Author: Amy

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Gender Care

We’re really lucky to live near one of the longest-running, most prestigious gender programs in the country.  When Lee first came out as trans, I called them right away.  Sadly, I wasn’t impressed with what they had to offer.  At that point, Lee was still young.  Too young for any medical intervention, but as a parent, I still felt I needed a medical professional to guide us through this process.  They gave me a referral to a counselor and told me to call back when he started puberty. I felt totally dismissed.  

I called that counselor, and wasn’t impressed with her, either.  She was condescending and rude and seemed to fundamentally doubt most of what I said. Also, she didn’t take our insurance. So I kept looking.  

We finally found a therapist who ‘got it.’  She is a trans person herself, and also a minister.  We love our therapist.  She pointed us toward a lot of great resources, and helped us work through a lot of our questions and concerns.  But truth be told, she was also still pretty new at this.  She hadn’t worked with a child as young as Lee before.  Even so, she helped us find support groups and an endocrinologist nearby who was beginning to expand her practice to include transgender children.  

So we made an appointment with this endocrinologist.  And it was okay.  The first time we went, I had a whisper conversation with the receptionist telling her to make sure they used the right name.  They did.  The doctor was timid, but professional.  I was feeling overwhelmed but I didn’t want my child to see that, so I held back my tears. The doctor noticed and asked me if I was okay.  I forced a smile and told her I was fine.  I wished I had had a moment in private to express all of my concerns.  

Any time we had a question, she assured us that she had read a lot of literature and attended a lot of conferences, and if she didn’t know the answer, she found out for us quickly. From then on, their office (mostly) got the name right, although the same could not be said when we had to go down the hallway for blood work or a bone scan.  

We had one battle over insurance.  They billed the procedure incorrectly, and it took me weeks to get it changed and covered. We also had a billing problem with the pharmacy, because they ordered his medication as a prescription instead of part of a procedure.  It took months to get that corrected. But the really upsetting conflict had to do with getting his name changed.  

We did all the work of going through the courts, petitioning for a legal change.  It was granted.  Then we had to change it with Social Security.  Then with the insurance company.  And finally, we could change it with the hospital.  I was told that I just needed to bring in the new insurance card with the correct name on it.  So I did. This worked everywhere else; at our pediatrician and our dentist and our therapist and our psychologist.  But here, at the GENDER clinic, I presented the card and requested the change, and I was told that I needed to bring in all of the supporting documents.  The old birth certificate.  The court order.  The old insurance card.  

And after months of fighting with these people over stupid things, I wanted to curl up and cry.  Why was it so hard to get this right?  They called a supervisor, who repeated the request for documentation.  They told me I needed to come back with all the paperwork.  When I expressed my frustration, I was treated as if I were overreacting.  When I explained that I had been told that I just needed the insurance card, they insisted that no one in their office would have told me that.    

At that same appointment, the doctor proposed that we begin administering testosterone in the near future. She mentioned exploring the options for preserving fertility.  According to my research, there were no fertility options for us, because Lee had never progressed through a natal puberty.  If we wanted to preserve fertility, we would have to stop our current treatment and allow him to enter a female puberty, which feels akin to abuse, knowing what we know now.  I asked a few questions in this vein, and the doctor’s lack of knowledge was appalling. It had only taken me a few Google searches to learn more than she seemed to know about the issue. 

I pushed, and I asked a lot of questions.  Eventually, I learned that this particular doctor had never taken a child from puberty-blocking medication to gender-affirming hormones.  I returned home, feeling frustrated and defeated.  A few hours later, I got a message from the doctor saying that Lee’s name had been changed in their system and that they didn’t need all of the documentation after all.  I wanted to scream.  I felt as if my child were being used as a guinea pig, and I began again to search for knowledgeable, experienced care.  

I called that first place back. After all, they were the experts.  It took nearly a week for them to return my call, and while the director was helpful and informative on the phone, the next available appointment was nearly six months away.  

So, on a friend’s recommendation, I made another call.  I contacted a lesser-known gender clinic.  They’ve only been officially running for a little over a year now, but they’ve been doing transgender care for much longer than that.  They could get us in right away.  So we made the appointment, and yesterday was the big day. 

We parked in a garage nearby, and had to walk about two blocks to get to the hospital where the clinic was.  I’ve never been particularly nervous to walk down a city street in broad daylight. But this time, I had my three kids with me, and the erratic behavior around me had me wishing that I had three arms to hold their hands and usher them safely along the sidewalks.  There was shouting and swearing and lewd gestures.  People were confrontational, not just around us but toward us. 

I later found out that the area has a huge drug problem and a local methadone clinic.  That explained the erratic, unpredictable behavior. 

But we powered through. We made it into the hospital and up the elevator and into a space that was relatively quiet and friendly, if a little run-down.  

I sat with the three kids in that hospital waiting room, and already, I was thinking, “I don’t think this is going to work.”  I was making a mental list of the things I didn’t like, starting with the neighborhood and ending with the cracked drywall and the sad-looking pamphlets in the waiting room.  I thought, “It’s too far to drive,” and “Our current care isn’t THAT bad,” and “Maybe we CAN wait the six months to get into that other program.”  

The nurse stepped into the waiting room.  She wore hospital scrubs over a Run DMC tee shirt and she called our last namewith a smile on her face.   What a simple way to avoid misgendering or using the wrong name!  I handed over some books and snacks to the other two kids and told them where I’d be in case they needed me.  They assured me that they would be fine, and Lee and I walked through a set of double doors into a wide hallway.  The nurse asked if it was our first time to the clinic and made small talk with Lee as she checked his height and weight.  We were ushered into a small exam room, and told that the doctor would be with us shortly.  

Lee could tell by my expression that I was still unsure. I was beginning to think that maybe my standards were just too high. After all, this kid whom I was trying to protect often felt that I was overreacting.  I had never shouted or lost my temper with the staff at our doctor’s office, but I was frequently frustrated, and I let it be known.  He would often say things like, “Mom.  It’s not that big of a deal,” or “I’m fine, mom.  It’s okay.  It was just a mistake.”  Maybe my efforts to protect him were unnecessary.  Was I embarrassing him?  Doing more harm than good?  

And then the doctor walked in.  She was accompanied by a social worker, and they both introduced themselves with their names AND their pronouns, and Lee lit up.  That small gesture let him know right away that they GOT IT, and that they were on his side.  The two of them sat with us, and addressed Lee as much as they addressed me.  They asked so many questions.  They asked if we had enough food and if Lee felt safe at home. They asked all the typical questions about medications and prior treatment and family history.  And then they kept going.   They asked what Lee liked to do for fun, and when he mentioned all of his pets, they didn’t just jot it down and keep going.  They asked what kind of pets he had and what type of environments they lived in.  They asked what else he liked to do, and when he said he likes to ride his bike with his guinea pig, the doctor followed up the typical, “Do you wear a helmet?” with an additional, “Does the guinea pig wear a helmet?”  Her lightness and her humor won us both over in that moment.  

They asked thoughtful questions; questions I hadn’t even thought to ask.  They asked about bullying and bathroom use and whether he stands or sits to pee.  They asked him about his body and what parts he’s comfortable with and what parts he’s not comfortable with.  They asked him about his legal documents and his name change and his gender marker.  They asked, “Who is your biggest supporter?” and “Do you have a best friend?” They asked him about his goals and when we finally got to talking about testosterone, I already knew that they were going to be able to help us.  

When I asked a question about fertility, the answer was accurate and comprehensive and corresponded to what I had already read.  The doctor did, in fact, share that we don’t have a lot of options.  But then she talked about current research and some potential future advances and she was knowledgeable and honest and she was able to speak from actual experience with actual patients.  

She asked questions about our current care; talked with us about the bone scans we had been receiving and really explained their purpose.  She asked Lee how often he had been taking his calcium and vitamin D, and when he timdily responded, “Not EVERY day,” she pressed him further. “So, how often do you think you’re actually taking it?”  He responded, “Like, once or twice a week?”  

I think Lee and I both braced ourselves for the lecture on the importance of taking these vitamins. Instead, she looked at him wide-eyed, tilted her head just a bit, and proclaimed, “That’s LAME, dude.”  It was perfect.  She made her point.  She connected with him and also let him know that he needed to step it up.  She didn’t blame or lecture.  And then she told us about a concentrated pill that he could take once a week.  Within minutes, she had placed the order with our pharmacy at home. Problem solved.   

As we talked, the doctor and the social worker both curled their feet up under their bodies and leaned in, as if we were chatting in my living room.  They never rushed us, and they took the time to wait for our answers. When Lee wasn’t sure how to respond to a question, they gave him options.  They were patient, and kind, and obviously aware of the myriad emotions that we were facing.  

Lee expressed concern about his height, and about how his pets might react to the body changes that testosterone would produce.  Instead of glossing over his concerns, the team probed further, showed him graphs and charts and made reasonable predictions about his future stature. Then they listened as he shared his own research about animal’s reactions to testosterone.  When the doctor thoughtfully replied, “You probably know more about this than I do,” Lee beamed and I felt the relief that accompanies the belief that a person is willing to admit what they don’t know. 

At one point, they proposed talking to just Lee, and asked if he wanted me to step out for a minute. He looked at me and smiled. “I don’t think that’s necessary,” Lee responded.  They asked the same of me. It was powerful to have medical professionals acknowledge that I, as a parent, might have emotions and concerns and fears that I did not want to express in front of my child.  What I would have given to have that chance three years ago! 

And initially, I said, “Sure.  If Lee wants to go sit in the waiting room with his siblings, we can just finish up.” I thought I was giving him a pass; a chance to leave a few minutes early.  He wasn’t going to argue with me; he started to gather his coat.  But I saw a flicker of concern in his eyes- What did I want to say to them that I couldn’t say in front of him?  And so I stopped him.  I looked into his eyes, and I said, “You don’t have to leave.  No secrets.  I don’t have anything to say that you can’t hear.  Would you rather stay?”  Relief flooded his face and he nodded and sat back down.  

We talked through the next steps and options.  I asked logistical questions and insurance questions and expressed my thanks.  Lee did the same.  His whole demeanor was different here, in this context where he felt supported and understood.

Over dinner that night, we talked as a family. And we decided that we’re ready to make a switch. Lee is eager to begin his medical transition, and we’ve finally found the support we need to support him through it. 

When we told Lee that we were going to change providers and that he was going to start on testosterone, I swear he stopped breathing for a moment.  His face lit up and his eyes filled with tears and he choked out a joyful, “Thank you.”  Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how much we both needed this.  

This kid still sometimes lets me tuck him in at night.  In the darkness, we have some of our most powerful conversations.  And that night, he said something strange.  “Mom, you’re like a hipporoceros.”  At first, it sounded like a jab at my weight, but I know my kid, so I asked more.  “What do you mean?”

“Well, obviously, it’s like a cross between a hippo and a rhinoceros.  It’s the fiercest animal.  And it protects its young.”  I fought back tears as he continued.  “Mom, I know I sometimes tell you to stop, but I’m glad you protect me fiercely.  If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t have found these great new doctors.  Thanks. You’re aggressive like a hipporoceros. And that’s a good thing.”  

And for the first time in ages, he let me rub his back until he fell asleep.  

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Dead Name

Lee celebrated his thirteenth birthday this week.  He’s officially a teenager, and we were prepared to make it a great day.  We woke him up (as is our tradition) with the whole family at 6am, before the preparations began for work and school. Bea presented the balloon, and Cal carried the blueberry muffin (Lee’s favorite) with a carefully placed candle in it. Mom and Dad had the gift and the card, and we all sang (some of us off-key) at the top of our lungs.  

His smile lit up his basement room.  This kid. This kid is my heart.  

And we sent him off to school.  

At the end of a long day, we gathered back together at the dining room table over a taco dinner (birthday boy’s request, of course).  Sometimes, it’s like pulling teeth to get these kids to talk about their day.  Some days, we have to ask a million questions to get any info.  But today was not that kind of day.  There was a lot of talking and laughing and joking, and eventually, Lee told a story. 

If you know this kid, you know that he tries not to take anything too seriously.  So even if something is tough, or emotional, or upsetting, he’ll probably make a joke out of it.  

And when he told us what happened, he tried to share it lightly.  Like it was no big deal.  He smiled through the retelling.  But when you really love someone, you can tell when the smile doesn’t reach their eyes. His eyes held a question mark. His eyes showed the sadness and the fear that he wasn’t ready to show on his face, and it was almost as if he were asking permission to be upset.  

At his school, they announce birthdays over the loudspeaker in the morning.  You know where this is headed.  The school that has supported him and created a loving, affirming, safe environment…. They dead-named him over the loudspeaker.  

In the transgender community, the names that people no longer use are referred to as ‘dead names.’ It’s powerful language.  Shocking, even.  Most of us mama bears hate the term.  We hate to associate the word ‘dead’ with our children.  Especially since we know the statistics about suicide rates for kids like ours.  We have friends whose children are no longer with us, and we know that the unbearable grief of a dead child is not to be referenced lightly. 

But the term was not coined by mama bears.  It was coined by transgender people who have borne the burden of bigotry and hate. And the term is intentionally harsh. Because the reality is harsh.    ‘Dead-naming’ someone is one of the most pervasive ways that anti-trans groups demean and dehumanize transgender people. Dead-naming disregards the experience and denies the existence of trans people. Dead-naming triggers dysphoria and publicly exposes a person’s transgender status without their consent.  

Now I’m not talking about mistakes early in transition.  I’m not talking about using the wrong name and the wrong pronouns by accident. Those are mistakes.  You apologize and move on.  But once a person has been living as their authentic self for a period of time, it becomes apparent that using the wrong name is an intentional choice.

A name change is a big deal. You petition the court.  You sit in the waiting room at the Social Security office. You present the supporting documents to anyone who has ever had record of your child’s name.   Doctors.  Dentists. Insurance companies. Clubs. Activities.  Camps.   And obviously, the school. 

The staff at Lee’s school assured me, early in his transition (even before the legal name change), that any documents containing his birth name were in a locked file cabinet in the principal’s office.  They had updated the computer system and the state testing database and the rosters. That name shouldn’t be anywhere.  

Early in his transition, there was a mistake.  It happened once, with a substitute teacher.  The substitute called the wrong name.  It was frustrating and upsetting, but it didn’t out him because most kids already knew.  The teacher was working off an old list that had been printed and not updated.  These things happen.  

But three years later, in a new school, with a database that was supposedly updated, I can’t imagine the scenario where his dead-name appeared on a list of birthdays. Somebody needs to explain it to me. 

The thing is, this kid is OUT and PROUD.  He has spoken to conferences and youth groups and his entire church congregation about his experience.  His favorite tee shirt reads, “Nobody Knows I’m Trans.”  He recently shared with his English class, as part of a presentation about a book he read.  This kid is incredibly brave.  But every time he chooses to share, he does so on his own terms.  Each time, he carefully considers the audience.  He gauges the risk, mentally tallying the supporters, the unknowns, and the likely critics in the crowd.  Each time he chooses to come out to a new group of people, our bedtime conversations are fraught with anxiety and what-ifs.   Each time, when he choses to share, it is an act of courage.  

The choice to share is his, and his alone.  It is his burden.  

So perhaps it seems like I’m overreacting.  I’m sure it was just a mistake.  But that mistake robbed my child of his sense of control.  It took away his agency and violated his trust in the adults around him. 

There were no dire consequences.  He got a lot of questions about his name and his transition.  The kids who knew were explaining things to the kids who didn’t. Lee was the subject of a lot of conversations, but that is all.  Middle school is tough.  In reality, I’m glad this happened to MY kid.  This happened to my open, proud, confident kid.  And it shook him.  

Imagine if it had happened to a kid who was less confident?  Who wasn’t out?  Who was simply trying to live his life as his true self and didn’t want to share his story with the world?  Imagine if it had happened to a child who was on the brink of becoming another suicide statistic?  

So this mama bear has a meeting coming up. I’ll start calmly.  Unless and until it’s dismissed as a minor transgression.  It’s easy to see things as minor when you have the luxury of feeling safe in your own skin.  But so many of our kids don’t have that luxury.  So there may be tears.  There may be shouting.  But I will not leave that school until I am convinced that they understand how important it is to get this right.  

 This is about protecting and affirming our kids.  This is about protecting and affirming MY kid.  And this kid is my heart.    

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Parallels

Imagine with me for a moment.  

Imagine you’ve wanted a dog your whole life.  Imagine the time is finally right.  Imagine your excitement, your enthusiasm, your JOY when you finally get your pet. You go to the shelter or the breeder or the neighbor down the street and you choose your dog.  In doing so, you take on a responsibility, right?

You’ve declared that you are responsible for this life.  You promise to care for the dog to the best of your ability.  You’ll feed it and walk it and nurture it and provide medical care. You will love this pet.  Your whole family will love this pet.  

And then, imagine a tragedy. Maybe it’s a brain tumor.  Maybe paralysis.  Maybe your beloved pet can no longer eat, or walk, or breathe on its own. You love your pet, so of course, you seek medical advice.  You get a first opinion, and a second, and a third.  They all explain, to some degree, that your beloved pet’s quality of life will not improve.  

You grieve.  You make peace with this sad reality.  You prepare to say goodbye.  Your heart is broken and your burden is heavy.  But you make a choice.  You decide it is time to let go of your beloved pet.  

And then.  You share your decision with your veterinarian, who explains that it’s not really your choice.  

Because the law upholds the sanctity of the life that you’ve claimed responsibility for.  The law says that it’s not actually your decision. According to the law, you need to strap that dog to your chest and carry it around with you… physically carry it on your person… until or unless your own life is at risk.  

Would you simply accept that?  Would you fight back? What would your arguments be? 

You might say that your beloved pet is, of course, alive and valuable… but it doesn’t hold as much, or more, value than your own life. 

You might argue that you can’t work with a dog strapped to your body.  It will place an unbearable financial burden on you and your family. 

You might argue that your own health is at risk.  The physical burden of carrying another being will damage your back and your knees and render you incapable of going about your daily life. 

You might argue the emotional toll of carrying around a body incapable of supporting itself.  You might point out the heartbreak of a constant reminder of your dying pet. 

You might explain that you can’t care for your family in this condition.  Your children and your spouse will suffer the burden of your incapacity. 

You might argue that the government doesn’t have the right to infringe upon your autonomy.  You might say that politicians can’t tell you what to do with your own body. 

You would probably ask at what point the quality of your OWN life gets factored into the equation.  

And the politicians would answer, “Letting go only becomes a legal option if and when your own life is at risk.” 

How would you feel? 

Violated? Dismissed? Infantilized?

Frustrated? Angry? Hopeless? 

Heartbroken?  Simply broken? 

In this scenario, I imagine my husband adamantly declaring his rights.  I imagine him fighting this legislation and advocating for his autonomy and passionately arguing that the government can’t tell him how to live his life. I imagine his outrage at the legislative over-reach.  

Maybe the story is a stretch.  And you likely have your own opinions about the sanctity of life and the accuracy of medical predictions and the level to which you would sacrifice your own happiness and freedom for someone else.  

My compassionate, conservative, caring husband and I recently entered a debate about late-term abortions.  And I kept trying to think of an analogy that might help him understand the perspective of a woman faced with a heartbreaking choice.  

I would ask: How often does a woman carry a baby into the third trimester intending to abort? My husband would argue that some people are irresponsible or unscrupulous or just plain stupid.  But in the next breath, he would argue that those same irresponsible, unscrupulous, stupid people have the right to carry a gun.  

He will argue for smaller government and less legislation and yet support this supposedly ‘moral’ reason for legislating people’s bodies.  

I have to conclude that this type of thinking only persists because, as a society, we continue to regard women as emotional and irrational and in need of protection; protection from our own uninformed or weak or hysterical selves.  

If you believe that women are just as rational, intelligent, and capable as men, the whole thing becomes a moot point.  Women are capable of making choices.  For themselves, and for their families.  Women are strong and rational and compassionate and brave.  To legislate women’s health is to adamantly declare that you believe women incapable of informed consent.  

And so my husband and I re-enter the debate.  With love. And patience.  Because we are all products of our own environment and experience. Because, despite our different viewpoints, we believe in each other.   We believe in the power of listening to each others’ perspectives and stories and experiences.  

This ongoing push and pull in our relationship has caused discomfort and anger.  At times, we have questioned our compatibility.  These conflicts have pushed us both to evaluate our views and check our sources and remember to listen when we debate.  And they have helped us both to grow into better people.  We cannot afford to dismiss the ‘other’ point of view, because we cannot afford to dismiss each other.  

So we speak in analogies. We present hypotheticals.  We share stories.  And we listen.  Because there is strength in compassion and growth in the hard places.  Because we trust each other, we can enter into the difficult conversations and become better people.  We can lean on each other and take care of our family, our friends, and even our pets, knowing that we are supported and valued and heard.  

Note:  I asked my husband to read this before I post it.  The debate continues.  We discuss morality.  We debate the role of government.  We play out worst-case scenarios and pray that we won’t ever have to make these difficult choices.  We listen and argue, and in the end, we lean on each other.  In love.  

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Risks

My kids have been asking to go sledding since the snow started two days ago.  Yesterday, the sleet and freezing rain never stopped falling, and sledding was a no-go.  Today, extreme temperatures have us cozying up indoors again.  With the wind chill, it’s 25 below.  So I suggested an old favorite- indoor sledding.  

The kids pile all the couch cushions at the base of the stairs.  They use cardboard and sleeping bag ‘sleds’ and try to get up as much speed as possible before they crash into the wall at the bottom of the steps. It’s just the kind of risky, insane behavior that will keep kids entertained for hours.  

There’s a complicated risk/benefit analysis that goes into the parenting end of this particular endeavor. 

Cons: 

They could get hurt. For sure.  (But they could get hurt if we really went sledding, too).

Pros:  

They’re not on screens.

They’re not arguing. 

They’re engineering. Seriously.  They’re modifying their sled design.  “Does it work better with the cardboard inside the sleeping bag?” “How about if we lift up our feet?” “I think we would go faster if our whole body was slick like the sleeping bag.  I know!  Let’s wear our snowpants and coats!”

They’re assessing risk. “Maybe we should wear helmets.”  

They’re collaborating. They’re cooperating.  They’re being creative and they’re learning about friction and energy and slope and force.  

They’re doing all of the things that us 80s kids used to do out of earshot of our parents.  We used to build go-carts and forts and make sleds out of cafeteria trays.  We assessed risk and took chances and learned from our mistakes.  Some of us did these things with our parents nearby, shouting half-hearted warnings as they flipped burgers on the grill.  Some of us met our friends down the street or at the playground or hiked into the woods behind our houses.  

Maybe we did things our parents wouldn’t approve of.  Maybe it was accidental, maybe it was on purpose, but either way, we didn’t have adults making warnings and assessing risk and suggesting safer alternatives. We had to figure it out.  But the ‘figuring it out’ part?  That’s where empowerment lies.  That’s how we teach ourselves that we’re capable.  

I’m not a psychologist, but I’ve been working with kids in classrooms for almost twenty years.  I’ve been parenting them at home for more than a decade.  And one thing I’ve learned is that competence builds resilience builds confidence.  

Kids know when we’re throwing out compliments just to soothe their egos.  They know who the best athletes are and who the best students are and who has the most friends.  They’re more perceptive than most adults, and their developing brains are wired to take in as much information as possible. 

They also pick up on our emotions.  They can smell our fear, so to speak.  Kids know when parents are anxious or frustrated or angry or scared.  Even when we try to hide it.  

So when we hover and ask a million questions and remind them to stay within earshot, when we plan all their activities and schedule and supervise playdates, they’re getting a message. They’re getting the message that they’re not capable of navigating the world around them.  

When we cook their meals and wash their clothes and make their beds, not only are they relying on us to take care of them, they’re getting the message that they’re not capable of taking care of themselves.  

Listen, I know I’m not perfect.  I mess up this parenting thing in a million different ways every day.  I yell.  I’m inconsistent.  I forget to sign the homework agenda and forget to remind them to wear deodorant and I make too much food from boxes and I drink and I swear and I let them play too many video games and watch too much YouTube.  

And I worry.  I worry about them getting hurt.  I worry about them getting bullied.  I worry about them making poor choices and being rude and discovering sex on the internet.  

But you know what I worry about the most?  If I’m really honest?  I worry about what other parents will think.  

I know that I’m more lenient than most parents.  Even when they were little, I’d let them wander a little further beyond my reach than the other moms.  I learned that they’d always turn back, about 5 seconds later than I was comfortable with. So I tried to give them those extra seconds.  As they got older, I let them wander further.  They played in the creek and hiked in the woods behind our house.  My worry was always just a few minutes ahead of theirs.  If I began to worry about how long they’d been gone, they inevitably showed up a few minutes later.  If I began to think they’d gone too far, they turned back after a few more yards.  I learned to bite my tongue and watch them. I wanted them to be able to trust their own judgement, and they haven’t disappointed me yet.  

My middle schooler just recently began riding his bike into town with friends.  They’ve got a pretty wide radius; a lot like I did when I was their age.  But they have something I didn’t.  They have cell phones.  If they run into a problem, they call.  It’s a blessing and a curse.  It provides a sense of security for me. And it provides a (sometimes overused) lifeline for them.  

Here’s an example.  My kid and his best friend rode their bikes to the 7-Eleven.  They resourcefully downloaded the app to earn free slurpees, because they didn’t have money but  were craving a treat.  When they returned to their bikes, parked by the dumpster, there was a swarm of bees. Let me start by saying that neither of them has a bee allergy, so we’re not talking about a life threatening situation here.  When they tried to get to their bikes, one of them got stung.  And what did they do?  They called me.  My son left a hysterical message.  For whatever reason, I missed the call, listened to my son’s frantic voice, panicked myself, and called them back about a minute later.  By then, the situation was over.  A customer at the store rescued their bikes from the bees.  The clerk gave them some ice for my son’s bee sting.  When I talked to them, they were heading home with their bikes and their slurpees, my son with a little swollen spot on his forearm.  

But you know what my son learned?  He learned that sometimes, calling mom isn’t the solution.  Sometimes, you have all the resources you need to solve a problem. He learned that there are good and helpful people in the world and bad things happen and that he doesn’t always need his mom to fix things.  

And because my middle schooler earned this privilege, of course my ten year old started pushing for more freedom, too.  At first, I let him ride his bike in a specified radius, but only with his brother. And then one day, he wanted to ride and his brother didn’t.  He convinced me that he was capable; that he knew the limits of where he could ride and that he had a watch and that he’d be back in half an hour and that he’d watch for cars and wear his helmet.  

And I began that parental risk/benefit analysis.

Pros:

He’s getting exercise.

He’s getting fresh air. 

He’s becoming independent.

He feels capable. 

He’s not in front of a screen.  

Cons:

He could get kidnapped (highly unlikely, but terrifying).

He could get hurt (more likely, and manageable).

He could need help (most likely).  

If he does need help and he asks somebody, I will be judged harshly.  

Ugh.  I’m disappointed in myself for this analysis.  My unfounded fears, my anxiety, and what the neighbors might think? None of these actually have anything to do with my son’s ability to ride his bike to a friend’s house.  Statistically, kids are safer now than they have been in decades. In my quiet little suburb, we’re safer than most.  

When I was younger, I was riding bikes with my stepsister.  We were about 4 blocks from home when she fell.  It was bad.  She was pretty hurt.  I think we were about 11 or 12, and I was scared.  She was crying and I couldn’t decide whether to stay with her or run for help.  Ultimately, I ran for help.  I don’t know why I didn’t ride my bike; it certainly would’ve been quicker.  When I got my stepmom, she ran with me back to her daughter.  I don’t know why she didn’t drive her car; it certainly would’ve been quicker.  But we don’t always think clearly in an emergency situation.  My stepsister wound up with a broken leg.  It was pretty scary for everyone involved.  

But we all survived. We learned a few things and we lived through something scary and we learned that we were capable of navigating a crisis.  That’s pretty powerful, if you ask me.   Sometimes the best lessons are the hardest to learn. 

So when my boys ride their bikes around town, of course I worry.  But ultimately, I believe that my worry shouldn’t trump their competence. I want them to learn that they are capable of making a purchase and solving a problem and asking for help.  I want them to learn that most people are good and that the world isn’t as scary as it may seem.  

**************************************************************

Staircase sledding didn’t last as long as I’d hoped.  They’re back in front of their video games, and I’m wondering if all of these theories about parenting are serving me at all.  For all my fears about being judged, I know that I’m my own worst critic. This whole parenting gig… it’s hard. It’s really hard.  And I know that my thoughtful conclusion on how it should be done isn’t going to be the same thoughtful conclusion that my friends and neighbors come to.  

But when it comes down to it, we all want the same thing.  We want to raise competent, kind, functional adults.  We want them to stop needing us, at some point.  Right?  

And sometimes I’m still too quick to save them.  When my son called crying because his bike chain broke, I imagined a snapped chain and hopped in the minivan to rescue him. Later, in our driveway, I realized that nothing was really broken.  I could’ve talked him through how to pop the chain back on the gears.  Or maybe I could have let him figure it out on his own, the way I had to when I was a kid.  Baby steps, I suppose.  So I showed him how to fix it.  So next time, he’ll need me just a little bit less. 

As I make all of the tough parenting decisions, maybe I should take to heart some of the lessons I’m trying to teach my children.  Maybe we all need to remember:

We are capable of meeting challenges. 

We will all make mistakes.

It’s okay to ask for help. 

Parents, you’re doing just fine.  Even in the moments when you’re failing, you’re learning and growing and getting better. You’re messing up some things and you’re absolutely nailing others. Hang in there.  This is tough, but you can do it.  Learn from your mistakes. Don’t be afraid.  You got this.  And when all else fails, call for backup.  Chances are, your parents will answer.  

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Ups and Downs

I shaved my legs yesterday.  I also changed my sheets.  I don’t say this to brag; these two minor accomplishments are only relevant because they provide the backdrop for my morning. I began my day today in a state of sleepy bliss.  My smooth legs were just the right temperature under my clean sheets and the tension had somehow evaporated from my shoulders and as many times as I opened my eyes and chatted with my husband and rolled over, I could not manage to pull my head off of the pillow.  I felt utterly relaxed.  And smooth. 

So I stayed there for as long as I could; when I finally got up, I headed to my beautiful, newly-renovated bathroom.  And as I brushed my teeth, a steady stream of water flowed from the light fixture above me onto my head and down my back and I shrieked.  As an independent, self-sufficient woman does, I yelled for my husband.  

As I write this, we still haven’t figured out the source of the leak.  Luckily, I’m married to a plumber, so I have every confidence that he’ll get it taken care of… the best part being that I won’t need to be involved in the process at all unless he needs someone to hold a flashlight.  

But that particular example is a solid illustration of the ups and downs of this week.  Nothing’s been earth-shattering.  No crisis.  No joyful surprises.  Just the mundane, post-holiday, relaxing-recovering-cleaning-gettingthefreakingflu- type stuff that fills the week or two after Christmas.  

We had a nice Christmas brunch with friends; and subsequently, every person who was at that gathering went down with the flu.  A few days on the couch, aching and coughing and complaining… nothing too terrible, but a generally rotten way to ring in the new year.  

And just before we all went back to school, the little one sprained his ankle on a friend’s hoverboard. Being in the running for mother of the year, I told him to ice it and gave him some ibuprofen, and fully expected that he’d be fine by morning.  Except he wasn’t.  He was using the spare set of crutches that hangs out in the garage, and when it came time to get on the bus, I finally told him that he couldn’t go to school. Not because I thought he was in too much pain.  Not because I was worried about his well-being.  He couldn’t go to school because then I would be the neglectful mom who didn’t even take the kid to the doctor and just sent him to school on someone else’s crutches!!!

So I made the doctor’s appointment.  We got the x-rays.  And guess what?  He’s fine. Nothing broken, and approximately 48 hours later, he’s running around like a fool and those crutches are back in the garage.  See? Ups and downs.  Nothing Earth-shattering.  

That’s what this week has been full of; mild disappointments and mundane moments of joy.  I don’t really buy into all that, “New Year, New You” resolution hype.  I’m a public schoolteacher and a mom and a creature of habit.  I make all my resolutions in September; by January 1st, I’m just proud that my kids are still alive and fed.  When the New Year rolls around, I’m settling in and preparing to enjoy a little bit of winter mediocrity.  I’m ready for lazy snow days and jigsaw puzzles and weekend trips to the library to stock up on books and movies to sustain us through the winter dark.  I’m reading up on crock pot recipes to fill our bellies with sustenance and warmth with minimal effort.  I’m stocking up on duraflame logs because I love a fire but not enough to actually build one.  

After the hustle and bustle of the holiday season dies down, what I really need is some space to enjoy all of these beautiful every day moments.  I need to stop and listen to the fire crackle and marvel at the beauty of a snowflake and gently run my fingers through my son’s hair when he falls asleep during family movie night.  I need to relax and enjoy the sensation of newly-washed sheets on newly-shaved legs. And then I need to haul my butt upstairs and hold the flashlight while my amazing husband figures out this freaking leak.  

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Angry

I woke up angry this morning.  Not a little irritated or vaguely annoyed.  Seethingly, vehemently mad at the world.  And for no real good reason.  Nothing unusual, anyway… especially given the season.  Nothing except the fact that, despite my best efforts and frantic, consistent accomplishing, my to-do list kept getting longer instead of shorter. And the list of people willing to help me with it was nonexistent.  My kids were whiny and my house was filthy and the laundry was stacking up and my husband AND my kids were playing video games.  It was 7:30 am.  

I thought, perhaps, that coffee would help.  So I got out of bed and wandered into the kitchen to make myself a double dose of caffeine.  And I was feeling motivated.  So I loaded the dishwasher and finished putting out the Christmas decorations while I sipped on my Winter Blend.  Feeling accomplished, I put in a load of laundry and brought all of the bins from decorating back into the garage.  

My son called for his mom, and I sat on the edge of his bed for a few rare moments of preteen heart-to-heart conversation.  I thought I might be able to shake this funk.  But then I walked back upstairs with a laundry basket and my husband made a pretty benign comment about wanting to change the sheets and I probably looked like my head was going to explode.  “I JUST CHANGED THE SHEETS.  DO YOU SEE THE SEVEN BASKETS OF LAUNDRY THAT NEED TO BE FOLDED?  AND YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT CHANGING THE SHEETS?!?!”

In hindsight, I realize I may have overreacted.  

Thus continued a crappy morning.  I desperately wanted to skip church and get some much needed alone time and clean my dirty house.  I haven’t read a book in almost a month.  I haven’t written anything in nearly as long.  These are bad signs. But the thought of having to explain to the kids why mom could skip church and they most definitely could NOT (added to the fact that I would still have to drop them off and then slink out of the church parking lot like some kind of criminal), motivated me to get dressed and put on my Christmas earrings and get my butt in a pew.  

It started sleeting as I drove in.  Somebody stole my parking spot.  I parked a quarter mile away, stomped through the sleet, skipped greeting the pastor, and headed to my regular spot.  A friend sweetly asked how I was, and I replied, “Unusually and inexplicably angry.” She laughed and commiserated. Even when I’m mad, it feels good to be around my people.  

I sat down and opened my bulletin And wouldn’t you know it… It’s the third week of advent. Do you know what the third advent candle represents?  Joy.  Of course it does.  

I love my church.  I really do.  I love the pastors and the music and the people.  Often, I sit there on Sundays and I am moved to tears. Today’s service was inspiring. And beautiful.  And thought-provoking.  At one point, the pastor spoke about being grateful for the hard stuff, too, because even the hard stuff is part of God’s gift to us. At that moment, my husband reached over and took my hand, because we had JUST had this conversation on Friday, when we were feeling particularly grateful for each other.  

I’m glad I went to church. It was good for me.  But I can’t say that I was feeling joyful just for having been there.  I was maybe marginally less vitriolic.  But as we stood around, catching up with our friends, my husband made a comment about our plans for New Years Eve, and I swear I don’t know what happened to me. I snapped.  Embarrassingly.  Like our friends’ eyes popped out of their faces and they politely excused themselves so I could whisper-fight with my husband in the sanctuary.  

My frustrated but patient husband agreed to take our youngest with him to his parents’ house for a little while.  Our middle son stayed for youth group.  Our daughter came home with me but mostly cleaned her room and stayed out of my way, which was probably wise.  

I cleaned.  You wouldn’t think that would make me feel better, but it definitely did.  I got a ton of laundry done and vacuumed up three canisters of dog hair and dusted and cleaned my baseboards.  I went through an entire canister of Clorox wipes.  I drank a cup of tea and picked up diorama supplies from the dollar store.  I lit some candles, read the first chapter of a novel, and began to write. 

What a difference.  A few hours later, and we’re back to business as usual.  There’s football on the TV and tutoring happening in the dining room and a ten year old constructing a diorama on the coffee table.  I’m going to finish this post and switch from tea to wine and order a pizza because cooking will likely ruin my newly-established good mood.  

I’m going to watch the Patriots game and look over my lesson plans for the week.  I’m going to help this kid with the hot glue gun and then frost some cookies and make peppermint bark with Bea.  I’m going to enjoy my clean house and my beautiful family.  

Tonight, I’m going to find that joy that the pastor was talking about. I’m going to thank my husband for putting up with my mood swings.  I’m going to let my family know that I’ve left them all the jobs that I hate; pairing the socks and unloading the dishwasher and sorting the recyclables. I’m going to remember that the hard days make the lovely ones that much more precious. The angry days, the joyful days, the mundane days… tonight, I’m going to remind myself to remember that God is working in all of them.  

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Giving Thanks

It’s 6:30 am on Thanksgiving Day.  I’ve been up for hours; not because of stress or worry, but because I am so full of gratitude I feel like I could burst.  This is one of those rare moments of joy before the chaos begins.  I lay in bed this morning, thinking of all of the ages and stages of this life.

I reminisced about the Thanksgivings of my childhood; about making place cards and setting the table with my grandmother’s good china while my mother made the broccoli casserole and my dad prepped the turkey.

I thought back to the Thanksgivings early in my marriage, when I showed up at my mother in-law’s house with that same broccoli casserole, tentatively presenting my offering to this new family, hoping it (and I) would be received with love.

I recalled the first Thanksgiving I hosted, for a few family members in our tiny upstairs apartment.  Our kitchen was the size of a closet, and we ate in the living room that year.  To this day, I’m not sure how we made it all work.

I remembered the year that I filmed Cal, dancing in the kitchen as he gently placed alternating white and yellow cheddar slices on a tray, occasionally declaring that this one was ‘broken’ before taking a bite and grinning at me with those freaking dimples.

I went back to the year that we stumbled with our pronouns; our whole family working to ensure that Lee felt loved and safe and supported.

Some of these Thanksgivings blend together in my mind; I can’t recall which years we spent here and which ones we spent away.  Some of them were stressful and chaotic; some were quiet and relaxed.  But there are themes that run throughout.  Love.  Gratitude. Acceptance.  Abundance.

And this morning, my heart is bursting with those things.  Grateful feels like too small a word.  What’s bigger than gratitude?  What is gratitude and peace and joy and love pushing so hard at your heart that it brings tears to your eyes?

Maybe it sounds dramatic. Maybe it sounds like too much. But those tears really are pushing at the edges of my eyes and the only reason is because I am remembering to remember all of my blessings.  Like…

My husband.  This guy is cranky and rough around the edges and a little bit gruff.  And he is the epitome of loyalty and commitment.  He is full of love and he cries at movies and he always does the right thing, even when the wrong thing is easier.  He provides for us and cares for us and when I’m at my worst, he just shakes his head and takes a deep breath and keeps on loving me.  He is my rock and he is an incredible role model for these kids.  He is tough and soft all at the same time, and what on earth would I do without him? Thank you, God, for this incredible man.

Bea.  What an incredible young woman.  The holidays are so hard for her.  She’s been through a lifetime of hardship in her short 16 years, and she still faces each day with grace and strength.  Watching her grow has been one of life’s little miracles for me. When I first met this plucky fourth grader, she had the soul of an old woman and the smile of a cherub (when you could get her to smile).  I had no idea that she would become a part of my heart like she has.  In our first year as a family, I worried about how to make her feel welcome in our home and how to balance the addition of a new family member. I worried that we weren’t enough, or maybe we were too much, and I tried so hard to make it all less awkward.  And now, I can’t even remember what it was like before she was here.  She’s been a part of my heart for so long, and now she’s a part of my family, and we are all better for it.  Thank you, God, for this amazing young woman.

Lee.  Oh, my heart.  This kid.  This kid is awesome.  As in, awe-inspiring.  Incredible. Brave, funny, smart, strong, perceptive, loving, and honest.  This kid is going to change the world.  He is going to bring his whole self out into the world and teach tolerance through love and humor.  He is going to care for his menagerie of pets and use his incredible powers of observation and his scientific brain to accomplish incredible things.  And in the meantime, I get to watch him transform like a butterfly.  Can you imagine that?  We all have hopes and dreams for our children… but I’ve gotten to watch my child grow in ways I never imagined.  He surprises me at every turn, and he brings me immeasurable joy.  His laugh and his heart and his head on my shoulder; they all take my breath away.  Thank you God, for this inspiring, incredible kid.

Cal.  My baby.  My sweet, silly, stubborn little guy.  The one who probably gets away with too much because he’s the baby of the family and I’m a sucker for those dimples.  But Cal is my cuddler.  He’s the soulful one; a deep thinker who seeks God in all of the places.  He’s the one who will spontaneously lead us in prayer, or ask questions about heaven when I tuck him into bed.  He’s sensitive and kind and always wants to do the right thing. He’s my go-getter.  When presented with options of things to do, the rest of the family will say ‘no, thank you’ to all of them; Cal will ask why he can only choose one.  He’s athletic and musical and his guitar skills are on track to surpass his dad’s someday.  When I hear them play together, I get a lump in my throat.  Thank you God, for this sweet, sassy little man.

I am grateful today for all of these blessings; for my stepsons and my parents and siblings and my in-laws. For lifelong friends and new friends and the unconditional love from my dogs.  For a warm, safe home and a log in the fire and new throw pillows.  For our church family and a supportive community and cinnamon flavored coffee.  For the sound of laughter and a shoulder to cry on.

Dear God,  thank you for all of the blessings of this life, even the ones that appear as hardships.  Help me to cultivate gratitude and share it with others, and help me to remember this moment of calm once the chaos begins.  Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.  May you be abundantly blessed.

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Yesterday

Amazing things that happened yesterday:

– I rang in the bell choir despite 3 stitches in the palm of my hand.  And I didn’t launch any bells over the balcony into the congregation. I’m going to call that a win.

– During my committee meeting (which lasted longer that I anticipated), Bea sat and chatted with the pastor’s daughter.  It was great to see her so engaged, and it alleviated my guilt about making her wait.

– By the time I finally finished my meeting, Bea had gone home with a friend (in and of itself, this is pretty cool), and Cal hadn’t broken anything or spilled anything in the sanctuary.

– I made it home in time to vacuum and change into my sweatpants before my friends started showing up with wine and pizza.

 

Yesterday was fantastic.  It was fantastic because it was sad… and then the sadness flowing through a group of people prompted us to finally get together and lean on each other and share the burden and then share some laughs and share some food and wine and then somehow, the sadness dissipated.  It still hung in the air, but it wasn’t weighing us down anymore.

Our pastor is leaving us. Yesterday was his last day.  It was hard.  So many emotions swirl around that; when you have a church family and you have come to rely on that family for love and support and guidance, losing a pastor is painful.  It’s not as painful as a death, but it hurts like a breakup.  Like a breakup with a friend and a parent and your guardian angel all at once.

There’s a group of us; four families from church, who get together on a semi-regular basis.  We’ve done bible studies and camping trips and birthday parties together.  The moms of this group have a text message thread where we talk nearly every day. But this past two weeks, our text conversations have been slow and a bit stilted.  We’ve used words like, ‘biopsy’ and ‘anxiety’ and ‘malaise.’  We were all struggling, in different ways.

And while we all knew we needed each other, we hadn’t been able to coordinate schedules and actually make it happen until this weekend.  So when the service was over, and we were all reeling a little and people started asking, “What’s everyone up to today?” it just all came together.  I hadn’t prepared for guests.  My bathroom wasn’t clean and our dogs smelled like whatever they rolled in yesterday and I was frantically trying to get all the fur off the sofa when the first people started to arrive.  And the timing was perfect.

When I was younger, I needed time to prepare for guests.  I wanted everything to be just right.  I needed to clean and shop and have enough of the right kind of glassware.  I wanted my house to look a certain way, and of course, I wanted it all to look effortless.

But as I grow into parenthood and deeper friendships, I realize that the need for connection is so much more important than any of that. I’ve hosted enough impromptu get togethers to realize that nobody is judging my dust and that people would rather drink wine out of plastic cups together in a room full of laughter than sit at home waiting for someone to go out and buy matching stemware.

I don’t have enough time to postpone the party in favor of the preparation.  Life is short and schedules are tight.  When we have an opportunity to be in communion with one another, I want to embrace that opportunity.  I want to love my people and lean on my people and laugh and cry together.  Yesterday, we did just that.  I’m so grateful for friends who can pray with us and cry with us and celebrate with us. We are so blessed to have people who will hold us up when our knees are weak and love our children like their own.

As an added bonus, one of my dearest friends was also able to join us and bring her kids over for pizza and football.  Her friendship has sustained me through my growing-up years, and her presence grounds me and reminds me that who I am is just the latest evolution between who I was and who I am becoming.  In my mind, we’re still ‘growing up’ together, and when she brought her kids to share pizza and cookies and laughs and a game of manhunt in the dark, I felt a sort of peaceful right-ness that slowed my breathing and made me smile.

Days like these sustain me. If I go too long without consciously connecting with the people I love, the tension builds between my shoulder blades and pours out of my mouth in the form of sharp words and impatient replies.  Instead of bringing my gifts into the world, I begin to send out stress and anger; giving the world the worst parts of me instead of the best ones.

For me, joy comes from the connections in my life.  It comes from my friends and my family; from my children and my husband and even my students.  But when I stop consciously seeking it; when I stop inviting it in, it fades into the background.  When I get caught up in my to-do list and the stresses and the worries of everyday life, it’s the equivalent of cleaning my house for company but never opening the door. Everything seems to be in order, but something is definitely missing.

So yesterday, I opened the door to my dirty house and received the blessing of communion.  Communion as community, fellowship, association; communion as intimate communication; communion as a group of people with shared faith.  This type of communion sustains me, and I am infinitely grateful for it.

At the end of the day, I climbed into bed, still wearing the sweatpants that my mom gave me for Christmas in 1999.  I said a grateful prayer and settled in with my head on my husband’s shoulder.  And the sadness I had felt earlier mixed with the joy and somehow turned into strength and peace. I had been fortified by friendship and communion, and sleep came quickly and easily.

I’m sure it had nothing to do with the wine…

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Question 3

 

My left eye has been twitching for nearly a week.  Everything I’ve read tells me it’s nothing to worry about.  It’ll probably stop when I get more sleep and reduce my stress levels and quit drinking caffeine and alcohol.

Just call me Twitchy, because this looks like a long-term condition.

But seriously, I’m convinced at least some of the problem is all of my anxiety over question 3. Question 3 is on the ballot because a group of ‘concerned citizens’ believe that transgender people are a threat in public restrooms.

If you live in Massachusetts and are even considering voting no on question 3, please, PLEASE, PLEASE talk to me about it.  Talk to me so I can explain how this is about so much more than bathrooms.  I need you to know that a NO vote on 3 means that:

– hospital employees could refuse to treat my son because they don’t agree with who he is.  And we would have no recourse.

– restaurant owners could ask him to leave because they don’t like the looks of him and we would have to accept that.  Because, umm… religious liberty?  Seriously?

– my son could be asked to leave or refused service in ANY PUBLIC PLACE and, legally speaking, we would be out of luck.

And, if the opposition wants to make it about bathrooms, then let’s talk about the freaking bathrooms.

My 8 year old used to stand outside the restrooms in his elementary school, trying to inconspicuously wait until nobody was in there.  Because he was still using the girls room but he dressed like a boy and little girls would question him.  If somebody walked in while he was in there, he hid in the stall until they left.  It took him like half an hour to pee.

I was with him once, before he came out to me.  He was wearing boy’s clothes and sporting a sort of androgynous haircut and he stood outside the bathrooms at our open and affirming church and said, “I don’t want to go in there.”  I didn’t get it.  I insensitively dragged him into the ladies room with me, insisting that his mom was with him and he was just washing his hands and nobody was going to bother him. I was wrong.  A teenaged girl told him that the boys’ room was down the hall. My heart cracked into pieces.

NOBODY is more at risk in a public restroom than transgender people. Every time we go to a new place, my son takes his brother with him to check out the bathrooms and make sure that they’re safe.  Bathrooms are fraught.  And for my little boy?  If some transphobic moron decides that he doesn’t belong in the men’s room?  Who do you think is vulnerable in that situation?

Anybody who is worried about ‘a man in a dress’ or some other nonsense obviously doesn’t know any transgender people.  Or at least doesn’t KNOW that they know transgender people.  Can we please focus on protecting people who ACTUALLY experience harassment?

Instead of supporting the legislation that’s ALREADY in place to protect a vulnerable population, we’re proposing to repeal it because somebody might be uncomfortable?

The idea that you deserve to be comfortable all the time is, in itself, an indicator of privilege.  If you can move through your life without being judged by the color of your skin or the size of your body or your country of origin, that’s a privilege.  If you can walk through a parking lot without carrying your keys as a weapon or walk through a store without being followed by security or enter a public restroom without fear of harassment or assault, then you already experience a level of comfort that is out of reach for many people.

Folks, please.  Don’t be gullible.  Don’t allow fear mongering campaign ads to lead you to place the ‘comfort’ of some over the basic rights of others.

And once we settle this thing?  Once we all vote YES on 3, and move on to fighting for human rights at a national level?

Maybe then my eye will stop twitching.  But I’m not holding my breath.

 

 

 

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The Lake House

The first time we spent a long weekend at Lake Chateaugay, Cal was an infant, Lee was three, and college was still fresh in my memory.

We were invited for a long weekend, as sort of a mini- college reunion.  Jenne’s dad had just bought a lake house, and there was room enough for all of us, if we didn’t mind air mattresses and sleeping bags on the floor. We didn’t.

We knew the backstory of this house before we went, but we weren’t prepared for the reality of it. Half of it was a pretty standard sort of lakeside cabin; fireplaces and rocking chairs, a screened in porch, a bunch of mid-sized upstairs bedrooms. But the other half was a different story.

The property had been previously used as a research facility.  So half of the house was covered in linoleum and countertops circa 1982. It was full of beakers and burners and sinks.  There was an incubator and an actual darkroom with a revolving door.  There were hallways full of cabinetry and the further you walked, the more you felt like you were in a science lab instead of a vacation home.

That first year, we had the biggest family, so we got the biggest room.  And the biggest room happened to be an old lab.  The floor was linoleum and the walls were covered in old wood paneling, cabinetry, and faucets.  We set up three air mattresses and a pack n’ play in a space with one tiny window, and we loved every minute of it.

We’ve been up to the lake house almost every year since.  After the first few visits, Jack began making the trek each spring, for opening weekend with the guys.  He brought with him his muscle and his work ethic and his plumbing skills, and Jenne’s parents grew to love him.

The first few years, we visited with four or five different families.  We started with five kids between us, and over the years, the number of children worked its way into the teens.  It got harder and harder to coordinate these visits, and as the group visits dwindled, Jack’s labor earned us a weekend of our own.

This year, we went up for a four-day weekend, and during our time there, I couldn’t help but reflect. The house has transformed along with our family.  The big room we stayed in our first year is now the master bedroom.  It has bay windows and carpeting and the scientific paraphernalia is long gone.   The dark room is a laundry room, and the incubators have been replaced with bunk beds and a pool table.  The old pontoon has been replaced with a bigger, better boat.  Other new additions include a deck, a lean-to, a kayak, and a dishwasher.  The screened in porch is now a finished room, with an outside wall of windows and the most spectacular view you can imagine.

And as those changes took place, our family has evolved, too.

We were at the lake the year after Cal was born, with diapers and high chairs and sippy cups.

All four kids fondly remember summer days boating and catching frogs and fishing and swimming.

We were there for the first vacation without all four, when the boys had their own summer jobs and didn’t join us.

Our amazing friends tolerated the awkwardness and supported us there the summer we thought we were getting divorced.  We sat by the water as we grappled with the reality of making a marriage work when the times got tough.

It was at the lake where Jack met a needy, lovey, sweet, massive black lab who melted our hearts and happened to need a home.  She’s now a beloved member of the family.

We found ourselves at the lake again, just a few weeks after our family grew from four children to five. Bea had only lived with us for a short time, and we brought her on vacation, where we struggled to find a balance between welcoming her and setting limits.

And this year, we found a new sort of balance, boating and kayaking and roasting marshmallows in a space that now feels sacred.

It’s hard to explain the connection I have to this place that isn’t mine. I don’t feel I have the right to love it like I do.  But I love it, nonetheless.  For better or for worse, this house has become part of our story; part of our history.

And intertwined with all of this is the knowledge that it does not belong to me.  Some day, circumstances will undoubtedly change, and all that I will have of this place is the memories we have created here. It’s sobering and saddening and beautiful in a bittersweet sort of way.  The fleeting nature of our relationship with this house is part of what makes it so special.

The brutal, beautiful, inevitable march of time changes all things. I know I need to savor the moments we have in this place, and I realize the same is true for this beautiful family we’ve created.

Because after all, none of it really belongs to us.  These children won’t be children forever.  They are ours to hold for a finite number of years; a few moments in the course of time when we are entrusted to teach them and love them and help them become all that they are meant to be.  We are compelled to enjoy them while we can, and let them go when we must.

I can’t spend too much time thinking about that moment of letting go; it brings a dreadful, paralyzing fear that I’m not ready to face.  My heart breaks a little when I think of these beautiful days fading into my past.

But a fear of letting go can be extinguished by hope for the future.  I dreaded seeing my babies turn into big kids… but I adore the big kids they’ve become.  I feared moving on to a new house, until it became home.  I have been afraid of the future innumerable times in the past, just before I moved into something bigger and more amazing than I could have imagined.

So instead of fear, I’m choosing to live in this moment with faith and hope.

This post was pulling at my mind and my heart as I fell asleep next to my husband in one of those upstairs bedrooms overlooking the lake.  I woke up to his nudge and a whisper in my ear.  “Wake up,” he said.  “Why?” I groggily asked.

“The sun is rising. And we should see more sunrises together.”

My heart smiled.  We slipped on our sweatshirts and walked into the misty morning with steaming mugs of coffee.  We sat and watched a new beginning, holding on to this moment, and to each other.

So here’s to sunrises and beginnings and beautiful, fleeting moments of joy.