Tag Archives: road trips

Two Years This Family

Two years ago, I wrote about our Thanksgiving with family in northern Michigan. As has been the case for more years than I can remember, last month we again made our biennial pilgrimage up the mitten-shaped state, our van loaded with children, a dog, a fresh-killed organic turkey, presents and everything else needed for the long weekend. Usually, it hardly seems as if two years have gone by since we all sat down to our favorite meal ever: Grandma Liane’s holiday spread. But not this year.

Much has changed in these past two years, particularly because of Lyra. Two Thanksgivings ago, she was still a freshly made person on this planet. Born in August of 2012, we were all still readjusting to the new family order. And really, more than Lyra being our only daughter, and perhaps even more than her diagnosis of Down syndrome, having five children radically changed life as Max and I knew it. In the past two years, several of my essays have described our struggle to find balance and calm, but only recently have we had the perspective to realize why our equilibrium feels constantly challenged: Parenting five children, unlike four, kicks our butts. If our home were a dollhouse with the back wall removed, those who peered inside would find a house as full of frantic activity as any Keystone Cops film, with a commensurate amount of efficiency. But just as the slapstick cops of the silent film era eventually managed to get where they needed to be, so too have we continued to find our children (if not always ourselves) fairly functional, one even fledging.

Besides little Lyra, the person who has changed the most in the past two years is the eldest child. In the fall of 2012, Claude was a freshman at the School of Art and Design at the University of Michigan. That October, he eagerly returned home for autumn break. Orange bled pink in the late afternoon sky that silhouetted Claude’s profile as he sat in the passenger seat on the drive back to Ohio, questioning out loud his choices. Months later, Claude determined he was just in the wrong major, but those first few months of college, he felt vaulted into an existential crisis. That he felt pressured was not unreasonable, the university was receiving nearly $50,000 a year, largely paid by scholarships, grants and loans, for Claude to be there and he was not sure it was worth it.

IMG_1565The experience echoed his kindergarten year when my bright little boy hated school because, as we later learned, he was severely dyslexic. But just as remediating his learning disability cured his academic low self-esteem in grade school, after switching to the College of Literature, Arts and Sciences at the University of Michigan, Claude eventually felt he was were he belonged. Initially resistant to becoming an English major because, as he told me, he didn’t want to do what his parents did, he’s no longer much interested in anything else. Unlike me, however, his focus is poetry (I have an M.F.A. in creative writing, but then again, Max has his Ph.D. in English Renaissance poetry). While what he does with his life is still an unfolding story, Claude came to Thanksgiving this year looking more like a person comfortable in his own skin than I have ever known him to be. He also came in his girlfriend’s car. And, yes, she came too. He tells me that he and his girl might not go home for the summer this year, they may stay at the co-op where they both live, and work on things that are harder to do during the regular school year. My boy, a man now, who was so unsure of his life two years ago, isn’t launching. He’s launched.

Next to launch, hopefully, will be Hugo. Every year, either Hugo’s birthday or mine falls on Thanksgiving weekend. Our birthdays are exactly one week apart and at the end of November. Two years ago, Hugo turned 16 the Friday after Thanksgiving and we spent the day driving home because the Saturday after Thanksgiving Hugo was scheduled at his then-job, grooming dogs at a canine salon (read: washing scared, furry creatures who frequently bit and defecated on said “groomer”). Even though nobody wanted to leave Grandma’s that soon and the only reason we did so was to get him to his job, Hugo was disappointed at how his sixteenth birthday turned out and he sulked about it. For several months. So last year, in order to acknowledge Hugo’s feelings, however misplaced, we took the entire family to Kalahari, a ginormous indoor water park, the night before and the night of Thanksgiving. For three months, all the big boys talked about how excited they were with this plan. We had over two days of aquatic fun (though, honestly, I would rather have been in the toilet bowl ride with the biggins’ than in the kiddie pool with the babies) and a Thanksgiving meal that, while not as good as Grandma Liane’s, was pretty spectacular with all the traditional dishes plus a prime rib carving station and tables of desserts that would make Willy Wonka drool. Then, on the morning we were packing to leave, Hugo told us, “You know, I realize I’ve pretty much outgrown water parks.” Oh, that kid.

Lily & Hoover, 2012
Lily & Hoover, 2012

This year, we left him at home. No, not to punish him. His vocal instructor strongly encouraged him to apply to a specific music school, which had a December 1 deadline. While we were working our way into food comas in Michigan, Hugo was videotaping three songs for his pre-screening, filing out the application and writing the essays. We left our younger dog, Lily, with Hugo to keep him company. Our older dog, Hoover, however, went with us. Of all the dogs I have had in my adult life, it is only Hoover who has indiscriminately loved everyone he meets. “Boy, your dog sure does like me,” is a refrain we have heard countless times from innumerable mouths. Not pesky, Hoover walks slowly up to each guest, wagging his tail in greeting. If a guest is seated in our house, Hoover will lie by his or her feet, not requiring anything, but always grateful for a scratch of the head or belly. Last month we thought our sweetheart Sheltie was dying of kidney failure. Then, after nearly 72 hours of IV fluids and penicillin, Hoover made a marked recovery from what is now believed to have been pancreatitis. Still, the day we left for Grandma’s house, Hoover had yet another full week of antibiotics to take and, let’s face it, my confidence that Hugo would consistently remember to give the dog his pills was non-existent. Besides, from now until the day he takes his last breath, which at over 13 years old could be any day, Hoover is on the deluxe pampering plan. I frequently imagine, unfairly, I’m sure, that Hoover is milking his recent medical crisis: You know, I’m a sweet, but old, old dog. I could go at any time. Those scraps on your plate might be the last I taste. Rub my belly today, for tomorrow I may die. Well, even if he is milking it, nobody minds spoiling the old boy, who was loved up by many hands all the holiday weekend long.

Two years ago, my essay on Thanksgiving considered the constituent ingredients of family, blood not necessarily being one of them. Cooking in two kitchens in side-by-side houses, which really is one of the best ways to have all the dishes of a good Thanksgiving spread come together at once, Leif and Jules traipsed back and forth collecting and delivering whatever ingredients were needed at the other kitchen. Other than these errands and the big dinner itself, I hardly saw Leif. Unlike his older brothers, all of whom clung to me like marsupial offspring until they were in grade school, Leif’s independence is at once surprising and refreshing. Perhaps it is because he was only five weeks old when we first packed him off to daycare three days a week so I could finish my master’s thesis. Or maybe having so many older brothers, who all seem like adults from Leif’s perspective, along with a father who parents all the children as much as I do, his needs are always tended whether or not I am available. Or it may just be the way he came into the world. Whatever it is, Leif abandoned us in the guesthouse and remained his Grandma’s constant companion, both day and night, for the entire weekend. I am not sure who this pleased more: Max and me for a lessened load of child duty, Leif for the indulgent treatment his grandma gave him (we, who have no cable TV, found her serving him hot breakfast on a TV tray while he sat in Grandpa’s recliner, watching cartoons), or Grandma who loves nothing more than to take care of someone, especially if they are little and a little difficult, both categories to which Leif qualifies.

In ways I had not yet considered two years ago, I see the transitory beauty of family. More people will be welcomed into our eccentric complexity, which may be unique in substance, but no less eccentric or complex than most families. From time to time, one or another of us will ask or be asked, and may choose, to formalize our relationships to one another, as recently was asked of me. No, not what you might be thinking. Max and I are content with our arrangement.

“I want to ask you to consider doing something before I die that I have wanted to do for over forty-five years,” said my stepmom.

“Wow, now there’s a way to set up a question!” I said, laughing. Although she giggled at my comment, when she next spoke I thought my stepmother, who came into my life shortly after my third birthday, sounded a little nervous.

“Would you consider letting me legally adopt you as my daughter?” she asked.

Of course.

Circling the Wagons

Have Children, Will Travel

In the patch of state fair zinnias outside our front door, I have been watching the bees hop from one bright blossom to another on these late summer evenings, the warm air drier than it was in high summer, a sure sign that autumn is collecting herself somewhere and soon to arrive in Ohio. Our family was like the bees this summer, hopping, or driving rather, from one colorful destination to another. In mid-June we went to Dayton, Ohio for my thirtieth high school reunion. Then, over the Fourth of July weekend, we drove to Northern Michigan where Jules had spent two weeks with his grandparents, having gotten there by Greyhound. A week later, I drove to Denver with Jules, Leif and Lyra. Ten days after returning from Denver, we left for Vermont and family camp at Karmê Chöling Shambhala Buddhist Meditation Center.

At the Great Smokey Mountains with Claude & Hugo, 1997. God knows what possessed me to dye my hair that one, and only, time.
At the Great Smokey Mountains with Claude & Hugo, 1997. Yes, that’s me (after my one, and only, adventure in hair color).

Busier than the past few summers, this one reminds me of all the summers before the long divorce with the older boys’ father when I frequently loaded the kids into the car and drove to far away places. Claude was three and Hugo just six months old on my first big road trip with multiple wee people. The three of us caravanned with a friend and her kids to the Great Smokey Mountains where the hiking was slow going, yet still fun, with a group of children all five and under. Hugo’s little face peered over my shoulder from the backpack I carried him in. When I bent forward to squeeze through a narrow passage in a cavern deep underground, Hugo’s poor little noggin smacked into a wall of rock. Hefty though he was, I carried Hugo in my arms for the rest of that subterranean tour.

“You must be crazy!” or “I could never do that!” people tell me now, as they have for decades, when they hear of the places I travel with small children and no other adult. I feel now, as I did then, that we were lucky. My work does not require me to be in one place. As long as I have access to a phone and Internet, I am able to manage most things from afar. But what they really mean, these astonished onlookers, is that they have no desire to travel alone with small children. If it is hard for small children to play contentedly in a house full of toys long enough for someone to make dinner, how on earth can they manage strapped into car seats for hours, sometimes days, at a time? Like anything, I respond, traveling well can be taught.

Training Up the Mama

A few months after taking them to the Smokies, I drove Claude and Hugo up to their grandma’s in Northern Michigan. Claude was three and Hugo nearly a year old—basically the same ages as Leif and Lyra are now. “The baby’s sad,” Claude repeatedly told me from his car seat in the back. So, holding the steering wheel with my left hand, I twisted my right arm upside down and stretched it into the back seat. My middle finger, nail side on his tongue, was in baby Hugo’s mouth. He would suck on it with incredible force, then intermittently breaking the suction with a loud POP of his lips before screaming. Again. And again.

I don’t think it can get any worse than this, I thought to myself. In those days, there were few exits, and even fewer with any businesses near the exits, once you crossed the Zilwaukee Bridge near Saginaw in the middle of the Michigan’s lower peninsula. I had no choice but to continue driving with my finger in the mouth of a baby behind my back whom I couldn’t even see. Taking inventory of myself, I was surprised to find I was calm.

If this is as bad as it gets, I can handle it. 

We stopped at the first gas station I could find, a Sunoco surrounded by a field of tall grass where I spread out a blanket and nursed baby Hugo. The blades, heavy with seed, nodded in the wind. Hugo nursed until he was milk drunk while Claude chased the grasshoppers that fluttered around us like miniature helicopters, their wings sounding mechanical against the steady chirping of unseen crickets.

Training Up the Little People

This summer, 19-year-old Claude and 16-year-old Hugo both have jobs and had to stay home when we drove to their grandma’s for the Fourth of July weekend. Leif and Lyra sat in their age-appropriate car seats while Jules was in the way back seat of the van as we snaked down the state of Michigan in post-holiday traffic. Rarely driving more than 15 mph, bicycling would have been faster. At thirteen and a half hours, our trip home took nearly twice as long as usual. Lyra and Leif alternately slept and played until eight hours into the trip when, just as we were gunning to get to Ann Arbor for dinner, Lyra started to cry. Not a crabby cry, but a “Why are you doing this to me? I really can’t take it anymore!” kind of cry. Unlike the boys when they were babies, Lyra doesn’t suck my finger for comfort and nothing any of us did soothed her. Like all of us, she wanted out. I wanted to weep with her. When I pulled her out of her seat in the parking lot of a Macaroni Grill, I wiped her wet face with a tissue before lifting her to my shoulder. She nuzzled the bare skin where my neck meets my shoulder. I began nursing Lyra next to the van and walked into the restaurant with her at my breast. For everyone’s sake, we had a leisurely dinner and the little kiddos slept the rest of the way home.

The drives to Denver and back were the kind I try to avoid: endurance tests. With dates to keep at both ends of the trip, there was nothing leisurely about them. On the way there, Jules was my endlessly helpful assistant. He managed the audio books, handed things to Leif and Lyra and, when necessary, sat in the very back seat so that Lyra could look at his face. This was sometimes the only thing that comforted her. For a while anyway.

Max, who flew into Denver, drove back with us. His help in all things, as well as his company, improved our return trip. But it also meant we had to keep an intense pace in order to get him back to work in Cleveland.

The twelve-hour drive to Vermont should have seemed like a short jaunt compared to Denver. But before I even began packing for Karmê Chöling, I was already looking forward to when we would get home. “I can’t wait until I don’t have to pack and plan for any more trips!” I told Max.

Stopping the Madness or Removing the Japanese Beetles from Life

Living life by getting through things is no way to live. In fact, I would say it is not even living. Being present for all of life—the ups, the downs, the routine and even the dull days—is grace and something worth striving for.

And yet of all times, I found myself working to just get through family camp at a Buddhist meditation center. Clearly, it is time for us to be home and stay there. To continue rooting in our still new-ish home, as well as this family, only created in the past few years.

Along with the helpful bees in our bed of zinnias, I noticed the arrival of Japanese beetle with their beautifully iridescent exoskeletons–coppery-colored wing sheaths and heads the green of Robin Hood’s foresty get up. Exotically gorgeous, these coleopteras embedded themselves in the large zinnia blossoms, moving slowly like indulgent guests at a spa. Often they are found coupling in their petaled beds and, rather than go elsewhere to eat, they consume the very flowers upon which they’ve mated. Before we left for family camp, we set out Japanese beetle traps. When we returned, they were satisfyingly laden with the dead bugs. Not very Buddhist of me, perhaps. But I’m willing to accept a little dead bug karma in this case.

Instead of driving back from Karmê Chöling on the interstate through New York State, we took scenic Route 20. It took us longer, yes, but it brought welcomed sanity into our hectic summer. Along the way, Max and I talked about our need to circle the wagons. Not forever, but for the time being. And just as we’ve plucked the Japanese beetles from the garden, we must do the same with as many distractions, no matter how lovely or fun they may appear to be, as we can in our lives.

And so, we have decided not to travel more than two hours away (other than taking Claude back to the University of Michigan) for the next six months. Nor will we have extended houseguests for at least the next year (we’ve had four in the two years that we’ve lived in this house with the latest, Nancy, having transitioned to her own home at the end of July). And instead of driving 40 minutes away for Lyra’s various therapies, she is on a waiting list at Akron Children’s Hospital, which is five minutes from our home. We are even giving ourselves permission to stay home when there are performances, fundraisers and other events that we typically feel obligated to go and enjoy.

It feels liberating. Like taking back our lives.

Kumbayah Birthday

IMG_2149The calm trip home from Vermont took two days and we arrived in Akron late on a Monday evening. The following Wednesday, our Lyra turned one.

On her birthday, I sent Lyra to daycare with her brother Leif. After all, she is a fifth kid and I hadn’t been home in two weeks.

That evening, I made a ratatouille with the fresh vegetables I had picked up that day from our CSA while Jules made lemon cupcakes from scratch. None of the boys had to work and were home to celebrate their sister’s birthday. Three of our dearest friends joined us including Vanessa, who is otherwise known as Lyra’s personal photographer. She brought a CD containing a slide show of Lyra’s birth, set to the Beatles song, “Here Comes the Sun.” Our home was full of our children and friends, all joyfully celebrating Lyra and this first year she has been with us.

It was also the last day Lyra was cross-eyed. She had surgery the following morning. More on that up next in “Lyra’s Latest: After Our First Year.”

On Writing About Family

Good Busy

Whoopsie Piggle has not had a new post in over two weeks and this has been for two good reasons. First of all, I have two separate freelance projects that have kept me very busy. In some measure, I credit Whoopsie Piggle for this. Or rather, in the process of writing Whoopsie Piggle, I publicly declared my desire to earn my income by writing. And I have a theory, not so unusual, that you can’t get what you want if you don’t clearly state what that is. I don’t mean general platitudes such as world peace, my children to be happy, to have a successful career, or whatever. The more declarative and precise the intention, the more likely it is to happen. Curiously, however, generalizations seem to manifest just fine in reverse. Tell yourself your life sucks and it’s a fair bet that not only does your life suck; it will continue to suck until you change your thinking.

I’ve been clear for the past six years on what I want in a partner and homelife. But it has taken me longer to clarify my career goals with the same specificity. This is, in part, because I have felt shame for wanting a creative career. Writing, to be a writer, sounds selfish if for no other reason than there are few obvious ways to make money as a writer. Journalism and teaching at colleges were practical considerations for writers in the recent past, but neither option is what it was even ten years ago. Journalism is a field scrambling to respond to an unexpected brush fire, otherwise known as the Internet, which has consumed all aspects of the publishing industry. I am qualified to teach at the college level, but so are multitudes of other writers and with so few jobs available, the unspoken requirements have risen. For the most part, a tenure-track job teaching writing requires not only an MFA but also a published book and preferably a PhD. Maybe someday I’ll have these credentials, but not this year.

So while I’m not yet earning a living wage by writing, what I am earning helps me with the choices I make for my children. Choices like college tuition for Claude, music lessons for Hugo, and private school and tutoring for Jules. When I was a twenty-something, living on a shoestring was not a problem because I was only responsible for myself. Now I am the mother of five children and raising them well is a priority that conditions everything I do. Which is probably why I kept returning to my family, specifically the children, as I thought of a new project in the months prior to launching Whoopsie Piggle. Possibly a book, I had thought. One about the journey the big boys and I have taken over the course of their lives and how we’ve all come to embrace this new dynamic, a new family in fact, with the addition of Max and then Leif and finally, Lyra.

I know several non-fiction writers who purposely avoid writing about their children. To keep their children’s lives sacrosanct from the public, they hang velvet curtains in their stories, blocking all but the fact that their kids exist and sometimes not even that information comes through. I have heard writers say their teenaged children would be mortified to discover themselves as a character in their parent’s work.

Not my kids. I write about how they have shaped me, and my life, as much as I have had any impact on them. I am mindful of what I write and keep as a primary point of reference that my children will one day have careers of their own. Rather than complaining about being creative fodder, for now the boys enjoy reading about themselves. Particularly Hugo. If I have come at all close to accurately capturing his personality, this should surprise nobody.

Who owns memories?

My last essay, “Shattering Patterns,” was about fathers and firstborns—me and my dad, Claude and his father, as well as Claude and me. For though I have long heard faint echoes in my life, writing is the one way I know to find form for the abstract, which was particularly true of that essay. Writing it helped give specificity, once again, to my observations and thoughts. As his mother, I cannot imagine not wanting a close relationship with Claude. On the other hand, I have long worked to overcome the feeling that it was my fault my father and mother were never available for parenting or that they, like Claude’s father, did not want a close relationship with their child. And while writing about Claude’s relationship to his father alongside writing about my own relationship to my father was illuminating for me, I was not so sure Claude would want such a piece published.

“You could have been more revealing,” Claude told me after he read “Shattering Patterns.” “No, really,” he continued when I questioned him. “I wouldn’t have minded if you added a link to my poetry, you know to show that even if I don’t think about my dad, there’s still stuff in there.” As he reformulates more patterns, I see Claude transcending both of his parents in all that he does. Which is as it should be.

What I didn’t expect, but probably should have, was for someone to be upset over a line about my experience. “I never saw your father let you inhale marijuana smoke!” said a clearly upset family member, and I believe this person completely. I explained, however, that I quite viscerally remember breathing in smoke from a paper bag. I also remember talking about it with friends at school when I was still quite young. This is not a flashback memory—it has always been there.

What outsiders may find more shocking is this: I am not troubled by the memory of being given marijuana smoke as a young child. I have not nor would I do the same to my children. Legal antihistamines, however, such as Benadryl, are commonly administered to young children. If all things were equal in terms of legality, I’d be similarly concerned with the use antihistamines as with marijuana. But for now, in most states, they are not legally comparable.

Should I have skipped adding the sentence about marijuana? Was I unnecessarily revealing, particularly when I don’t find the information that shocking? Perhaps. I think too, that 30 to 40 years later, many seem to forget how drug saturated the late sixties and all of the seventies were. While many of my friends’ parents were not smoking pot, several were. And I regularly meet people who recall similar hazy days of partying parents. What might sound shocking today wasn’t so unusual then. A few family friendly movies from that time, films like The Bad News Bears or Little Darlings, give testament to how much times have changed.

Veteran Road Warriors

Then: A photo of the boys (ages 13, 10 & 7) and me, taken by a stranger, in 2007.
Then: A photo of the boys (ages 13, 10 & 7) and me, taken by a stranger, in 2007.

I stated that there are two good reasons why Whoopsie Piggle has been back-burnered this past two weeks. Besides good work writing, we went on our first vacation in nearly two years. In four days, we packed in a trip like the boys and I used to regularly take: in a vehicle filled with food and audiotapes, we headed out for a National Park, this time Mammoth Caves in Kentucky.

“Hugo just can’t stop picking a fight with you, can he?” said Max the night before we left. It was true. Hugo had been in rare form for two days. As I cleaned the kitchen after dinner that evening, Hugo launched into me like a district attorney, pointedly telling me he remained disappointed by his sixteenth birthday, which was the day after Thanksgiving.

“I don’t ever want to spend my birthday in the car for eight hours again!” he said, referring to the fact that on the day he turned sixteen, we had driven home from Northern Michigan, where we’d spent Thanksgiving with the children’s grandparents. We also stopped at the Toledo Museum of Art and saw a marvelous Edouard Manet exhibit and took everyone to dinner at the restaurant of Hugo’s choosing. That weekend, I drove Hugo to Guitar Center and bought him a pricey recording device he had long lusted after. I had waited until after his birthday to buy it during the post-Thanksgiving sale, which Hugo had agreed to at the time.

“What are you talking about?” I asked him, “We came home on your birthday because you had to work the next day! None of us wanted to leave early, we did it for you.”

“Never mind,” he said in a way that indicated he wanted me to do anything but. Sure enough, half an hour later, he appeared in our bedroom as Max and I were going to bed. “I’m not mad about my birthday, I just didn’t want to spend it in the car!”

I again tried, but got nowhere with Hugo. Finally, Max said to him, “Okay, that’s over, Hugo. So what do you want us to do now?”

“Just promise we won’t travel on my birthday ever again,” he said. We promised and he left our room.

“He’s sleep deprived,” said Max as he turned out the light. He was right. Earlier that week, Hugo had gone to New York City for three days with a school group and after arriving back in Akron on a bus at 7:30 in the morning, he had to turn around and go to work both days before we left for Kentucky.

Our family today (minus collegiate Claude), also photographed by a stranger.
Our family today (minus collegiate Claude), also photographed by a stranger.

A day into our trip, Hugo was a different person. On our way down, we’d listened to The Old Man and the Sea, which was assigned spring break reading for his English class. Just for Hugo, we’d packed two dozen, hard-boiled eggs. In cold weather that threatened rain, Hugo delighted in making egg salad on the side of a concrete retaining wall at a rest stop. Because he has always loved them so, egg salad and deviled eggs were the first dishes Hugo learned to make himself. That night in the national park hotel, Hugo had a persistent cough and the only medicine I had brought that would help was Benadryl. I gave him one tablet and he fell asleep by 8:30 while listening to Max read to Jules. So did I. The next two days, as we toured Mammoth Caves and hiked on trails in the park, Hugo was no longer a disgruntled teen. He was as impressed with the enormous cave chambers as any of us and equally as effusive in saying so. Often while hugging us.

Fully Functional

I write about my family. In part, because the quotidian amazes me. A little baby that I carried all over Boston became a boy who couldn’t read until the third grade when he was diagnosed with, and began the long process of remediation for, severe dyslexia. He now writes poetry and papers that floor me. Another boy, one who is brilliant at anything he attempts from academics to sports to music, has also challenged me since before his birth as a ten-pounder who got stuck with shoulder dystocia on the way out of the womb. That boy has grown up in the past year and now works hard at everything he does. He also makes me laugh every day. And my peace-maker child, the one I most feared would suffer long term consequences from the divorce is now, at nearly thirteen years old, becoming appropriately mouthy. I cannot express how relieved I am that he is. Then came Leif and Lyra, whom I think are the luckiest little kids I know, precisely because they have three adoring big brothers. We are like our own little village of five raising the two youngest children of the family.

I regularly turn to Max and say, “Everyone’s in a good place. Look at the boys, look at the babies, look at us.” Sure, dysfunctional families are fascinating to read about and I have enough of dysfunction in my personal story to write volumes of the dreck. But dysfunctional backgrounds are not generational sentences.

Life is long. Life is short. And, yes, life is good. Especially when you show up for everything—the fun, the challenges and all the messy stuff.