10. Laura

The camcorder sits heavily on my shoulder. It weighs nearly twenty pounds, but the burden is worth it because I want to capture everything I can. After losing my sister and my father before the age of fifteen, I know that no matter how powerful the brain is, it still forgets things. My kids hate it, always groaning at me to put away the camcorder, to stop taking photos. But one day they'll appreciate the time and effort I put into preserving our family memories. Whatever I don't capture through video and photos, I write about in journals, key points of each day that I cherish and even those I don't—it's important to remember both the good and the bad because together they keep us grateful and grounded.

I readjust the camcorder and flick my long hair over my shoulder to stop it from being pulled. You'd think they could make these things smaller. Maybe one day, they'll be as small as my hand. I press Record and walk slowly into the living room, panning from wall to wall so I can remember what it looks like. The white walls are adorned with family photos and the hanging shelves are filled with knickknacks I've picked up at resale shops and rummage sales. A tube television sits on a stand in the corner, playing a rerun of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. The drapes, couch, and chair are floral printed. I've always loved flowers. There's something special about their existence. They're how we greet the ones we love and say goodbye to the ones we've lost.

Nicole is seated on the couch dressed in wide-leg black jeans and a dragon graphic tee. She's listening to music on her Sony Discman with a pair of over-the-ear headphones. She saved up her allowance for months to buy that portable music machine. Her shoulder-length hair is crimped, her lids are covered in a heavy blue eye shadow, and her brows are overplucked. She's told me many times that it's style, and I can't really argue with her. I was born in the bra-burning decade, then sported bell-bottoms, crochet tops, and peasant blouses during my teen years.

"Nicole," I say. She doesn't respond because she's absorbed in her notebook, writing down poems and thoughts. She got that from me. There are some things we can't say out loud, and it's just easier to write them down. I call her name again, but her music is far too noisy. I've told her a hundred times she's going to blow her eardrums out, but it falls on deaf ears—perhaps my warning is already too late. Her head snaps up when she spots me in her peripheral view turning off the television she's not watching anyway. I'm constantly having to remind my kids that money doesn't grow on trees. She rolls her eyes so much I think they might pop out of her head.

"Mom, I was watching that," Nicole groans.

"Higher" by Creed blares from her headphones as she slips them off and clicks pause on her Discman. I know the song by heart at this point because she's listened to it so often. Her personality has always been all or nothing, which worries me sometimes. Zero or a hundred makes the middle, where everyday life exists, feel like a slump.

"Didn't look like it," I say, steadying the camcorder and keeping her in frame. "Now, how was your last day of freshman year?"

"Great," she says in a monotone voice.

I tightly smile.

"Because it's over," she adds with a smirk.

I pull my eye from the viewfinder and give her a disapproving look. "One day, you're gonna regret wishing your life away."

She leans back into the cushion, placing the palms of her hands on the back of her head, elbows propped up. "As if. When I'm a famous writer living in New York City, I'll be glad I wished high school away."

I want to tell her to have a backup plan, to be more realistic. But I know there's a fine line between keeping your children grounded and killing their dreams, so I smile a little wider instead. My own mother encouraged practicality to a fault. Get a job. Get married. Have kids. There was no room left in her plan for flights of fancy. I don't regret my decisions or the life I've made, though if I could go back, I'd dream a little more. But I still would like Nicole to understand how fast life passes, even if you're not wishing it away. That realization only sets in later in life, or in some cases, when it's cut short. When the seemingly impossible becomes the possible. It came early for me, twelve to be exact, when my sister and my father were ripped from this earth, killed by a drunk driver. My life was never the same after that. I was never the same after that.

Placing my eye back in the viewfinder, I center it on her. "Read me something you wrote today, Nicole."

Her cheeks flush. "Mom, no," she says.

"How are you going to be a writer if you don't want anyone to hear your words?"

She sighs, rolls her eyes again, and flips through a couple pages in her notebook. "Fine, just a small part," she says, looking up at me. She doesn't smile but her eyes do, and I'll take that. She buries her nose back in her journal and clears her throat.

"If you're afraid of falling, you'll never fly.

If you're afraid of failing, you'll never try.

If you're afraid of dying, you'll never truly be alive."

Closing up her journal, she shrugs. "It's rough. Not really that good."

"You don't need to be first, honey," I say, staring directly at her. I want my daughter to really hear me, to remember these words one day when she's stopped believing in herself. That day will come. It comes for all of us. And I want her to have the tools to get past that day and any other day like it.

Her brow furrows. "First?"

"The first to stand in your way. Other people are going to tell you no. They're going to tell you that you can't do something, you're not good enough, you're not worthy. You don't need to do that. Don't add to the noise. Because that's all it is... noise. You be a voice, a voice for yourself."

"Have you been reading those Chicken Soup for the Soul books, Mom?" Nicole teases.

She laughs but I see the seriousness in her eyes, so I hope my words stay with her. I'm not sure they will though. At fifteen, she sees me mostly as a buzzkill. I'm her drill instructor, her boss, an impediment to freedom, and a barrier to the life she wants to live. Everything cool, I am the opposite. This dynamic is a rite of passage for parents of teenagers. One day, she'll grow out of it. When that day comes, I might even miss her sass.

The sound of a door closing grabs my attention, and I aim the camcorder toward the kitchen. My oldest, Beth, rounds the corner. She stops and picks up two Blockbuster VHS rentals from the kitchen table and eyes them. Her hair is pulled back in a high ponytail and she's dressed in a pair of Soffe shorts and an oversized Backstreet Boys T-shirt. Her cheeks are flushed, and she's gasping, still catching her breath.

"What'd you rent?" she asks, holding them up.

"Saving Private Ryan and A Night at the Roxbury. Your dad's been wanting to see that first one, and I figured you kids would like that Roxbury one. It's a comedy," I say.

She nods and places them back on the table, and then fills a cup with water at the sink.

"I wish you would have rented Psycho," Nicole groans.

I pan the camcorder back to her. "They didn't have any more VHS rentals, only DVDs."

"Why don't we just get a DVD player then?"

"Because they're hundreds of dollars, and your father's convinced they're just a fad," I say.

"Yeah, but he also thought CDs were a fad, and he was wrong about that." Nicole gestures to her Sony Discman.

"Regardless, we can't afford it."

Beth carries in a half-full glass of water and plops down in the floral-patterned chair across from the couch, swinging her legs over the arm.

"Where have you been?" Nicole squints at her sister.

"On a run with Lucas."

"Why does Beth get to have a boyfriend and I don't?" Nicole asks.

Before I can answer, Beth quips, "Because you can't get one, loser." She laughs and gulps her water.

"How rude." Nicole shoots a glare at her sister.

I take a couple of steps back, so I can fit them both in the frame. "Beth, be nice. Nicole, you know the rules. No dating until you're sixteen."

Nicole crosses her arms in front of her chest. "Seems pretty arbitrary to me."

I've had this same conversation with her a dozen times, but she's too keen on growing up. I wish she'd learn to slow down. Because one day, she'll be my age, wishing for it back.

"You have your whole life to date, Nicole. Don't rush growing up because you can't go backward, only forward," I say.

"Yeah, and it's not like anyone is even interested in you," Beth teases.

"I said be nice," I warn, pursing my lips together.

"I can't be both nice and honest, Mom." My oldest rolls her eyes. "Would you rather me lie to her?"

I give Beth a stern look, and she straightens up in her seat. Nicole sticks her tongue out and immediately retracts it into her mouth when my eyes land on her. She acts nonchalant by fiddling with the black rubber band bracelets on her wrist.

There's a knock at the front door, interrupting their spat. Neither of my girls jump up to answer it, so I round the corner from the living room into the kitchen. Christie Roberts stands on the porch, hands cupped around her big brown eyes, peering in through the screen. She's around Beth's age and lives a couple streets over.

"Hey, Christie," I say, pushing open the door. "Smile for the camera."

She takes several steps back, delivers a crooked smile, and waves at the camcorder. "Hi, Mrs. Thomas." Her dark hair is greasy and uncombed, stopping right at her chin.

I return her smile and ask, "Whatcha up to?"

Christie rocks back on her heels, and I notice she's not wearing any shoes. She never does in the spring or summer. "I just wanted to see if Beth could come out and play?" Her smile doesn't falter. A camera hangs from a strap around her neck and a book bag is slung over her shoulders.

"Ummm, let me see what she's up to. I'll be right back."

She nods. The screen door closes behind me as I reenter the house, walking back into the living room.

"Christie's here," I say.

Beth shakes her head and whispers, "No, tell her I'm not here."

"Be nice," I whisper back. "Why don't you go hang out with her for a little bit?"

"No way. She followed me on my run, Mom."

"She just wants a friend." I keep my voice low.

Beth is adamant, shaking her head back and forth. "No, then you go be her friend," she says, slumping in her chair.

I look over at Nicole, hoping she'll offer to hang out with Christie or encourage her sister to, but her headphones are back over her ears, and she's writing in her notebook.

I sigh, accepting Beth's decision and feeling bad for Christie. I make my way back to the kitchen and push open the screen door again to find her waiting, still smiling. "Sorry, Christie. Beth just got back from a run, so she's going to shower, and we have plans as a family after that. But maybe tomorrow?" I say.

She nods. "Yeah, sure. I'll come back tomorrow." Her smile remains but it's strained now.

"Okay. Have a good night, Christie."

"You too, Mrs. Thomas," she says, turning on her foot. Her shoulders slump, and her head hangs forward as she walks up the driveway.

When I reenter the living room, Beth sits up straight in her chair. "Is she gone?"

I nod. "Yeah, but she'll be back tomorrow. You should be nice to Christie. It costs nothing to be kind."

Beth groans and flicks her head back dramatically. "Just my reputation."

Nicole notices her sister's displeasure and pulls her headphones off. "What's your problem?"

"Mom's forcing me to do things I don't want to do," Beth chides.

"What else is new?" Nicole rolls her eyes, teasing me.

The screen door slaps against the frame, interrupting the conversation. Shoes hit the wall with a thud as each one is kicked off. All of a sudden, my youngest child's arms are wrapped around my waist. I lean down, breathing him in. It's these moments I'll cherish forever.

"Mikey, how was school?" I ask. He pulls away and takes a couple of steps back, so I can get him in frame. He's tall for his age and lanky, sporting a bowl haircut his father gave him. I remind myself to take him to a salon next time.

"Da bomb! We had an ice cream party and our class played dodgeball against the eighth graders. Totally beat them too. Bunch of weaklings." He smiles wide.

"Hey now. No need to be a sore winner," I say.

"It's better than being a loser," Nicole chimes in.

I give her a disapproving look.

"You'd know because you are one," Beth says to Nicole.

"Mom!" Nicole whines.

I tell them to be nice to one another. Michael plops down next to Nicole on the couch. She ruffles his hair, and he pushes her playfully.

"Since it's the last day of school, your father and I are going to order in pizza tonight to celebrate." I smile.

Michael cheers, declaring he wants pepperoni.

"I don't eat meat," Nicole says.

"Since when?" Beth asks.

I have the same question because she ate the beef goulash I made yesterday, and she brought a ham and cheese sandwich to school today.

"It's a recent decision," Nicole says.

Another phase for my all-or-nothing girl. "I'll order a cheese pizza too," I say to appease her.

"I want sausage," Beth says.

"All right, one cheese, one sausage, one pepperoni, and one supreme for your dad."

I smile while mulling over the numbers in my head. I already know it's more than I budgeted for but figure I can lighten up groceries for the next two weeks to cover it. With Beth being a junior, there's only one more last day of school with all three of them together. And eventually, there won't be any more last school days. I know my children's futures are bright, but I want to live in the now—even if it is dimly lit, and we're barely scraping by. Because I know now is guaranteed, but tomorrow may never come.