I was rubbing lotion over my legs—I'd just shaved them for the first time in, well, quite a while—when Stanton poked his head into the bathroom. Startled, I nearly choked on the mouthwash I was simultaneously "vigorously swishing between teeth for one minute." (This is what multitasking looks like at 8 a.m. on a Wednesday, amirite?)

"Hey, what's our Amazon password?" Stanton asked. "Oh, sorry...not a good time."

I was only halfway into the full minute of vigorous swishing, so I nodded. Correct: not a good time.

"Mommy!" Now Anna swiveled around Stanton. "Do you know where the fake mustaches are?"

Out of nowhere, Grace popped into view. "We need them for a game we're playing."

Right. Of course.

I finished wiping my lotion-y hands over my legs. Spat the mouthwash into the sink. Looked at the faces of the three people I loved most in this world. "Guys...can you give me a minute?"

Yes, they said, they could. The bathroom door clicked shut.

Amazon passwords. Fake mustaches. You can't make this stuff up, friends.

For Halloween this year, the girls are dressing up as Mario (Anna) and Luigi (Grace). This is why we currently have a 12-pack of fake mustaches in the house, as well as new overalls and red and green baseball caps.

"I can't wait to trick-or-treat," the girls have been saying. Already, they're thinking about all the candy they'll amass.

Stanton usually travels one week every month for work, and this month, he needs to be out of town a bit longer than usual right before Halloween. I was looking at our family calendar, piecing together the puzzle of work and life these next few weeks. The girls' school has a Halloween-weekend event, and although I was trying to make it work alongside Stanton's travel and my work schedule...

"I don't think we can do it," I shared with a friend.

My friend shrugged. "Then don't do it."

Don't do it. Such a simple, beautiful solution. I loved it...and I wondered why it hadn't occurred to me.

Sometimes the healthiest, kindest thing we can do for ourselves is say no. Or not now. We're not superheroes (except, maybe, on October 31) who can put together all the puzzles all the time.

"Do you know where the fake mustaches are?"

Soon after the school year started, Grace's fourth-grade teacher talked with the class about September 11. The teacher invited the class to interview grown-ups they knew about where they'd been that fateful day. One day, when Grace was chatting with my mom, Grace asked about her memories of 9/11 (a conversation I didn't overhear because I was making dinner).

Later, I was rummaging through the girls' backpacks when a piece of loose-leaf paper fluttered out. In pencil across the top of the paper Grace had printed, "Sept. 11, 2001 Intervouw: Grandma."

I began reading my daughter's neat, 10-year-old handwriting: "It was a butiful day and I was takeing my class inside from reccess." Grace went on to describe how my mom, an elementary-school teacher, learned about the terrorist attacks from a TV in the school library. Grace ended her nonfiction piece by writing, "There was a clip of the passengers calling there family and saying, 'I don't know woht is happening, but I love you."

I read that last sentence, and I began crying, friends. I cried because I've seen those video clips, and they're heartbreaking. I cried because I can understand the urgency of letting family know, before you can't any longer, "I love you."

That day, I also had tears in my eyes because I never knew what September 11 was like for my mom. For 20 years, I never asked my mom where she was or what she was doing that day. It took my daughter's schoolwork to find out.

Why?

I thought about it, and I think a lot of the time, I think of my mom as, simply, my mom. I think of her as a person who will always be there for me. I call my mom's phone, she answers. I ask her if she can come help with the girls, she does. Selfishly, I don't often think of my mom as a person with experiences that don't include me, a person with her own stories to tell.

A lot of us probably take our parents, and especially our moms, for granted in this way. When we're young (and even not so young), our moms help us figure out the puzzle pieces of our lives. They get us where we need to go even as they juggle millions of things all at once. They know where the fake mustaches are.

You know, I may have been wrong before. Moms just may be superheroes after all.

One day recently, I ran out to restock on some groceries before going to pick the girls up from school. I carried the bags of food into the house, quickly popped the milk, yogurt and deli meat into the fridge. Stanton walked out of his home office, joined me in the kitchen.

"Hey, Mel," he said. "I just wanted to say thank you."

"Hey, honey...thank you for what?"

Stanton gestured to the groceries. "For going to the store. Making sure we have stuff we need. Going to get the girls."

I appreciated his gratitude, friends...and I also was a little surprised. We've been married for 13 years now. Have had children for 10. "Stan, I've always done this," I said.

Stanton shrugged. "I know, but now that I'm home more, I see it's a lot."

Part of me continued to be a little (a lot?) surprised. You wake up, and there's food in the kitchen for you to eat. There's soap at the sinks, clean towels in the bathrooms. There are costumes at Halloween, candles in the cupboard for every birthday, the Amazon password scribbled on the back of the calendar. Part of me didn't understand how you wouldn't see these things all along.

The other part of me, though—the part that loves Stanton very much, and appreciates that many kind things he's done for me—decided to take his words at face value. "You're welcome," I said.

"When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know, none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge—they were all messages of love. If you look for it, I've got a sneaky feeling you'll find that love actually is all around." —Love Actually

Photo credit: Pixabay

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Like what you just read? Then check out Melissa Leddy's e-books on Amazon.com. Short fiction and creative nonfiction writing that's engaging, witty and from the heart.

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