Author Archives: Stacy Lynn

It’s a Pratt Thing

Tonight, I watched the first Indiana Hoosiers basketball game of the year, and as is typical for me at the beginning of every men’s college basketball season, I was missing my dad. He loved college basketball and was obsessed with the Hoosiers. Since his death in March 2001, I feel the loss of him more keenly at this time of the year. But once the season gets going, I always enjoy the games and feel my dad’s spirit with me. He is in my heart as I happily cheer for our team.

But tonight my heart is much heavier than ever before, and the beginning of this basketball season is far more emotionally painful for me.

Basketball was an important part of Mack’s life. She played the sport for thirteen of her twenty years, and watching her play was one of my greatest joys of being her momma bear. When she was little, she slept with her favorite basketball, dribbled for hours in her room, became an expert at spinning the ball on her fingers, and truly loved the sport. And even though I raised the poor child in Illini country, she became a Hoosier fan, too. As we often said to our numerous Illinois-fan friends, “It’s a Pratt thing, you wouldn’t understand.”

My dad died when Mack was only seven. It was a trivial thing, perhaps, but raising Mack on Hoosier basketball was one way for me to connect her to the grandfather she never had the chance to know. Mack and I always talked about dad’s love for the Hoosiers. In March 2013, Mack made a special trip home from college just so we could watch Indiana in the first weekend of the NCAA tournament together. We talked then about how tickled grandpa would have been at their success and how much we wished he could have shared the fun with us.

Indiana basketball has been one of the simple pleasures of my life. It was a family connection that I cherished. And now I face this college basketball season without my dad and without my precious Macko. Right now in my sorrow, it does not seem possible, but I hope that later in the season I will be able to enjoy some Hoosier hoops. That’s what both of them would wish for me. And if…no, when…that happens, my dad and Mack will be with me in spirit as I cheer for our favorite team.

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Golfing in Flip-Flops with Friends

Mack started walking when she was nine months old, and almost immediately she exhibited advanced hand-eye coordination and impressive athletic abilities. By the time she was three, she was adept at throwing and catching a baseball, dribbling a basketball, and throwing a tight spiral with her kid-sized football. Early in elementary school, she brought home every sports flyer available and begged to participate. With the exception of ice hockey, we let her try every damn sport, too: soccer, baseball, basketball, taekwondo, tackle football, and flag football. She was an amazing athlete, and I was always in awe of her ability to pick up a sport and play it well.

I started playing golf when I was about thirteen years old, and I’ve loved the game ever since. When my dad taught Mack to swing a club when she was just five years old, I knew she would be good at that sport, too.

baby golfer 2

In Springfield, the public courses allow kids to play at age six, so I purchased a set of junior golf clubs for Mack’s sixth birthday, gave her some lessons and then started taking her on outings with me. By the time she was ten, she hit the ball from the tee much, much, much further than her momma, but she never really adopted the sport. Oh, she enjoyed the game…at least a little…but she was always annoyed with the course etiquette, the “country club” attire and the general attitude of many male golfers she encountered who believed women and girls on a golf course were an annoyance. I also think Mack had a clear preference for competitive team sports. Sharing a basketball court with a group of friends was more enjoyable to her than a lonely walk up a fairway. I understood that about her; but I was always a little sad about it. Over the course of the next nine years, I had to just be content to enjoy a couple of rounds of golf with her every summer.

In July of 2008, just a month before she was going to be starting her freshman year of high school, Mack announced that she was going to try out for the golf team. I am pretty certain I just stared at her for a long time looking incredulous. She probably stared back, sucking in her lips and looking at me sideways. She did not own a decent set of golf clubs appropriate for her height. She had no golf shoes or a proper golf bag. She had not been playing golf all summer to prepare. She had never in her entire life taken a professional golf lesson. She said the golf team tryout was in a few days, and she asked me to go to the driving range with her and to take her to play a couple of rounds of nine holes at Pasfield (a short course near our house) beforehand. I asked her if she thought it would all be enough preparation to make a high school golf team, and she said that she had never failed to make a team before and she had no intention of breaking that streak. I am sure that I sighed in response, but we went to the driving range, we played a couple of rounds at Pasfield, she went to the tryout in basketball shorts and flip-flops and then became a freshmen member of the Springfield High School (SHS) girls golf team.

Well it turns out that there are not that many girl golfers in Springfield, and many of them go to Sacred Heart-Griffin (SHG), the rival private Catholic school. So Mack was probably pretty certain that she would make the SHS team when she so confidently answered my incredulity. However, she really did have a natural ability, could knock the cover off of the ball from the tee, and possessed such a calm approach to the game that she soon started to excel at it. She was never going to take the game as seriously as was necessary to be great at it, but she really did work hard to improve so that she could be pretty damn good at it. She started taking lessons from a local pro, practiced her putting and chipping on her own time, and listened to the advice of her golf coach with whom she quickly developed a special bond. It was no surprise to anyone who knew her that she quickly played the game well, but I’m not sure everyone recognized that her adoption of the game and her success with it had taken her a little outside of her sports comfort zone.

Just because she was playing “real” golf did not mean, however, that Mack accepted all of the “country club” aspects of the sport. She practiced in flip-flops, wore baggy sweatpants in lieu of fitted golf skorts, cussed and chortled on the putting green, and refused to accept the lonely silence of the sport. When her peers were taking practice swings on the driving range before matches, Mack was in the clubhouse testing out the local hot dog. After a match when her peers were bragging about a beautiful approach to a tight green, Mack humorously regaled them with the horrors of her worst shot of the day. At first, her golf coach, a few of the more serious members of her own team, and her opponents were taken aback by what they saw as her irreverence for the game. But after they got to know her, they learned that she didn’t disrespect the game at all. She just wanted to play it her on her own terms.

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In her four years on that high school golf team, Mack always downplayed her successes and she laughed at her failures; and that attitude made her a better golfer. Most importantly, she made the game her own by turning it into a team sport. She interacted with the golfers on her team the same way she interacted with her fellow basketball and softball teammates. She demanded team dinners, made up stupid handshakes and cheers, and provided levity when teammates were taking the game too seriously. For Mack, golf was NOT a lonely walk up the fairway. During matches, she engaged her opponents, shared her humor, and treated them like teammates as well.

In fact, Mack became good friends with the SHG golfers and their coach; and her personal idea of team extended to them as well. After all, she actually spent more time during matches with SHG golfers than with her own teammates or other opponents, so why not bring them along for her joyride in the sport?

By senior year, Mack was playing some pretty good golf. She was still practicing in flip-flops and consuming hot dogs instead of warming up before matches, but I could see that she really wanted to make her senior year special. She practiced harder, visited the golf pro more, and provided a great deal of encouragement for the entire team. At Sectionals that fall at Lincoln Greens in Springfield, no one dared to dream that the entire team could make it to the state tournament. The team’s two top golfers each shot 81 and were definitely on their way to State. Lincoln Greens was always something of a challenge for Mack; many of her funniest ball-in-water stories came from that course. But on that beautiful sunny fall day, she put her head down and carded a 90. I am fairly certain it is the best score she ever turned in for eighteen holes at Lincoln Greens; and it had come at the perfect time. More importantly, however, that score turned out to be just low enough. The final combined team score qualified all of the SHS golfers for the Illinois State Golf Tournament for the first time since the 1980s. Mack was never more proud of any other athletic achievement. She was thrilled that all of them—Becca, Alax, Kristin, Rachel, and Mack—were going to state. All of them. Mack was right. Golf was a team sport after all.

The SHS Golf Team after Qualifying for State

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There’s more…

People who live in Springfield know that the rivalry between SHS and SHG is pretty intense and can, sometimes, become ugly and bitter. In fact, it has a tendency to bring out the worst in even the best kids. But as it turns out, my Mack was so special that her spirit could melt even the iciest of rivalries. In October, while they were competing in the sectionals golf tournament, the SHG golf team wore ribbons in their hair to honor the memory of their lost competitor and friend. They were competing for SHG, but they wore red “Mack” and “SHS” ribbons. What an amazing testament to a beautiful person.

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Hair

The Springfield McDermott family was, historically, a long-haired clan. From about 1997 onward, Kevin, Savannah, Mack and I always wore long hair, and we had the hair-care product budget to prove it. Our family used gallons of shampoo, conditioner and detangling spray and stretched out hundreds and hundreds of hair ties. Savannah did bob her strawberry-blonde mane once or twice. And during a moment of temporary insanity, I had cut mine into a boyish pixie cut; but after crying myself to sleep, I started growing it out the next day. Other than those few exceptions, however, long hair ruled at 709 S. Lincoln Avenue.

Throughout elementary and middle school, Mack kept her hair long, straight, parted down the middle, and tied in a ponytail at the nape of her neck. She was never really interested in styling her hair; and since she was busy with so many sports, longer hair made a good deal of sense. With a tight ponytail and a spongy athletic-tape headband, her face was free of wispy hairs for soccer and basketball, and her ponytail slipped neatly through the back of her baseball cap. In football, a braided ponytail tucked up under her helmet suited Mack’s sensibility and her own personal I-play-sports-but-I’m-still-a-girl style. Savannah tried on numerous occasions to persuade Mack to put her ponytail up a little higher, wrap it into a messy bun, or do away with the center part, anything at all to make it a little more girly. But Mack always rolled her eyes and said something like, “What do I care?”

A Christmas trip to the Caribbean when Mack was nine or ten inspired a new style that lasted about nine months. While in Roatan, Honduras, Mack had sat for two hours while a woman gave her a full-set of beaded, cornrow braids. She just loved those braids, and she wanted to keep them. Therefore, when we returned from our trip, we went to Sally’s Beauty Supply and purchased a spray bottle, a fine-toothed comb and thousands of tiny black rubber bands. For months after that trip, Mack and I would periodically sit down in front of a basketball or baseball game while I braided her hair…for hours. I did not possess the talents to duplicate the cornrows, but she was thrilled with my braiding nonetheless; and much to her sister’s horror, she sported those white-girl braids with considerable pride.

braids

However, when school started again that next fall, she went back to that long, low-slung ponytail. Late in eighth grade and early in high school, Mack finally abandoned her ubiquitous low ponytail by experimenting with the popular side-bang, sporting some layers and trying shorter, shoulder-length styles. But by her junior year, she was losing patience with her hair and also beginning to chastise me more and more for spending so much time on my own. During basketball season that year, she began to talk about getting a buzz cut. And this is where I have to admit that I was horrified by the notion of a buzz cut on my beautiful daughter, and I was pretty well dedicated to keeping her from going through with it. I mean, come on, she had beautiful hair. It was so silky and smooth and glinting with golden streaks. I couldn’t imagine why she would want it all gone; and besides, I would always argue, it needed to be long enough to secure tightly away from her face for sports. My pleas to her only led to more talk about buzz cuts. It came to a point where Mack would say “buzz cut” just to get me all in a tizzy. Clearly, she was starting to equate her budding feminism with a rejection of societal expectations of femininity, and she was trying out these new arguments of hers on her addicted-to-long-hair-and-eyeliner mother.

But Mack never did buzz off all of that gorgeous hair, and when she graduated from high school it was beautiful and long. When she went to college it was beautiful and a little less long. When I sent her back to school for her sophomore year of college after a summer at home, her hair was beautiful and long. She had not stopped talking about the possibility of a short cut, but she had not gone through with it before, and I felt fairly confident she would not go through with it in the future. Lolled into a false sense of complacency, I guess, I was shocked when my cell phone buzzed with a text from Mack attaching this video:

She had given me no warning, had not asked for money to visit the salon, had provided no accompanying text in the message, and did not call to follow-up. She just sent this video, knowing that I would be more amused than upset. Of course, she was correct. So here we have yet another piece of precious evidence of Mack’s unique way of doing things and her incomparable sense of humor.

It took me a little time to get used to, but by Thanksgiving I warmed up to that short hair. It was adorable, it suited her personality, and it represented her new way of balancing the feminine and masculine sides of her spirit and style. She was brave and bold and beautiful…and the length of her hair had absolutely nothing to do with it.

After and Before on Hair Cut Day

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Forks

Everyone who knew Mack was very much aware of the fact that she not only loved food, but also that she could eat quite a large quantity of it. Regularly, she would annihilate an order of egg rolls and a plate of curry fried rice, finish off a full-sized bag of Funyuns during one episode of Parks and Recreation, drain a quart of Gatorade in seconds, or eat way more all-you-can-eat sushi than seemed humanly possible. Luckily for her, however, she was an athletic kid, possessed a lean nearly 5’10” frame, and had inherited those skinny McDermott genes. She also happily embraced and celebrated her appetite, and it was often the subject of her own self-deprecating humor.

I am not quite sure when it first happened—perhaps it was in middle school or early in high school—but on at least five or six separate occasions at different restaurants, Mack’s place setting at the table contained a serving fork instead of the typical dinner fork that all the other place settings at the table had. I remember very clearly how it happened the first time. Mack unwrapped her napkin, pulled out the serving fork, held it up in dramatic fashion and said, “Are they calling me fat?” Just as I thought she would ask for a regular fork, she announced that it was some kind of an omen and began using it to consume her meal. Afterwards, she stuck that fork in her pocket and brought it home. The second time a restaurant served her a large fork, Mack was absolutely convinced that the food gods were taking good care of her. She celebrated the arrival of the large utensil, used it to clean her plate and, of course, she brought it home. The third time it happened, we all agreed with her that this large-fork thing appeared to be more than a coincidence. And every time it happened thereafter, we were not surprised by it and we always had a good laugh over it. On every subsequent presentation of these large forks, Mack thanked the food gods, used the fork, and added it to her collection in our kitchen. At home, she always insisted on using these large forks, and she would become quite indignant if I failed to put one of them at her place at the table.

The week before she left for Spain, we were at Pier 1 Imports looking at chairs for our new dining room table, and Mack disappeared. As I was considering two upholstered chairs, which we finally purchased, my cell phone rang. I answered it, it was Mack, and she said that I must immediately meet her in the back right section of the store and see for myself the amazing wall art that was absolutely meant for her to have in her college apartment in Kirksville. I was annoyed that she was calling me from within the store, but this was typical Mack and I told her I would be there shortly. When I located her, she was holding a humongous fork. With great animated enthusiasm, she said that she believed that since there was no one else in the entire world besides herself who would actually want this type of wall art and that weird circumstances—one, that she was actually in a Pier 1 with parents at all; and two, that she had, even more oddly, wandered off to look at stuff—had conspired to make her aware of the existence of these wonderfully giant and shiny forks. Therefore, she was destined to own one. She needed one. She desperately wanted one. And, she proceeded to demand one, arguing that 70 bucks for such a glorious object was a bargain.

I suggested that she could choose the fork and skip the new clothes I was going to purchase for her to take to Spain. She paused, placed her hand on her chin and cast her eyes upward, as she often did when she was contemplating one of my questions. After a few seconds, she sighed, said she would choose the clothes…this time…but that when she returned from Spain, we would take up this issue once again. As a temporary consolation, she asked me to take a few pictures of her with this wonderful fork not only to document its magnificent existence but also to serve as a reminder to me that it would be a perfect Christmas gift.

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It’s MY room, Mother

Like all kids, Mack hated household chores: but like most good kids she would begrudging do many of those we required of her. However, there was one chore that she unabashedly refused to do and no amount of weekly allowance, begging, yelling, grounding, or bribes motivated her to oblige me. Mack’s bedroom was in a perpetual state of nuclear disaster, and it was a serious topic of contention in our mother/daughter relationship. While I did not expect her to possess my obsessive level of organization, it bothered me a great deal that she seemed not to care that glasses with an inch of iced-tea were growing mold, that her basketball uniforms were wadded up in a pile of dirty clothes, that her history text books were under the bed, or that there were more jeans and shoes in the middle of the room than here were in the drawers or in the closet. I would yell, and she would just look at me, shake her head, and say things like, “What’s the big deal, woman? It’s MY room, mother, and you don’t have to come in here.” Exasperated, she would lead me out and close the door.

Since our family was a busy one, days and weeks at a time would pass when I would just clench my teeth, shut my eyes and pretend I did not know the extent of the disorder on the other side of her bedroom door. Therefore, Mack’s room was most always a Super Fund site, her close friends grew accustomed to the mess, and even occasional visitors were witness to the disorder. One time, Mack was babysitting the three young daughters of some close friends of mine at our house. There was no time for a fight with her to clean her room, so I begged Mack to keep the kids downstairs and out of her bedroom. These little girls looked up to Mack, and I did not wish her to set a bad example. She rolled her eyes at me as if I was being unreasonable, but she agreed and I trusted she understood my point. After several hours, the adults returned from dinner, and our friends all went home. Apparently, as soon as the three children piled into their minivan upon leaving our house, they all started chattering about how much fun they had hanging out with Mack, how good she was at making boxed macaroni and cheese, and how freaking cool she was because her room was so messy!

Over the years, I learned to accept some level of messy. But on rare occasions when we needed her room for overnight guests or I had reached my limit, I would do battle. Sometimes, I could coax Mack into a good cleaning if I helped her and gave her money for iTunes or promised her a trip to Taste of Thai when we were done with the work. Mostly, she ignored both my shrill and my subtle efforts to make her more organized. At some point during high school, Mack shoved her twin bed into what had previously been a little study nook in her room. This rearrangement opened up some floor space in the middle of the main part of her bedroom perfect for bouncing or spinning her basketball or sitting around with her buddies. It also tended to be a larger space for much larger messes.

One summer morning before leaving for work, I stepped into Mack’s bedroom to say goodbye, and there were clothes all over her floor. I threw one of my best fits about the mess and told her how terrible she was because she couldn’t possibly know which heaps were clean and which were dirty. I angrily told her that she had damn well better have all the clothes sorted, folded and put away by the time I got home or she wasn’t going to be seeing her friends that night. She smiled that crooked grin through sleepy eyes and said, “yeah, yeah, mom, I know.” When I peeked into her room after work that day, I was astounded. The clothes were gone. There wasn’t a trace of dirty dishes, her desk was clear, and it even looked like she may have run a dust mop over the floor. I was so proud of her and I told her so. This was great progress she was making, and I even got her to admit that it did feel pretty good to exist in such a clean environment. And then, I let her go out with her friends that night.

The next morning when I called to her before leaving for work, she didn’t answer. I figured she was sleeping, so I slipped into her room and walked around the corner to her bed in the study nook to give her a soft kiss on the check. And this is what I found…

messy

So I will admit before all witnesses that this was a battle that I never won. Mack did not think keeping her room clean and organized was important, necessary, or worth her effort. I know now that on this point she was right and had been right all along. It did not really matter that her basketball uniform was wrinkled and stinky, that her favorite skinny jeans hadn’t been folded since the day she selected them from the shelf at American Eagle, or that one of our glass tumblers may have been sitting on her headboard for six months (even if it did have moldy tea inside of it). Looking back on it, I am glad she didn’t waste a lot of her precious time folding her clothes, dusting her bookshelves, or worrying about what people might think about the mess. She had far more important things to do in her life, like hosting Glee parties with her best friends, wrestling with one of our dogs, practicing her British accent, or just lounging on her bed in the study nook staring at the ceiling and enjoying that fact that she could so easily outsmart her Ph.D. mom.

I Miss My Macko

I weep for you every day;

My eyes with grief are swollen.

I yearn to change the heavy truth upon me that has fallen.

Some say time can ease my pain;

Some say time will bring me peace.

My heartbreak belies the promise, though, of any such release.

Your joyful soul to me endeared you;

Much good humor and laughter you shared.

And I am a better person, because for you I cared.

Cherished memories of your good life;

Keep pace with my sense of loss so deep.

Our time in life may be past, but your spirit forever I keep.

This I Believe

Until Mack was a junior in high school, I must admit that I saw her mostly as a happy-go-lucky kid, an athlete, and a comic. I knew she was smart, and I recognized her many and varied talents, but I did not know there was a budding writer and intellectual inside of her. She never seemed to be terribly interested in academics (although she always earned As and Bs without effort), she was not the voracious reader that her sister had been, and she rarely did homework or talked about school. She was so masterful at living a balanced life of school, three varsity sports, and a busy social life that it did not bother me that academics did not appear to be a focus or a strength. Mack was so calm and well-adjusted and led such an active life that I did not think it mattered that she was not a deep thinker. But I could not have been more wrong about her. Looking back on it, I regret that I missed signs of her impressive intellect. She was, indeed, a deep thinker; I had just been too distracted by her athletic prowess to notice. However, when she started writing for the Springfield High School newspaper, I began to see that among her physical and personal talents was a talent for writing as well; and the more she wrote, the more her writing revealed that intellectual side of her that I had missed.

As she penned more and more columns for the newspaper and began sharing her ideas about music, TV, American culture, feminism, and social justice, it became clear to me that her wisdom and beliefs had been a long time in the making. My misjudgment of her in this regard is all on me, and I am sorry about that; because I should have seen this side of Mack long before her junior year. She never talked a lot, that is certain, but when she did say something, it was always entertaining, interesting, and observant beyond her years. Looking back on it, whenever Mack opened her mouth, I always stopped what I was doing and listened closely; and remembering now so many times when she added a sharp critique to a discussion, asked a probing question, or made an astute observation, I was always impressed by her skepticism and the clarity of her comments. All those times when I thought Mack wasn’t listening as people around her were blathering on about politics or social issues, she was actually quietly and respectfully taking it all in and, in the process of listening, was developing her own, unique perspective on the world around her.

By the time Mack began writing college entrance essays, I saw in the writing her intellectual curiosity and brave and articulate ideas, especially her strong sense of social justice and equality. I was extremely proud of her ability to put her ideas to paper, and I appreciated her grown-up, nuanced perspective of the world. As an NPR junkie, I was thrilled when she decided to adapt one of her college essays for the “This I Believe” essay contest at our local public radio station, WUIS. I was beyond thrilled when the judges selected her essay, giving her a chance to share not only her beliefs about her own femininity, but to put her own quiet voice behind those beliefs.

Mack’s essay is a poignant reflection of her life as an athlete and as a girl, illuminating both her wisdom and her heart. But more importantly, it beautifully illustrates that at the tender age of seventeen, Mack loved and accepted herself for who she was and embraced the seeming contradictions of what she loved. In her quiet, humble voice, she was clearly comfortable and happy in her own skin. And what an amazing accomplishment that is for any person, let alone one who had yet to graduate from high school.

Mack’s essay is a sweet and revealing testament to who she was as a kid, a girl, and a young woman; and it speaks volumes about her wisdom, her grace, and her spirit. She truly was a remarkable human being…this I believe.

 

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Sissy

I practiced the first six years of motherhood on the sweet and precocious Savannah, a red-headed and brilliant little drama queen who changed my life forever. Before her, I was a hard-drinking, self-centered material girl of the ‘80s, and immediately after she arrived in the world on March 23, 1988, I had a purpose in life that was way, way bigger than my hair. Savannah uttered her first words at nine months, was stringing articulate sentences together at one year, and she’s never really shut up since. I have always loved that about her…you never have an excuse not to know exactly what the hell is on her mind. Kevin and I showered our princess with affection, obsessed over her health and wellbeing, and spoiled her just a little bit rotten. We talked a lot about raising her as an only child so that we could give her every advantage that was possible in the world. However, in the end, we agreed that the best thing we could give her was a sibling. Cherishing a sister of my own, I was over the moon when I delivered a sister for Savannah just six days shy of her sixth birthday on March 17, 1994.

Mack was a chubby but athletic little toddler, and kind of a little bruiser. Savannah was a dainty and cerebral child who would sit quietly for hours reading a book. Mack skipped crawling and started walking at eight months, and very soon after that was able to run after her big sister. Watching my barefoot toddler chase after (and sometimes terrify) my skinny and giggly girly-girl in ruffled socks was such a hoot. Savannah would yell and scream at me to make her sister stop, but she already knew what needed to be done. Savannah would drop to her knees, hold out her arms, and Mack would barrel into her with a monster hug. My girls were so different from each other, and it was a joy to watch them navigate the world in their own individual ways. In large gatherings with family, and especially within our close circle of friends in Springfield, Savannah sat with or spied on the adults, while Mack led the gang of kids as far away from the grownups as was absolutely possible. Savannah talked early, but had no interest in athletics; Mack walked early, but didn’t talk until she was almost two. I always teased Savannah by saying that Mack didn’t talk because she couldn’t get a word in edgewise. But when Savannah left for college, and Mack did not step in to fill the silence, I knew there was no truth in that at all.

The six-year gap in their ages was sometimes difficult, and my girls did not always get along, but they adored one another. Sometimes it was way, way, deep, deep down, but there was a great deal of love between them. Their names for each other offer just one example of their shared respect and affection. When Mack finally started talking, she called Savannah “Sissy.” It may have started because she couldn’t put her tongue around the word Savannah, but it stuck even after she grew up because she idolized her big sister. While most everyone else called Mackenzie “Mack,” Savannah never did. She always referred to her by her full name and often chastised her dad and me for cheating her sister out of her full Irish name and calling her a name for a boy.

Sometime around 1996 or 1997, we were all three in the bathroom. I was giving Mack a bath, and Savannah was assisting me. We were all singing and laughing, and Mack was probably drinking the bath water and splashing us. It has always been a habit in our family to make up silly songs and jingles, and Savannah made up a song about her baby sister. Although it’s pretty bad, it’s one that has stuck with us all these years. Savannah will probably cringe that I’m writing it here, but the embarrassment of my girls has never stopped me from doing anything before, so here goes:

Mackenzie Kathleen,

Mackenzie Kathleen.

She is the nicest thing we’ve ever seen!

She’s sweet and she’s cute

in her birthday suit.

Mackenzie, Mackenzie Kathleen!

She’s witty and wild.

She’s our “special” child (and, yes, Savannah, added those quotes–probably because her sister was drinking the bath water!)

Mackenzie, Mackenzie Kathleen…McDermott!

We have had so many laughs over that dumb little ditty, and now it is even more precious to me than ever before. Part of my overwhelming grief in the loss of my Mack is feeling so keenly the loss of Savannah’s Mackenzie. My precious older daughter has lost her baby sister. I certainly do not know what I would do without my sister; and I am heartbroken that the greatest gift we ever gave Savannah is gone. I do not know how she will ever accept this terrible loss; and I don’t know how I will ever accept mine. But one thing that is absolutely certain: I still have one very precious and dear reason for living. And I will do everything in my power to show my beautiful Savannah that she is not alone, that her sissy will be in her heart for the rest of her life, and somehow, we will survive this horrible tragedy together.

sisters

Ten is da bomb

When Mack was ten, she once asked me if she could stay ten, because, as she put it, “ten is da bomb.” Unlike her sister, who couldn’t wait to be a grown-up, Mack loved being a kid. She was so good at being a kid. When I would spy on her in our backyard playing with the neighbor kids in the fort or on the playground set or the basketball court, I often marveled at how vigorously she played and how completely immersed she was in the role of a kid. She perpetually had a dirty face, Kool-aid stained lips, candy in her mouth, and scrapes on her knees. Even when she became a teenager, went to high school, and ultimately to college, she was still just a big kid.

Now, I’d like to think that some of her inner-child came from me. I giggle at stupid jokes and puns, I love to make silly faces (yes, people, Mack got that talent from her mom), and I adore cotton candy. But, I believe someone else is responsible for Mack’s professional status as a kid. My father was Peter Pan. He was an overgrown child who loved cards, board games, and video games. He lived on candy and popcorn, jumped up and down when he was excited, opened gifts with the enthusiasm of a five-old at Christmas, and adored kid’s movies. Mack had all of those youthful qualities and elevated most of them to an art form. So even though Mack didn’t get to know him very well, she was like her granddad, for sure. They both approached life with a sense of fun and the wide-eyed enthusiasm of a child.

Growing up in Neverland, I developed a fondness for Disney animated films and live-action movies with kid heroes. Therefore, I was always ready to curl up on the couch with my girls to watch kid’s movies; and when Mack was little, watching her favorite movies was the only thing that could get her to sit still. Over the years, we each had our favorites, which probably say more about our individual personalities than we would care to admit! (Kevin: The Incredibles, Stacy: A Christmas Story, Savannah: The Little Mermaid, and Mack: Monster’s Inc.). But the shared family favorite was Harry Potter. We saw all the new movies, and then watched them on video over and over again, I had to buy two sets of the books so the girls wouldn’t fight over who read the new book first, and we once drove to St. Louis to see one of the movies at an IMAX theatre.

The entire family loved Harry Potter; but Mack loved Harry Potter with the pure joy of a child, even after she went to college. After she had been at Truman State for about a month, she sent me this text and image:

“My future …”

The Post-Grad Sorting Hat

Hrry Potter

I responded, “So, grad school or parent’s house?” Her reply: “Cardboard box.”

Exactly one month later, I received this text from Mack: “It’s Harry Potter month. I’m waiting in line to be sorted. All of my friends came too without being dragged. I chose the right school.” Mack was comfortable in her kid-skin, and I was so happy she had found a group of friends who were comfortable in their kid-skin as well. When one of those friends went to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter at Universal Studies in Florida this past summer, Mack called me on the phone and made me promise that I would take her there. She was twenty years old, but she still wanted her momma bear to take her to a theme park dedicated to a beloved character from a series of children’s books. The week before Mack left for Spain, we watched one of the earlier movies on TV and she chomped on some Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans that her friend had brought her back from Harry Potter World. She made a series of horrible and ridiculous scrunched up faces when she ate the really gross ones. That night, she also made me renew my promise that we would visit the theme park, suggesting that perhaps it could be a college graduation present. She mused that the trip would be “way better than a set of luggage.”

Part of why knowing Mack and being in her presence was so delightful was the sheer pleasure of watching her get such a big kick out of the purest and simplest things in life. She really was a big kid, but she was wiser than most people twice her age and older. Like my dad, Mack understood that hanging on to your inner-kid was the best way to be a grown-up.

Mom, We’re at the World Series

One of the things that Mack and I enjoyed together, especially when she was young, was watching sports. She would sit with me on Sundays and signal all the touchdowns we witnessed. She would get up early with me to watch Wimbledon finals over breakfast. And I was completely successful in making her a tried and true fan of the St. Louis Cardinals. As a family, we made dozens of trips to St. Louis over the years to attend games; and many times, I would pick up Mack from school and just the two of us would head down to Busch Stadium for a weekday, evening game. We watched hundreds of games on TV, listened to the Cards on the radio on long car rides, and engaged in some most excellent tag-team trash talking against our misguided family members and friends who had the misfortune of loving the Cubs.

In 2004, through a friend of mine who was a former umpire, I obtained two tickets for Game 5 of the World Series between the Cardinals and the Boston Red Sox. Mack and I were thrilled; and on the night of Game 4, I drove home early from a work trip so that we could attend our game the next day at Busch Stadium. Well for those of you who don’t remember—or who, like Mack’s dad, don’t care—the Cardinals did not win Game 4. And they really needed to win Game 4, because they had lost the first three games of the best-of-seven series. I was listening to the game on the radio in the car and had not yet reached home when the Cardinals lost. As soon as the game was over and the reality of their loss set in, I started crying and my cell phone rang. It was Mack. She was also crying (although not quite so hard as her mother), but to hear her shaky and sad little ten-year-old voice was heartbreaking to me. How cruel was I to have dangled a World Series ticket in the face of small, sweet sports fan; and how horrible of a mother was I to have purchased Game 5 tickets to a-once-in-a-lifetime event? Don’t answer that.

Oh, but wait…the Cardinals in the World Series is NOT a-once-in-a-lifetime event, now is it? And, for those of you who don’t remember—or who, like Mack’s dad, don’t care—the Cardinals made it back to the World Series just two years later. As soon as our Redbirds had won the National League pennant, my friend the former umpire insisted—actually, he demanded—that this time I purchase a ticket for a game that would most certainly be played. Of course, I took his advice, he took my $350 for two seats above right field, and Mack and I attended Game 4 against the Detroit Tigers on October 26, 2006, in the brand-new Busch Stadium. We arrived early and strolled around the stadium, taking in the festive atmosphere and clutching our bright white World Series towels we collected upon our entry at the gate. We shopped for gifts for a Card fan buddy of Mack’s in Springfield, and we ate a ton of junk food. Mack was never a big talker, but she was particularly quiet as we finally made our way to the seats. The shiny new stadium was so beautiful that night, the music was blaring, and the crowd was bustling with energy and excitement. Mack not only knew this was different from every other single baseball game she had attended, but she also appreciated the experience as it was happening. Just as I was finishing the startling calculations of our expenditures, she tapped me gently on the shoulder. I turned to look at her adorable freckled face, her big brown eyes were wide and sparkling, and she whispered in a sort-of-breathless amazement, “Mom, we’re at the World Series!”

350 bucks for 2 tickets + 2 twenty-dollar-bills for parking + 150 bucks for souvenirs and food + 5-4 Cardinal victory + 1 delighted daughter = priceless.

WS 4     WS 3WS 1     WS 5