Fisher's Day Out

Dear Laney,

I've frequently shared - both on this blog and in person - that I think my friend Amy is one of the best moms I've ever seen. Sometimes, when her kids are misbehaving, she smiles at them and says, "I deserve you." I think what she's suggesting is that when her kids are at their worst, they're also the most like their mom. I understand this now.

Late last week, we went over to Cedar's house to join her new brother Fisher for his first trip out of the house and his first walk around Alberton.

Welcome to Montana. Here's your baby in a sling.

I don't know why, but our local deli has a collection of old tricycles, purple battery-powered Jeeps and assorted scooters on its front porch. My (completely unfounded) theory is the deli is between two bars of wacky repute and that's their way of providing safe transportation options to the bars' patrons. As in, "Sorry, Fred, I'm cuttin' you off after ten beers. Here's your tab and a tricycle."

We walked over and said hello to a horse, which is the last thing that went well on our walk.

Here's the thing about your mother: When I'm done with an activity, I'm done. I can't count the times I've turned to a friend in the middle of a social event or outing and said, "Get me out of here." I will leave a party without saying goodbye, and leave my casserole dish behind because honey, it's time to go.

You got halfway through this walk and decided you were done. You wailed, "I don't think I can do it!" You begged to be carried. You sat down in protest. Cedar hiked back to where you were splayed in the snow and offered to give you a hug, because obviously you needed consoling. It frustrated the hell out of me, but let me tell you: in that moment, I deserved you.

On one of my first dates with your dad, we went for a hike in the mountains outside San Diego, and halfway through, I asked, "Do you think the Search & Rescue helicopters could come fetch me?" I've since learned that your dad believes that Search and Rescue should only be contacted in situations where you've lost so much blood you're pretty sure you could dial the first two digits of 9-1-1, but you're not sure you could tap that final number. He actually wants to have an official family rule that says Dad must be missing in the wilderness for at least 12 hours before Mom is allowed to contact the authorities. He wanted 24 hours, and I countered with 30 minutes, so we compromised.

Moments like this have taught me that at your worst, you are not your dad. You are me.

I love you, and I deserve you.

Love,

Mom