year to prepare myself, it is always surprising to me when it happens. A tiny lurch of the heart when I realize that this year is like last year. Another year, and the slight sadness that smacks us motherless kids on Mother’s Day. Social media sucks.

See, my mom just wasn’t like your mom, probably. The “way” she was had a direct impact on the kind of Momma I became. Without going into a lot of detail, I was very careful with my own children and their mental health. Maybe that’s too broad. Let’s just say that I try to make sure that my kids never wonder if they are loved. When they were little guys, I made sure that their responsibilities were age appropriate, and that they never felt responsible for things that were out of their control. I didn’t want them to grow up in a cloud of guilt that overshadowed everything else.

“Angie, if you hadn’t broken that shoelace we’d have gone to the movies…now I have to spend my money on your shoelaces”. As an adult, I know how bizarre that statement was. As an adult I know she had absolutely no intention of taking us any where. We weren’t poor…shoe laces were less than a buck for 1 pair and the movies didn’t cost much either. As a child, though…it was my fault we couldn’t do something fun…again. Some little statement like that everyday for as long as I can remember…ugh. The “summer of no food”. Being too scared to ask for pads. Losing the house on my sisters birthday….yup that was my fault too. I got a keyboard for Christmas, and we were evicted in August. Yep…makes perfect sense. I always hoped she only said those things to me, but I always feared the worst. Thinking back turns my stomach, so I won’t continue…but you get the idea. My sister and cousins always made a little fun of me for always being “the good one”. I can smirk and shake my head about it now, but Sissy…now you know why, honey.

My sister said it best in a text on Mom’s birthday last month: “She’d be 65….reminding myself she would never have changed. I love you, Sister”. She is right. Momma never would have changed and I guess I sometimes mourn the way things could have, or should have been. . I know it’s silly. I’m a grown woman, and despite a lot of things, I am pretty well adjusted, and finally “ok” with myself. I am fairly certain my sister feels this way too. Kind of a miracle, isn’t it.

My momma was a fantastic Nanny to our kids. She adored them and was fiercely protective of those boys. None of them understand what their own Mommas survived, and I’m so glad of that. I know that they miss her and have wonderful memories of her and for that I am thankful. I’m also thankful we moved out before things turned out differently. Praise Jesus for RB opening my 30 year old co-dependent eyes.

In addition to a great husband, my marriage also gave me two “big boys” and gave my my boys big brothers. I love being a boy mom. Boys have the cool toys and are just….easy. I don’t see any of them as often as a I would like, but I treasure each visit and conversation. They are all so different and funny. Confession: I still see fat-legged toddlers when I talk to the little boys.

My sister and I are both pretty great at the mom thing. Although we parent quite differently our boys are “grown” now and they all turned out okay. I think we both wondered if they were all gonna make it. Lord have mercy on those hard-headed boys! It makes my head swim when I think about the crap they pulled…and we only know about half of it according to them! We loved (and threatened) them through it all.

This brings me back to the beginning of this conversation. I still miss my Momma, and that’s okay. She wasn’t great at the mom thing, and I am okay with that now. I am not even sure she really knew what love was about, but I know she loved the boys as best she could, and that is enough…finally. I think she tolerated me more as an adult, as long as I did what she wanted me to and I am okay with that now. I have to remind myself that she was also a product of her environment. All things considered it is amazing she was functional at all and I have to be okay with that, too. I broke the cycle and I am more than okay with that.

To my sister: Happy Mother’s Day. You are amazing, and brilliant, and worthwhile. I pray that you know and believe that. You also need to eat a piece of cake from time to time. I love you and I miss your stupid face.

To my boys: I love you. Thank you for making me crazy with worry, and for all of the tears I have shed with and for you. I am so thankful you have figured out this whole adulting thing the way you have. You are doing an awesome job at being daddies. Stick together and stand by each other always. Your brothers are the best thing to ever happen to you. Believe it. I pray for you daily and am standing in the gap for you and your family.

To the other kids of a mom like mine:

In case no one has told you today, or ever…

After church today I noticed that the pecan trees have begun to bud. Now, the town trees are a little ahead of the ones closer to my house, but I’ll take it. Easter is next Sunday, and by the rules, we should be able to begin planting our gardens after that. That is…if the rain stops.

You see, Pawpaw Don always said we had to wait until the pecan trees were “all leafed out” to plant anything. Because they “don’t lie about the frost”. He was a pretty smart old man and I was lucky as a child to have him around. He liked to tell stories of “the olden days” as I liked to call them. Come to think of it…maybe he just liked talking to me and my baby sister about anything. His ways never steered me wrong, so I stick to them. Maybe more folks should.

My husband and I were at the co-op a couple of weeks ago and he was chatting with an older fella who was buying some watermelon plants. They were discussing the recent rains, and how he was having to re-plant because some of his baby melon plants had washed away. My husband told him, he’d better consider waiting a few more weeks, but he didn’t listen. Since then, we’ve had some huge thunderstorms resulting in many flooded areas. I sure hope those baby watermelon plants made it…but I’d be willing to bet we will see him at the co-op again.

The first of my seeds have arrived, and I just can’t stop myself from smiling as I shake the packages. It’s mostly wild flowers that I want to plant for the pollinators. I can’t wait to put them into my garden this year. My garden…mine. He does his garden the way he wants it and he shakes his head when I talk about doing mine the way I want. He likes straight rows and I like patches. Him: “Gonna make it too hard for me to till it up where you walk”. Me: “I told you last year I didn’t want you tilling it up where I’m gonna walk. Makes it too soft and mushy. Stay out of it with your tractor!” Him: <shakes head and mutters>. He doesn’t get it.

Last year, he “helped” by planting tomatoes and peppers in rows in my garden while I was at work. Sneaky. Really sneaky. We had lots of peppers, but the tomatoes struggled and I harassed him by saying “tomatoes like to be patches”. He wasn’t as amused by this as I was. My lips twitch even now remembering his face when I said it. : ) I’m sure it was due to calcium deficiency in the soil but I had to pick at him a little. It keeps him young.

I’m sure the discussion is not over and probably won’t be until I get everything planted. It might not be over then. I just don’t like formal gardening. I never have. I love the chaos of a pretty cottage garden. I love it when plants just do what they do and we work around that. The riot of color lifts my spirits. Maybe it’s about letting go. Maybe it’s because when I was a kid our rows were straight and looooong. Gardening then meant work and lots of it! Gardening now means relaxation and fun. The disorder soothes me somehow.

By week after next I will have some seeds in the soil come what may. I planted in ankle deep mud last year and everything sprang up! We were both a little surprised when that happened to be honest. That might be what we love about a summer garden. There is always a surprise if you keep your eyes open.

My husband and I were chatting the other day while it was raining…again. We’d both begun to experience what I jokingly call “the FUNK” that sets in around mid January and lasts until we see the bright green leaves peeking at us from some of the neighborhood trees.

Anyway, like I was saying, we were chatting about the drenched soil, the lawn mower and tractor woes he’d been experiencing. You know what I mean. Ever have days where everything you touch just turns to poo? Well, it was happening to him and we were both wondering how we would manage to get everything running and ready for the gardening season…if the rain ever stopped.

While he started flicking through the channels on TV, Geoff and I went out to check the mail (Geoff is my rat terrier who turns completely deaf when he goes outside because…birds). That’s when my world changed…again…just like it does every year around this time.

As I opened the mailbox, there it was. Lying there in all of its multicolored glory waiting for me. The first one. The first seed and plant catalog had finally made it. HALLELUJAH!! Each winter I anxiously await the arrival of those things. They herald Spring, and everything that comes with it. The angel choir was now in full chorus. The chill in the air was a refreshing breeze. The grey sky was now a muted background patiently waiting for the first blossom of the first bulb to bring back the life and color we so miss.

As Geoff and I squished our way across the yard and back into the house I wondered what I would find inside those wonderful pages. I wondered what the conversation would turn to when I revealed my prize to my husband. We stepped inside the house and “such a good boy, Geoff” wiggled over to wait for his “crunchy bone” as I laid the mail on the counter.

I always feel reflective this day each year. I am always surprised at how jubilant I feel when the first one comes -mostly because of how down I am just prior. I guess it’s mostly about perspective, and how I always wait to “see” things in this manner until I get this “sign”. I wonder why I do that? How much joy am I missing by doing this? Ah well, of course I can see it NOW. It’s the same every year.

In a few weeks, the pecan trees will leaf out, and Easter will arrive. Shortly afterwards I will get my hands back in the soil, and think of nothing. That’s the beauty of my garden when I’m out there…the nothing thoughts that float gently around while I dig.

My sister and I were both thinking of starting a journally-type blog the other day.  I figured I’d go first.  (Love you, Sissy!  No “English-teachering” my grammar, punctuation or format, okay??!  I write like I think.  If you read it aloud, it will be just like a conversation with me.   : )