Saying Yes, Even When You Want to Say No

My body and I have a complicated relationship. After a car accident that left me with limitations I won't pretend aren't real, there are days when "yes" is the hardest word in the English language. She wants to go to the trampoline park. My knees have filed a formal complaint. My back has entered the group chat uninvited. There are ligaments that I am not interested in upsetting on a Thursday afternoon.

But then I look at her face. And I think: she only gets one childhood. One. And I only get to be her mother through this one. So I drink my Café Bustelo — strong, dark, Puerto Rican rocket fuel — and I say yes.

"Yes" doesn't mean pretending I feel nothing. It means I go anyway. It means I sit in the viewing area and cheer louder than any parent in that building, and then I limp to the car with a smile on my face because she was HAPPY. And that is the whole point.

We have a code word. Pineapple. If she texts me "pineapple" from anywhere, I am there in fifteen minutes. No questions asked. No explanation required. She doesn't have to say she's uncomfortable or scared or that she made a mistake. Just "pineapple" and I'm already in the car. She has used it. Both times I was there. No drama. No lecture. Just — I've got you.

We also have a ritual. When she comes home after a night with her friends and I'm still awake — and I am always still awake, I don't care what time it is — she curls up next to me on the couch. I pour myself an apple juice in my good wine glass, because I am a woman of a certain age who has EARNED the stemware, and we talk. Sometimes five minutes. Sometimes two hours. I don't rush it. This is holy time.

Here's what I've learned as an older mom: she needs to know she can reach me. Not just by phone — emotionally. That when she brings me something hard, I won't flinch or fall apart or make it about myself. That I am a steady place. Building that takes thousands of small yeses over years. Every trampoline park. Every late-night couch conversation. Every pineapple text answered without hesitation.

I am also quietly teaching her how to one day be without me. Helping her build the judgment she'll need when I'm not in the viewing area anymore. Because that day is coming — sooner than I want it to, later than she wants it to — and the best thing I can do is prepare her for it while I'm still here.

So I say yes. With my knees and my faith and my coffee and my fancy juice glass, I say yes.

Buckle up, buttercup. Say yes more than your body wants you to. You can ice your knees later.