Missin' the nugget.

God. Windows. Closes one. Opens another. That’s the story, right? That’s how I learned it from The Sound of Music, anyway.

I will no longer be watching my little Molly Moo after school. This officially marks the beginning of life as a full-time writer. (I suppose you glass half-empty folk might call it the beginning of unemployment, but you should really get yourselves a better outlook.) While it’s sad to feel this chapter closing, I can’t help but see that there is purpose in its coinciding with my mom’s illness. The freedom in my schedule that this allows will enable me to help my dad to get my mom to all her hospital appointments and also to spend more time in RI once her chemotherapy starts. The truth is that I would have wanted to do this with my mom no matter what my schedule dictated. I wouldn’t have been able to fit this into my spare time; I need to live this and I want to be there. This is, of course, not a judgment of how anyone else deals with such things, it is just how I do it. It is important to me that I be there, in presence, with my mom during this time.

I can write anywhere and have always thought I would Spew something out at the desk in my childhood bedroom surrounded by all that familiarity and the memories and nostalgia it evokes. My mom and I have talked about me coming down from NH the night before her chemo treatments for dinner and chatting (I’ll cook, I told her) and then I could bring her in for her treatments if my dad is working and stay down for chunks of time. Dan and I will, of course, have to work things out in our financial lives but we have both adopted a philosophy that says that making money---particularly while it’s just the two of us and our food and shelter requirements are minimal---should not get in the way of living. Paying down a little credit card debt is hardly worth missing the opportunity to do this with my mom. Once I have a better idea of what her treatment will entail I may grab something part-time if possible. (“This is the real fly in the ointment if you are crazy enough to want to be an artist---you have to give up your dreams of swimming pools and fish forks, and take any old job.”- Anne Lamott) I feel fortunate to be able to do it.

But I will certainly miss seeing that Molly kid every day. Watching her as I have over the last six years (with a chunk off during my time in NYC and the extended leave Bec took from work) has been the greatest joy and most rewarding venture of my life so far. (This is all sounding very Conan O’Brien, isn’t it?)

I love this kid in ways that I didn’t realize I was capable. I love this kid from places to which I didn’t know I had access. I love this kid completely and eternally and I love her for teaching me how to love like this; and that I can survive that kind of love. I am moved to tears at how much I will miss her every day but she’s the one who taught me I can survive that, too.

And, oh, will there be writing...

So, to honor the beginning of life as a full-time writer (‘til I get up enough money to buy that ice cream truck) and the ending of my nanny days, I would like to dedicate this post to my favorite seven-year-old niece and list my top 10 favorite Molly memories.

1) Age 18-months(ish): I am accompanying Molly to the bathroom during one of her early excursions on the toilet by herself and in a plea for privacy (but with the language limits that being 18-months-old involves) she says, “Don’t see me.” (I’ve mentioned this one on here before ‘cuz it’s a fave and also because it will be the name of my future memoir.)

2) Age 20-months(ish): After building forts and dancing to Salt-N-Peppa’s “Shoop” together, I bring Molly up to her bedroom to read some books before her daily nap. As I read, her head drops against my chest and she falls asleep...often, so do I.

3) Age two-years: At under three-feet tall she gives me a hug, grabbing me around my legs and says, “Mine.” This happens shortly before I move away to NYC---a heartbreaking move in this regard---and while there, the memory of it makes me well up with tears (as do the sweet “hi yola” voicemail messages that I listen to every night before I go to bed).

4) Age three-years: Lost in the car on our way to some destination, she says from the backseat, “Where the F&@! are we going, Lola?”

5) Age three and half-years: We go to the movie theater to see Ice Age and though we are the only two people in the theater, she sits on my lap for most of the movie. Some line makes us both laugh hysterically and then I start to laugh harder watching Molly laugh; she laughs harder because I’m laughing so hard and the two of us continue to crack up together until we’re crying and tired and sighing. She gets back on my lap then.

6) Age four-years: Driving in Dan’s convertible with the top down on a summer day (on the road where she lives; safety first) we blast “Huckleberry Pie” from The Color Purple Broadway soundtrack and have a “dance party” in the car. (She also knows the words to “African Homeland” from the same soundtrack. “Celie is sad because she misses Adam and Olivia?” Molly asks. Mission. Accomplished.)

7) Age four-years: She is the flower girl at my wedding and though she is supposed to walk down the yard right before me, she freezes (and later admits to being “embarrassed” by all the people looking at her), so I loop arms with her and proceed to be walked down the aisle by Molly and my dad.

8) Age six-years: On our walk home from the bus stop through the wooded path, we see a fallen white birch tree. I peel at the bark showing her how it’s like paper and she runs into the house, grabs some markers, and starts drawing on it. After that we play “baseball” using sticks and pine cones.

9) Age seven: The two of us are timing each other as we complete an obstacle course which runs around Molly’s bedroom; off the bed, around the pillows, onto the beanbag, etc. Molly wants the course to start with a forward roll.

“I don’t know if I can do a forward roll, Mol,” I say. “Man, I always told myself I wanted to stay young enough to be able to do a forward roll.”

“So do it,” Molly says.

“But I’m afraid,” I say.

“So, don’t be afraid, Lola.”

10) The final memory on this list is one that’s happened many times over the years and though it’s relatively simple, I’m sure this will be the mental snap shot I will revisit at her high school graduation, wedding day and when I see her snuggling up to her first little baby someday: We are on her swing set in the golden sun of an early summer evening. In the oldest memories, she is sitting on my lap. Then, of course, she’s on her own swing and I’m pushing her. Later still, we are side-by-side pumping and swishing by each other while she tries to show me how high she can go even though I’d rather she stay lower to the ground. Some days I bring a cup of coffee out and the two of us just sit chatting as the summer day comes to a close.

Thanks for all of it, kiddo. Love your guts.