He's Our Boy | Maris Ehlers Photography

His baseball helmet is on the couch, with a juice box straw sticking out from one end of the cushion. I bet if I looked, I’d find Laffy Taffy wrappers under the cushion as well. That’s where he always eats them and squirrels away the wrappers so he doesn’t have to walk the 3 feet to the waste basket while watching T.V.  

There are 3 pairs of shoes (granted, one pair is mine) on the verge of disappearing under the other couch in the same room, never to be seen again until in sheer desperation I move it out from the wall to conduct a rescue mission for a trove of missing items:  shoes, golf balls, books about snakes, markers, pokémon cards and plastic pieces belonging to things unknown.  That’s the loot for this week. 

His closet is knee deep with legos, army men, tractors and God only knows what else. At this point I’m afraid to look but he can find anything he needs from there in a matter of seconds. 

For reasons I still can’t determine, when he gets clean PJ’s out of his dresser drawer, I always come in later to find 3 of the 4 drawers open with clothes in disarray. I can’t decide if he stands in the lower drawers to reach the higher one, if he just forgets every day which drawer the jammies are in, or if he’s building a one-sided pyramid or a nest or something.

He’s a scientist. I seriously have to hide the vinegar, food coloring and baking soda in our house so that we don’t have colorful explosions in pop bottles more than once a day. My once beautiful butcher block island top has the stains to prove it.  

During trick or treating last year, he came back to the car after stopping at an elderly neighbor’s home sobbing, (his little sister returned just rolling her eyes with a "Here we go again!" expression).  What happened?  The lady gave him some good candy.  He was so excited he gave her a big hug. She exclaimed that she had never had a hug like that before. She didn't realize how literally he would take her words and that they would break his little heart. He was completely devastated a woman "THAT" old had never had a hug before and it totally ruined Halloween for him.  He tried to give her his bag of candy.  

I cannot get him to understand that while capturing yet another caterpillar seems like a good idea at the time, putting it in a box in the garage with a sign on it before leaving for the weekend does not a happy pet make. 

This is the same boy that age the age of 4, 5, and 6 would appear at my bedside before six in the morning (usually on a Saturday), with bright blue eyes asking me things like “Mommy, what sounds do buffalo make?” “Mommy, did you know that a dolphin can kill a shark?” “Mommy...” 

May this be the only picture with a police car he ever has

This is also our boy, who in the early days of first grade fell in love with “the girl in the purple shirt”. He would tell me about her EVERY day, how he saw her in the lunchroom, how beautiful she was (enough already!). He eventually learned her name, that she was in second grade, what her favorite colors were and what bus she rode. I discovered that he would wait there for her every day, just so he could greet her and give her a hug before going to class. He did this for almost the entire year. 

He collects rocks. 

He likes to pull wings off bugs to see if they can fly without them. 


While rain sends most people indoors, it sends him outdoors, usually to frantically try to save all the worms on the driveway (and a little dancing, too). 

He loves fire (admittedly, that one scares us a little - okay a lot).  

He’s the first one to share, to hug, to give.  

He’s a dreamer.  

He hates to be alone. 

Homework is a struggle. Not because he can't do it, but because he has so many other more interesting things to do.

He loves old people.


He's impulsive.

He is much kinder to his sister than she is to him.  


He never wakes up crabby.  


He will get his heart broken. Probably more than once. But he won't be bitter.  That's just who he is. 

He drives me absolutely crazy at times. We butt heads, especially when trying to get out the door in the morning.  


I sometimes worry he'll grow up and join the circus. 

Every so often, I find a booger smeared on the wall above his bed and I'm grossed out. 

Eventually, he'll set aside the rocks, the bugs, the catepillars and the hugs.  I'll miss that, but I can live with it. I think.  As long as he doesn't give up his dreams, his loves, and his kind and tender heart.  


He’s the boy we waited seven long years for, and he was worth every second and more. He's our boy.  

The Post-It-Note Apology - Part II | Maris Ehlers Photography

Some of you saw my post yesterday regarding a forgiveness lesson post-it-note style from my six year old.  If you haven't read it, please do so before reading this post.  It will all make more sense if you do.

For the rest of you...  fast forward to last Friday night (four days after the math lab debacle).  The kids had a carnival at school, and we had been looking forward to it for several weeks.  I purchased the game tickets and our dinner tickets ahead of time as requested by the school, and made a big deal about them when my son brought them home in his backpack.

I told the kids I was putting the tickets in my kitchen drawer so we wouldn't lose them.  So proud of myself!  Why?  Because typically, I'd be the first one to lose them.

There were strips of red tickets for the games and activities, and a small orange piece of paper for our dinner receipt.  It was stapled to the game tickets with the typical "YOU NEED TO BRING THIS RECEIPT WITH YOU IN ORDER TO RECEIVE YOUR MEALS".

As we were getting ready to go, I went to grab the tickets out of the drawer.  There were the red tickets, but no dinner ticket receipt.  My husband immediately started to remind me of how I lose everything (mostly true).  I was adamant that I had put them all in the drawer.  I then told him one of the kids must have taken it, to which he rolled his eyes (all true). At that moment, my daughter came running down the stairs so I asked her if she had taken the dinner ticket from the drawer and if she knew where it was.

She looked at me, she looked at her dad.  While trying to assess the sitaution, she acknowledged that she didn't know where it was, but did cough up that she had taken the dinner ticket out to look at it "a long time ago".  I asked her where she put it.  "Um, on the kitchen counter, I think." At this point she began to realize her folly.

After searching for it in the kitchen drawers, her art cubby, the toy box and all of her other special hiding places, I gave up.  I really tried not to get frustrated, but that was $16 down the drain.  No receipt... no dinner and now I had about three minutes to pull dinner out of my hat (or the fridge).

Of course my son then got mad because we wouldn't be having pizza for dinner at school and had to create his own drama for my daughter's benefit, so you can imagine how those last few minutes at home went.

I knew Amelia felt bad, and I told her it was okay, but she knew I was annoyed and was trying to be nice about it.  

After a delicious dinner of microwaved hot dogs and grapes, I walked into my office to grab my purse as I hustled the kids out the door.  On my computer monitor was this LAVENDER post-it-note apology.  :)

Monday's events flashed before my eyes, and I realized she had learned a lesson that day, too.  That a simple apology, however you can say it with meaning, is the right thing to do.

So with hugs and kisses (and a growing collection of post-it apologies), off we went.  

The best part of the night other than the wacky hair booth? They had so many pizzas left over at the end of the carnival that they started giving them away. We walked out of there with a full large pepperoni pizza from our local Jimmy's Pizza to take home and enjoy. 

Can't get much better than that!   

Norwegian China From Switzerland - A Motherhood Musing by Cynthia Bemis Abrams | Maris Ehlers Photography

Sharing Too Much, But For a Good Cause

by Cynthia Bemis Abrams

Storytelling by Norwegian Americans is not a singular retelling of a story.  It’s a lifetime of fact crumbs, set forth like clues to a puzzle for an inquisitive family member to absorb. To actually tell the story would be, well, sharing too much.

From common people come incredible efforts. This story that helps me better understand my own DNA, told in the bits of information shared during holidays and long car rides. I still wonder why it was deemed of worthy of not sharing, in full regale.

It started with the dishes, special and only used on holidays.  Place settings for 12, there were enough for my family, cousins, aunt, uncle and grandmas.  As the family grew and no one wanted to wash dishes, they were seen less often.  Stored in a cabinet above the refrigerator, faded napkins protected them from each other, wear and weight.

I knew they were given to my mother by her mother, or was it grandmother? And I was told they came from Norway, except that imprinted on the back was a scripted icon of the manufacturer and the word Switzerland.  Norway?

My great-grandmother, Alma, was born in Bergen, Norway, came to America and married Paul Swanson.  They settled in Minneapolis around 1900 and had three children. My grandmother Bernice was the youngest.  I learned that my grandmother was a classic first generation American, detesting all things Norwegian.  According to my mother, my “vain” grandmother hurled curse and biting criticism at her own mother for speaking Norwegian in public.  “You are in America now, you should speak English,” is how my mother told the story, none too proud of her own mother’s behavior.

An old photo postcard of the Fairview Hospital where Cynthia's grandmother worked.  Cynthia herself would later become a part of Fairview for several years.

My Norwegian-speaking, Bergen-born great-grandmother worked hard in her new city, as a housekeeper for the newly created Fairview Hospital. Speaking Norwegian came in handy, since the hospital was founded by Norwegian Lutherans who distrusted Swedish Lutherans for their healthcare.  Talk about hair-splitting!

Late in my teenage years, my mother shared stories about being a pre-teen during World War II.  It seems that even before she had outgrown her clothes, they might be boxed up and sent to relatives in Norway who, due to the occupation, could not buy new clothes.  Same with coffee and sugar rations.  Times might have been tough, but when you never got your share of sugar because it was being sent to relatives occupied by the Nazis, the war must have seemed endless.

Upon a relative’s death, we received pictures taken in Norway circa 1938.  “Oh, those were taken when your great-grandmother went back to Norway to visit, right before the war.  They all knew that the Nazis would occupy and she wanted to see her family before war broke out.” Hmmm.  NAZIS!

“Gee Mom, we have a lot of wooden knick knacks from Norway.”  Her reply, almost annoyed, “Yes, those were sent over by the relatives before and after the war in exchange for all the food and clothes we sent.”  The t-shirt saying laced within my mother’s words: “They sent the clothes off my back to Occupied Norwegians and all I got was this wooden s# *t." 

Years passed before I assembled the clues: the dishes, clothes, trip, the sugar and the burden placed on the daughter of a family who left her home, family and country to live in America.  My great-grandmother returned from Norway with the family’s best dishes.  Was it payment up front for all that would get sent? Where did these dishes come from that they were deemed too valuable to let the Nazis have? 

The dishes

I think of this proud, stocky woman corresponding with relatives about the prospects of war. In my head, they share fears and contemplate scenarios.  In reality, she saved her wages from the hospital housekeeper gig and bought fare to Norway in the summer of 1938.  She returned with a trunk full of items deemed to be too important to let the Nazis get. I can hear her parting words filled with promises of whatever commodities they can send and that they will write often.  Or did the Norwegians say, “Here, take these,” and my great-grandmother replied, “Oh no, I can’t” and they played the classic Minnesotan game of “oh no, oh yes.”

My mother’s Will dictated that I take the dishes on the day of her funeral.  They are now mine.

They represent promises kept, commitments pledged in return for liberty and the trepidation of acting upon strategy to foil getting bested by the Nazis.  They are safely stored in china packing, cloaked in anonymity and easily confused with the ordinary.  They are the legacy of a woman I never knew, but whose loyalty and steadfast character I now greatly admire. To a few scared souls, my great-grandmother was the lifeline to freedom and necessities temporarily held by the Nazis. Sure sounds like a story worth telling, and now it is, every time the dishes come out.

Cynthia is the owner of CBA: Platforms for 21st Century Leadership.  She is a speaker, writer, trainer and educator of all things leadership - 21st century style. 

What is Your Child's Spark? A TEDxTC Talk by Minnesota Dr. Peter Benson | Maris Ehlers Photography

"The mind is not a vessel to be filled, but a fire to be kindled."  Plutarch

I think most of us have established by now that being a parent is one of the hardest “jobs” a person can ever have.  Some people seem to fall into it with more grace and ability than others, and some make it all look so effortless. Admittedly, I have times where I neither feel graceful nor able, but time waits for no man (or parent, for that matter), and so it goes.

I have dreams for my children.  Some days, those dreams are bigger and brighter than a cloudless Minnesota summer sky.  On those days I dream that they will fully realize their potential, that they won’t encounter much tragedy or trauma, that they will be able to overcome all obstacles and live the brilliant lives I believe are within reach for them.

On other days, I borrow trouble and my dreams for them are dominated by fear and worry.  I don’t dare dream of lives of fulfillment and joy in these moments. Instead, I pray that we all survive their teenage years without someone joining the circus or experimenting with THE wrong drug. I also hope for no bad boyfriends, a completed education, and a world without terroristic threats or war.  In other words, I choose safety over satisfaction.  In today’s world, what mother wouldn’t be tempted? 

The problem in focusing on dreams for my children revolving around safety over satisfaction is I am filling them with expectations, rules and obligations from the outside, instead of naming and nurturing that which is in their hearts.  I’ve seen the discrepancy, I’ve known that sometimes I’m focusing on the “safe” things, but haven’t necessarily known what to do about it.  

Late last night, as is often the case, I was searching for something online and came across a Minnesota blog called Choosing Beauty.  Of course I can't even remember what I was looking for specifically, but I landed on her recent blog post about her father, Dr. Peter Benson, and his recent speech at TEDxTC.  Some of you may remember a post of mine featuring a TEDx video / speech by Dr. Brene Brown on VULNERABILITY.  If you do, you know I completely believe in the mission of TED, which is "ideas worth sharing".  

I watched Dr. Benson's talk.  Three times, in fact.  And was incredibly moved.  He not only gave voice to the worries and burdens I carry about my children, but had brilliant ideas and solutions for the children of today.  

Are we filling the vessels instead of lighting a fire?  

If you are a parent, or an adult who has an important relationship with a child (niece, nephew, friend, student, whatever the case may be), I implore you to find a few minutes of quiet and watch this video.  Think about it. Think about what your own spark is, and think about what this child’s spark might be.  Ask yourself if you are helping him or her discover, name and nurture their spark.  Are you providing them with opportunities to grow their spark into a fire inside? 

From the Search-Institute Website: 

 What is a Spark? A spark is something that gives your life meaning and purpose. It's an interest, a passion, or a gift.

SPARKS are…

the hidden flames in kids that excite them and tap into their true passions.

SPARKS come from…

the gut. They motivate and inspire. They’re authentic passions, talents, assets, skills, and dreams.

SPARKS can…

be musical, athletic, intellectual, academic, relational—from playing the violin to enjoying working with kids or senior citizens.

SPARKS can…

ignite a lifelong vocation or career, or balance other activities to create an emotionally satisfying, enriched life.

SPARKS get…

kids going on a positive path, away from the conflicts and negative issues—violence, promiscuity, drugs and alcohol—that give teens a bad name and attract so much negative energy.

The 10 most common sparks among American teenagers

1. Creative Arts
2. Athletics
3. Learning (e.g., languages, science, history)
4. Reading
5. Helping, serving
6. Spirituality, religion
7. Nature, ecology, environment
8. Living a quality life (e.g., joy, tolerance, caring)
9. Animal welfare
10. Leading

What is your child’s spark?  We're dying to know.  

Maris is a mom of a 7 year old empathy-filled, curious explorer and a 6 year old observant, music-loving leader. :) 

Pregnancy Stories – Inspirational Mothers Day Stories | Maris Ehlers Photography

How Did You Share the News You Were a Mom-to-Be?

By Kristine 

One of the favorite parts about my pregnancies was dreaming up creative ways to tell other people our big news.

The first time I was pregnant, I had this brilliant idea of posting a message to my husband on the Jumbotron at an upcoming St. Louis Blues hockey game. I was extremely excited and thought I was terribly clever. But as my husband came upstairs into the kitchen a week before the game, he caught me leaning over the sink, retching. The jig was up.

Of course, later he told me he had assumed I had food poisoning or the flu – it never occurred to him that I had morning sickness (it was night time, thought his male brain).

Telling my parents, however, went perfectly as planned. For the previous Christmas, I had given them a photo family tree from Red Envelope – the kind that contains a miniature picture frame for each person in the family. The tree came with an extra frame, so I secretly kept it. When Christmas rolled around again the following year, I placed a picture of baby footprints inside the frame & wrapped it up as a gift. As soon as my mom opened it, her eyes flashed to me and whispered “Are you pregnant?” Within seconds everyone was jumping up, hugging and crying.

The second time I was pregnant, our son whispered the news into my mother’s ear on Mother’s Day. Except this time, she already knew. My husband had unknowingly patted my tummy the last time my family had been all together. Mothers do not miss these types of subtle clues.

Sharing the news with friends the second time was a bit trickier, largely due to Facebook. We wanted to tell our families first, then wait until I was about 5 months along to tell friends & co-workers. So I did what I had to do, I “unfriended” every single one of my family members to prevent them from spilling the beans on my Facebook “wall.” (Sorry!)

Sharing the news at work was a lot of fun. My mom and I designed the little pink and blue bootie sugar cookies you see above. I placed them in a basket, then went cube-to-cube, asking my colleagues if they wanted a pink or blue cookie (I worked in a very small office at the time). 

Hilariously, most of the single men took a cookie, said “thank you” and that was that. No other response. They didn’t realize I was pregnant until several weeks later.

How did you share the big news?

-----------------------

Kristine is a journalist-turned-Web designer. Together with her sons, they are learning more about dinosaurs than she humanly thought possible. Did you know all Stegosaurs had 17 plates on their backs?

Mpls Copywriter Jen Wittkopf Discovers Wisdom in Justin Biebers Words "Never Say Never" | Maris Ehlers Photography

Never Say Never

By Jen Wittkopf

I never wanted to be a mom.

When other little girls played with dolls, I dug in the mud for juicy night-crawlers. As teenagers, my sister and I babysat together. She took care of the babies and toddlers while I hung out in the yard with the family pets. And when I got married, my husband and I got a black Lab, focused on our careers and called that perfect for seven years.

Then something changed. Okay, I turned 29 and realized that the time was right to start a family. I thought maybe, just maybe, something was missing. It was just a niggling feeling in the back of my mind. But, still, a baby? Me? No way. And that, my friends, was the moment I realized parenting means (in the immortal words of Justin Bieber), “Never say never.”

Fast-forward 11 years and I am the mother – the mommy – of two girls. All the fears I had about being a parent – sleeplessness, worries and driving a car with a third-row seat – have come to true. Yet motherhood surpasses anything I could have imagined.

I never envisioned a thousand games of Go Fish with a highly competitive three-year old could entertain me. Never considered the unbridled joy I’d feel when my late bloomer finally took her first steps. Most of all, I never suspected motherhood would uncover a stronger, kinder, slightly more patient version of myself.

It took me awhile to get here, but I love the challenges, responsibilities and joys of being a mom. Do I long for the days I was child-free and driving a cool car? Never.

Jen with her family on a sunny beach. Obviously somewhere other than here.

Jen Wittkopf is a copywriter living in Plymouth, Minnesota, with her amazing husband, charming daughters and a large dog. You can view more of Jen's work at www.jenwittkopf.com.

Please enjoy our other Mother's Day Musings: 


How To Describe My Mother by local writer Sara Biren. 

Let's Ride by MN Author Marly Cornell

My own musings on Ten Things I Didn't Expect From Motherhood

Ten Things I Didn't Expect From Motherhood | Maris Ehlers Photography

Ten Things I Didn’t Expect From Motherhood

by Maris Ehlers

• I chased the school bus for 12 years.  I didn’t realize that once my own children started school I would spend another decade chasing it again.   

• While never a math all-star, I never expected that I would be humiliated more than once by not understanding my second grader’s math homework.

• In my pre-motherhood life, I didn’t worry.  Even when I really should have.  Now, I can worry about anything and everything surrounding my children.  I don’t know that I actually do much about it, but I’ve perfected the art of it.  Please note:  Worrying wasn’t on my list of things to perfect.

• I didn’t anticipate that my second job would be to manage the sheer amount of papers with random important tidbits on them that come home in all shapes and sizes in their book bags each day.  Frequently, it’s like a timed treasure hunt to find the piece of paper that I need before we leave to chase the bus.

• I never expected that I could act more immature than my child, but um, it has happened.  Once.  Maybe twice. 

• I did not EVER expect that I would read a book called Captain Underpants.  All eight of them in fact (there may be more now).  And laugh.  BTW, we are still searching for Captain Underpants Crunch O Rama Book of fun 2.

• I never expected that a three year old girl could know exactly how to push my buttons, wear me down, get me to do the opposite of what I said, do exactly what she wanted. Thankfully, now she is able to get us to the same end result with much less effort and pain on both our parts.  She would say it's all about consistent parenting on her part.

• I never expected that I would really honestly without even pausing, say to my son as I did last weekend, “What?  Were you raised in a barn?” and mean every word of it.  How cliché am I?

• I never guessed that the things we hand down to our children would be so transparent and meaningful:  Not just the fact that my daughter has her father’s beautiful amber brown eyes, or his sweet smile, but his love of routine, desire for rules, and of knowing what to expect.  Admittedly, I find these traits less than endearing in him at times, but the fact that she is her dad’s “mini me” in these ways is utterly charming to me and thus connects me to him in new ways every day.

• I never expected motherhood to leave me speechless.  But it does. Frequently. For a variety of reasons.  Most of them wonderful.

Join us in reading our other Mother's Day Essays in these posts listed below: 

You can find Sara Biren's post on motherhood here. 

Read Marly Cornell's post about her mother Elma here.


We will be posting new essays from other guest blogging contributors throughout the entire coming week as well. 

Maris Ehlers is a lifestyle photographer in the Twin Cities area, and owns Maris Ehlers Photography. She lives with her husband, two children and a dog, and is busy cramming life as it happens into every available moment.  She is also the owner of this blog. 

"Let's Hide" by Minnesota Author Marly Cornell on the MEP Photo Blog | Maris Ehlers Photography

As Mother's Day approaches, I asked my friend and writer Sara Biren to write a post on her motherhood reflections. I hope you enjoyed her essay. Once I posted it, I realized that I have quite a few talented friends in my network who either write in some capacity professionally, have a unique perspective on motherhood or parenting, or... both.  I decided to see if any of them were interested in sharing their stories for the MEP Photo Blog, and I am delighted with their response.

Stay tuned over the next couple of weeks.  You'll be inspired, delighted, amused, and you just might shed a tear or two as well. If you have a story about motherhood you'd like to share, send us an email at:  info@marisehlersphotography.com.  There is still plenty of time to be included!  

Today's post is by Minnesota author Marly Cornell.  Marly wrote The Able Life of Cody Jane: Still Celebrating, the story of her daughter's remarkable life journey with spina bifida and Marly's role as her mother and caregiver.  

I met Marly a couple of months ago when she asked me to photograph her for new publicity materials.  I'll be sharing a post about our time together closer to the launch date of The Able Life of Cody Jane: Still Celebrating, which is May 1st.

Let's Hide

by Marly Cornell

Marly's Mom Elma

Mom believed it was important that little kids not come home to an empty house. She was there when I arrived home from school every day. Dinner wasn’t served until Dad came home from work around six o’clock. One evening he was a little later than usual, and my little brother and I were in the kitchen looking for a snack to tide us over.

When we heard Dad’s car pull in the driveway, Mom said, “Let’s hide.”

She directed us to huddle with her under the dining room table where we were out of sight behind the drape of a long tablecloth. We listened as Dad came in the door from the garage and hung up his coat and hat in the hall closet. Mom put her finger to her lips motioning us to be still and quiet. I held my hands over my mouth to keep any giggle or snort from escaping. We heard Dad’s slow footsteps as he walked through each room of the house. We heard doors open and shut. Finally he came into the dining room, lifted the tablecloth, leaned down, and smiled.

Mom was eighty-three when my father died. He had been treated for prostate cancer for a few years and had a couple of related surgeries. On a Friday in April, his doctor predicted (accurately) that Dad had about three weeks left. The cancer had spread to his bones and internal organs. Dad decided not to spend his last days in a hospital, and went home.

Dad's Favorite Picture of Mom

My brothers and I, all of whom lived in different states, made immediate plans to help Mom and Dad. We took turns spending several days at a stretch for as long as we each could. During the five days I spent with my father, he was in pain much of the time, and I rubbed his back until each dose of morphine took effect. Then we talked and laughed, and he instructed me about what to do with his things. He insisted that I take Mom in for a mammogram while I was there. With tears in his eyes he said he didn’t want Mom to ever go through what he was experiencing with cancer. When the hospice nurse came, Dad expressed his wishes. He wanted to be as pain-free as possible, but wanted no extraordinary measures taken to extend his life.

Mom did not accept this. She wanted Dad cured. As a person of faith, she was holding out for a miracle. Her face contorted in worry, she pleaded, “If only you would get up and take a walk. If only you would eat something!” She kept caring for Dad, massaging his feet, rubbing his back, and refusing to discuss his imminent departure. Her anxiety was palpable.

Mom and Dad

The day Dad died, Mom’s worried face was gone. Her mood was calm. She asked me to remove all of Dad’s personal items from the house as well as the two matching lounge chairs where she and Dad read and watched television together. She said they made her feel sad.

I made all the arrangements by phone for a simple funeral at my parents’ church. Despite the funeral director’s urging that we come in to see his display of caskets and other accessories, I explained what we wanted and remained firm. When he asked, “But how will I be paid?” I promised to give him a check after the service.

At my father’s funeral, when the pastor invited anyone to say a few words about my dad, I sat amazed as Mom rose and turned to address the church full of friends. She spoke about what a man of character and integrity my Dad was, and graciously thanked everyone for coming.

As people came forward to shake hands with our family, a man who arrived late walked through the crowd, looking from face to face.

“I bet that’s the funeral director coming for his fee,” I said.

Mom grinned and said, “Let’s hide.”

Mom and Marly

Elma in her 90s

Marly Cornell is a writer and artist living in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Her mother, Elma Fay, lived to be 100 years old and died gently without any illness, pain, or suffering.

The Able Life of Cody Jane: Still Celebrating was published with the support of the Spina Bifida Association. 

You can find Sara Biren's post on motherhood here.