Category: Marriage and Family

Stories, prayers, and rants about all of the beautiful and not-so-beautiful moments.

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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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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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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.  

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Guarded

Parenting this week was Hard.  Capital H hard.  There was yelling and eye rolling.  There were tears and accusations.  Awkward silences and dirty looks.  Long letters and heart-to-hearts.  

I don’t like to disclose too much about my kids without their permission- that’s why you don’t read a lot about Bea.  She’s intensely private.  She guards her heart with a formidable wall.  

And sometimes that wall is fortified by a powerful offensive.   There are soldiers perched on the top, shooting daggers at anyone who dares to come too close.  

That’s me. 

 I’m always a little too close.  I’m a little too pushy and a little too affectionate and a little too engaged.  I’m too much of everything that she needs but doesn’t want.  I’ve had the blessing of watching small chunks fall from that façade over the years that she’s been here, but I always want her to be more open, more trusting, more honest and vulnerable than she’s capable of.  

Parenting is hard. Parenting a teenager is harder.  Rumor has it, parenting a teenage girl is hardest.  But parenting a teenage girl who didn’t grow up feeling safe and loved and cared for? A child who hasn’t always been yours, and hasn’t learned to trust or love without holding back?  Someone who doesn’t believe in forever because she’s never seen it?  It’s beyond hard.  It’s heartbreaking.  

This week, after the latest argument, I hit a wall.  I was feeling defeated and sad and helpless.  I kept wondering if I was really doing her any good.  If she hates it here and doesn’t trust me and doesn’t think I care about her, then what am I accomplishing? 

But some advice came at the perfect moment.  A colleague (who happens to be a specialist in human behavior) reminded me that we lash out at the people closest to us.  

She’s not nasty to other people.  She’s grateful and sweet and affectionate.  And I often take that so personally.  WHY is she so good to everyone else?  Why is it that I get the anger and the frustration and the tears from her, when I’m the one who has welcomed her into my family and given her safety and stability and unconditional love?  

And therein lies the answer. 

What am I accomplishing? I’m giving her someone to trust.  I’m the safety net and the sounding board and the receiver of all things awful… not because she doesn’t trust me, but because she does.  

She’s a kid.  She’s a kid who has had a difficult life.  I don’t need anything from her.  I don’t need her adoration or her gratitude or her sweetness.  I’m fine. I’m a grown-ass woman.  

I will insist upon respect. I’m not a martyr.  But if she needs someone to receive all of that hurt and anger; someone who says they’re not going anywhere and keeps their promises; someone strong enough to walk right up to that wall and get hit again and again? 

Well, that’s me, too. 

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Summer with teens

I haven’t written at all this summer.  When I write, I want to be grateful.  I want to be optimistic and centered and I want to conclude with an answer.  I write to process my thoughts and to work through problems.  But this summer, I keep thinking and trying and processing, and I still can’t find a resolution in my mind.  

Overall, it wasn’t a bad summer.  I mean, I went to Jamaica with my girlfriends, for crying out loud.  The two youngest boys both went to sleep away camp for a week.  We went camping with friends, spent time on the beach, and this weekend, we’re headed to the lake house for our annual trip.  

But summer is always hard for me.  I crave the structure of the school year.  I do better with routine.  I accomplish more when I have deadlines and limited time frames.  So summer always leaves me feeling like I should have done more. It gives me too much time to analyze every decision and leaves me with guilt about all the lazy days.  

The solution to this has always come to me in the form of scheduled fun.  Beach trips.  The zoo. Swimming.  Fishing.  Sleepover parties.  Bonfires. Camping.  Until this year, those things have been my saving grace.  They always made me feel like I was making the best of the summer days.  If I wasn’t accomplishing WORK, at least we were accomplishing FUN. But things are changing. 

Teenagers are so freaking hard.  Their emotional roller coaster becomes YOUR emotional roller coaster when you spend too much time with them.  And the mood swings leave me reeling and raw.  

We went to Old Orchard Beach- we spent one night in a motel, after picking up Lee from camp, and on our way to drop off Cal.  Bea wouldn’t go near the water.  She sulked on the shore, occasionally throwing a blanket over her head to check her phone.    

We went camping.  Lee just wanted to lay in his tent and listen to music. S’mores?  Swimming?  Ping Pong? Nope.  

We planned a day at Canobie Lake Park.  Cal was thrilled to go.  Lee was ambivalent but whiny.  Bea was miserable and vehement.  And that left me with a choice.  Do I make them all go?  Do I risk ruining a lovely day with my youngest with bitching and moaning from the older ones?  Will I regret it if I let them stay home?  I let them stay home.  I regretted it. 

Every day, over and over again, I have these choices.  Should I be loving and kind?  Joke them out of it?  Tell them it’s not a choice?  Yell at them to snap out of it?  Let them sulk, knowing they’ll eventually get over it?  I do all of these things, but none of them ever seems like the right answer. I don’t know what the right answer is. 

They have a few things to do every day.  Chores. Reading.  Math practice.  And then they have to spend a few hours out of their bedrooms and off of screens. You’d think I was having them tarred and feathered.  It’s freaking exhausting.  

Then I think about all the things I SHOULD do.  We should do more family game nights.  I should get them back on a schedule to cook dinner.  I should stop yelling.  I should start yelling more.  God.  I don’t freaking know.  WHY IS THERE NO MANUAL?

I keep trying things. There are new rules now.  Rules about screens and family time and laundry and chores.  When they’re lazy or sneaky, I’m doing a new thing.  I used to take stuff away (no screens, no phone, you’re grounded). Now, every time they make more work for me, I’m adding a chore for them.  Didn’t do your laundry this week?  Today, you’ve got to do yours AND mine.  Left dirty dishes in your room again?  Today, ALL the dishes are your job.   

I’m writing this today because I need to know I’m not alone in this.  PLEASE tell me that the rest of you with teenagers are navigating this rough new territory with me.  

I’m finally back in therapy. I need some freaking therapy in my life.  I think we all do, really.  But you know what my therapist asked me last week?  She wanted me to tell her what I had planned just for ME.  And you know what?  I couldn’t answer.  Manicures? But I’ll take my daughter. Camping?  With kids and friends.  A party?  That I’m hosting for my husband.  

I’ve come to associate fun things with family things.  And maybe with teenagers, that’s just unrealistic.  Maybe what I need to do is worry about them less, and worry about me just a little bit more.  

It feels selfish to write that.  Selfish, but honest.  

I didn’t realize I was doing it, until my therapist pointed it out.  But when things get crazy and I have to pull back or change plans or cancel something, I always cancel the thing that’s for ME.  Because that’s the thing that feels frivolous or selfish or unnecessary.  This summer, I cancelled a motorcycle ride with a friend and bailed on book club with my girls.  I said no to lunch with a colleague and did my toenails at home instead of getting that pedicure.  

Part of that is probably because I feel guilty about that Jamaica trip.  That was the ultimate in selfish indulgence. But looking back, it was good for me.  It was good for all of us.  

There’s a lesson in there somewhere.  Put on your own mask before you try to help others, or some such gem.  I’m not sure I’m qualified to write about that one just yet. But I’m going to work on it.  I promise. Wish me luck. 

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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.