Kidney Stones and Remi Hopes

This past Saturday my tiny baby child turned 15. If I could rewind the last 15 years….I WOULDN’T!

Not for all the money in the world.

So many of my friends are appalled at this and tell me so quite frequently. But if you’ve ever raised a Remi, then you are high-fiving me from your couch right now.

We named her Remi Hope because we tried to have children for 12 years before finally adopting Remi, and, well, you can guess why I used the name Hope. Because that was what I had lost by then; a lot of Hope. So I used to say that on May 22, 2006, Hope was born.

I used to say that. I said, I used to say that.

Now I say, “Remember that kid Damien from the movie The Omen? Well on May 22, 2006…” That’s horrible to say, isn’t it? Please don’t write me an email telling me how horrible it is. My mother is still alive, so trust me, someone is guilting and shaming me, I can assure you.

But some of us are given children with reading disabilities, some of us are given children who need glasses, some of us are given children with silky straight hair, some of us are given children who can play the piano at the age of 3, and some of us are given children that make us cry ourselves to sleep when they are between the ages of 2 and 9. As my preschool teacher friend says: You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit.

When Remi turned 2, something happened. We aren’t sure what it was, we don’t like to get bogged down in the details, but I’m not kidding you when I tell you that she was so terrible I would lay across my mother’s bed and cry and my mother would just sit beside me and say, “Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Help Melissa parent this child. She never was very nurturing.”

There are stories about Remi at that age that would lay you out in the floor, but I’m saving them for a book later on. Let’s just suffice it to say that if you are the parent of a strong-willed child: you know it. You don’t have to think about it. You don’t have to pray about it. You don’t have to ask your friends about it. You don’t have to put a poll up on Instagram and get people to vote. You know it. And I wanted to take a moment, here in this little column, to let you know that you are not alone and it will not last forever. Well, I mean, it will last forever, but it will come in waves. Like diarrhea.

Remi turned 15 this past Saturday and she asked to go to Houston with her friends. I drove them down and so all day Saturday I was 3% mom and 97% Uber driver. The 3% came only when I needed to pay for things. But it was okay because let’s be honest – no one really wants to talk to 15 year olds when they could just put in their Airpods and listen to a podcast on murder, am I right?  They day was sweet. The girls had fun. A family in Ohio was killed in their own home and I’m betting the son did it. And we ended it with sushi.

On the way home she thanked me for the day and then she fell asleep with her head against the window. I looked over at her and when I was sure she was asleep I whispered these words, “I love you, Remi Hope. I have loved you since the day you were born and the nurse put you in my arms. I have loved you for 15 years. Someday when you have kids I hope they are as horrible as you were so you will know what that internal struggle of good parenting and murder feels like…” It was a really sweet moment.

I guess I just wanted to take a second and tell all of you momma’s who are raising small ones that fight back, and bite back, and promise to run away when you fall asleep, and lock you out of the house at 4-years old just because “it’s funny,” and refuse to eat anything but edamame from the local Japanese restaurant, and poke holes in their little brothers Chickfila cups with their straw every. single. time. you go there, and stay up late and wake up early that this, too, shall pass. In the blink of an eye it will pass.

It might pass like a kidney stone – but it will pass.

Write down the memories so you can read them later at their graduation dinner or something. Miss nothing. Be present for all of it. Because you only get one shot at it. And someday they’ll fall asleep with their head against the window and you’ll reach over and brush their hair from their eyes. And they will feel you do it, and they’ll lift their tender head up and say, “Ugghhhh…I want that hair hanging there, I did that on purpose. Thanks a lot.”

So, to the funniest, coolest, most confident kid I have ever laid eyes on in my life, my Remi Hope, Happy Birthday. If I was 15 years old I would want you to be my best friend.

Love,

Mom

P.S. But I’m not 15 therefore I’m not your girlfriend. Don’t forget it. Watch how you speak to me and look at me. I have no plans on wearing matching Juicy sweatpants with you and getting a Starbies for our matching mani/pedi’s. Some girls might have that with their moms – you don’t. You’ll be happy about that later on, trust me.

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