Author: Amy

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Go in Peace

I’m sitting in my living room, watching the remnants of a tropical storm pass by my picture window.  The rain and the wind are both violent and cathartic.  There’s something beautiful that happens when the weather matches your mood. 

The wind calms.  The rain keeps coming.  My neighbor is standing on his porch, holding his baby girl.  I am intrigued.  At first I worry.  Is something wrong? After a moment, I realize that they are dancing in the rain.  Did I ever do that with my children?  No.  Why didn’t I ever dance in the rain with my babies? 

My babies aren’t babies anymore and there’s a pandemic that’s shifting everything I thought I knew. I’m simultaneously learning all there is to know about myself and understanding less and less about the world around me.  

Is this just midlife? 

Is it midlife during a pandemic? 

The rain gusts.  The wind shakes the house.  And then… nothing.  The sun is shining again.  All is calm.  What is happening?  Why can’t we have just one thing at a time? 

Huh.  I guess the weather matches my mood more than I realized. 

***********

At some point, I’ll gather my thoughts coherently enough to write a post about returning to teaching during a pandemic.  As those decisions swirl in my brain and around my community, I’m trying to put them aside to focus on a few things that I can actually control.  

Well, really just one thing.  Because there is only one thing I can ever control.  

Me.  

That’s it.  The rest is just illusion and nonsense.  

I can control my thoughts, my behaviors, my actions, my habits, my reactions. 

Nothing more.  

**********

Since March, I’ve taken the time to focus on developing better habits.  I’m sleeping more.  I’m writing more.  I’m eating better and moving more.  I’m being deliberate about friendships and connections.  I’m trying to be more intentional and attentive with my kids.  I’m reducing stress and focusing on joy and doing a whole bunch of really cool stuff.  I’m setting better boundaries.  My yesses are more enthusiastic and my nos are firmer.  I’m trying new things.  I’m stretching myself in ways that I can control.  Life is stretching me in ways that I cannot.  

I don’t think it’s just me.  Didn’t everyone start this whole quarantine thing baking bread and planting seeds and slowing down a little?  Didn’t we all get rocked by a newfound awareness of injustice?  Didn’t we all have to find some meaning in it?  Aren’t we all trying to be better people?  

**********

I read a book recently that was written by an Anglican priest.  Having grown up in the Episcopal Church, I was pulled into nostalgia by her references to traditions and prayers from my youth. 

At the end of Sunday worship, the final line was always, “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” I hear those words and my heart settles.  But the author pointed out our tendency to think of our love and service in terms of big ideas and lofty ideals.  As a child, I know I did.  I thought that meant to volunteer and feed the hungry and build homes for the homeless. 

Now in adulthood, the writer reminded me, that love and service winds up looking a lot like the mundane bits of time that compose a life.  Does that make it any less valuable?  Can I love and serve the Lord by washing dishes?  Can I love and serve the Lord when I’m checking my email or driving to the doctor or pulling my kids off screens yet again?  Of course I can.  

And I’ve begun to use this as a mantra.  Go in peace.  Breathe.  You are loved.  You are not alone.  Peace be with you.  Go in peace to love.  Love your kids.  Love everyone’s kids. Love your neighbors.  Love protesters.  Love police.  Love sinners and saints and love people you don’t understand.  Go in peace to love and serve.  Serve your friends and your family.  Your elders.  Those in need.  Those who don’t seem to be in need.  The lonely.  The marginalized.  The weary.  The joyful.  Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.  

**********

All of these lessons are crashing in on me.  Does it even matter if I’m becoming better as the world around me is falling apart? 

The rain comes down in sheets again.  The wind whips through the trees.  It’s terrifying and exhilarating.   

**********

It’s such a cliché.  Dancing in the rain, I mean.  But as a metaphor, it works… obviously.  That’s how we get clichés, after all. 

We don’t have the power to control the storm.  But peace doesn’t come from control.  Control is a tempting illusion.  Real peace comes from faith.  Faith in whatever form speaks to you.  Faith in yourself.  In your relationships.  In your community.  Faith in God or the Holy Spirit or Mother Nature or whatever you believe in.  So believe in something.  Inhale grace. Go in peace.  And if you still can, dance in the rain with your babies.  You won’t regret it. 

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I’m bored

I’m bored.  

When I used to say that as a kid, I was told to find something to do. And I did.  I could always bury myself in a book or find a friend to talk to or cook something or play music or go for a walk…. 

I’m bored.  

When my kids say it, I find myself getting irritated.  All these toys?  This pool you’ve got?  These books and pets and this great neighborhood next to the stream and the woods?  Stop complaining.  Go find something to do.  

I’m bored.  

My students say it when they’re tired of being in school; when they don’t want to do their work or when they’ve got a case of spring fever and are itching to be outside.  I try to engage them and encourage them in spite of it.  

**********

My whole life, I’ve been taught to view boredom as a weakness; a negative, lazy state of being, associated with a lack of creativity and motivation.  Only boring people get bored.  Right?

I’m trying to spend more time getting in touch with my own emotions.  More and more often, I have this nagging unrest.  Unease.  Some of it is the regular repetitiveness of a summer spent not working.  Much of it is COVID related.  And when I really sit with the feeling and try to give it a name, I keep coming back to… boredom. 

And I rail against it. 

I’ve painted and redecorated.  Cleaned.  Sorted.  We’ve done fire pits and puzzles.  Swimming and reading.  Writing.   Cooking.  Hiking.  Socially distanced visits.  Takeout.  Zoom cooking class.  Spa day.  Gardening.  Repeat.  

This particular kind of boredom isn’t a lack of something to do.  I have plenty to DO.  The cooking and cleaning are endless.  We’re blessed to have space and a fire pit and a pool and a few close friends to gather with.  There are always more books and new recipes and stories to tell.  

This particular brand of boredom results from a lack of novelty.  I know myself well enough to understand that I need new ideas, new experiences, and thoughtful conversations in order to feel like I’m learning and growing.  And I always want to feel like I’m learning and growing.  

Through this pandemic, I’ve been trying.  I’ve learned to use my old sewing machine, and I’m getting better at mask-making.  I’m reading a bunch of anti-racism books and exposing myself to new ideas.  I’m listening to podcasts and watching documentaries… 

But all of it feels a bit weak without robust conversation and connection and experiences to look forward to.  

I miss my friends. 

I miss my book club. 

I miss church.

I miss concerts.  

I miss conversations that flow naturally, unimpeded by the limitations of Zoom. 

I miss camping.  

Restaurants. 

Carnivals.

Festivals.  

Movie theaters. 

Arcades. 

Museums. 

And so I order new books from the library and complete endless puzzles and go for long walks.  I sign up for online classes.  I take the kids on outdoor excursions.  I set up zoom happy hours with friends and family. 

I write.  And as I write this, something is dawning on me.  Perhaps it isn’t boredom I’m feeling.  Maybe it’s something else entirely.  Maybe it’s grief.  

Not the soul-wrenching kind.  Not the life-shattering kind.  Simply a vague sense of loss.  Unmet expectations.  Disappointment.  

I look at that list and I understand that my disappointment is of the middle-class, entitled variety.  I know we’ve got it good.  So I douse that feeling in gratitude and sprinkle it with a flurry of activity.  I ignore it and push it aside until it finds another way to bubble up.  

I’m bored.  

I say ‘bored’ because it’s fixable.  Boredom can be cured with activity and movement and thought.  

But the disappointment?  That’s a feeling I’m going to have to learn to live with. 

I’ve recently learned that feelings are for feeling.  All of them, not just the pleasant ones.  Thanks to Glennon Doyle for that nugget.  I’ve also learned from Marc Brackett that identifying and labeling a feeling is the first step toward emotional health. 

So I’m going to feel the disappointment.  I’m going to stop calling it boredom.  

I’m going to double down on the gratitude thing, but not as a disguise for my grief; as a solution, instead.  

I’m going to pay my bills and clean my dresser and paint my daughter’s nails.  I’m going to throw some burgers on the grill and splash my son in the pool and build a fire and roast another freaking marshmallow.  Because the busy-ness will start again.  When it does, I’ll look back on these lazy summer days and wish for this blessed kind of boredom.  

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Comments

I am a child abuser.  I am a sociopath.  I should be sterilized.  I should have my children taken away.  I hate women.  I hate lesbians.  I embrace 1950s gender norms.  I am delusional.  

According to the commenters. 

*********

At first, I was excited to have my article published.  I was proud of what I had written.  I wanted to share something beautiful.  I was hoping it had touched people; maybe shared a different perspective.  

And I admit now that I’m spoiled.  Those of you who read my blog generally know our family.  You’ve been incredibly supportive and understanding.  Even when you were unsure, you came to me with curiosity and concern instead of judgment.  Our family has been so protected by a your support and love.  

So, while I anticipated some controversy in the comments section, I wasn’t prepared for the hatred. 

On Thursday night, there were about 20 comments.  Many were supportive.  One or two were not, but others were speaking up, and I felt pretty good about the whole thing.  

On Friday morning, there were 75.  Someone had posted a link to an article about de-transitioning that I had read and debunked three years ago.  People were getting a little more fired up.  I had a long talk with my husband.  I was still feeling good about the post.  We are confident in our decisions.  We’ve done a ton of research and consulted medical professionals.  We were not going to get upset about the opinions of random strangers on the internet.  

Friday morning was full of distractions, so I couldn’t obsess.  When I checked again on Friday afternoon, we were up to 200 comments.  My sister weighed in and her support and love brought me to tears.  An old friend also piped in with beautiful, supportive words.  But the supportive comments were becoming the minority.  Maybe that’s not true.  I didn’t actually count.  But that’s certainly how it felt.  

Saturday morning, there were 350 comments.  361.  372.  The count was ticking even as I tried to read them.  I needed to stop.  

We went out to breakfast.  We went to the store.  All the while, I was trying to enjoy my husband and my children, but I was distracted.  Was there anything I could have said differently?  How could I explain more clearly?  My writing obviously didn’t convey enough of our story. 

By Saturday afternoon, I had stopped reading the comments, but my husband hadn’t.  He was becoming angrier and more defensive.  At one point, he tried to comment in our defense.  As you might imagine, everything he said was met with a new criticism.  A few comment lines on an online article could never contain the depth of our love and concern for our child.  And all words can be manipulated and misconstrued.  

During the hours of my Facebook hiatus, I received an email from the magazine.  

Hi Amy, we aren’t sure if you have been following the comments on your post, but just to let you know we have been banning the aggressive and hateful ones (so those people will not be able to keep writing in) and have updated the text with our support at the top. We are fine to take down the whole thing, if you want, it’s entirely up to you. If not, we will keep monitoring the comments. We are so sorry for any hurt this might have caused you and/or your family. 

I was grateful that they were at least monitoring the situation.  They did, in fact, remove the most hateful comments.  But there were plenty of rude, dismissive, and critical comments that didn’t quite reach the level of ‘hateful’ or ‘aggressive.’  

I reminded myself that I had put something good into the world.  That is my responsibility… to share the truth and beauty in our story.  I stand by that.  I shared something true and beautiful.  I cannot control how people respond.  That is not my responsibility. I gave them permission to keep the piece posted. 

I began repeating the mantra that was the namesake for this blog.  Inhale grace.  Exhale your gift.  Inhale grace. Exhale your gift. 

I believe that God has given me gifts.  The gift of compassion.  The gift of storytelling.  The gift of parenting.  The gift of teaching.  

But I am only able to use those gifts with the help of God’s grace.  When I inhale grace, I am breathing in the strength and the power to share my gifts with the world.  And on the exhale?  I will write.  I will love and I will teach and I will parent and I will share our story.  I will live this life and tell the truth and when I get too tired to keep going, I will inhale again.  

Breathe in grace.  Breathe in strength. 

500.  542.  605.  650.  

I’m ashamed of how I let it upset me that evening.  I really thought I was stronger than this.  I thought I would be immune to the ignorant opinions of strangers.  I was wrong.  I hadn’t shared with Lee all of what was happening online; I wanted to protect him.  But I found myself reaching to him for reassurance.  I filled him in a little.  I made light of it.  “They’re calling me a child abuser.”  He rolled his eyes and laughed.  “Yeah.  I’m SO abused,” he retorted as he bumped me with his shoulder and held up his bag of Cheetos.  

Deep down, I know I don’t owe anyone an explanation, especially not a bunch of opinionated strangers on the internet.  And there’s still a part of me that hopes, if they knew the WHOLE story, maybe they would change their minds.  Maybe they would try harder to understand.  Maybe they would be less judgmental and dismissive and hateful. 

That’s probably delusional optimism.  

But is it? 

Is it really?

Because when people we actually DO know in real life have questions or concerns or disagree with our choices, they don’t attack. 

In real life, I’ve never felt the same vitriol and hatred that emanates from an anonymous online source. 

In real life, I’ve had people question our choices and engage in thoughtful conversations. 

In real life, I’ve had family and friends express concern and listen in love. 

In real life, I’ve had people ask inappropriate questions and then apologize when I gently refuse to answer. 

In real life, I’ve had people present me with research studies and I’ve shared with them my own research and we’ve had hard conversations.  

In real life, we’ve known families who left the church when they disagreed with our choices and our church’s supportive stance. 

In real life, we’ve had therapists push us and we’ve had doctors question us and we’ve had a slew of professionals working with us to explore the options.  

In real life, I’ve never been viciously attacked for my choice to support my son.  

**********

So, delusional or not, I choose to maintain my optimism.  Our stories are powerful.  But our lives are even more so.  I will keep telling our story.  And I will keep living a life full of integrity and truth and love, in hopes that the anonymous online hatred will be replaced with real life curiosity, concern, compassion, and grace.  Inhale.  Exhale.    

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Handling It

When I was in middle school, I was obsessed with Billy Joel and determined to learn all the words to We Didn’t Start the Fire. I sat down on my bedroom floor with the CD insert in my hand.  I’d read a line over and over again.  Close my eyes.  Repeat it.  Sing it with the CD.  Repeat ad infinitum.  I managed it.  I learned all the words.  But it was like learning a foreign language.  I didn’t know these names.  I didn’t understand these references.  As a pre-teen, I didn’t realize how much meaning I was missing. I just liked the way the words felt rolling off my tongue. 

Now I’m in my 40s, observing world events and personal tragedies that press into my chest and leave me searching for, well… something.  Answers? Peace? Breath?  My friends and I sometimes ask each other, Has it always been this awful?  Were we just unaware in our youth? Maybe this is just middle age.  Maybe the torch is finally being passed and we weren’t anticipating the weight of it.  

I remember being excited to drive.  To vote.  To teach.  To worship.  To become a parent.  Now each of these privileges has become a responsibility with substantial heft and urgency.  I feel burdened in a way that is new to me.  I am heavy with the weight of adulthood.  

We’re all still steeped in this pandemic.  We’re trying to find some joy and normalcy and negotiate new rules and norms and expectations.  If that were all of it, it would be stressful.  But lately, it seems like there’s so much more.  

There are personal tragedies.  Too many of them … and they just keep coming.   A friend was in crisis recently.  I called her mother.  Even though I knew it was unreasonable, I wanted this mom to give me the answers. I wanted to be a child again, leaning on an adult who would just tell me what to do.  

But that’s a silly dream. Because nobody really knows how to do any of it.   

I don’t know how to comfort a friend who has lost a child.  

I don’t know how to counsel a friend through her mania. 

I don’t know how to parent during a pandemic. 

I don’t know how to teach remotely.  

I don’t know how to fight systemic racism. 

I don’t know how to protect LGBTQ kids. 

I don’t know how to fix the foster care system.  

Or the government. 

Or the church.

Or the schools.  

I don’t know.  

I don’t know.  

I. 

Don’t. 

Know.  

I don’t know how to do any of this.

I’m looking around for the adults.  There is only my reflection.  There is no one to tell me the answers.  There is no one to carry this burden for me.  

********

I wrote all of that yesterday.  Shortly thereafter, my foster daughter told me that she’s moving out when she turns 18 next week. There’s so much trauma there.  A lot of mistrust.  Some ‘shopping’ for the perfect family that doesn’t exist. I asked her some pointed questions about her plans.  Where would she live?  How would she pay her bills?  How would she handle all of that change during her Senior year? When she first told me, it felt like one more thing I didn’t know how to handle.  But I didn’t overreact.  I didn’t panic.  We talked.  For hours.  And ultimately, she decided to stay.  I handled it.

This morning, as I walked the dog, I noticed she was stopping a lot.  I took a closer look and realized that she wasn’t peeing.  She was bleeding.  Not a little blood in her urine.  Like, pure blood.  I called the vet.  We’re heading there today.  I don’t know what will happen.  She could need antibiotics or she could need chemo.  It will be expensive.  It might be scary.  It might be sad.  But I know I will handle it. 

And then I think about my friend who lost her child.  I mailed a card.  I prayed.  I sent money.  And I will be there for her as she slowly climbs up out of this hellish grief.  She will handle it, too.  She will get through, moment by moment.  She will love her daughter and cry for her loss and she will handle it.  

And maybe being an adult isn’t about knowing the solutions.  Maybe it’s not about fixing everything.  Maybe it’s about understanding that we can’t fix it all. 

But we can handle it.  We can handle our shit.  One challenge at a time. One child.  One lesson.  One moment.  One tragedy.  One reform.  One foot in front of the other.  Together.  Holding each other through the celebrations and the grief. 

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Imaginings

His shoulders are spreading apart.  There’s a square-ness to his jaw and a deepening in his voice.  It’s all so typical, 14-year old boy.  And it’s all medically-induced.  The hormones that I inject into his thigh every week are turning him into a young man.  

I know, deeply, that this is the right choice.  He’s been all boy for the last five years.  

But there were eight years before that.  Eight years where I tried to squeeze him into this mold of who I thought he was.  Of who I thought he was supposed to be.  Of the little girl who would grow in to my best friend.  A silly dream?  Probably. 

Last night, I sat on the edge of his bed, while he scrolled through his TicToc videos for me.  He’s quite the artist.  These videos aren’t just fun to him.  They’re an artistic expression.  There’s lighting and costumes and effects.  Some are silly.  Some are dark.  All exude talent.  He explained the characters in the videos; who he was representing and why.  He talked about their backstories and which ones he could relate to and he explained the connections I never would have understood.  Watching him light up, talking about something that excites him… I’ll never get tired of that.  

Even as my eyes drooped and I stifled a yawn, I settled in to hear more.  I settled my head on his pillow, while he sat cross-legged in the center of the bed, pointing to posters for my reference.  Eventually, he curled up under his blanket, resting his head on the pillow next to mine.  He let me play with his hair (so unusual that he’ll allow it, now) and we continued to talk about significant and insignificant things.  I breathed it in.  

As they grow older, there are fewer and fewer chances to connect in a really authentic way.  They’re embarrassed by us.  They’d rather be with their friends.  They’re just too old to cuddle anymore.  

But for me, there’s another layer.  I think there’s part of me that worried I wouldn’t have those moments with my son.  When this child was a baby, I imagined lots of sweet, mother-daughter moments; dress shopping and late-night gab-fests among them.  I eventually let go of those imaginings, but not without my share of secret tears in the shower.  Perhaps I was a bit premature.  

He’s a fourteen-year old boy now.  And there are still these beautiful moments.  Binge-watching Queer Eye together.  Walking the dogs and listening to his laugh.  Chatting about his art late into the night.  None of that is gendered.  Why did I ever think it was?  Why did I ever assume that I lost something when he transitioned? 

The thing is, as parents, we’re always losing them.  We’re losing bits and pieces of their childhoods every day.  They grow and they change.  And before we know it, they’ve become such full, amazing, complicated people that we can no longer hold them under the umbrella of who WE are, as parents.  They don’t belong there anymore.  

And it doesn’t matter if their development is early or late or induced by injections.  It doesn’t matter if they’re boys or girls or who they fall in love with or what parts are in their pants.  It doesn’t matter because they all grow up.  They become so much more than just our children.  They become so much more than anything we could have made them.  

14 years ago, my imaginings were so small.  I had no idea.  I imagined a future that doesn’t make sense in hindsight.  But isn’t that the beauty of life?  Every moment has the potential for surprise.  For learning.  For change. If we’ve learned nothing from these past few months, we’ve learned that life is unpredictable.  And hard.  And beautiful.  To really live this life we’ve been given, we need to allow ourselves to listen.  To grow.  To not get so committed to our imaginings that we can’t see the beauty that’s right in front of us.  

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A New Kind of Summer

We’re letting up a little on our quarantine rules.  The kids can hang out with a friend, as long as they stay outside.  The adults have the same rule, so we can sit by a fire pit with another couple and have a few drinks.  If we need to run to the store, we don our masks and go.  Things are starting to feel just a little more normal.  It’s almost summer vacation, so the online classes are ending and the days feel a lot less hectic.  

Because we’ve been home for so long already, I’m not feeling the usual, self-inflicted summer pressure.  I don’t have a massive ‘to-do’ list because I’ve tackled so much of it already.  We’ve completed the epic three-bedroom switch of 2020.  I love my new room and the kids love theirs.  The basement is cleaner than it’s been in years.  Much of the house is freshly painted, and Lee gets his new mattress delivered on Monday.   The linen closet is clean and we cleared out a large section of the backyard for a fire pit near the river.  That list of accomplishments helps me to feel… satisfied.  Settled.  Calm.  There used to be three rooms in our house that felt incomplete or uninviting to me.  That’s no longer the case.  I’m in love with our home. Before, the back yard was unwelcoming.  We didn’t have enough sunshine or places to sit.  That’s not true anymore.  I’m able to really enjoy our outdoor space, too.  

Yesterday, we did a bunch of yardwork and cleaning and I was sweating my tail off.  Cal begged me to join him in the pool (which I rarely do before August), and I decided to take him up on it.  I had just recently ordered a new bathing suit online, which, shockingly, I LOVE.  I was excited to put it on and ease into the cool water.

My youngest son and I cleaned the pool and played games and floated and I was reminded how nice it feels to just stop and enjoy the kids and the pool and the sunshine.  The neighbor boys came over to swim, too, while I sat in the sun and sipped a mojito and read my book.  My middle child biked to a friend’s house.  The oldest went for a drive.  Even as I enjoyed this time with Cal, I was reminded that they’re all growing up so quickly.  They have their own friends and their own lives and their own modes of transportation now.  It’s exciting and sad all at the same time. 

I’m a pretty task-oriented person.  I wake up each morning with a list of things to accomplish, and I generally spend my first few wakeful moments planning the sequence of my day.  Don’t get me wrong.  I don’t work all the time.  Sometimes the plan includes a trip to the lake or a picnic or a hike or a family movie.  But this summer is going to require a shift.  Most of our summer activities aren’t possible in the same way this year.  There won’t be trips to museums or beaches.  There won’t be bowling alleys and visits to the mall. 

Generally, if I’m home, I’m working on something.  Cleaning or a project or cooking or even writing.  I might be hosting some friends or setting up for a party.  But I don’t often have a day where I’m at home and the plan is just to relax.  That’s just not how I’m wired.  

For this summer, I’m going to have to make an effort to rewire.  A day at the beach will be replaced with a day in the backyard, and I’m going to have to be able to relax there without worrying about the laundry or the projects or any of the other infinite jobs that come with home ownership and parenting.    

So I guess that’s my goal for this summer.  Instead of tackling a ridiculous to-do list, I’m going to practice enjoying what we have.  These kids aren’t going to be here forever.  The sunny days in the backyard are more numbered than I’d like to admit.  The chores and the projects will never be done.  But someday soon, the kids will be gone and I’ll certainly regret all the days I didn’t spend in our little intex pool.  I’ll regret the giggles and the splashes that I missed.  I’ll regret the s’mores we didn’t make and the hikes we didn’t take much more than I’ll regret the fact that our bathroom never got repainted.  

So, here’s to a different kind of summer.  I’ll be in the backyard with a mojito, if anyone wants to join me.  

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What now?

When George Floyd was murdered, I cried.  I cried to my husband and I sat down my kids and we all talked with sincerity about racism and power and using our voices.  For those of you who don’t know, I have a black daughter and a white trans son and a white, cis-hetero son.  And as I looked at them, my heart split wide open.  I thought about all of the ways in which two of them will be forever vulnerable, just by nature of who they are.  And I thought about that third child.  The one who will live a more privileged life, based on nothing but his gender and the color of his skin.  How do I help these children to be brave and use their voices to fight for each other’s humanity?  How do I help them to see all that is wrong with the world and still shine a light on the beauty and kindness that exists there? How do we equip them to fight a problem that has plagued us for centuries? 

And my husband and I, who mostly disagree on all things political, agreed that THIS, in fact, was NOT.  Valuing the life of a human being is NOT a political stance.  That first night, we were on the same page.  We denounced those police officers.  We denounced systemic racism.  We acknowledged our own white privilege.  We talked to our family from a place of privilege AND pain.  We owned our shit.  It was hard, but it was good.  

And then, it was time to do my own work.  I had done enough reading to know that white women’s tears are worthless to a black mother who has lost her child.  I dug a little deeper.  I went in search of the black and brown voices that needed to be elevated.  I listened to podcasts.  I ordered some books.  I dug into the painful rejoinder that “All Lives Matter” because OF COURSE they do.  And all lives will not matter until Black Lives Matter.  I admitted to myself that I have shied away from difficult conversations for far too long.  I vowed to do better.

***** 

And then I got a tearful phone call from a dear friend.  Her husband, a NYC police officer, was deployed into what he describes as a war zone.  The destruction and the riots and the protests quite literally put my friend’s life on the line and I choked.  He tells us that it’s so much worse than the media is reporting.  He tells us that it’s one of the worst things he’s ever seen, and he was a first responder on 9/11.  I love and respect this man.  I fear for him.  I admire his strength and his intelligence and his compassion.  I pray for him. I pray for his family.  And I cry again.  

And the see-saw begins in my brain.  

Is that how a black mother feels every time her son leaves the house?  

Of course there are riots.  Peaceful protests didn’t work. 

Do we value white people’s property over black people’s lives? 

How do we show respect for the men and women who serve and protect without diminishing the pain of those who have suffered a system that has denied their humanity for centuries?  

*****

Once again, it all becomes political.  For a few days, my husband and I retreat into our separate, angry, defensive corners.  We are afraid to bring up this topic, even with each other, because it is so charged and we have argued over far less important things.  

We slowly break away from our singularly sided news sources and definitively partisan news feeds and begin to sift through all the misinformation to find truth.  We share articles with each other.  We move toward each other.  We worry together.  We cry together.  

Because the underlying truth is that a fight for humanity is NOT partisan.  A respect for police is not partisan.  My husband and I love each other deeply.  We respect each other deeply.  And we sometimes disagree deeply.  But we keep showing up to have hard conversations.  We are able to do it because we reside on a foundation of love and respect.  

One of those podcasts I listened to helped me to see a trap we all fall into.  When we identify with someone or some group, we tend to attribute to them all of their best qualities.  When we don’t identify with them, we tend to attribute to them all of their worst qualities.  That’s how we come up with stereotypes of ignorant southerners or lazy black people or racist conservatives or snowflake liberals.   

In my house, those are the worst fights.  When he calls me a sheep and a snowflake and I call him ignorant and bigoted.  In our anger, we resort to stereotypes and name-calling.  Nuanced, complex, productive conversation is trampled.  Instead of searching for solutions and hearing each others’ voices, we are throwing firebombs at imaginary targets.  I am watching this happen on a global scale and it terrifies me. 

We are all so deeply afraid in this moment.  

And I don’t know how to handle it on a large scale. 

But all the years of this liberal living with a stubborn, passionate, loving, open-minded, funny, hard-working conservative have taught me how to handle it in my own home.  

We take a breath, but we don’t walk away.  We can’t afford to because there is too much at stake.  But the name-calling and firebombs won’t move us forward.  We cannot accomplish anything until we reset. We need to remember our shared humanity.  We need to acknowledge our shared fears.  We need to face difficult conversations and really, actually LISTEN to each other’s voices.  We need to get curious about what we don’t know instead of getting defensive about what we think we know.  We need to dig into a conversation that requires less responding and more learning.  

I don’t know what to do on a large scale.  I’m still planning to attend a rally this weekend.  I’m still praying for my friend in New York.  And I will continue doing the things in my own life that lay a foundation for my children to grow into adults who listen and learn and consider different perspectives.  I will continue to teach them that it is their sacred duty to stand in a place of love and use their voices to stand up for their brothers and sisters, both in this family and out there in the big, beautiful, scary, breathtaking world.  That’s all I know how to do.  

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Expectations

Last night was awful.  I got another email from Lee’s teachers, listing all of the ways he failed this week.  It was a list of missing assignments and poor grades and all of it felt more like an accusation than anything else. 

It felt like my failure for not monitoring well enough or checking his work or reminding him enough.

Except I honestly don’t know if I can do any better.  We have something new happening approximately every 15 minutes between 9 am and 2pm daily.  There are four of us on different zoom meetings in different rooms.  In between my own teaching, I’m trying to assist and monitor my own three kids, with their various learning disabilities, ADHD, and emotional issues.  I’m trying to help my students, all of whom have significant disabilities and are struggling to stay afloat during distance learning.  I’m failing.  At all of it.  

I listen to friends complain that “school is a joke” right now.  Three hours a day, four days a week.  They say it’s not nearly enough.  I hear that and I want to cry.  

As a teacher, I am drowning.  In a physical classroom, I can look at a room of 25 students and know within 20 seconds who is off task, who is confused, who is tired, who is distracted.  I can partner them in ways that ensure that every kid is learning.  I can discreetly move closer to a kid who is off task instead of calling them out and embarrassing them in front of the whole group.  None of these things is possible in a virtual space.  All of my lessons need to be rethought and rewritten.  Everything that could be accomplished in a classroom in a few minutes takes a few hours online.  A 20 minute read aloud takes over an hour.  20 minutes to record it.  30 minutes to replay it and add quiz questions to ensure comprehension.  10 minutes to post it and type out directions and add it to the calendar and the agenda.  20 minutes to review student responses to see if they got it.  Another 20 minutes to follow up with the kids who missed it.  And then maybe a zoom meeting to clarify with the kids who are totally lost.  

So the assignment that took your average kids 20 minutes to do?  That took two hours for your teacher to prepare and execute.  

And that’s not even the hard part. I have a student with a rough home life who isn’t showing up to classes.  I don’t care if he completed his Social Studies homework.  I just want to know that he’s safe and fed and sleeping and making connections with people who care about him.  We have students in abusive situations.  We have students who are parenting their siblings while their parents go to work.  We have students who are hungry and students who are anxious and students who are bored.  The hardest part is the helplessness and the worry.  We love these kids, whether the general public chooses to believe it or not.  And our hearts are breaking for them.  

So where does that leave us?  As teachers, and as parents?  We feel like we’re failing on all fronts.  And from my conversations with friends, this feels pretty universal.  

I spent a long time on the phone with my son’s guidance counselor this morning.  I think we came up with a plan to help him going forward.  But it was emotional and exhausting and left me feeling depleted.  

I ended the call just in time to join a meeting with my supervisor to try to solve a tough work situation.  We made progress, but didn’t solve it, and I ended the call feeling disappointed. 

Then I went to check on my kids.  I was prepared to check the homework (again) and yell at them about cleaning their rooms.  But they weren’t anywhere to be found.  Instead, my two boys were out in the stream next to my house.  They were catching frogs.  They were laughing and joking and getting along.  And I couldn’t stand the thought of breaking that up to have yet another battle about schoolwork.  

I let them play. 

This afternoon, we’re all going to work together on a “Nailed It” baking challenge.  It’s a perfect activity because the challenge is to bake something that looks like your pet.  Bea’s obsessed with baking.  Lee is obsessed with pets.  And Cal is obsessed with activities in general.  We’re all enthusiastic about it.  We have two turtles and two dogs and a guinea pig and a hedgehog. The kids have designed cupcakes to represent each one.  It’s math and reading and art and social interaction.  It’s a way to learn something and have fun together.  

And I’m second-guessing my choice to participate.  Should I be punishing them for their incomplete schoolwork?  Should I be forcing them to make a dream catcher out of yarn, like the teacher instructed?  Should I make sure they edit their paragraphs, instead?  

I feel judged.  I feel judged by their teachers and their counselors and by other parents.  

I’m learning to trust my own judgment, instead, but it is a challenge.  I’m weighed down by expectations.  Expectations of what a good teacher or a good mother should do.  Expectations of what ‘success’ looks like for kids during quarantine.  Expectations about priorities and standards and achievement.  

God.  Those expectations are so heavy.  And they keep me from doing what I know in my heart and my soul is the best thing for my family.  

I’m trying to drown out the expectations with my own, strong inner voice.  It’s not easy, but when I succeed, it is SO, SO worth the effort.    

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Bad Days

It’s been three days like this.  That’s unusual for me.  Of course I have bad days, like everyone does.  But not usually three in a row.  And not when it’s sunny out.  That’s when I can typically rally.  

Signs that I’m not okay:

– I can’t find my motivation.  I don’t want to tackle a project or play a family game or cook a fancy meal.  

–  I tell myself to stop the mindless scrolling.  And before I know it, I’m looking at the same memes again. 

–  Netflix asks if I’m still watching.  

–  I’m eating another meal… and I’m not sure which one it is. 

–  The zoom happy hours and family board games and good books… they can’t touch this.  They don’t help. 

– Tears.  Happy tears.  Sad tears.  Tired tears.  Overwhelmed tears.  

The first day, I sat with it.  It was Friday.  I still did my work and I sat outside a little and I went for a walk.  But I was sad.  And I let myself feel it. I ordered pizza for dinner instead of cooking.  I read my book and watched TV and I didn’t force any family fun.  I met with my friends on zoom, and I even rallied for a little bit. 

But on the next day, when I woke up in a foul mood again, I decided to fight it.  Another sad day felt self-indulgent.  And unhealthy.  Plus, the sun was shining and there were jobs to be done.  I rallied the family.  We filled an entire dumpster with crap from the garage and the shed.  There was an impromptu water fight with the hose.  But once we were all sweaty and tired, I let our little group disband without a fight.  They went back to their rooms for some peace and screen time.  I set up for an online cooking class with some friends.  My brother in law taught us to make soufflé, and it was a really good time.  I drank wine and cooked and then called each of my friends to de-brief and drink more wine.  It was actually quite lovely. 

So why was I still sad the next morning?  I cried through virtual church.  I had a couple of online meetings and then I forced myself to go to buy dog food.  And that was all I could do.  I watched some inspiring videos and cried.  I watched some bad TV and cried.  I read a little bit and cried.  I found out some sad news and cried some more.  Bea got me to rally.  She started making a full-on meal and needed my help.  We made spring rolls and fried wontons and wonton soup and rice and sautéed broccoli for dinner.  She pulled me out of my funk for a little while, and I’m grateful for that. 

But today had a similar, melancholy feel.  I had work to do, so I did it.  But I was lethargic about the whole thing.  I saw my colleagues online at a staff meeting, and it just made me sad.  I dropped the recycling off and I picked up a prescription.   The things that have brought a sense of normalcy didn’t help. They just made me sadder. 

I’m sitting at my desk, noticing the buds and the flowers that have begun to appear on the tree outside my window.  I have two thoughts.  “How beautiful.”  And “I don’t want this to be my Spring.”  

I’m not sure how to spend this evening.  I could melt into this lethargy.  I could have the kids make their own sandwiches for dinner and binge the rest of Schitt’s Creek and maybe read a little.  

I could rise to the occasion and help Bea with her history homework and actually check Cal’s reading log and look over Lee’s Social Studies project.  I could vacuum (again) and finally clean the bathroom and cook a real dinner.  

But maybe I’ll opt for something in-between.  Maybe I’ll call my mom back and toss a salad and grill some paninis.  Maybe I’ll settle into a Scrabble game with my husband and have one of the kids run the vacuum.  

I’ve lost my balance.  I had it for a little while.  I was juggling work and homeschooling and long walks.  I was painting and cleaning and cooking and reading.  I was resting by the fire pit and laughing on zoom with my family and friends.  

Now that I wrote that, it doesn’t look like balance.  It looks like perpetual motion.  Maybe that’s what feels good to me when I’m overwhelmed.  It feels good to be DOING.  That’s my default.  Maybe I have to get better at SITTING.  And FEELING. 

That’s why I write.  It slows me down.  It helps me notice.  It helps me to process and reflect.  So tonight, I’m going to slow it down a notch without slamming the brakes.  I’m going to try to sit and feel and notice a little more.  I’m going to try to breathe and pray.  

I’m going to play some Scrabble and ignore the dirty bathroom.  Wish me luck.  

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Lessons Learned

Lessons I’ve learned during quarantine:

1.  I don’t hate walking.  I hate walking unruly dogs.  These are two entirely different endeavors.  Walking alone, listening to a podcast or chatting with a friend, is entirely enjoyable.  Walking with my husband or my son is equally pleasant.  Walking with my entire family or any combination of dogs is distinctly unenjoyable.  Having learned this lesson, I now look forward to frequent, low-intensity exercise. 

2.  Trying on clothes is highly overrated.  Browsing Amazon and trusting the reviews of hundreds of other people who are approximately my size yields tremendous results.  Also, returns are not as difficult as I always told myself. Having learned this lesson, I now own three of the exact same pair of flattering yoga pants and four comfy, cute tunic tops that also cover my butt.  Win-Win.  

3.  Birds are significantly more interesting than I originally thought.

4.  I have underestimated my ability to grow things.  In the past, I always thought I had a black thumb.  In actuality, I just had a high failure to attempt ratio.  Having increased the sheer number of attempts, I have thus increased my confidence.  This has led to recently planted herbs and tomatoes.  I will be sure to report the results.  

5. Zoom is an app that exists.  It is both a lifesaver and a burden.

6. Two glasses of wine is exactly the right number. Unless the circumstances call for five.  It’s entirely your call.  

7.  Crocs are underrated.  For my whole life, I have resided distinctly in the “You-will-never-see-me-with-those-ugly-things-on-my-feet” camp.  Plantar fasciitis, flimsy slippers, and rare chances to leave the house combined with my daughter’s commitment to this ugly footwear spurred me to give them a shot.  I will never wear slippers again. I haven’t converted so much that plan to leave the house in them, though. 

8.  Too much work makes everyone miserable.  

9.  Too much forced fun makes everyone miserable. 

10.  Each member of my family has a natural rhythm.  I am slowly learning to trust their rhythms and listen to my own.  For sure, we sometimes spend too much time watching Netflix or playing video games.  But each and every one of us tires of inactivity.  This threshold is different for every one of us.  But even left to their own devices, each child will emerge from his or her bedroom, seeking connection, or nature, or activity in their own way.  My daughter bakes and calls friends and washes her car.  My eldest son draws and plays with his pets and curls up next to me for a late night movie marathon.  The youngest builds and destroys and pulls out the board games.  Perhaps this has been the hardest lesson of all.  I don’t need to exert control nearly as much as I thought.  I don’t need to manufacture family fun or constantly cajole in order for my family to make healthy choices.  The relief in this realization is palpable.  

That’s the short list, for now.  What lessons have you learned (or re-learned) during this quarantine? I’d love to hear from you!