Author: Amy

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Day… Nine?

These days are roller coasters.  Everything makes me cry lately.  My emotions are simmering just barely below the surface, and even a little jostle will put me over the edge.  A photo of an Italian hospital.  Tears.  A text from a friend.  Tears.  A fun family meetup online?  Also tears.  I’ve seen such beautiful things and such ugly things from my couch this week… I’m not really sure what to do with it all except show up in all the ways that I can and keep loving my people.  

Truth be told, I’m not really sure if it’s day nine.  I do know that it’s Sunday.  I know this because I got to go to church this morning.  I mean, not face-to-face, shake-people’s-hands church.  Virtual church.  Which actually brought me to tears.  I set up my computer in the living room.  I figured out how to mirror the screen to my TV.  I picked up the dirty laundry and threw it just beyond the frame of the camera.  I rallied my family.  Three of us were dressed; two were still in pajamas.  Two of us had coffee, one drank tea.  One sketched through the sermon.  Another listened while he worked on a puzzle.  I looked at my family, safe and warm and fed and healthy.  I looked to the TV to see a whole community of MY people, mostly healthy, safe, and praying together.  I didn’t realize how much I needed that until it happened.  More tears.  Tears of happiness and relief and worry all at once.  What’s to come?  None of us knows.  But at least we can be assured that we will be loved through it. 

After church, we loaded the kids in the car for a little excursion. I have teens and a preteen who typically like to groan and grumble at all my corny ideas.  Family game night?  Do we haaaave to? A hike in the woods?  I don’t waaant to!  Help me make brownies?  How about I just help EAT the brownies?  But something weird is happening to my children.  Today, they just said, “Okay” and got in the car.  

Something similar happened last night when I ‘made’ everyone play Pictionary.  We finished the game, and at the moment when one kid would normally say, “Can we be DONE now?” there was still a little bit of banter happening. I tested the waters with, “How about just one more?”  I expected groaning.  I expected eye rolling.  But what I got was enthusiasm.  They wanted to keep playing.  I didn’t understand what was happening, but I didn’t want to jinx it, either.  We played four more rounds.  It was beautiful.  

But anyway, I digress.  Jack and I knew the mission this afternoon.  We had discussed it at length.  Knowing that I’ll be home for the next few weeks, I plan to work on a decorating project.  There will be spackling and painting and rearranging… and as part of the plan we found a great piece of used furniture on Craigslist.  We had arranged to go pick it up.  But we’ve been really strict with our kids about social distancing and hand-washing and not spending time with people who aren’t family.  The kids haven’t liked these rules.  As a matter of fact, yesterday, I had to tell my 17 year old that she couldn’t go to her best friend’s house to provide comfort following the recent death of her grandmother.  I tried to be compassionate but clear.  It was still really hard.  I don’t think our teenagers really grasp what is happening out there in the world.  To be fair, I’m not sure I comprehend it.  But these kids need our help to make good choices in a time when very little feels safe.    

And as part of that lesson, Jack and I wanted them to come with us on this little trip.  We all loaded into the truck.  There was good-natured argument in the back, of the ‘STOP-TOUCHING-ME’ variety. That happened right before Bea rested her head on Lee’s shoulder, so I didn’t take it too seriously.  They joked and teased each other and argued about the radio. It all just felt, well, normal.

Until… we went to the ATM, where they watched my husband snap on latex work gloves to operate the machine and handle the cash.  We went to the drive- through, where they saw the workers sanitizing their cash register and countertops.  We drove past the mall and the arcade and a dozen restaurants and salons with empty parking lots.  When we finally got to our destination, they watched THAT guy snap on latex gloves to take our money.  They saw the adults have a brief conversation; us in the driveway and the sellers 20 feet away on their porch.  They heard the conversation, so they knew that the furniture had been disinfected just before we picked it up.  On the way home, we talked about a few things we needed from the grocery store.  We explained that we wouldn’t all go in; it wasn’t necessary and it wasn’t worth the risk.  My 17 year old asked to come.  My husband’s instinct was to say no, but I wanted her to.  I think it was powerful for her to see the empty shelves and the newly erected plexi-glass screens installed to protect the cashiers.  She watched a handful of stunned-looking people picking up bread and fruit and milk.  She observed that nobody was going near anyone else.  I think she was a little ‘shook,’ as the kids would say.  

I don’t necessarily want her to be scared.  I just want her to be safe.  Right now, all of our kids need different things.  Some kids need reassurance and someone to keep them safe and protect them from unnecessary fear.  Some kids need solid information and comfort.  But some of our kids, especially our teens, might need to be a little ‘shook.’  Because at that age, they are fearless.  They’re supposed to be.  That’s how God made them.  So in times like these, they need us to help them to step out of their self-centered sense of immortality and into the real world.  They need a healthy dose of fear to keep them grounded and safe and considerate.  

Today, I think my kids got a beautiful balance.  They participated in a worship service that assured them that they are loved and supported and part of something bigger.  They got a little family fun and a little holy spirit and also a little reality check.  They saw adults who modeled what it looks like to take care of your people in such a strange time.  

Today, they were a little shook, and I like to think they’re better for it.  

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Feelings

There’s so much panic-inducing content on social media right now.  I have to limit my intake, or else I’d be curled into a ball of despair and frustration.  

Until today, I’ve been mostly positive.  We’ve had a little break.  We’ve gotten some projects done and enjoyed some much-needed family time.  We’ve been in contact with family and friends.  We’ve been out in nature and learning online and exploring our interests a little more deeply.  It’s been good, and I’ve been sharing a lot of that in my social media space.  Yesterday was a little tough.  I shared that on Facebook, too; minor frustrations couched in humor are still socially appropriate.  

But today I stepped away from social media.  I didn’t want to share any of it, because today was crappy.  Not just for me, but for a lot of people I love.  I have two close friends with kids in the hospital… not virus-related, but frightening and made scarier by the increased possibility of complications and exposure.  My brother-in-law got laid off. A friend in the restaurant industry set up a go-fund-me to help pay her bills.  

And all of these heavy sadnesses take up space in the back of my mind; space that I need in order to manage this new, working-and-schooling-from-home reality.  And then, the little things pile on top. 

I broke my toe last night.  There’s not even a good story.  I dropped my phone.  It hit weird and wrong.  My whole toe is purple and swollen and I can’t move it.  It hurts to walk.  

Two of our pet guinea pigs died today.  Within an hour of each other.  We’re not sure why.  A virus?  The temperature in that basement room?  Maybe the iceberg lettuce that I fed them, not knowing that they should only have romaine?  There’s guilt there.  And sadness.  And that sadness touches an anxiety so close to the surface that the tears we cry contain multitudes, because they’re for so much more than our lost little pets.  

It rained here all day.  Jack came home at noon because they didn’t have enough work to keep him busy all day.  What if he can’t make 40 hours this week?  What if he can’t make 30?  

And then all of this weird sadness and fear pools in my gut to create a swirl of guilt because… my kids are healthy.  We still have jobs.  We have so much to be grateful for.  And others are struggling so much more. 

So where does that leave me? 

I’ve learned that I’m hesitant to let myself have feelings.  I’m a chronic bottler… I shove all those emotions down deep until I can no longer stand the pressure and then I explode.  

I’m trying to do better.  I’m trying to acknowledge my feelings and sit with them.  I’m trying to get curious about them and feel them, even when they’re shitty… Even when other people have it worse.  So today, I stopped trying to rally the troops.  I stopped being the cheerleader.  I told them I felt frustrated.  I told them I was in pain.  I held them and we all cried over those freaking guinea pigs.  We read some books.  We watched some videos.  We ate some lunch and washed the dishes, but I didn’t force a schedule.  I didn’t fight them.  We retreated to our own separate corners and then we came back together to grieve and breathe.  

I’m feeling a little better now.  My foot is less achy.  My heart is less achy.  I’m still saying lots of prayers.  I’m still uneasy about what the future holds.  But for now, this family can hold each other close and feel all the feelings.  The pleasant ones and the hard ones. And I guess I’ll be sharing on social media after all.  Thanks for reading.  

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Something to Give

The house smells like pizza.  My favorite insulated tumbler is full of sweet tea (I haven’t added the vodka just yet), and I’ve read half a novel today.  I woke up early, showered, made a trip to the dump and then took Lee on a Target run.  We laughed our way through the aisles and then returned home with all the fixings for a bake-a-thon.  I’ve talked to my mom, my dad, and my mother-in-law today, and I’ve spent the morning exchanging texts with my sisters and many of my close friends.  

I’m sitting in front of my computer, focusing on taking deep breaths. I’m prayerful and grateful.  

And I am also just a few breaths away from a panic attack.  

When I was a kid, I felt the panic coming on and then I panicked more.  I would spiral so badly that I couldn’t breathe.  I couldn’t move.  I couldn’t speak.  The tears rolled down my face and I felt certain that I was dying.  

This continued into my twenties and thirties, but as I got older, I learned to recognize the signs before they became paralyzing.  I know that the pain behind my rib cage on my left side is my ‘notice,’ if you would.  It tells me I need to pause and breathe.  I need to listen to my body and stretch and pray and summon a mental list of my blessings.  My body tells me what’s about to happen, and I’ve learned strategies for preventing it.  

But what nobody has ever been able to explain is what causes it.   The doctors called it ‘free-floating’ anxiety when I was a kid.  Which always seemed like a ridiculously cute name for something so terribly crippling.  And if it was so freely able to float, why wouldn’t it just freaking FLOAT AWAY?

I could never point to a cause.  I was never able to identify a particular stressor.  My anxiety would appear at the most unexpected times.  It was never when I was in the middle of a crisis.  It didn’t show up for breakups or finals or first dates.  It reared its ugly head in the middle of a lunch date with a friend, or just before band practice, or in a hotel spa.  I didn’t believe the anxiety diagnosis for a long time, because … well, I just didn’t FEEL anxious.  

I’ve been in and out of therapy since I was a kid.  I recently started seeing someone new.  She’s great.  She’s thoughtful and funny and makes connections that I can’t see until she points them out.  And she’s started to point out all the ways that I twist myself in order to feel liked, or wanted, or needed, or respected.  

She has helped me to see that I don’t let myself feel my own feelings, because I’m too busy anticipating the responses or needs of others.  

And I’m starting to notice it in a million little ways.  I haven’t made my own favorite meal in years, because nobody else really likes it.  I let my husband interrupt me, even though it drives me nuts.  I spend so much time worrying about what my readers might want to read that I stop writing altogether. 

All of this is so deeply ingrained that I don’t even know I’m doing it.  I suppress my desires so intuitively that I don’t even realize what’s happening.  That is, of course, until I explode. Sometimes it looks like tears in the shower. Sometimes it looks like a panic attack in the grocery store.  Sometimes it looks like angry screaming at my kids.  

On Monday morning, as I was getting ready to leave for work, Lee called for me.  “Mom…. I’m so sorry.”  Not a good sign. 

Instead of cleaning his room the day before, what he had actually done was shove everything under his bed… including a gallon container of Elmer’s glue.  The container, poorly closed and lying on its side, had deposited a three-foot wide puddle of glue under his bed.  Resting in the glue puddle was an assortment of art supplies, empty cups, dirty clothes, and random trash.  

To say I lost my temper would be a gross understatement.  There was screaming and swearing and crying.  I could feel my pulse in my temple, and I think I pulled a muscle in my neck.  I lost my mind.  

And it wasn’t until my therapy session, two days later, that I was able to tease out what had happened.  She pushed me to look closer.  How much of that explosion was actually because of the glue?  What else had been going on?  What had I done to take care of myself that week? What was I really feeling? 

In hindsight, it was a straw-that-broke-the-camel’s-back kind of a moment.  I had been just barely maintaining the status quo.  I was treading water, trying to be a good mom and a good teacher and a good wife and a good friend, and none of it was clicking the way I wanted it to.  I was a shaken bottle of emotion, and the inevitable explosion took the form of rage.

 I lost it because I had nothing left to give.

********

Over the past week, I’ve been trying to ‘be fine.’ I laugh about the empty toilet paper shelves and wonder if people realize that humans lived for thousands of years without paper specifically designed for butt-wiping.  And then I walk a few feet away and buy cough medicine I don’t currently need.  

I tell my students and my kids to ‘just wash your hands’ while I make lists of ingredients for two weeks of dinners, ‘just in case.’  

I floss my teeth and photocopy vocabulary words like it’s a normal day, and then I spend my lunch period Googling various combinations of “Italy” and “COVID-19” and “CDC” and “pandemic.”  

Yesterday, I left work, picked up Lee from his afterschool club, and went to the store… not because I actually thought I needed something, but because I wanted to look around and make sure there wasn’t something I had forgotten.  

Please don’t take the time to write and tell me how crazy that was. My logical brain KNOWS that.  

But I’ve been so worried about LOOKING crazy, that I’ve been ignoring these feelings.  This anxiety is so repressed that it is beginning to seep out of me in ways that don’t make sense.  And maybe that’s exactly what a panic attack is.  It is the spillage that results from way too much trying to be fine. 

I got the call yesterday afternoon that school would be cancelled today in the district where I work.  Within minutes, I had made the decision to keep my own kids home, even though their schools aren’t closing until Monday.  And in that moment, I breathed a sigh of relief that helped me to see that I had been holding my breath for days.  

Today, as the world grinds to a halt in the face of a pandemic, I’m trying to let myself feel my feelings.  It’s okay to be scared.  It’s okay to feel sad.  It’s okay to be happy for the chance to binge Queer Eye and bake brownies with my kids.  All of it can be there at the same time.  The gratitude and the strength can co-exist with the fear and the worry.  

I’m trying to listen to my body and focus on my feelings and get curious about my emotional state. I’m opening my heart so I can be filled with something bigger than all of this.  And when I can embrace all of those emotions and inhale the grace that has been extended to me, I’ll be able to find my center. That’s where I’ll find my gifts and remember that, with God’s help, I will always have something to give.

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Going Stealth

Going Stealth

Lee transitioned in the fourth grade.  Now, four years later, he is in middle school with a bunch of kids who remember him as a girl, and a whole lot of students who know him as ‘the trans kid.’ 

And we all know that people can be mean.  And kids this age can be brutal.  There’s a core group of kids who refer to him as “that tranny.”  Of course, they never do it within earshot of adults, so it’s hard to prove and even harder to combat.  But, despite the ‘haters,’ he’s got a great group of loyal friends.  He’s got support and people who love him.  He is out and proud and unashamed.  

How much of that is a performance?  A show to convince everyone that the bullying and the name calling doesn’t bother him?  I’m not really sure.  I always just assumed this kid had an over abundance of confidence.  His “give-a-damn’s busted,” or some such cliché.  His favorite shirt reads, “Nobody Knows I’m Trans,” and I love him for wearing it proudly.  

But times, they are a changing.  He’s applying to High Schools.  And he’s excited about something I didn’t see coming.  

Going stealth.  

In the trans community, it’s a particular privilege (although this isn’t true for all trans people, especially those who with a non-binary identity) to be able to ‘pass’ in social situations.  When people in transition get ‘read’ as the correct gender by strangers in public, it’s often a milestone.  In unfamiliar situations, Lee has always had ‘passing privilege.’  Because he never went through a female puberty, he presents as male.  His hair, his clothing, his name… all of those non-medical changes were enough, at the tender age of 8, to prompt strangers to view him as a boy.  Now that he’s older, we’ve taken some medical steps, so his jaw is squaring, his shoulders are widening, a little shadow has appeared on his upper lip.  He’s pretty consistently gendered correctly.  

And having this ‘passing privilege’ opens up the option to ‘go stealth.’ He can simply rely on the general public to perceive the correct gender and not share his trans identity. 

That’s what Lee wants to do.  He wants to start at a new school, and just, well… keep his privates private.  He wants to be known for his artistic talent and his anime obsession and his animal-whispering skills.  He wants to make new friends and just BE, without answering uncomfortable questions and explaining himself to people who may or may not genuinely want to understand. 

His room is currently plastered in Pride flags.  Gay pride flags.  Pan pride flags.  Trans pride flags.  And last week, he asked me if he could take them down.  I didn’t know how to react.  The question was so unexpected… so out of character… that I wasn’t sure where it was coming from.  He read my face and clarified, “If I get to go to a different high school, I’m taking down my flags and climbing back into the closet.”  His phrasing made me giggle, but his words broke my heart.  

And, of course, it’s HIS choice.  It’s HIS lived experience we’re talking about, here.  

I haven’t lived as a trans person, so I don’t know what it’s like for him to be ‘out’.  I can’t imagine how hard it is to feel like you have a target on your back, especially as you navigate the nightmare of middle school.  But I do know what it’s like to have a secret.  To worry that someone might find out the thing that you so desperately want to hide.  To be afraid of the truth.  

Secrets are scary.  They can be used against you.  As blackmail or punishment or even a defense in court.  If a straight person murders a trans person, they can actually argue that they were so shocked and surprised by someone’s trans-ness that they’re not responsible for their own actions.  SERIOUSLY???

So, while I’m sure it would be easier for him to go to school as a boy and just ‘pass,’ I’m also worried about the repercussions if his ‘secret’ gets out.  Will he face potentially violent reactions if his peers feel like they’ve been lied to? 

I keep playing the ‘what-ifs’ in my head.  I keep imagining worst-case scenarios.  But I also need to imagine the relief at finally being able to just blend in.  The comfort of not having to watch your back or read between the lines or second-guess every interaction.  

Ultimately, I don’t think my opinion on this one is worth a damn.  He’s got to decide.  He’s always going to have to decide.  Every time he meets someone new.  Every time he starts a new job or makes a new friend or gets close enough to date someone.  Every time he enters a relationship, he’s going to have to make a choice.  He’s going to have to decide if the risk is worth the reward.  

And I can’t protect him from it.  I can’t mitigate the risks or predict the outcomes.  I can only be there to support him through it; to cheer him on through the wins and comfort him through the losses and remind him that his value is not dependent on other people’s reactions to him.  

Just like every other parent, I suppose.  I can’t fix the world for my kid, so I have to prepare my kid to be brave and bold and vulnerable and kind.  I have to help him to be cautious AND resilient as he becomes the incredible adult human that God intended him to be.  

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February Vacation

  

I’ve been browsing Facebook more than usual, because I’m on vacation this week. And it’s fascinating to get a glimpse of what my friends and acquaintances are doing.  There are ski trips and museum trips and big smiles and happy families.  There are pictures of beautiful beaches and tropical drinks and colorful sunsets.  I see old friends in bikinis, looking better than I ever did in my 20s. I have a friend who is on a once in a lifetime trip to Tokyo this week to visit her son.  How amazing is that?  

And, because I know and love these people, I am happy for them.  These are awesome experiences and once-in-a-lifetime trips.  These people deserve their vacations.

But holy cow, guys.  That’s not what my February vacation looks like.  And it’s not what it looks like for most of the people I know.  

Jackie’s kitchen ceiling collapsed this week.  She’s putting on a smile and being a trooper, but… GOD.  That sucks.  

Rebecca’s kids are with their dad this week. She’s working overtime to distract herself.  She hates missing vacations with them.    

Stephanie sent her kids to Florida to visit Grandma (at exorbitant cost), so that she can pack up her house and get ready to move.  She’s spending her days at work and her nights packing boxes.  

Jennifer is a single mom to two kids.  She’s fitting in her oil change and her trip to the DMV and taking her kids on day trips to pretty cool places.  She still feels like she’s not doing enough.  

Annie drove with her family to Florida.  Everyone was sick and it took two days longer than it should have.  But they made it.  

My kids have been watching too much YouTube and playing too many video games and when I finally got them out of the house yesterday, they argued the whole time.  

To the dads trying to entertain stir-crazy toddlers… You’ve got this.  

To the moms planning activities and crafts and distractions… You’re amazing.  Even when it ends in tears. 

To the parents who are letting your kids play too many video games… It’s fine.  They’re fine.  

To the working parents trying to cobble together child-care… Stay strong.  You’ve got this.  

Guys, let’s be in this together.  It’s not a contest.  Love your kids.  Go to work.  Have fun when you can.  Keep showing up for your family.  But take time to rest.  Cut yourself some slack.  You’re doing great.  

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Fourteen

Last night, my house was full of teenagers and laughter and off-color jokes.  There was pizza and painting and loud card games.  There were make-your-own sundaes, drowning in chocolate syrup and Swedish fish, because Kyle invited four friends over to spend the night in celebration of his 14th birthday.  My husband thinks I’m crazy, but I loved every minute of it.  Because when teenagers gather in groups, they forget the adults can still hear them.  They become wrapped up in their own inside jokes and their crude humor and their developing sense of self.  When they’re gathered like that, you get a glimpse of them becoming.  Becoming individuals.  Becoming adults.  Becoming the version of themselves that doesn’t have anything to do with you.  

Watching your kids grow up is a pretty universal phenomenon, but like childbirth or any aspect of raising kids, it’s also intensely personal and life-changing and brutal and beautiful. 

Today, my firstborn is 14.  Despite all evidence to the contrary, deep down, I think I thought he would be little forever.  When he was born, I couldn’t imagine a day when he wouldn’t need me to take care of him.  Yet, here we are. 

Today, my heart aches.  It aches with sadness AND joy and I didn’t even know that was possible.  Where did my baby go?  How did I get so blessed?  How can he be so funny and brave and talented?  Where did all of that come from?  

When did he get his own, caustic, incredible sense of humor?

How did he learn to draw like that? 

Where did that confidence come from? 

Why won’t he do his homework? 

Where did the years go? 

What will I do when he doesn’t need me anymore? 

If the goal of this whole thing is to help him become a real, functional, grown-up person, why does the thought of him NOT needing me bring me to tears?  

For all these years, people have been saying, “Enjoy every moment,” which is sage, yet impossible, advice.  And I’ve tried.  I try to enjoy every phase and appreciate each stage and just love the little moments.  But the moments are slipping away.  If fourteen years went by in a minute, the next four or five will be gone any second. 

And I can’t stop time.  The best I can do is notice its passing.  I can look around in this moment and pause to take it all in. 

There’s a gaggle of teenagers on my living room floor on sagging air mattresses, wrapped in cartoon-character blankets.  

There are two boxes of donuts on the counter, for when they wake up craving carbs and sugar.  There’s extra coffee for the parents because they will be full of carbs and sugar. 

There’s a fourteen year old with orange hair and trendy glasses and a smile that lights up the room, anticipating his traditional birthday breakfast donut.  

There’s a dusting of snow on the ground and two dogs asleep at my feet, while I sip coffee from the cup holder in the reclining couch that we almost didn’t buy because “Cup holders belong in cars, not couches.”  That logic was wrong, by the way.   

There’s a strong, funny, talented, kind, and easily-distracted bald dude sitting next to me who fills my heart with overwhelming love and also sometimes incredible frustration, and I look at him and I see my future and I also understand this teenager just a little better.  

There are two more kids upstairs, one sound asleep who was fourteen yesterday and will spend this weekend writing college essays.   The other is playing online games with his friends at this early hour.  He’ll be fourteen any second.  

The moments blend together and then separate with amazing clarity when you least expect it.  

There’s a giggle from the gaggle in the living room.  They’re stirring. 

In a moment, there will be more moments to enjoy.  And while I watch this child becoming who he will be, I will try to remember that I am becoming, too.  I am growing into this next phase of parenting; the phase that looks more like worrying and advising and celebrating than supervising and shuttling and, well, raising.  

They’re growing.  They will soon be grown.  And, thank God, there’s still so much to look forward to…

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Parent Teacher Conferences

I’ve recently changed my approach to parent teacher conferences.   My therapist helped me with this. 

During my therapy sessions, I often talk about my kids.  I’m passionate, thoughtful, caring, worried, creative, supportive, and obviously madly in love with these growing humans.  I talk about their challenges and their talents.  I talk about their poor attitudes and their astonishing kindness.  I talk about their bravery and their laziness.   I SEE them.  And I will break my back to do what’s best for them.  

Then I go into parent teacher conferences and I listen meekly, as if I don’t have anything to say.  I don’t make excuses for my kids, because I don’t want to be THAT parent.  I don’t question the teachers because I trust them.  I don’t offer suggestions for fear of stepping on toes.  

I listen.  And while I can tell that these educators truly care, they’re often bringing me in to talk about a problem.  An unmotivated child.  A child struggling with trauma.  A child with mental health concerns.  A child with ADHD or anxiety or depression or all of the above.  I hear about missing assignments or poor social skills or questionable decisions and I hang my head because all of these stories feel like a litany of my failures.  I take responsibility for their weaknesses and their mistakes and their choices.  I feel as if I am there to receive a punishment for poor parenting.  The guilt catches in my throat, and I’m not sure what the appropriate response is. The teachers look at me expectantly.  They’d like to hear what I’m going to DO.  They want to be reassured that the parents will take charge and FIX this once we get home.  As if we didn’t know.  As if it were that simple.  

Because, you see, I KNOW these kids.  I’m not operating under the illusion that they’re perfect little snowflakes. I’m not oblivious or absent or unconcerned.  I’m not hearing these things for the first time. Quite the opposite.  We hear the frustration and we FEEL it, too.  We know our kids have struggles. But we are engaged and thoughtful and our family is working hard to raise healthy, competent, confident, thoughtful, kind, motivated human beings who respect themselves and others and the world around them.  We are teaching them gratitude and responsibility and self-care and respect. 

In the past, I’ve sat through parent teacher conferences as if I were on trial or somehow receiving my punishment for poor parenting.  

This time, I did it differently.  Taking my therapist’s advice, I took control of the conversation.  I listened, but I also used my voice to paint a picture of life in our house.  They complained about homework completion. I shared my philosophy about NOT driving back to school to retrieve forgotten books or assignments.  Not because I don’t care, but because I don’t want to send the message that their forgetfulness is my responsibility.  Not to mention that nobody has the time to drive to three schools picking up forgotten materials at the end of a busy work day. I described what homework time looks like, with me bouncing from living room to dining room to den, answering questions and giving pep talks and making threats and offering suggestions to three students who struggle to complete their schoolwork independently.  

They asked about outside therapy.  I talked about our experiences with four therapists in three years and the trials of finding providers who take my school-provided insurance and the state-sponsored health care that Bea receives.  They talked about creating opportunities to socialize outside of school.  I shared our attendance at support groups and church events and music lessons and play rehearsals and play dates.  And lest they think that these children are defined by their shortcomings, I bragged about their awesomeness.  The adversity they’ve overcome.  The speaking engagements, and DCF hearings and family visits and church missions and performances where they let themselves shine for the world to see.  

They brought up suggestions that I’ve tried a million different times in a million different ways… rewards and punishments and behavior charts… and instead of explaining what DOESN’T work for my kids, I spent some time explaining what DOES help.  Weekly progress reports.  Creative projects.  Cuddling on the couch with tea and some work to complete.  Nighttime chats.  After school chores and wi-fi timers and doing their own damned laundry. When they asked about medication, I shared the dosage and explained the morning routine and that I sometimes have to leave while there’s a kid in the shower.  And if he didn’t take his medicine it’s because I couldn’t actually watch him so I shouted it four times and left a note and texted him and he STILL forgot.  So instead of feeling the silent blame, I asked if we could simply leave extra with the nurse for the days he forgets.  Problem solved.  

And from now on, I’m not going to parent teacher conferences to silently receive information.  The purpose is not for the teachers to teach me all about my kids.  I know my kids, better than probably anyone on the planet.  I’m not there to learn, and I’m not there to be reprimanded.  I’m there to listen and share and problem-solve and partner with these dedicated teachers.  Because we’re all on the same team.  We’re all working toward the goal of raising and educating decent, competent humans.  

And nobody should feel guilty about that.   

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2020

In recent years, the “Self-Help” section of bookstores and libraries has changed to “Self-Improvement.”  I know this because it’s one of my favorite sections to browse.  I’m a lover of books in all forms, but I especially love ones that weave together psychology and science and personal stories, exploring the myriad ways that humans have endeavored to become better humans.  I love learning about how our brains and our environments work together to motivate our actions; I’m fascinated by all of the ways that we can change our own habits and personalities; I’m amazed by all of the factors that work together in our conscious and our unconscious to make us who we are.  

And I like the name change.  Self-help implies brokenness, and I don’t believe I am broken.  I do, however, believe that all things can be improved.  Myself included. 

In fact, I believe that it is our obligation, while we’re here on Earth, to become the best possible versions of ourselves.  I believe we owe it to the world and to our creator and to our families and friends and neighbors and to OURSELVES to keep learning and growing and improving.  

So, I find myself here, in the New Year, thinking about resolutions, which have become little more than the butt of a joke.  On January 3rd, people ask, “Have you broken your resolution yet?”  Most of us will violate these promises to ourselves in the first few weeks of the year.  Resolutions work for some people as a form of self-improvement.  But a resolution is so rigid.  It’s a vow.  And it’s usually a vow to make some sort of large change which we have previously been unable to sustain, despite multiple attempts.  

Does the date make a resolution somehow more attainable?  Perhaps there’s something about starting on the first of a new year that appeals to our sense of order, but my most sustainable changes have started on, oh, say…. a random Wednesday in October. 

And, really, about 90% of my resolutions have been some form of ‘lose weight’ over the years.  

I’m hesitant to write about this, for fear of messing it up.  You see, I have been learning a lot about health and body positivity and self-acceptance, and much of that is fundamentally at odds with my inner desire to be thinner.  

And my inner desire to be thinner is fundamentally at odds with all I believe about human variation and the inherent value of people and our shallow cultural assessment of beauty. 

I’m not going to write about those things, because lots of educated, intelligent people have written about those things.  If you’re interested, you can read personal stories and scientific research and cautionary tales.  

If you’re fascinated by the brain, you should read, “Thinking, Fast and Slow” by Daniel Kahneman.  If you’re into self-improvement, you should read “Atomic Habits” by James Clear.  If you want to learn more about being healthy and fat, you should read about ‘Health at Every Size.’ 

And what I’m going to write about is how I’ve taken all of those things and squished them together into a vague plan of how to be a better human in 2020.  

I’m trying to find a better balance.  I’m building habits that make me feel better about myself, instead of playing into all the ways that the world wants me to think that I’m not good enough.  Does that even make sense?  

Because, the truth is, I do think it’s possible to believe that you are ENOUGH, and still know that you can be better.  But the only way to do it is to find YOUR version of better.  What will make you a better YOU?  

A better ME would write more.  Writing makes me feel more myself.  I know I’m doing something I’m meant to do when I write. 

A better ME would spend more time in nature.  Being outdoors brings me peace. 

A better ME would spend more time enjoying my children. My kids remind me what joy looks like, if I only take the time to see it.  

The list goes on and on.  It’s too much to tackle all at once.  But I’ve learned a little about habits and since October, I’ve started “habit stacking.”  What this means is… I take a habit I want to develop and I attach it or ‘stack’ it on top of a habit I already have. 

For example; I’m terrible at flossing.  I hate it and avoid it and then feel like a petulant child at my dental check ups when they tell me that I need to floss more.  But I do brush my teeth every day.  So I stacked flossing on top of that.  Every time I brushed my teeth, I was reminded of my commitment to floss.  It was yucky and irritating at first.  But that was months ago.  Now it’s just part of my routine.  And once I added the flossing, I stacked ‘take a multivitamin’ on top of that.  So with very little effort, I managed to add two small habits that, cumulatively, will likely have a positive impact on my health.  

I did the same to make a shift in my breakfast routine.  A few months ago, I generally ate nothing or some sort of egg sandwich; neither option was healthy.  But I ALWAYS had coffee.  So I stacked ‘eat fruit’ on top of the coffee.  Every morning with my java, I also had an apple or a banana or a handful of raspberries.  On weekend mornings, I might still have a bigger breakfast with my family, but fruit first gets me off to a better start.  

I don’t like myself when I’m dieting.  I become compulsive and obsessive.  I have an all-or-nothing attitude and I become self-deprecating and cranky.  The numbers on the scale dictate my mood and I ride a roller coaster of self-congratulating and self-loathing that totally sucks.  Newer evolutions of weight-loss programs are beginning to acknowledge this unhealthy cycle through things like “non-scale victories” and ‘small changes.’  But those programs still make their money by making us feel like we’re somehow broken and in need of fixing.  

I’m not buying into it anymore.  I’m not broken.  In fact, I’m pretty amazing in a lot of ways.  And the ways that I can improve aren’t about the way I LOOK at all.  Here are my goals for 2020:

– Walk the dogs more.  Get outside.

– Do more yoga. 

– Spend 1:1 time with at least one kid every week.

– Find and cook new, delicious recipes.  

– Be more present. 

– Write.  Write a lot.  

I’m not going to do this all at once.  I’m going to stack my habits and make small changes and enjoy feeling like I’m becoming the best possible version of myself.  

Whether you made a resolution or not; whether you’ve stuck to it or given up or changed it, know that you are enough, right now, in this moment.  Make sure anything you vow to change takes you on the road toward being MORE you.  

And the rest of us will be abundantly blessed just to know you.  

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Holidays

I love winter.  And I have the privilege of being able to love winter because I am married to an incredible man who is mostly content to do all of the snow-clearing whilst I bake banana bread and read in front of a fireplace and maybe run the vacuum.  

Some teachers will adamantly declare that they don’t like snow days because they cut into the joy of summer.  I vehemently disagree.  I love a snow day.  I love an unexpected day off, with no demands and no accusatory sunshine demanding outdoor enjoyment or relentless activity.  A snow day is for pajamas and movies and good books and card games.  It’s for cooking and sipping warm drinks and cuddling.  Snow days are heaven for those of us who enjoy the blessing of doing a whole lot of nothing urgent.  

Unfortunately, my husband almost never gets to experience the joy of a snow day.  During the long winters, there are inevitably days when he rises with the sun to go to work and the children and I stay cuddled under down comforters until our bladders or our hunger pains awake us.  And then we amble around, perhaps making an extravagant breakfast or watching movies or playing card games in our pajamas.  

Today was one such day.  Never mind that we’re already on vacation.  Today was perfect for lounging.  We had an eventful day yesterday, and I was looking forward to a mostly- relaxing indoor day, wherein the most strenuous items on my to-do list involved loading the dishwasher and dialing the phone.  A little snow fit perfectly into my plans for the day.  

My husband had already tried to run the snow blower before he left for work at 5:30 am.  The slushy mix clogged the throwing mechanism; consequently, he cleared just enough to get his van out of the driveway, leaving the rest. 

I probably could have left it for him, but that would’ve been pretty awful of me.  I know this because I’ve done it before.  I’ve enjoyed my snow day, completely oblivious to the outdoor conditions because I’m spoiled.  And he has come home after a long day of physical labor, looked at me with apparent disappointment, and asked, “You were home all day and you didn’t even clear the walkway?” 

Now, to be fair, that’s the equivalent of me taking the children away to visit family for the weekend and coming home to a pile of laundry and a sink full of dishes.  We are both equally capable of appallingly inconsiderate behavior.  But we mostly try to avoid it.  So I added “shovel the driveway” to my mental to-do list.  

Admittedly, I procrastinated shoveling for as long as possible.  I didn’t want to get my snow gear on.  I didn’t want to fight with the kids to come out and help.  I didn’t want to be cold and sweaty.  But the heavy, wet snow was already turning to slush that would eventually turn our driveway into an impassable sheet of ice.  So I rallied the two children who were home with me, and we donned our snow boots and gloves and began to shovel.  

What is it about the human psyche that allows us to mentally manipulate simple, satisfying tasks into wretched, undesirable chores? 

I do this all the time.  I spend my time and mental energy so inefficiently by agonizing about a task rather than simply doing it.  I’ll think about an unpleasant phone call for a week before I dial the phone.  I’ll make mental lists and written lists and share a litany of to-dos with my husband.  In the time it takes me to guilt myself about incomplete chores, I could have completed several of the offending tasks.  In the time it takes me to decide to clean the refrigerator, I could have cleaned it three times over.  

And so it was with the shoveling.  With the kids’ help, it took less than half an hour.  We were outside, joking with each other and getting some sun and breathing fresh air and getting a little exercise.  Since we were already so close to the car, we hopped in once our job was done.  The kids came with me to run some errands and pick up some ice cream and toppings for our traditional New Year’s Eve Sundae Bar.  We shopped at the dollar store and picked up some pet food and it was actually a really nice afternoon.  

This lesson? This notion that sometimes you just need to DO THE THING, even when it’s not appealing?  That lesson seems to be the theme of this holiday season for me.  Let me give you a few examples.  

– I usually agonize over gifts for my parents.  I stress about it for weeks and ask a million people for advice and wait for inspiration to strike, and inevitably I end up buying a restaurant gift card or something equally uninspired.  This year, I skipped all the agonizing, bought the gift cards, and felt relieved to cross it off my list so early in the shopping season.  

– My bedroom is tiny.  My furniture is huge.  There aren’t a lot of choices about how to arrange it, so it hasn’t been moved in ages.  But the dog hair collecting beneath the immovable bureau became the cause of increasing disgust, so I finally shoved it all around so that I could vacuum all the nooks and crannies.  I got it so clean I wasn’t afraid to put out my new white comforter.  Then I splurged on some throw pillows and actually managed to rearrange a few things, and my new, clean redecorated room inspired the next change…

– About a year ago, one of our sons installed a light switch in my bedroom.  He had to rip open the wall and then he spackled the whole thing to reassemble it… but I didn’t remember the paint color I needed to cover the ugly white spackle.  After a year of procrastinating, I finally went to get paint samples and choose a new color.  I was ready to repaint the room.  Unbelievably, I was able to find a color that was an exact match to what was already there.  So I only had to paint one wall and touch up a few other spots.  It looks fantastic. I wish I had done it a year ago. 

– For the past three years I’ve skipped the whole Christmas Card thing.  That, in itself, was liberating and helped me to evaluate the list of things that I have to do over the holidays.  I’ve realized that about 90% of those things are actually optional.  Who knew?  But back to the card… this year, I had a picture of all 5 kids.  It wasn’t great.  It accurately captured the moods of 4 angsty teenagers who didn’t want to be there and one overly-excited 10 year old who was still looking forward to Santa’s arrival.  It was taken a year ago.  But all the kids are dressed nicely and looking at the camera and nobody is actively sneering or crying.  I took advantage of cyber- Monday sales to turn this photo into a card and I mailed it to all our friends and family.  The photo has prompted laughter and conversations and the sympathy of moms-of-teens all over the country.  Perfection is overrated.  

– And to return to ‘optional’ holiday activities?  This year, we ordered Chinese food on Christmas Eve.  Between church obligations and family activities, the traditional Christmas Eve dinner just didn’t work out.  And you know what?  It was amazing.  No fuss, no mess, just a lot of laughter and gifts and drinks with our grown and almost-grown children.  I think I might have found our new tradition.

Sometimes, letting go feels really good.  And sometimes, doing the thing you didn’t want to do ALSO feels really good.  I learned a lot of lessons this holiday season… about changing my perspective and changing my expectations and changing my approach.  

Maybe those lessons will carry me in to 2020 with a lighter load and a more grateful heart.  Maybe they’ll help me to find my motivation when it’s lost and accept God’s grace when I need it most.  Happy New Year, everyone.  Here’s wishing you gratitude and peace and motivation and grace, in whatever measures bring you peace.  

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Connecting

Some nights, Jack and I sleep in the same bed, barely touching, except maybe to try to roll one another over to stop the snoring.  But other nights, we sleep wrapped up in each other.  My head on his shoulder, his arm around my waist.  Shift.  Spooning together, his breath against my neck.  Shift.  My leg thrown over his, our bare feet rubbing against each other.  Not passionate; affectionate.  Comfortable and connected and warm.  Sometimes too warm.  He’s like a furnace and I need to roll away, but as I pull my body from his, I reach my foot back.  We sleep with our feet touching, just to remind each other that we’re still connected. 

We slept like that last night, and I woke up this morning feeling particularly calm and grateful.  

It’s my favorite time of day.  I can see the pink of the sunrise peeking through the high windows in the front door. Everyone is still asleep, and my coffee is rich and warm.  I’m wearing my softest tank top and comfy pants, and I’m still warm from the weight of my husband’s arm around my waist as I scooted out of bed.  

We put up the Christmas tree yesterday.  It’s glowing in the corner, and I’m feeling particularly accomplished because there are already gifts underneath it, wrapped and ready to go.  This is the first year that nobody believes in Santa, and while it’s a little sad and hard to let go, it’s also nice not to worry about which wrapping paper only Santa can use.  Cal is getting a kick out of BEING Santa, and I’m loving the fact that I no longer have to remember to move the elf.  

Now that they’re into the spirit of being Santa, I finally took the kids Black Friday shopping for the first time this year. I don’t love to shop, but they wanted to go, and since I’ve been avoiding it for basically their entire lives, I decided to let them give it a try.  We live in the suburbs, three minutes from the nearest Target.  We got up around 6:30 and got there at 7, and while it was busy, it didn’t feel crazy.  It was like a Holiday Saturday at noon.  Not slow, but not unbearably packed.  

We actually had fun. The kids picked out gifts for each other, so nothing’s a secret, but they all left knowing that they’ll have something they love under the tree on Christmas.  They gave me gift ideas and they had me smell candles to choose my favorite scent.  Bea and I sipped coffee while we browsed and chatted about unimportant things.  It was lovely.  

Last night, we ate soup and grilled cheese around the dining room table and talked about our plans for the weekend.  We teased and laughed and connected, and it didn’t require a fancy meal or hours of prep work.  And after dinner, while nobody admitted to wanting to watch Frozen, they all stopped by in the living room at intervals to sit with us while we watched, which felt just right.  

They’re growing up and I’ve been worried about it.  I’ve been missing my babies.  I keep pushing for family time that they don’t want and activities that don’t interest them because I miss the connection I feel when we do things all together.  But maybe I need to listen more and push less.  Maybe I need to get better at making appealing invitations instead of whiny demands.  Maybe I need to shift the expectations a bit.  

This whole parenting thing is an experiment.  Some days hold success; others, failure.  But there’s a lesson in every one.  When I can step back, I realize that this is the best-case scenario.  My kids are pulling away, little by little.  They’re growing up.  That’s good.  That’s just as it should be.  Jack and I are still reaching toward each other.  That’s amazing.  That’s a blessing.  And we’re all still here, under one roof, for a little while longer.  Clashing and connecting and arguing and laughing and loving each other the best way we know how.  

Today, I choose to be grateful for that.