Yesterday, I got to my desk, ready to put the last touches on the book I’m writing with my friend Clifton Jones, who is in prison in Florida and goes by the name “Too Tall.” Just as I opened my computer, my daughter texted from her bedroom.
“My throat is worse,” she wrote. I walked across the house; she was a mess. It was clear she hadn’t slept and was about to lose it.
I’m not that mom who heads to the pediatrician the second my kid complains. I’m a day-three mom. Even if my kid’s fever is 103. It’s been 10 days. She was better on day three, even went for her annual checkup with no signs of infection or virus. But a few days ago, it came back with force. Her already large tonsils were blocking her throat, so only a tiny pinhole led to her airway. Her nose was stuffed up, and her face was puffy. I called the doctor.
Even when I carve out time for work, the universe has other plans
For a second, I considered sending her there alone. She’s 17 and drives. Plus, an hour or two in a waiting room would put a huge gash in my writing schedule. This was the day. I promised myself no distractions. Today, I would finish the book. It’s been four years of writing and transcribing Too Tall’s stories. The longer it takes, the longer he’s in prison. He’s counting on me.
Our book details the six-year story of our friendship: writing teacher meets a man who is incarcerated while she is teaching memoir in a Florida prison. Bond develops, there are emails, phone calls, and trust builds. And after he’s spent 29 years behind bars, she ultimately helps him get free. At least, that’s the hope; in our story, the get-free part hasn’t happened yet.
There have been motions and denials, lawyers, and new motions. My side is written. His side is written. I just need to lay out the chapters. There are five rows of Post-it notes summarizing each chapter stuck to the window in my office. I need one undisturbed day to finish editing our recent emails and organizing the Post-its.
Just as I was about to suggest my daughter go to the doctor alone, I stopped and stared at her miserable face. I thought about my decision 19 years ago to start a family on my own. Sperm bank. Anonymous donation. Three kids. I knew this stuff would fall on me. I just didn’t realize how often.
I realize that she needs her mom; this is the stuff she’ll remember. This is the stuff I will miss when she leaves for college and then life. The book will have to wait, and unfortunately, so will Too Tall.
“I’ll meet you in the car,” I said, grabbing my jacket. I knew we’d be there for a while, and I didn’t want to be cold. I knew the drill. I’ve suffered through numerous visits with all three kids. As always, she’ll lay on the paper-covered table scrolling through Instagram or TikTok. I’ll pretend I am trying to hurry the doctor while I also scroll through my phone, trying to get a little work done.
Courtesy of Allison Langer
My kids make it hard to get work done, but I wouldn’t trade them for anything
An hour and a half later, we were sent home with a script for prednisone to help bring down the swelling while we waited for the culture to come back from the lab. I went back to my computer. The screen lit up just as my 19-year-old son appeared and asked what he should pack for college. We leave in two days.
This is a kid who has packed his own bag for every golf tournament, family vacation, and overnight with friends. It’s true, I usually print a packing list, but it’s also true I’ve forgotten to add undies and shorts multiple times. This was the first instance he’d ever asked for help. I said, “Line up all your favorite clothing and knickknacks, and then we can narrow down the choices.” Everything needed to fit into the car and then his dorm room.
He returned several times. “How many T-shirts should I bring?” and “How many shoes?”
I wanted to run to his bedroom and lock up his stuff so he couldn’t leave, but I stayed focused on the book and tried not to cry. I really thought I’d be ready to push my firstborn out the door, but it turns out I’m not that mom, after all.
In his room, he’d lined up all his shoes — 14 pairs. We narrowed it down to 12, and he put them in a bag. I looked at the two suitcases, packed and ready, and I went back to my office before I broke down. He’s ready, I know that, but I’m still sad he’s leaving.
The phone rang as I reached my computer. My writing partner. We’re producing a live show in two weeks, and she wanted to run some ideas by me. Just after that, a student from my writing class called to ask how to structure a pitch. And just as I thought I’d cleared out the clutter, my youngest child texted. “You can leave now,” he said. “The bus is close.”
He’s in 9th grade and just started a new school 45 minutes away. Cross-country practice was canceled, and his bus was on its way to the park where I dropped him off 10 hours earlier.
I got into the car, and the phone buzzed. “She has strep G,” said the text from my pediatrician. “Sending antibiotic to Walgreens.”
I had a horrible case of strep when I was living in Hood River, Oregon a gazillion years ago. I have no idea what G is, but I’m thinking it means goiter, because mine was bad and so is hers. I got my goiter-style strep from this guy named Fleisher. When I think of him, my throat still hurts.
While I waited for the bus, I thought about my day. I’d failed Too Tall and would have to tell him it wasn’t done yet. I know he’ll understand, but still. I didn’t accomplish what I’d set out to do. Maybe that’s just life. Things come up. And even though I was disappointed, I wouldn’t have traded my distractions for a life without them. I texted my daughter with the news.
She asked how she might have gotten it. I said, “Sharing a straw, the kids you babysat, kissing.”
“Mom,” she texted back. “I didn’t kiss anyone. Nice try.”
“Well then, I don’t know how you got it, baby. Maybe that’s just life.”
