Vietnam VeteranRon Eastman in answer to why he joined protests at the Bishop Henry Whipple Federal Building in Fort Snelling, MN, home of the regional immigration court and serving as the regional ICE headquarters:
“Number one, my oath compels me. I took an oath in 1969 to defend my country from all enemies, both foreign and domestic. I had to be seen so no one else was killed the way Nicole Renee Good (sic) was killed. Minneapolis is a peaceful place, but ICE has descended… like a storm. They’ve wrecked businesses that have been here for decades, and they have cost children the life of their mother (sic). I could not sit at home…I just had to face the enemy eye-to-eye and say what I had to say.” (MS NOW Daily, January 10, 2026)
Plastic pumpkins should have been stored in the Halloween bin. A pilgrim waits to be moved with the other handful of Thanksgiving decorations. We’ll need at least a half day to put all the Christmas pretties in the basement. The outdoor lights are red and white, so they will wear well until Valentines Day.
Even after reducing decorative stuff by many storage containers, there is so much stored. It’s hard to trash or give away generations of ornaments, candles gifted by folks now passed, a goofy collection of singing stuffed animals. No family member wants to add these to their holiday decorations, but no one is really okay with giving much away.
New Year’s Day I typically want to write, watch football, chill, but also find my hands impatient to empty the family room of gnomes and the singing animals. The dining room table could be stripped of a tablecloth and brought back to its normal size. I am done with the beloved clutter. Toss the poinsettias. Store the candles. Put away the stockings and hangers.
Storage bins, filing cabinets, pretty cloth baskets fill ads staging cleaning as invigorating, fun, a natural activity to fill dark winter weeks. With healthy athletic drinks and granola bars also advertised, there is some implication that marketing genius know of a heart-friendly link between snacks and organizing. The whole clean up season is filled with many opportunities to tweak a back moving boxes, many tiny paper cuts or tree hanging hook snags, eye fatigue correcting holiday card lists.
Forbes, the Cleveland Clinic, Simple and others cite the link between a healthy mind and a clean house. You must look hard to find anything suggesting a tidy house is sign of inferiority. House tidiness or messiness are both probably in one of those twenty-seven signs of dementia or fourteen indicators that you are wearing the wrong size shoes.
Let those who find new bins and organizing systems satisfying spend what’s left of the holiday dollars. If the tree is put away before friends come over for football’s great Sunday extravaganza and the boxes are near the storage area by Valentine’s Day, consider yourself owner of a moral victory.
Warning: The Easter Bunny will not leave eggs in red or green felt holiday socks left hanging anywhere in the house. Even those with pastel plastic grass sticking out the top. Do not insult the little creature.
“You are such a good mom.” Ah, I leaned in, these words meaning more to me than my friend could know.
I had been talking about the latest challenges with my young teen, where everything felt new, unfamiliar, and uncomfortable. I took a minute to let the words sink in. It was the kind of thing my mom used to tell me.
My mom and I talked frequently when my baby was a baby, me needing to hear the calm of her voice, steadied by years of mothering. She seemed to meet with ease all the challenges of raising four kids close in age. Or at least that’s the way it seemed to me.
By the time I became a mother, my mom had been a grandparent to nine already, the oldest in college and the youngest just into the double digits. I was late to the game and met motherhood with a fair amount of hand-wringing. Those early days were especially fraught-filled. Was my baby sleeping enough? Eating enough? Hitting all the right growth markers? There was so much to worry about.
My mom didn’t always know how anxious I was, but I would call her just to hear her voice. In my postpartum funk, I couldn’t tell her I was scared and lonely—I don’t know why—but I might instead give her a mundane update of how the day was going with my infant, hoping she could intuit my struggles. I was afraid of my own fear and questioned everything I did.
As my child grew, my mom was a steady source of reassurance and always wanted to know what my little one was up to. I would tell her some tale of my busy toddler, then preschooler, then elementary student. The stories were mostly amusing, but sometimes I was exasperated or uncertain. “You’re doing a good job, Brenda,” she would say. I’d always think, “Really?” It never felt that way. But she knew what I needed to hear.
~
I miss that. My mom is no longer here to comfort or commiserate, to offer hope for parenting through the teen years. She passed away right before the pandemic and right as my child was entering the tween years. Now I find myself among the many motherless daughters out there, feeling my way along. While I know that I am lucky to have had my mom for as long as I did, I still miss her and her unconditional support. And I really want to know how she made it through parenting four kids from infancy to adulthood—especially through the teen years.
The author and her mom Lois.
She used to say that she had a lot of help, especially from my dad when we were all younger. And that having a lot kids close together was just what people were doing at the time. Now she would probably tell me she did the best she could and that she was far from perfect. And that she was also buoyed by a loose network of family, friends, neighbors, and others.
~
I wonder now what she would say about the precocious child who has turned into a strong and independent teenager. I imagine telling her of the latest tale and hearing her say, “Oh, Brenda,” lowering her voice on the “Oh” to add to the sense that she knew it was hard. Or maybe she’d shake her head and murmur words of commiseration. My child is much like one of my siblings, whose teenage years were punctuated by frequent conflict with my parents. Would my mom tell me she could understand the challenges of parenting an iron-willed but sensitive child? Or would she think of herself as a teenager, wishing that she had been nicer to her own mother? I never imagined my mom as a teenager but only as my mom and was surprised when she told me she regretted clashing with her own mom when she was young.
So perhaps this tells me that we never quite get it right and despite the anxiety, the self-doubt, the struggles, and even the loneliness, we are making it through.
My mother leaned on her own sisters, neighbors, friends, colleagues, and I am, too. I am banking on the collective wisdom of this vast community of mothers I am part of. They look like the friend who laughs with me and the one who offers a listening ear or a word of advice and then the one who just tells me I’m doing a good job.
