Author: Amy

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Heartbreak

This damned job rips your heart out sometimes.  

I have friends who are not in education.  Those friends will often complain that something is missing in their work.  Some feel that their talent is being wasted. Some feel like glorified salespeople. Some feel undervalued, or derive little personal satisfaction from the end goal of making money.  When I’m in those conversations, I am reminded of why I chose education.  I don’t suffer from that particular affliction.  I find a deep purpose in my job.  It’s not overstating to call education a calling.  Those of us who do it, do so in spite of the many drawbacks… we do it because we feel deeply called to teach.  

We all know that teachers don’t enter the field because of the financial allure of a big paycheck. We don’t have a lot of hope for advancement.  We do count on decent benefits to provide a counter to the constant financial and emotional drain of this particular career.  

And we start out with an idealistic sense of our own power for good.  We start with boundless energy and enthusiasm and optimism.  We start with a deep love for humanity; for children in particular.  We want to be a part of something bigger.  We want to change lives and show love and impart knowledge along with confidence and character and a love of learning.  

And then. 

We learn some hard lessons. We learn that our best efforts will often be rewarded with a lack of support or even outright opposition.  We learn that those parents we thought were on our side may actually view us as an enemy force, conspiring to corrupt and demean their children.  We get slammed by grief, as if for our own children, as we watch our students experience trauma or violence or heartbreak.  We load our desks with snacks and spare toiletries for those who are homeless or struggling or simply without supervision as parents struggle to make ends meet.  We run clubs and after school events on our own time and our own dime, so that our students have a safe place to spend a few extra hours after school.  We pool our resources to ensure no student will be without a gift for the holidays.  We buy coats and shoes and gloves to leave with the nurse, for the kids who come in without them.  

And when my husband and I decided to become foster parents to take in a student with nowhere to go, do you know what the intake worker on the phone said to me?  She said, “Oh, you were her teacher?  God bless teachers.  I don’t know where half these kids would be without teachers who step up.” 

Teachers do.  They step up.  And the financial sacrifice is nothing compared to the emotional sacrifice. Because you can’t do this job well without putting your heart into it.  If you’re not capable of loving other people’s kids, then teaching isn’t for you. If you’re going to make a difference, first you have to make a connection.  You have to look at the students who are hard to love; you have to really get close and you have to find their best qualities, and you have to bring out those qualities over and over and over again until the student begins to recognize that they, too, have gifts to share.  The kids that are hard to love are often the ones who need it most. And if you’re going to connect with those kids, you have to be willing to let your own heart get broken over and over again.  

And when these kids move on, you wish them luck.   You check in on them occasionally.  You clip newspaper articles and leave them in the staff room with a smiley-faced note that proudly proclaims, “Former student! ”  You run into them at the bank and the grocery store and some will come right up and hug you while others sneak by with a shy smile and the briefest eye contact. You go to high school graduation for each class that you’ve had the privilege to teach.  You cheer loudly and you congratulate them by name.  

Because that’s just what you do.  

Teachers know that.  

So how is it that I know all this, and this week still took my breath away?  This week shook me like a rag doll and then left me breathless and bleeding emotion.  

The foundation of this crappy week is sadly something pretty typical for special education teachers. I’ve been teaching for 18 years, and this is the third time that I’ve had to work with a lawyer to prepare for a hearing because parents are suing.  Of course, I can’t get in to the details of the case, but I’ll give you some background.  If a student needs an out of district placement, I believe it is my responsibility to advocate for that.   I will never lie and say that our school is meeting the needs of a child if I don’t believe that to be true.  That’s the good thing about teachers’ unions.  They protect teachers so that we have the freedom to advocate for kids instead of being puppets for the financial decision makers.  But there will always be parents who want something different for their children than the school district is willing to provide (read- finance).  And so. We have to gather all our paperwork and dot our I’s and cross our T’s and take precious time away from our students to prepare to go to court.  As a general rule, teachers are pleasers.  We’re pretty confrontation-avoidant, and because we put our whole selves into every ounce of this job, we take any criticism as a personal attack.  A hearing is pretty much the opposite of how we’d choose to spend our days. 

So this week started with preparing for court.  

And then come the state tests.  I won’t write all of my thoughts about state tests here.  A measure of progress makes sense.  Eight year olds having panic attacks and bursting into tears because the teachers who have always guided them and encouraged them aren’t allowed to support them at all?  Come on. Eight hours of testing? Unnecessary. A computer-based assessment when all the research tells us that kids’ reading comprehension deteriorates on a screen? Well, that’s just nonsense.  There’s got to be a better way.  

State testing layered over court preparations.  The week was off to a rocky start.  

And then the unthinkable happened.  Our community was rocked by tragedy.  A murder- suicide involving both parents of five children who have moved through our school system.  I couldn’t breathe for a moment when I found out who it was.  I shoved all of the emotion to the back of my mind and I proctored the test and I taught some students and I prepared for the hearing. 

And I turned into a puddle when I got home that night.  I told myself I was overreacting.  I told myself that my tears didn’t make sense.  This wasn’t my family.  I barely knew the parents.  

But the kids.  I taught the youngest.  I could see his face when I closed my eyes.  I thought of him and my heart broke into a million little pieces. I cried.  And I cry every time I think about it.  

You know that phrase about having kids?  “It’s like having your heart walking around in the world every day.”  Well, imagine that times a thousand.  Or more.  How many students have I taught over the past 18 years?  They’re all walking around out there, with a little piece of my heart.  

The next day, I spoke with one of my teaching partners.  She had the kid in class, too.  And I confessed that I was totally shaken; in a way that almost seemed inappropriate. I was more upset than should be warranted, given my peripheral relationship with the mom and dad, and the fact that the kid had been in my class several years ago.  

But her eyes widened, and she looked at me and said, “Yes.  Yes.  Me, too.” And we both held back tears for a few minutes as we reflected on our time with that kid and we shared the common thread of our helplessness and the overwhelming emotion of knowing that this kid whom we had cared for so patiently and carefully and lovingly…. this amazing young man just had his life ripped apart.  His heart was broken and ours broke right along with it. 

Because that is what we take on as teachers.  We take on all the heartache.  

Today, I just have to sit in the sadness. I have to acknowledge that this job requires more than just my time and my energy and my commitment.  It requires connections and relationships.  And what makes it good is also what makes it hurt so damned badly. That’s the risk of relationship. That’s the price of a job that makes you whole; it also has the power to take a piece of you.  

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39

Today is the last day of my 30s.  

I wake up to the smell of dog pee on my carpet.  Again. And before I even open my eyes, I’m doing mental calculations.  How much will the vet bill be if she actually has a bladder infection?  What if it’s worse than that?  What if she has cancer?  I can’t afford to treat dog cancer.  Wait.  What am I thinking? I don’t care about the money.  This is my beloved PET!  But… how much money are we talking about here?  Maybe she’s just getting old.  Am I going to pay hundreds of dollars for the vet to tell me she’s old?  When should I replace the carpet?  How much will it cost to replace the carpet?  Is she just going to continue to pee on the new carpet? What about flooring and a throw rug? Am I mentally redecorating for a dog with cancer? 

I roll out of bed, clean up the mess, and let the dog out.  I make myself a cup of coffee and slice an apple and start my to-do list. I have about fifteen phone calls to make; the tree guy (I’ve been putting that one off for a couple of years), schedule Bea’s road test (this terrifies me, and I’ve been postponing it for weeks), the doctor’s office, the other doctor’s office, the dentist, the hospital billing department (because I swear I already paid that co-pay)… but it’s 6am, and none of those places are open yet, so I set the list aside.  I stop writing long enough to rub the sleep out of my eye, and then I realize my mistake.  

I have a sensitivity to a few fruits; apples are one of them.  I can eat certain types.  Others make my mouth itch.  But all apples need to go directly into my mouth.   God forbid the juices get near my eye.  You see where I’m going with this, right? I just rubbed my eye with a hint of apple on my finger and now my eye is itchy and swelling and red and it’s entirely because of my own stupidity.  

I leave my list to wash my hands and rinse my eye and on my way back, I get distracted by the unmade bed in my room and then I head upstairs to the linen closet because I really need to change the sheets before I make the bed.  A tangle of squished sheets and blankets tumbles out when I open the door, like a scene from a bad comedy.  I spend 30 minutes cleaning the closet.  I change the sheets and make the bed and pour a second cup of coffee.  I spread some peanut butter on a banana for my kid and he spills dry tapioca all over the kitchen floor.  I walk across the kitchen with dry tapioca pearls stuck to the bottom of my feet, and I hand him the broom.  

This is the last day of my 30s.  

For my 30thbirthday, my husband threw a party.  He rented a room at a restaurant and his band played and he invited everyone we knew.  My kids were 2 and 4 at the time.  They danced and ran around and were generally adorable.  Eventually, my niece took them home to bed.  She babysat and I danced and drank heavily and said some terribly embarrassing things in front of my father.  I laughed with my college friends.  I reminisced with my sisters.  I introduced my old friends to my new friends, and I reveled in being the center of attention.  People came from out of town; there was an after party in a friend’s hotel room and we finally passed out in the wee hours of the morning.  It felt like I was 22 again.  I loved it.  That party was epic. 

I am almost 40.  

I’m not feeling old or depressed or any of those things that stupid movies tell women they should feel when turning 40.  I love my life.  I’m glad to be 40.  Maybe it’s cliché, but I feel like I’m coming into my own.  I’m learning and growing.  I’m becoming a better human.    

A decade ago, I was a newlywed and a new mother. I had beautiful babies and a loving husband and I was living somebody’s dream (mine?  I wasn’t sure…) But my whole life felt unfamiliar and I secretly looked forward to those rare nights when I could go out and feel childless again.  I read books and I made plans and I was totally committed to doing marriage and motherhood right.  I was scared most of the time.  

I look back on that young woman and I admire her.  I love her energy and her passion and her commitment.  I feel her confusion and her struggle and I wish I could go back and give her a hug.  

I am not that woman anymore. 

I recently picked up a book at the library.  It’s one of those funny books about motherhood and it starts pre-baby and tells the birth story and then makes a lot of jokes about sleepless nights and baby poop and all the unexpected parts of new motherhood.  I’m finding it mildly entertaining, but totally irrelevant to my life.  Because middle-motherhood is a totally different beast.  

I’m not a new mother anymore.  I’m a middle-mother.  My kids are in the middle of their childhoods.  I’m halfway done with the ‘raising them’ part (I have no illusions about ever being ‘done parenting.’)  I’m not sleep-deprived anymore.  I’m not changing diapers. I’m at the point of motherhood where a puking kid isn’t even a punchline… it’s just another moment in a series of moments. I’m at the point where none of this feels new anymore.  

Except it is.  Puberty and driving and break-ups and college.  It’s all new.  And scary.  But it’s not the kind of scary you can joke about.  It’s ‘suicidal teens’ and ‘substance abuse’ and ‘date rape’ scary. It’s real-world, big-person problems. It’s a court date with your foster daughter and a night in the hospital with your teen.  

So solace doesn’t come from a funny book anymore.  It doesn’t come from drunken, escapist, ‘pretending-I-don’t-have-kids.’ It comes from real, genuine, human connection with other mothers.  Solace comes from knowing we’re not alone.  It comes from prayers and faith and it comes from all of the mothers before us, who have walked the journey and come out on the other side.  

I’m so grateful for the women who hold me up.  I have friends, of course, who are wonderful.  But I’m particularly grateful for those women who are a generation (or more) ahead of me on this journey.  These warriors KNOW.  My mother. My mother-in-law.  My Aunt Bev.  There are a few women in the church who read this blog and hug me afterward in a way that lets me know that they remember all of this.  They know.  And they will talk me through and hold me up and remind me that I am not the first or the last.  I count on these women to help me with the mothering, but they also help me to find the truth buried in all our myths about marriage.  

I’m not a new wife anymore. I am no longer operating under the illusion that ‘our relationship is different’ or that ‘all you need is good communication.’  I realize now that a date night won’t fix everything… but it certainly helps.  I’m starting to hear ‘staying together for the kids’ as ‘not ready to give up.’  I look at the relationships around me and I realize that we’re all capable of breaking each others’ hearts.  I’m starting to understand that any relationship is a series of choices and that you can choose each other or you can choose to leave… but they both require Herculean effort and the only escape is apathy.    

I’m starting to replace, “I would NEVER…” with “You never know…” and I’m just a little bit softer. In every sense of the word.  My body is softer.  My heart is softer.  I’m a little less judgmental and a little less edgy.  I’m a lot less cool, and I’m seeing more value in simply being warm.  

This is the last day of my 30s.  

I run the errands and make the phone calls and make a plan that will pull my kids off their screens. I connect with a friend and eat an omelet and use the good conditioner when I shower.  I put on my new socks and my favorite jeans.  I load the dishwasher and I take my son to the cardiologist.  

A decade ago, I would have been terrified.  Today, I am confident.  The doctor tells me what I already feel- my kid is fine, he needs to drink more and stand up slowly and sit down when he’s feeling faint.  An awesome sonographer points out all the parts of my baby’s heart, on a screen so like the one where I first saw his little heart beat.  She patiently describes where the valves are and points out how the blood is flowing and my other son rests his head on my shoulder and we are all reassured.  I’ve got this.  As I listen to his heart beat once again, I realize I’m stronger now than I’ve ever been. 

At home, I shave my legs and pluck my chin hairs and pour a glass of wine. I text my sister.  I run the vacuum.  I read a little and write a blog post. 

Tonight, I will get together with a small group of friends.  We will eat and drink too much and laugh too loudly. We’ll celebrate our friendship and appreciate each other.  I’ll hold my husband’s hand and enjoy his company and I will look at him and remember how far we’ve come.  I will hug my kids (against their will) and I will relax into all of these blessings.  

Today is the last day of my 30s.  

Tomorrow, my fourth decade begins.  And I’m ready for it.  I’m looking forward to it… even if there’s dog pee on the carpet.  

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A Beautiful Day

Today is the first day of April vacation.  I woke up to the crash of thunder outside my window, and lay in bed listening to sheets of rain hit the glass.  I love a good thunderstorm.  It was still dark.  I grabbed a candle and a cup of coffee and headed toward the couch near the window in my living room. My dog is scared of thunder, so she curled up next to me with her muzzle in my lap.  As I sat there, enjoying the lightning flashes, my youngest wandered down the stairs. “Did you hear that!?” he marveled, with a glint in his eyes.  He loves storms as much as I do.  

So I sat on the couch. I cuddled my kid and sipped my coffee and pet my dog and watched the rain come down in sheets and the lightning crack across the sky.  I listened to the thunder crash and I appreciated my son’s wonder.  

It was a good moment. 

Sometimes, a day will start with one of those good moments and just keep on going.  Those are the days when I feel like I’m nailing it. The days when I feel like a good parent and a good teacher and a good friend; the days when I manage to sneak in a little self-care and balance all of the roles.  

Sometimes, it’s exactly the opposite.  You know those days, right?  The days when nothing goes right and you feel like a failure across the board?  Those are the days when you wish for a do-over and you hope you haven’t lost your job or traumatized your children.  

But really, most days are just in-between.   Most days are an assortment of successes and failures; moments of beauty and moments of pain; a little bit of peace and a little bit of chaos.  Satisfaction and disappointment. Laughter and tears.

I’ve been trying to get better at something.  I’m trying to recover more quickly when things go sideways.  I’m trying to ensure that a bad moment doesn’t turn into a bad day. I’m not great at it, but I’m getting better.  

I guess I see myself as a pretty typical mom.  I yell sometimes.  And I laugh sometimes.  We play games and we also do laundry.  We get the homework done and we have dance parties in the kitchen.  I think we have a reasonable balance.  

But I was visiting with family recently.  This is my side of the family; the family we don’t see nearly often enough.  The little one forgot to take his ADHD medicine, so he was bouncing off the walls.  The older two were being ultra-sullen teenagers, and I was shooting them warning glances across the table.  I guess none of us was at our best, when I really think about it.  

In that moment, my sister decided to reprimand me for reprimanding my son.  In front of everyone, she asked, “Why are you so mean to him?”   And then the whole family jumped in on it.   I’m too angry.  I’m always yelling. My kids have jokingly called me ‘the dream crusher’ for years; it’s always felt affectionate.  On that day, it just hurt.  

I wanted to respond. I wanted to defend myself.  What about the trips to the museum?  The puzzles and the tents in the backyard and the ice cream for dinner? What about all the times I run to the store for posterboard at 8pm?  All the birthday parties and nighttime cuddles and tickle wars?   

But I didn’t want to draw attention to how much the whole thing upset me.  I didn’t want to make it worse.  I didn’t want to drag it out.  I don’t see my family that often.  I wanted to enjoy the day.  We had plans to do something fun, and I had been looking forward to it for weeks.  So I wanted to figure out how to take that crappy moment and put it behind me. 

I tried.  I’m not sure I succeeded.  We took some photos, but the teenagers continued to be sullen. The bouncy one continued to bounce. We went to an animation museum. It was a little mom-and-pop shop open by appointment only, and it was a bit of a risk because we weren’t quite sure what we were in for.  But I loved it.  The presentation was great and it was perfect for the kids and still interesting for the adults.  I was still worried that the bouncy one was going to break something, but I tried to redirect him with a smile.  The older two continued to sulk, but I tried to find out why and they both explained that they weren’t feeling well.  I shared my water bottle and tried to have a bit more compassion… and I think the day got at least a little better.  

But it’s hard.  It’s hard to feel angry or hurt or frustrated… and then just let it go.  And I guess it depends, right?  Is it a thing you CAN just let go?  Is it a thing that needs to be discussed?  Because there’s a difference between burying something and letting it go. I think, on that day, I didn’t really let it go.  I just buried it.  Because when I think back on it, it still smarts a little.    

Here’s another example.

We had to leave early for church, because three of the four of us were playing in the bell choir. I gave everyone a warning the night before.   I made sure they were awake.  I prompted them through showers and breakfast.  I gave everyone the five-minute warning.  And then I announced that it was time to go.  The oldest responded, “I’m not ready!”  When I asked how long she would need, I got attitude. She responded with the words, “I don’t know,” but her tonesaid, “What a stupid question.  How would I know?”  I asked, “Can you give me an estimate?  Should I just leave without you?”  Her response was, “Sure.”  But imagine that ‘sure’ laced with a little ‘I’m happy to miss church because I hate it and you’re being a witch.’ 

So we left without her. But there was NO WAY I was going to let her get away with skipping church.  I texted.  “Find a way to get here.  It will take you 20 minutes to walk or 10 minutes to ride your bike.”  No response.  

She got there. She didn’t walk or ride her bike, but she called a friend and got a ride and showed up in time.  I was on the other side of the sanctuary setting up the bells.  She didn’t look at me.  No eye contact.  She was angry.  I was angry.  And I had to talk myself through it.  I had to make a choice.  

I could continue to be angry.  I could sulk and ignore her, too.  Or I could move on and try not to let it ruin the day.  So I decided on the latter.  I thanked her for getting there.  She was obviously still unhappy with me, but I think she was expecting me to be angry, too.  When I wasn’t… it was like it gave us both permission to move on.  Within a few minutes, we were back to normal.  She asked to drive on the way home.  We went shopping.  We went out for ice cream.  It actually turned out to be a lovely day.  

In that case, I think I actually let it go.  I wasn’t angry anymore.  And I was never really hurt.  Once I made up my mind that it was over, it could actually be over.  

I’m still learning. Every day, I try to hold on to the beautiful moments and I’m trying to navigate the tough moments with a little more grace.  I’m trying to do a little more ‘hugging it out.’  I’m trying to do a little less burying my feelings and a little more apologizing and explaining and moving on.  I’m working on being clear and consistent about my own boundaries, and I’m trying to listen a little bit better. I’m trying not to let a crappy moment turn in to a crappy day.  Sometimes I succeed.  And sometimes I don’t.   

The storm is over. The sky is brightening a bit, and I’m on my second cup of coffee.  Storm watching has turned into screen-watching as I type and Cal plays Minecraft.  But the candle is still burning and the dog is still at my feet and I’m hopeful that today is going to be one of the good ones.  And if it’s not?  Well, that’s okay. Because an ordinary day can be beautiful, too.  

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March

Every March, I begin to wonder what other careers I might be qualified to do.  Flight attendant?  Bartender? Dog walker?  Teachers are exhausted in March, because kids have spring fever and state tests are coming and the weather is rotten and there are no breaks.  Special Education teachers are particularly exhausted in March, because the meetings and the paperwork double and the preparations for next year have to begin. 

I thought I was going to write about all of that and try to be funny.  But even if I attempt humor, my cranky exhaustion will likely shine through, and nobody wants to read a whiny blog post.  Besides…. I know from experience that I’ll regret all this complaining in April when I love my job again.    

So, instead, I’m going to write about what’s helping me get through this horrible month.  

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Let’s start with Bea. For those of you who don’t know, Bea was my student for two years before she became our foster daughter.  She’s been part of the family for almost three years now, and I couldn’t love this kid harder.   This month in particular, she’s been struggling, too.  Her story is not mine to tell, but given the fact that she currently lives with her former teacher, you can assume her life hasn’t been all rainbows and unicorns.  

But she is fierce. She is brave.  She is loyal and hard-working and diligent and considerate. And sometimes, she is all of those things for so long that she gets tired.  And she gets sad.  And when Bea is tired and sad, she wants to shut herself in her room and cry and watch Grey’s Anatomy so she can forget, for just a little while, that life is HARD. 

We’ve been going to counseling together, which she hates, but I kinda like.  The sessions are okay, but after the sessions, we often wind up talking about things that may not have come up otherwise.  Last week, Bea opened up in a way that was new and heartbreaking and beautiful.   (If you haven’t heard about Glennon Doyle’s idea of ‘brutiful,’ definitely look it up.) She’s starting to let me know what’s in her head, and that helps me try to help.  

Parenting a teenager is hard.  Parenting a teenager who hasn’t always been your child adds another layer of complication to an already difficult task.  But the moments of connection make every worried moment worth it.  

When she makes me try some terrible new food and laughs at the pained look on my face…

When she says, “Wait… don’t leave…” as I’m stepping out of her room. 

When she catches my eye at the dinner table and we laugh because we’re both thinking the same slightly snarky thing that we won’t say out loud. 

When she makes fun of my husband or chases the boys with a spray bottle or drops a piece of meat into the dog’s mouth under the dinner table.  

This kid inspires me. She has climbed a mountain to get where she is.  Every once in a while, she sits on the ground and says she can’t go any farther.  And every time, she rests for a spell, complains quite a bit, and then hoists herself up and keeps going.  Her strength reminds me that life is brutiful, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

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And then there’s Jack. As I write this, he’s in the kitchen, whipping up pancakes and bacon.    Without him, I’d collapse in a puddle of my own anxiety.  He’s the balance in my life.  Where I might be inclined to settle, he’s imagining the possibilities. Where I tend to make excuses for the kids, he’ll hold them accountable.  When I doubt myself, he’ll be my cheerleader.  While I half-assed clean the house, he’ll take apart the stove and scrub every inch until it looks like new.  When I’m stressing out and grading papers, he’ll pull out the guitar and play the background music that slows my blood pressure.  

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I could keep going.  I could write about each of my kids in succession.  I could write about my church friends and my book club and my colleagues.  I could write about my parents and my siblings and my dogs.  These are the people (and pets) that I lean on when things feel heavy.  These are the ones that help me carry my load in lots of big and small ways.  Sometimes all it takes is a raised eyebrow in passing to know that somebody sees you and knows your struggle.  A nod. A hug.  A well-timed text.  The muzzle of a tired dog resting on your knee.  When the big moments are bad, it’s easy to forget the small, sweet moments that are so much more abundant.  But we need to notice them.  We need to appreciate them, so we don’t get bogged down in the tough stuff.  

In those moments when we can look around and see the beauty, we can BE the beauty for someone else. Hold the door.  Cuddle your kid.  Check on your friend.  Call your mom.  

Because helping each other through the brutal stuff is how we create the beautiful stuff.   

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Gender Care

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Dead Name

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

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

And we sent him off to school.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Parallels

Imagine with me for a moment.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How would you feel? 

Violated? Dismissed? Infantilized?

Frustrated? Angry? Hopeless? 

Heartbroken?  Simply broken? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Risks

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

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

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

Cons: 

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

Pros:  

They’re not on screens.

They’re not arguing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I began that parental risk/benefit analysis.

Pros:

He’s getting exercise.

He’s getting fresh air. 

He’s becoming independent.

He feels capable. 

He’s not in front of a screen.  

Cons:

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

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

He could need help (most likely).  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We are capable of meeting challenges. 

We will all make mistakes.

It’s okay to ask for help. 

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

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Ups and Downs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Angry

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

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

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

In hindsight, I realize I may have overreacted.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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