The Lake House

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Good Day

Sometimes, I am presented with an opportunity to do something fun, and I hesitate.  I hesitate because I don’t want to spend the money, or face the crowds, or rally the troops.  I hesitate because I’m tired or cranky.  I hesitate because the idea of making myself DO THE THING is simply exhausting.

Other times, I pull it together.  I get there. I act as a cheerleader and an activity planner and I get everyone excited to go DO THE THING and then I pack the lunch and the first aid kit and whatever other paraphernalia we need and then we GO.

Today, I was presented with an opportunity.  A friend and her family were going to The Big E.  I looked it up.  It looked like fun.  Something for everyone.  Shopping, rides, pig races, shows.  Food and games and family fun.  I was ready to commit.

And then I talked to my kids.  My kids were feeling pressured.  Pressured by football games and family visits and school projects.  Pressured by big responsibilities and small ones.  There were turtle tanks to be cleaned and chores to be done.  But there were also books to be read and guitars that needed playing and apples begging to be turned into pie.  There were yard sales to attend and friends to visit.

So in lieu of the big plan, we opted for a lot of smaller ones.  We worked on homework and school projects.  We checked out some yard sales.  Lee had a friend over, and Cal rode his bike around the neighborhood. Jack and I worked on our bathroom a bit. We did the regular Saturday chores; the grocery shopping and the dump run.  The toilet scrubbing and the vacuuming.

And while part of me feels guilty for not DOING THE THING, a bigger part of me knows how important it is for me to really listen and consider what my family needs.

Today was a good day. It was productive and relaxing. Here are a few of the highlights.

I was making an updated chore list, trying to fairly divide household tasks between two adults and three kids of varying ages and abilities.  And while listing and sorting jobs, I had an epiphany.  There are five rooms in this house, not counting bedrooms. And five people to clean.  Why was I making this so difficult?  Everyone gets a room.  Bam.  Problem solved.

I made a roast beef. I am notorious for overcooking beef. But, guys… this one was PERFECT. Perfectly cooked, perfectly seasoned, perfectly freaking delicious.  If I do say so myself.

I listened to my son practice his guitar.  Lessons started last week, and as he plucks ‘Ode to Joy’ with increasing speed and confidence, I can’t help but marvel at the beautiful process of creating music.

I helped Bea with homework. She hasn’t asked me in a while, which is generally indicative of positive changes, like increased independence. But when she sits and asks me to help talk her through chapter two in her history textbook, it gives us a chance to connect and discuss more important things than when she needs a ride or what’s for dinner.

We went to the church yard sale.  Lee’s level of excitement about acquiring other people’s used stuffed animals is baffling and adorable.  This kid had all the church ladies in stitches as he presented compelling arguments for every item on his wish list.  The most adorable was, “Who else is going to love this little cheetah Beanie Boo with it’s nose chewed off?  Only me, mom. Only me.  This Beanie Boo deserves love, too.”

As I write this, Jack is finishing up phase two of our bathroom renovation.  We now have a sink and a toilet and walls (with paint on them) and molding and brand new floor tiles.  What’s left is just the shower, and to those of you who will remind us that that’s the hardest part, I say…. Shush.  Just shush.

Overall, I love this time of year.  We’re getting back into the routine of school and work.  I’m still on top of signing the homework agenda and reminding the kids to do their ‘after school jobs.’  I’m excited about a new group of students, and we haven’t exhausted the fall rotation of slow cooker meals yet.  Football is just getting started, and 4thgrade games and NFL ones are equally entertaining… for the moment.

Music lessons haven’t become rote yet, and I haven’t yet had the opportunity to forget school picture day or a counseling appointment or a youth group event.

The apples haven’t had a chance to turn brown in the fruit basket, and I’m still feeling optimistic about baking a pie… tomorrow.

Raising These Kids

I had some powerful conversations this week.

In several cases, these conversations started about Lee.  We have specific, important, weighty parenting decisions coming up because Lee happens to be transgender.  Right now, we are one hundred percent comfortable with the choices we’ve made.  He’s a boy. He’s living his life as a boy. Medically, we haven’t done anything irreversible.  He’s taking hormone blockers to delay puberty, but in order to “get our little girl back,” we would just have to change his clothes and let his hair grow and stop giving him the medication.  Early in this journey, I took some solace in that.  Like we were leaving our options open.  But now, it feels like a betrayal.  It feels like I’m minimizing him; reducing his very identity as if it’s just a childish phase.  If you have been on this journey with us, you’ve seen it.  It’s not a phase.  We have a happy, healthy, whole child.  Why on Earth would I want to change that?

But you can only delay puberty for so long.  At some point, we’ll have to take him off the puberty blockers.  And at that point, there are only two choices.  Option A is to do nothing.  Let him develop female secondary sex characteristics.  Of course, I can’t be sure how he’d respond to this, but I can make a reasonable prediction.  Knowing my kid, having been on this journey with him, having talked to other parents and read lots of books and consulted medical and psychiatric professionals, I anticipate that would lead to overwhelming dysphoria, suicidal ideation, and a destroyed relationship with my child. At the very least, he’d go back to being the unpredictable, depressed, self-loathing ‘girl’ he was before he transitioned.  So really, Option A isn’t much of an option at all.  Option B is to administer testosterone.  We can chemically manipulate his body to develop male secondary sex characteristics.  Irreversible changes will occur; deepening voice, body hair, facial hair, broad shoulders, square jawline, male musculature. He’ll be physically and psychologically healthy.  He’ll still love himself.  But he’ll lose his fertility.  He’ll never be able to have biological children.

How do I make decisions about my 12 year old’s future fertility?  Those are not my choices.  They’re HIS choices.  And of course, people will say he’s only twelve.  He’s not capable of deciding what he’ll want when he’s an adult. Right?  Right?

But we can’t wait until he’s an adult.  Do I risk my child’s potential teenage suicide to preserve his ability to biologically reproduce later in life?  Am I projecting my own values on him?  My own fears?

Here’s a secret.  I’m crying while I write this.  It’s terrifying.  It’s huge.  It’s sad. It’s scary.  How can we make these decisions?  As parents, how do we navigate this?

I can’t begin to tell you how often I hear a variation of, “God gave these children to YOU for a reason.”

I don’t believe that parents of LGBTQ kids are especially equipped to handle these kids.  I read stories of children who have been disowned by their parents, attacked by their families, shunned by their church communities… and my heart cracks open.  I don’t doubt that God has a divine plan, and I do believe that terrible things can be the catalyst for amazing good.  But I also can’t subscribe to the notion that God only gives LGBTQ kids to parents who are particularly suited to parent them.

But.  And.  Also…

I do think that some families, some parents, some churches, create environments where kids are allowed and encouraged to be exactly who God made them to be.

I’m pretty confident that we’re going to start our son on testosterone when the time comes. Honestly, a conversation about hormone therapy isn’t comfortable for me with anyone other than my husband, Lee’s doctors, and other parents who have been through it.  I’m not looking for input or advice or sympathy. Of course,  ‘Adult Lee’ would actually the best person to make decisions about his body.  But until he’s an adult, he needs a grown person to use reason and research and love to make the best possible decision, given the information and options available. Nobody knows this child better than his parents.  Nobody loves our child more than we do.  Nobody wants him to be happy and healthy more than we do.  So that makes US the adults best equipped to make the tough choices. When it’s time to decide, it’ll be our family’s decision, and not open for debate.

I’m not writing this to gather suggestions or seek opinions or solicit advice.  I’m writing this because it’s part of a bigger question.  The question that has come up over and over again for me in recent weeks is this: What is my job as a parent?

Following a few conversations, I wondered what the Bible has to say about the topic.  After a quick search, it didn’t really come as a surprise that most references to children (in the Old Testament especially) refer to punishing your kids.  “Spare the rod, spoil the child,” type stuff.

I looked through my Google search results, and one word kept popping out over and over and over again. Discipline.

My son, do not despise the Lord’s discipline or be weary of his reproof, for the Lord reproves him whom he loves, as a father the son in whom he delights.

 The rod and reproof give wisdom, but a child left to himself brings shame to his mother.

 Discipline your son, and he will give you rest; he will give delight to your heart.

 Folly is bound up in the heart of a child, but the rod of discipline drives it far from him. 

 Discipline your son, for there is hope; do not set your heart on putting him to death.

And as I read these verses (all from the book of Proverbs), I heard my husband’s voice.  I heard a man’s voice.  A man who loves his children deeply, and believes that his primary role as a parent is to discipline them.

But in that moment, as in so many others, I wished that I could turn to my holy book and hear a voice like mine.  A woman’s voice.  A mother’s voice.

The closest is the voice of Jesus himself, in the book of Mark.  “And they were bringing children to him that he might touch them, and the disciples rebuked them. But when Jesus saw it, he was indignant and said to them, ‘Let the children come to me; do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of God. Truly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it.’ And he took them in his arms and blessed them, laying his hands on them.”

This voice connects.  This voice resonates with me.  Jesus appreciates the children for who they are, for what they bring.  He honors them just as they are; not for what they could be or might be.  He doesn’t discipline them or try to change them.  He just loves them.

It is our job to love these children as Jesus loves them. To celebrate them and welcome them and help them to grow into the best possible version of who God created them to be. God has given us artists and writers, musicians, pastors, and politicians. He has given us funny little people.  Or serious ones.  He has given us stubborn people, witty people, shy people, adventurous people, caring people, creative people.  But he has given us PEOPLE.  They aren’t blank slates.  They aren’t empty vessels for us to fill.  They are WHOLE PEOPLE.  They have gifts and passions.  They have identities and talents and personalities.

I believe that our children have been created beautifully, uniquely, and perfectly by God.  God has molded them.  Who are we to try to bend them, twist them, contort them into a mold of our own design?

Don’t get me wrong.  Discipline is important.  But in my mind, discipline is something we TEACH our children, not something we DO to them. I want my children to have discipline, not just receive discipline.

I believe it is my job to TEACH my children.  I am tasked with teaching my children love and respect.  I need to teach them how to treat others.  I need to teach them life skills and manners and kindness.  I need to teach them how to respect others and how to behave in a way that will earn respect in return. I am given the responsibility of instilling values and teaching them how to behave in accordance with those values.

Of course, we need to teach them how to behave.  But there’s a difference between trying to teach our children and trying to change them.

Our attempts to change who they are will be fruitless.  No matter how much you believe that your bookworm needs to play football, you can’t turn him into a natural athlete by sheer force of will.  Anyone who has ever tried to get a reluctant reader to happily curl up with a book on a sunny afternoon will understand the futility of trying to change WHO our children are.  Can you manipulate behavior?  Sure. You can make your kid sit and read for an hour.  But you can’t make him enjoy it.

You can get your child to take swimming lessons, but you can’t make him love the water.  You can prohibit your daughter from dating girls, but you can’t control who she’s crushing on.  You can make your son wear dresses and long hair, but you can’t change who he is on the inside.

My children were given to me, entrusted to me, by a God who already made them perfectly.  Their energy, their athleticism, their musical or artistic talent… those things are already in them.  Their enthusiasm, their love of animals, their sense of humor… I would never dream of taking those away from them.

In the same way, I can’t fathom a desire to change their sexuality or their gender or their infinite capacity for love.

My children show me who they are each day. They are growing and learning and ever-changing.

So what’s my job as a parent?

My Bible tells me my job is to teach them, to discipline them, to “train them up in the way they should go.”

My heart tells me it’s to help them become the best version of themselves, just as God created them.

But as usual, the most powerful message comes from Jesus himself.  What do I need to do?

Love them.

It’s that simple.

 

 

 

 

Camping

I’ve been camping all my life.  Not ‘hike through the woods to the top of a mountain and find a place for your tent’ camping… More like, ‘rent a square where you can legally set up a tent in a pre-designated spot near public bathrooms and showers’ camping.

Camping as a kid was vastly different than camping as an adult.  As a kid, we rode our bikes around the campground, made new friends, and experienced a level of freedom that wasn’t allowed at home.  We swam in the lake and bought junk food from the camp store and stayed up as late as our parents and played with fire.  It was awesome.

Camping as an adult is still awesome, but in a totally different, labor-intensive sort of way.

Preparing for camping is intense.  You literally have to pack every single thing you might need to care for a family. First aid kit?  Check.  Bathing suits, towels, underwear?  Check. Spatula?  Soap?  Salt? How about actual SHELTER?  Because you’ll need to pack that, too.  Games, matches, stove, pots, bowls, utensils… it’s an endless, mind-numbing list.

And that’s not even considering the FOOD.  Not only do you have to plan meals that can be prepared on two burners and a fire pit, but you have to pack all of the things that typically reside in your kitchen cabinets to help you complete this task.  Foil.  Oil. Butter.  Garlic.  Onion powder. Paprika.  Whatever.

Preparing for a camping trip is NOT a vacation.

And of course, the chances are, if you’re camping, you’re bringing your children. There’s an article somewhere in the Onion, I think, entitled, “Mom Spends Beach Vacation Assuming all Household Duties in Closer Proximity to Ocean.” The first time I saw that, I practically spit out my coffee.  Because, of course, if one’s children are ALSO on vacation with you, you don’t get a vacation from parenting.

But the cool thing about camping is that you can revert back to your PARENTS’ style of parenting. Remember?  1970s and 80s parenting?  You can send your children out to play and explore and basically not worry about them until they return looking for snacks.  You can let them be dirty without judgement because you’re camping, for goodness’ sake!  You can feed them hot dogs and potato chips for three days straight.  You can let them start the fire, because they’re learning a LIFE SKILL, goddamn it!  And all the while, you can sit by a fire with your choice of adult beverage and some friends because day drinking is encouraged at a campground.

I obviously enjoy camping, because we keep doing it.  I kind of enjoy that it’s a little bit of a challenge.  It’s like a test to see if I can remember all the things.  And if I forget something, it’s a challenge to see if I can improvise.  No pot for the beans?  Put the can on the fire.  No wine opener?  This screwdriver should work.   Short a pillow?  Roll up a towel.  And if that doesn’t work… If you forgot it, chances are, you can do without it. Camping is also a humbling exercise in realizing how much stuff you don’t actually NEED.

The best part about camping is that it really does help people connect.  Nobody remembers everything, so you rely on your friends. You borrow and lend without any sort of tally in your head because you’re all in this together.  You see each other’s sub-par parenting and campfire cooking fails and dirty pajama pants, and you love each other all the more. You don’t have the fallback of watching a movie, so you play games and sing songs and make s’mores.

And if the sun goes down at 8, you can spend a couple hours drinking and laughing by the campfire and still be in bed by 10.  That’s my kind of vacation.

 

 

Summer Rut

I’m right in the middle of my summer rut.   I browse my Facebook feed and see people at concerts and on vacations; I see moms with their kids at the beach and eating ice cream and splashing in pools.  And I’m already tired of summer.

We started off strong. We visited friends, swam in their pool, and went to a concert. We’ve gone out for ice cream and gone to the library and set up a lemonade stand in the yard.   We’ve been to the local lake at least 5 times, which I honestly love.   We’ve made plans with friends and plans with family.  We’ve gone to the water park and the amusement park and to New York.  We’ve been to pool parties and friends’ houses and jumped on all the trampolines.

We’ve made popcorn and jello and chinese dumplings.  We’ve rented movies and camped on the living room floor.  We’ve huddled on the bed in my air conditioned room, reading books and finding all the lost pictures in our Highlights Magazine. We’ve played card games and board games and word games. We’ve made forts out of cardboard boxes and couch cushions and blankets.  We’ve slid down the stairs into a pile of pillows on sleeping bag sleds.  Well, the kids did.  Not me.

And even with all of that, my kids are spending too much time on screens.  I’m still trying to fill the days and stop the bickering and get through the ‘to-do’ list in my brain.  I’m trying to find things to do without spending the grocery money, and I feel guilty every time I have to say, “Not this week” because we just can’t afford it right now.

It’s not like there’s a shortage of work to do.  We’ve re-done Bea’s bedroom.  Primed, painted, redecorated.  We reorganized Cal’s room, and we’re finally getting the bathroom done.  Walls are up, wiring is done, plumbing is finished.  I made the dentist appointments and handled the auto insurance and I’m working on switching over the medical insurance with all our providers.  I still have to clean out the laundry room and paint the trim and rip up the carpet in the hallway upstairs.  The dogs need to be walked and the lawn needs to be mowed.

And I told everyone this is my summer to write a book.  So far, I have 22 half-finished documents on my computer desk top, and nothing that looks remotely coherent enough to become a book.    I told myself I was going to focus on that, but here I am, blogging about my rotten summer mood.

I look back at that list and… HOLY CRAP, we’ve done a lot of things.  So why do I wake up with a low-level sense of dread in the morning? Why do I feel so guilty when we spend a morning doing nothing?  Apparently because I’m terrible at doing nothing.  I have a deep-seated need to be accomplishing something.  I feel better when I’m productive.  Which is why summers are so hard for me.

I know myself enough to realize that I require deadlines. I like to have a plan, and I like to know what’s happening next.  I have a running list in my head of things to do; when I’m dealing with pressure and deadlines, it’s easy to sort the list.  Immediate concerns.  Preparing for tomorrow.  The week ahead.  These categories in my brain help me to manage the day-to-day as a working mom.

And then, when I’m not working, the categories blur together.  The things that I plan to do today could also be done tomorrow or next week. Nothing is pressing and therefore everything feels equally important and my brain begins to malfunction.  I don’t know what to do next.  The simplest decisions become complex.  What’s for dinner?  What color should I paint the front door?  Should I walk the dogs or take them to the dog park?  Should I turn on the air conditioner or just keep the fans running?

In my real life, I’m a functional adult.  In the summertime, I’m a mess.  I could accomplish 12 things and still feel like I didn’t do anything because my mental to-do list is never complete.   I feel good when I’ve taken the kids to the lake, but when am I going to clean the bathroom if I spend my days reading on the beach?  When am I going to get the big projects done if I have to spend my time cleaning the bathroom?  And if I’m cleaning, the kids are probably on screens and that’s a terrible way to spend a summer.

DO YOU HEAR HOW CRAZY I AM?!?!?!

This is actually what happens in my head.

I usually like to wrap up these blog posts with a lesson or a bit of optimism.  But right now, I’m not capable.  Right now, I need to grab a cup of coffee and a shower.  Then I’m going to rent a kayak for an hour with my son, hit the grocery store on the way home, make a dessert to bring to my afternoon book club, put dinner in the crock pot, and then drive an hour to meet some friends for lunch and a book discussion and some catching up (which will make me feel better but leave residual guilt because the kids are home alone, probably watching freaking YouTube).

I have a plan.  And that’s a start….

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Three Dads

My father and my mother met when they were 18.  I was born when they were 19.  They split within a year.  When they talk about their brief marriage, they will both kindly explain, “We were just too young.”

I’m sure it all felt much more complicated as they lived through it, and I was so little that I don’t remember it at all.  Here’s what I know.  My mom left. Perhaps her reasons were compelling but that’s beside the point.  Today I’m telling my Dad’s story.

My dad was a single dad before he could legally drink. He kept me safe and loved me and changed my diapers and rocked me to sleep when most of his friends were out being rowdy kids. He was my primary parent during the time when I (according to child development experts) was forming my strongest attachments.  Maybe that’s why we think alike.  Maybe that’s why I feel such an incredibly strong connection to my dad, over the miles and through the years.

Ultimately, my time living with my dad was short. He sometimes tells the story of when my mom took me back, and I can feel his heart break each time he recounts it.

But my moving back with my mom didn’t diminish his commitment to being a part of my life. Every long weekend, he spent 8 hours in the car; two to pick me up and two to drive me back to his house on Friday night.  And then the same on Monday to bring me back to my mom’s house.  In hindsight, that seemed a bit unfair, given the fact that my mom was the one who moved away.  But he never complained.  Okay, well, maybe he complained a little.  But not until I was old enough to realize that his desire to spend time with me outweighed the inconvenience.

Each time we began the trip, we stopped at Dunkin’ Donuts.  Dad got a coffee and a coffee roll.  I got a Boston crème donut.  I now live in the suburbs of Boston and I have a bona fide Dunkin Donuts addiction. I can’t help but think that these things are connected.

My dad and I didn’t see each other as often as either of us would have liked, and those car trips were probably not what either one of us would have chosen as ‘quality time.’  But in the end, I’m glad we had all those hours in the car together.  We had time to talk about everything and nothing. I shared my secrets and he gave advice.  We both sang along to cassette tapes, and he explained the story behind Dire Straight’s “Money for Nothing.”  I developed a lifelong love of Simon and Garfunkel, and to this day, I can’t hear “The Boxer” without picturing my dad banging his fist on the steering wheel along with the crash of the drum. Because of these trips, there are some songs that will be forever tethered to my dad in my heart.

But even as we drove these distances, my dad demonstrated his kindness and generosity to the world. In this time before cell phones, my dad never passed a stranded motorist. Never.  Even if he’d been driving for four hours, even if it was pouring rain. My dad has a mechanical gift, but he is also a helper, through and through. He never hesitates to use his gift to brighten someone’s day, and I am in awe of him.

I was my dad’s firstborn. He married his second wife when I was small, and they had two more children; a girl first and then a boy. My sister and my brother and I are all lucky to call this man our father.  When my dad married for the third time, it was the real deal.  He married the woman he was meant to be with. She is as generous as he is, and she brings out the best in him.  And he didn’t flinch at the fact that she had five daughters of her own.

If you ask my dad, he will say he has eight children.  He has raised us all and fathers us all and loves us all.  He is the man who taught me how to open my heart and my home and to welcome people without reservation.  It’s not uncommon for me to visit my dad and stepmom and to find out that someone new is living in their home.  They’ve welcomed nieces and nephews, children, grandchildren, friends of friends… often for a few nights, but sometimes for months at a time.  I strive to have a home like the home that my dad and his wife have created.  That kind of welcoming is a gift.

His generosity, with his time and his talents and sometimes even his money, is boundless.  He’s the guy that we call when someone’s washing machine breaks, or someone needs a car repair, or someone needs a babysitter. He’s the one I call when my heart is broken or my dryer has stopped working, and either way, he can fix it. My dad is my hero and my champion. He is unflinchingly positive and he’s famous for saying, “… but if that’s my biggest problem, I’m doing alright.”

I’m so grateful for my dad. He’s taught me so much about the kind of person I want to be.  I’m blessed to have him in my life, and my kids are so lucky to have him as their Grandpa.

One of the hardest things for my father was when I began to call another man ‘dad.’  I know that this broke his heart, but he came to terms with it in a beautiful way.  He says that he finally realized that love is not finite.  My love for my stepdad didn’t mean that I loved my dad any less. More people to love and be loved by a child could never be a bad thing.

And so, with humility and love and grace, my dad began to respect and admire the other dad in my life.

Frank met me for the first time when I was about four.  I was so shy that I pulled my dress over my head and refused to say hello, but eventually, he won me over.  My stepdad and my mom were married for more than 20 years.  They had three more daughters together, and this dad is steadfast and strong and stoic.

Picture Bill Bellechick, but handsomer.  A man of few words, because actions speak louder.  A “Do your job” kind of guy who’s happiest with the sleeves cut off of his shirt.  He’s the kind of guy who will roll his eyes and swear when you back your Buick into the basketball hoop, and then spend 6 hours with a winch and a plunger working the dent out of the bumper.

When I was first met my dad, he had a German Shepherd named Bucky.  Bucky was a beautiful dog; huge, and well-trained, but I was afraid of him. At that time, I was still a little afraid of the man I would come to call ‘dad.’  But I watched them together, this hulking man and this massive dog, and they were both affectionate and playful and I learned that deep down, they were both teddy bears.  To this day, I have a soft spot for Shepherds- both my dogs are Shepherd mixes, and I think of my dad every time I watch my gruff husband lay on the ground and make kissy faces with these mutts of ours.

As we were getting to know each other, my dad and I didn’t have a lot of common interests.  I was a bookish kid, and despite his best efforts, I never could, “Watch the bat hit the ball.”  I remember him pushing me on the swingset in the trailer park where we lived. In retrospect, I’m sure he had a million other things to do, but he would joke about launching me out of my swing, monotonously pushing while I screamed, “Higher! Higher!”

Before my younger sisters were born, I remember it used to be a treat when dad would ask, “Hey.  You wanna go get gas with me?”  He’d smile and wink, and my mom would pretend she didn’t know that he bought me a candy bar every time we filled up.

As the family grew, my dad remained the same.  He remained hardworking and stoic, loving us through actions that we didn’t always appreciate.  My dad didn’t say much, but when he spoke, we listened.  My dad’s love was easy to take for granted, and for that I owe him an apology. He loved me so well that I sometimes forgot that he didn’t have to.

When my mom and dad divorced, it shook us all.  I was technically an adult.  I had graduated college, and was living on my own in Boston. But my dad shows his love by doing.  Did I mention he’s not much of a talker?  So when I moved 5 hours away, he couldn’t change my oil for me, or rotate my tires, or load up his truck with a yard sale couch that I wanted to buy.   My dad and I had to navigate a new relationship, and if I’m totally honest, we’re still working on it.

But recently, I was back home for my high school reunion and I got a flat tire.  He came to pick me up.  He bought some fix a flat and spent his afternoon checking for leaks and then replacing a faulty valve stem.  Because he loves me.  And I will forever love this man who didn’t have to be my Dad.

And now I get to Tom. Dad number three.  But only chronologically, because this guy has earned his place in my heart.

Tom had no obligation at all to be a parent to me.  He met my mom when I was an adult, about to have a baby of my own.  In all honesty, I didn’t really think he’d be an important part of my life.

How wrong I was.  Tom has accomplished an epic feat.  He has won the hearts of all four of my mother’s daughters.  He is a patient listener with a quiet calm that will heal whatever is ailing you. He is kindhearted and steady and generous.  He is thoughtful and endlessly patient.    Tom is exactly the man that my mom needs in her life, and by extension, we are blessed to have him in ours.

He tolerates late night dramatic phone calls and embraces my rambunctious children.  He sends thoughtful gifts and leaves sweet messages and fixes things you didn’t even know needed fixing.

Tom, I love you, too. Thanks for being the Dad I didn’t know I needed.

To all the men out there, loving your children and loving other peoples’ children, you are appreciated and loved more than you know.  Thanks for doing the most important work there is.

And to my three dads; I love you all, and your card is in the mail.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stages

This week, a few things shifted at home, and it became glaringly apparent that I am moving into yet another stage of this parenting thing.

Shift #1:

Sadly, our morning babysitter had to leave us this week.  It’s good news for him; he has a great opportunity and he’s excited to move on. Of course, we will miss him, but we were lucky enough to find a new sitter relatively quickly.  I interviewed her on Sunday, and planned to have her start on Thursday.  I confirmed on Wednesday night, feeling like we were all set.  On Thursday morning, she was supposed to be here at about quarter to seven.  At 6:55, I texted, concerned that she hadn’t arrived.  At 7:00, I called, hoping to hear she was on her way.  At 7:05, I began to prep my kids for their first morning alone.

Now, just to clarify, I later heard from the sitter.  She was profusely apologetic and had slept through her alarm.  We’ve worked it out.  It was nerve wracking, but that’s sort of beside the point.  The actual point is this:  My kids got themselves on the bus.

This was not without a lot of prompting and rehearsing and calling and texting on my part.  They were home together for about 20 minutes, and then there was one, left on his own for another 20.  They’ve certainly spent that much time alone before; the difference is that they were never responsible for watching the clock and actually accomplishing things while they were home alone.  They’ve never stood in the driveway and waited for the bus without an adult (but they’ve certainly ridden bikes and scooters and played basketball in the driveway- why does waiting for a bus seem so much more dangerous?).

As a side note, I just Googled how to punctuate the end of that sentence, and the answer was not made apparently clear.  Perhaps because my use of the parenthetical is wrong; but I’m not changing it.

Anyway, having received texts from both kids that they were waiting for the bus, I proceeded to call their schools to verify that they had actually arrived.  During this phone call, I provided a brief explanation regarding the circumstances and my inquiry, all the while fearing that someone would be reporting me to Child Welfare for neglect.  So far, so good, but I’ll keep you posted.

Shift #2:

My middle child approached me on Tuesday with a question.  Exactly how far was he allowed to ride his bike?  Could he go to the High School?  To the center of town?  To his best friend’s house?  After reviewing safety rules about helmets and how to cross the street, we negotiated the perimeter of his roaming area.  It’s pretty big.  But I remember being just a year or two older than him and riding more than ten miles to meet up with a friend at the other side of our rural ‘town,’ on roads that had speed limits of 55 and no sidewalks at all.  I remember how grown up I felt, and all the lessons I learned about how to look out for myself and for my friends.  I learned the importance of checking in (so as not to lose this massive privilege).  I became more independent and confident and I very much want my son to experience those same things.  So I said a prayer and I checked his helmet and I texted his friend’s mom and then I let him go.

He’s gone riding with a small gang of ‘bikers’ every day since.  They ride to the park and to Dairy Queen and to 7-eleven.  They wind up at each other’s houses, playing with pets and various video games.  But they’re out in the world, navigating traffic and store clerks and moms with strollers and babies on swings.  I’m sure they’re making mistakes.

They’ve probably been a little too loud as they wandered the shelves, selecting whatever junk food they could afford with the change they scrounged from the couch cushions and the minivan cupholders.

They’ve probably tried to buy gummy bears with a stack of dimes, still short by 30cents.

They’ve probably been a little too rowdy on the playground.  Hopefully, they haven’t forgotten all of those lessons about being considerate and watching out for little kids.

They’ve probably been using language they wouldn’t use in front of their moms.

They’ve probably ridden a little too fast down the hills or past the pedestrians.

For all of that, I apologize.  But, please be patient with him as he learns.  When your babies are little, 12 years old seems so big.  When your babies are grown, 12 still seems so small.  But no matter your perspective, a 12 year old is still a kid; a kid who is ready to make some mistakes and to learn from them. A kid who needs guidance AND independence.  So as I ask for your patience, I also ask for your help.

Please shoot him a dirty look when he says a bad word.

Please shout, “Watch for little kids” or “Slow down” if he’s being careless.

Please remind him that his mother probably raised him better than that when he gets too big for his britches.

Please lend him the extra dime if he’s trying to buy a bottle of water.  Please let him learn the hard way and put them back if he’s trying to buy gummy bears.

As I send my child out into the big, bad world to make his mistakes, it makes me feel better to think that there are other mothers out there, looking out for him and keeping him in line.  Because it takes a village, and I need your help.

Shift #3

Bea is almost 16 now. I can hardly believe it.  And as Lee pushes for more freedoms, I find myself trying desperately to get her to be more independent and to try new things. She’s been living with us for nearly two full years now.  She’s made so much progress, and she still has so many struggles.  Her most preferred activity is watching TV, and her favorite place to be is in her room.  She consistently balks at my suggestions to go DO SOMETHING with her friends, and she’s intensely private, so when conversations veer into the personal, her most likely response is, “I’m not talking about that.”

But this week, I’m living with a different kid. She WALKED to the center of town with her friend and used her own money to get her nails done and go do Dairy Queen.  She’s stayed up past her (self imposed) 7:50 bedtime almost every day this week, to chat or cook or finish homework.  She let me sit on the edge of her bed and chatted well into the evening.  She wrote a journal about something incredibly personal, and then she SHARED it with me.

This amazing young woman is stepping out of her comfort zone, over and over again.  I’m so grateful to know her and so proud to be a part of her life and also a little terrified that she’s so, so close to being grown.

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

It’s Friday night, and I’m in between moments of shuttling kids and cooking dinner and shouting, “Take a SHOWER already!” I’m taking a moment to process the changes and reflect on these new stages.

In moments like these, I struggle to find the words to describe the wonder I feel.  Perhaps awe-struck comes close, but it seems insufficient.  “I marvel” hints at it, but the word isn’t quite grounded enough.

I need a word that means, “I feel grounded and settled and in awe of all the things around me that I cannot control.  I feel an overwhelming love for these kids in all of their stages, and I feel utterly content in the truth that I am not the one in charge of this progression.  I am full of faith and wonder and peace.”

What’s the word for that? Because I’d like to sit in it for a while.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Emergency Room

My grandmother died of a brain aneurysm at the age of 45.  It shook my mom’s world, and she’s always wanted her four daughters to closely monitor our brain health.  We all had baseline brain scans done in our early 20s, at her request, so the doctors would have a basis for comparison, should we ever have a problem.  In her early 40s, my maternal aunt had an aneurysm, confirming my mom’s fear that this condition runs in the family.

What’s scariest about an aneurysm (a weakened blood vessel in the brain), is that people generally don’t know they have one until it ruptures, and a ruptured brain aneurysm can kill you pretty quickly.  It’s a terrifying thought.

On Tuesday morning, on my way to work, I noticed that I couldn’t see clearly out of my right eye. Being a contact lens wearer, this is a pretty typical phenomenon for me. I probably got makeup on my lens.  I figured I’d just clean it when I got to work, and that’s exactly what I did.  I popped the lens out of my eye, gently scrubbed it in my hand with a little saline, and popped it back in.  Then, I started to teach.

My eye continued to bother me throughout first period.  I began to think that maybe the lens was scratched or torn.  I checked again.  This time, the lens ripped in my hands.  Crap! My spare pair of glasses was in my other vehicle, and my options were becoming limited.  I’m legally blind without my contacts, so there was no way I was going to get through the day with only my left eye.   I asked a co-worker to drive me home to get my glasses and a spare pair of lenses.  I was embarrassed and contrite, feeling silly that I had to leave work and that I had to drag my friend with me.  She reassured me that she didn’t mind, and we had a few laughs on the way to and from my house.  I thought this was going to be the big event of the day.

I was mistaken.

Having made the trip home and having put in new contacts, I assumed the rest of the day would be uneventful.  Oddly, the vision in my right eye was still not right, so I decided to scrap the contacts altogether.  I put on my glasses, and went back to work.  I co-teach a class with a really great teacher.  She’s talented and smart and funny and great with the kids. Luckily for me, she’s also super observant.

As I explained the morning’s events, she was looking at me oddly.  She said, “I don’t want to freak you out, but maybe you should go see the nurse.”  I looked at her quizzically, and she explained, “Your one eye is super dilated, and the other one isn’t.  I just think you should go get checked out.”  At this point, I still thought it had something to do with the lenses or the time I had spent poking at my eye.  I took a look in the mirror and went to talk to the school nurse.

The nurse suggested that I call my eye doctor.  And despite knowing better, I Googled this bizarre symptom while I waited for the receptionist to answer the phone.  I scrolled through my search results while I explained my situation and made an appointment with the eye doctor.  But I could no longer focus.

When you look up “What could cause only one eye to dilate?” the top answer on the list is “brain aneurysm.”

I called my primary doctor. I tried to stay calm. The receptionist put me through to a nurse. I told her about the single dilated eye.  I explained the thing about the contacts, but also the part about my family history, and she put me on hold to talk to the doctor.

When she came back, I waited for her to say, “Keep that 1pm appointment with your optometrist.”  I wanted her to say, “It’s probably just irritated.”  But she didn’t say any of those things.  She said, “How quickly can you get to the emergency room?”

You know those moments when time stops?  I was talking to the nurse and trying to text my husband and wondering if I should get a ride or call an ambulance.  At the same time, my heart was breaking in half because I was imagining what my kids would do without their mom, and wondering if I was going to spend my last minutes making frantic phone calls and what if I passed out before I could tell anyone what was happening to me?  I was terrified, and I started to cry.

I grabbed my purse and began walking toward the main office.  Tears streamed down my face. A friend and coworker was walking about 20 feet in front of me.  I called her name, too scared to be embarrassed.  I asked her to walk with me.  I told her what was happening.  She walked me to the office and ran to get her keys.

I went to the principal and explained that I had to leave.  I was totally unprofessional and slightly incoherent and I couldn’t stop the tears.  She was kind and supportive and made sure that my friend was okay driving me.

The ride to the hospital wasn’t bad. I promised my friend that I wouldn’t stroke out in her truck, and she joked and distracted me and was generally wonderful.  When we pulled up to the emergency entrance, she asked if I wanted her to stay.  I promised that my husband was on his way, assured her that I would be fine, and promised to text later.  I walked in the front doors, and she pulled away.

I didn’t realize how scary it would be to be alone in that waiting room.  I walked in, and was directed to sit down and wait for a receptionist to check me in. There was only one person in front of me, but the two minutes I waited felt like an eternity.  My mind began to race again.  What if I had made it here, to the hospital, but I passed out before I could tell anyone who I was or why I was here or what was happening to me?  What if THESE were actually my last minutes?  I didn’t want to die alone in this hospital.  I realize now that all of these thoughts sound melodramatic, but in that moment, they were real.

I’m typically an optimist; quick to dismiss physical symptoms as ‘it’s probably nothing.’  I don’t like to dwell on the negative because I honestly believe that humans attract energy and if you spend too much time on negative thoughts, you attract negative energy.  I tried to distract myself.  I tried to pray.  I tried to think positively.  But I COULD NOT stop worrying about dying.

After a two-minute eternity, I was called up to the receptionist.  I leaned in closely and said, “Look at my eyes.”  The two women at the desk cast concerned glances at each other.  When I said that I have a family history of brain aneurysms, they called the triage nurse over.  They got me a wheelchair.  They took me right away.

As soon as I was talking to people again, the panic resided a little.  I made an offhand comment to the triage nurse.  I said something to the effect of, “It’s probably nothing.  I probably just scratched it while I was messing with my contacts.”  She looked at me and scrunched up her face and shook her head, while she gently replied, “That doesn’t happen.”  She explained that external trauma like that wouldn’t cause dilation.  It might cause your eye to water or swell or get red. But a dilation problem would be related to the brain or the optic nerve.  They had already requested a CT scan to check it out.

I felt like I had gotten the wind knocked out of me.  Again, I thought of my kids.  The nurse took my blood pressure and took me to a stretcher and started to wheel me into the back.  I assumed I was going to a room, but it was a busy day, so I was parked in the hallway in an area that they use as a patient ‘room’ when they’re out of space.

Two different doctors came to talk with me.  They asked me about medications.  They numbed my eye and poked at it to check the pressure.  They did vision tests.  They asked me about medications again.  They asked me about eye drops.  They told me they were just waiting for the CT scan.  They told me to sit tight and try to relax.

I rolled over on the stretcher to face the wall and I tried to be brave and I tried to be positive and I tried to pray.  Mostly I just cried.  Silent tears, facing the wall in the hallway of the emergency room.  I realized that wasn’t helping things.  I called my mom.  She’s a nurse.  I wanted her opinion and her reassurance and a little bit of distraction.

When I told my mother where I was and why, there was a long pause at the other end of the line.  I realized my mistake.  My mom was terrified.  It took her only a moment to recover, but I could hear it in her voice. She said things like, “You’re in the right place,” and “I’m glad you noticed it so quickly,” and “I’m not scared, but of course, I’m concerned,” and I realized that I probably just shaved a few months of my mother’s life.  She did great, as moms do, but she was not in a position to be objectively reassuring. She was afraid, too.  When we hung up, she texted that she loved me, and I began to cry again.

When my friend had dropped me off at the hospital entrance, I told her the truth when I said that my husband was on his way.  What I didn’t tell her was that he had to take his work van from his job back to the shop, get on the motorcycle (which he had ridden to work), ride the motorcycle an hour back to our house, pick up his personal vehicle, and then come to the hospital.  There was no way it would take any less than two hours.

As I sat in that hallway, my mind began to race again.  You see, the motorcycle that my husband was riding is mine.  He likes to borrow it sometimes, and we both love to ride.  But he’s a less experienced rider than I am. He also has a bad track record on a motorcycle, and has laid one down more times than either one of us would like to admit.  And anytime he’s riding, I get a little nervous.  He always calls or texts to tell me when he’s arrived safely.  So after about an hour, I began to anticipate his call.  After an hour and a half, I began to worry in earnest.  What if he crashed?  What if we both wound up in separate rooms in this ER?  What if our kids came home to an empty house because both of their parents were in the hospital?

I knew this was ridiculous. I realized this pattern of thinking was absurd and unhelpful.  So I decided to distract myself again.  I picked up the phone.   I considered calling my dad or my sisters, but I didn’t want to scare them.  I thought about texting my best friend, but she would want to do something to help, and she was in the middle of teaching. I decided to text my church friends and ask for prayers.

This was a good call. I have a few women friends from church with slightly more flexible schedules than my teacher friends.  They responded right away, with a perfect balance of concerned prayer and inappropriate jokes.  They made me laugh and I didn’t feel so alone and I was able to distract myself with these text messages until my husband finally arrived.

I didn’t realize that I was holding my breath until he arrived and the air rushed into my lungs.  He sat next to me and held my hand and joked and distracted me and asked questions and hugged me.  Just having him there made all the difference.  The fear began to dissipate.

They finally did the CT scan. The results were unremarkable.  They sent me home, confident that my brain was fine, but unsure of what the problem had been.  My eye was still dilated and I couldn’t see right.  Ultimately, it stayed like that for 12 hours.  They referred me to an optometrist for the next day.

I couldn’t see.  So I couldn’t drive.  I couldn’t teach.  I couldn’t ring bells with the church bell choir as planned.  I cancelled everything for that evening and the next day, feeling slightly guilty, but overwhelmed with enough fear to drown out the guilt. Jack and I both contacted our jobs to plan for another day out of work so we could go to the opthamologist and get this figured out.

We went to bed on Tuesday evening with my eye still dilated and a lot of fear about what might be going wrong.  I woke up on Wednesday morning with perfect vision and normal pupils.  Not surprisingly, we went to the appointment, and the eye doctor told me that my vision was fine and that my pupils were normal. She asked me a lot of questions about drugs or medications or eye drops, trying to pinpoint what the problem may have been.  Ultimately, the answer was, “We don’t know.”

“We don’t know, but you seem fine now,” was the conclusion.  “Come back if it happens again,” was the general consensus.  “Sometimes these things just happen and we don’t know why,” was offered by way of explanation.

So I’m glad it ended well. I’m glad it wasn’t any sort of tragedy. But I’m left feeling scared and insecure and worried about what actually happened.  I’m left feeling guilty that I left work “for no reason” because no reason was ever identified.  I’m left feeling like a child who overreacted to a minor injury; as if I somehow made it up or brought it upon myself.

I’m hopeful that writing this all down will help me to let some of that go.  I want to process these feelings of guilt and fear and panic, and then be able to move on.  I want to feel gratitude for my good health, for as long as it lasts.  I want to be fully present in the joy of spending time with my family.  I want to be confident in my professional capabilities without second-guessing what my colleagues might be thinking.

But I’m not there yet. Today, I’m still a little scared and guilty and worried.  I’m trying to be okay with that.  These feelings?  These crappy, uncomfortable, yucky feelings?  They almost always have something to teach me.  I just have to be willing to sit with them long enough to learn the lesson. Thanks for sitting with me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mother’s Day

I grew up with the kind of mom who spent weeks using spray paint and Styrofoam to create the type of Halloween costumes that won the school contest every year.  I had the kind of mom who made a home-cooked meal for dinner every night; the kind of mom who vacuumed every day.  She was the kind of mom who wouldn’t leave the house without makeup, but also the kind of mom who would wipe off her makeup in a heartbeat to jump in the pool and swim with us.

My mom was 19 years old when I was born.  She named me Amy Joy because she says I was her greatest Joy.  That’s pretty admirable, because I accidentally got pregnant at 26, after college and with a full time teaching job and I’m pretty sure that terror trumped joy when I found out. But I digress.

Motherhood for her was an escape route from a home riddled with alcoholism and a childhood tainted by trauma. Her mom, from what I remember, was pretty awesome.  She was funny and loving and full of life.  Until a brain aneurism took her at the tender age of 46.  My mom was 23 when she lost her own mother. At the time, I didn’t get it.  I was young, and I figured my mom was grown up, so she didn’t really need her mother anymore.

In hindsight, I can’t imagine.  I can’t imagine being a young mother, with a brand new second baby, and losing your mom so suddenly.   The older I get, the more I think about the heartbreak, the devastation she must have felt. It dawns on me now that I’m nearly as old as my grandmother was when she passed.

When I was a baby, I think we had a pretty rocky start.  I don’t remember any of it, but she and my dad didn’t last long.  They both say they were just too young.  (My dad is an amazing man, and he has always loved me fiercely.  He’ll get his own blog post for father’s day.)   Mom moved back to her hometown, into a small apartment over the bar that her father owned.  She worked as a waitress, and in my brain there is a snapshot of me, probably around 3 years old, sitting on the bar with a massive jar of maraschino cherries between my OshKoshed legs, snacking like I owned the place.  We lived there together for a while, until she met my stepfather.

My stepdad is a rock. He’s a provider, and he loved me like his own.  I think that he anchored her during this time in her life. They had three more daughters together, and my mom embraced a pretty traditional form of motherhood. She had graduated High School, but never gone to college, so employment options were limited in our small town.  She kept waitressing for a little while, but then settled in to running a home daycare for a large portion of my childhood.

Mom was always affectionate and energetic, but there came a time, somewhere in my preteen years, when her yearning for something more became more than a yearning.  My mom went back to school when I was in High School. She had always wanted to go to college, but as a dyslexic child, the people around her didn’t have the tools to help her realize her potential.  She always thought she was dumb.

She’s far from dumb. She’s really smart.  Admittedly, I was a bit resentful during High School when she started taking classes.  This meant that the rest of us had a lot of slack to pick up.  It was then that I really realized how much she had done for us, behind the scenes and with very little gratitude, for all of those years.  In hindsight, I am in awe of the strength and determination it took to go back to school at this late stage, with four kids at home and a full time job running a daycare. But my mom is nothing if not determined.

She did it.  My mom and I went to college at the same time. She got her associate’s degree and then her bachelor’s degree.  After 25 years, her marriage to my stepdad ended.  While that was traumatic for us all, I think it was part of my mother’s transformation.  She was realizing her dreams.  She was becoming the smart, independent, determined woman she was always meant to be.

My mom lives in Florida now. She moved there a few years ago with Tom, who is her perfect match. He treats her as an equal; he shakes his head and sighs when she’s being ridiculous, and he happily joins her when she’s craving an adventure.  He’s pretty amazing, and they’re really, really good together.  Once in Florida, Mom went to nursing school at an age when most people are thinking about retirement.  She became an RN and lives near the ocean, which has always been her dream.  She got her eye makeup tattooed on, so she no longer feels the need to apply eyeliner before she leaves the house.

My mom is far from perfect. She’s made a lot of mistakes and she’s infamous for her terrible gift-giving (Sorry mom.  But you’re getting better. Keep trying.)

And despite her flaws and faults, my amazing mother has taught me who I want to be.

She has taught me that your past doesn’t have to define you.

She has taught me that what you know to be true about yourself trumps anything that others believe.

She has taught me that motherhood is full of joy and sacrifice, and that loving your children will make up for all the mistakes you’re bound to make.

She has taught me the importance of staying true to yourself.  She has shown me how to achieve joy by striving to reach your potential.

She has showed me how to love fiercely, how to be unapologetically me, and how to laugh at myself when I feel like crying.

She has taught me the importance of tenderness and honesty.

She has shown me how to be brave and bold and kind.

My mother is my inspiration, and on this day and all the others… I am so grateful to have her in my life.

 

 

 

Diary of a Weekend

Friday Night.

It’s almost the weekend. School is over, and I’m only bringing home a small pile of papers to grade. I’m packing up my stuff and getting ready to leave work and the phone rings.  It’s moderately disappointing news, and I try not to let it affect my mood.  A co-worker comes in, looking for a book that I might have borrowed and forgotten to return.  I panic and begin to search through my materials, feeling guilty and slightly irritated, because I’m pretty confident that I returned it. From the other room, another colleague shouts, “I found it.”  I’m relieved and aggravated at the same time.

I get home and put down my bags and the phone rings.  It’s Bea’s guidance counselor.  This is the thing I won’t recover from this evening.  I’m worried and stressed and trying to solve a problem, and it’s all made so much harder by the fact that I’m not her mother (n) but it’s my job to mother (v) her.  And all the love in the world doesn’t make up for the fact that I’m not her mom, and sometimes what a girl really wants her mom.  And then I realize that I’m making it about me, and it’s not about me.  It’s about her, and what I need to do is show up and listen and do the best I can because, really, that’s all any of us can do.

Next, I get to drive Lee to a roller rink birthday party.  And then three of us (Cal, Jack, and I) go to the third grade moving up dance. Which is what every working parent looks forward to from 7-9 on a Friday night.  Cal had the time of his life, while Hubs and I mostly tried to avoid the smell of a hundred sweaty third graders and occasionally check the Bruins score.

So we finally pried my son away from the free candy and line dancing, and headed home.  Then my husband ditched me to go watch the Bruins game. I was going to read or write or do something productive, but I wound up watching Netflix and falling asleep on the couch.  As Friday nights go, it wasn’t on the top ten list, but it wasn’t a tragedy.

Saturday.

I am so goddamned angry right now.  Why is everything always swearing and yelling and whining and misery around here? Why can’t we just enjoy each other’s company?  Why can’t we spend quality time together and laugh?  Why can’t we help each other and enjoy the weather and just be freaking happy?

I’ve been reading Brene’ Brown’s book, “Rising Strong,” and I read it and I think I’ve got a good handle on this.  I read stories of people with unreasonable expectations, and I think “That’s not me,” but you know what?  It IS me. It is totally freaking me.

I just want to happily straighten up the house, all of us together, you know… not just me.  And then I want to happily pack up some snacks and head to the lake and then sit on the shore and soak up the sunshine and read my book and play in the sand with my kids and then swing on the swings and freaking smile with my hair blowing behind me like I’m in one of those commercials for organic yogurt or something.

And the reality is, my house is moderately neat but not clean and everybody’s getting yelled at for not helping and Jack just told the kids they have to get rid of all their pets by the end of the week, and Bea doesn’t want to do anything that requires her getting out of her bathrobe and Lee won’t stop crying because he has to give away his guinea pig and Cal just keeps trying to sneak outside to play and I can’t say as I blame him, ‘cause I don’t want to be here, either.

Saturday Night.

After this afternoon’s rant, I took Bea and Lee shopping- we ran some errands and bought some things that smell good- candles and air fresheners and coffee.  Bea got her eyebrows waxed, and that pretty much made her day.  Cal and Jack went out on the boat, which pretty much made their day, so things were looking up.

And then we had a lovely visit.  The house got cleaned, and the fajitas were delicious and timed perfectly so that we were ready to eat when my in-laws arrived.  We chatted and ate and enjoyed each other’s company and exchanged gifts and watched the Kentucky Derby. The kids were good and the dogs were good and the house was clean(ish) and then we ate cheesecake.  Once everyone left, Bea and Lee went to bed, but Jack and Cal and I watched “Civil War” as a refresher before we go to see “Infinity Wars” tomorrow.  I blissfully fell asleep on the couch, about two minutes before the climax of the movie (as is my typical pattern).  For a day that started out so crappy, it ended pretty beautifully.

Sunday.

This morning, I woke up to dog pee on the carpet.  Again. It’s my own damned fault, because I’m so used to being able to let the dogs out after dinner and then forget about them until morning.  But the big one is getting old.  She can’t hold it that long anymore.  So somebody needs to let her out right before we go to bed.  But obviously, we forget.  It’s not habit yet.  So for the past two weeks, we’ve been cleaning up pee on the carpet.

You know when you clean something nasty with a particular cleaner, and then that cleaner is always associated in your mind with that nasty smell or whatever?  Well, I’m at the point where I can’t tell if what I’m smelling is dog pee or carpet cleaner because every time I smell that damned carpet cleaner, my brain says, “Eeew.  Dog pee.”  I think I’m just going to rip up the carpet.

So I put cinnamon buns in the oven.  At least then, the house will smell like something good.  So now I’m sipping coffee and writing while cinnamon buns bake in the oven, and even if they are Pillsbury from a can, I feel a little like Betty Freaking Crocker, and I’m going to enjoy it for a while before I have to switch the laundry and shower and get ready for church.

Church.

I volunteered to teach Sunday School today.  I feel sort of obligated to do this because I’m part of the Christian Education (CE) committee at my church, but in the two years that I’ve been on the committee, I’ve realized two (embarrassing) things.  First; I am more of a control freak than I like to admit.  Second; although I’m a teacher by trade, I am terrible at teaching Sunday School.

So this morning was predictably disappointing.  I missed the sermon.  I missed communion.  I missed hearing my husband sing in the church band.  I missed hugging my friend who is struggling, and I missed the sweet smile from the lady who tells me how lovely my boys are even when they’re being loud and distracting and, well, boy-ish.  And instead, I headed to the back rooms and made an attempt (somewhat like herding cats) at reading and discussing a bible passage with third graders.

I mean, it was okay. It wasn’t painful.  It just wasn’t fulfilling.  So then, after the service, I joined my friends for Coffee Hour and I wanted so badly to connect with these people I love, but I felt like I mostly just stood there awkwardly, being in a bad mood and gauging how I only had 10 minutes before I needed to leave, so I probably shouldn’t get into any sort of meaningful or important conversation.

The whole morning felt like a miss.

Sunday Afternoon.

We got our whole family to agree on a movie and go to the theater together, which, in and of itself, feels like a win.  Nobody fought over popcorn or cried because I wouldn’t buy nachos.  I gave them a dollar for the crappy claw game and Cal didn’t cry when he lost.  Lee took advantage of the “Free Refill on a large popcorn” policy, and replenished our supply all on his own, without me having to leave the theater at all. There’s something cool about him being that grown-up.  Bea threw a pair of fuzzy socks in my purse before we left, which I thought was weird but when she was freezing and put them on about halfway through the movie, it was just adorable and endearing.

We all enjoyed the movie- we’re that family that has seen every Marvel Comic film at least 3 times, so this one was sort of an event for us.  Even Bea is getting into it, which is surprising and sweet and really, really nice.  Overall, it was a pretty great afternoon.

Sunday evening.

I have been trying new recipes in an attempt to eat better and expand our dinner repertoire.  Tonight’s plan was a turkey rolatini recipe, which looked amazing in the online photos. It was filled with a mix of herbs and wrapped in bacon, so it had definite potential to be a keeper.  The problem is the fact that it was flattened and rolled meat.  I fully expected this dish to be delicious, but not pretty like the picture on the website. In fact, I introduced this recipe idea as a ‘potential Pinterest fail’ when I pitched it to my husband.

 

But, guys… guess what? It came out AWESOME.  It was pretty AND delicious.  So this morning I was Betty Freaking Crocker and tonight I was Martha Freaking Stewart and I was feeling pretty good about myself. Of course, Lee wouldn’t eat it because it was meat, and Cal wouldn’t eat it because it had green stuff inside, and Bea replied, Meh,” when I asked if she liked it. But whatever, because I thought it was amazing.

Reflecting.

On Sunday nights, I have a habit of reflecting back on the weekend.  What was the overall vibe?  Pretty good? Kinda crappy?  Amazing?  Awful? But this weekend, looking back, was pretty representative of weekends at this phase in my life.  There were moments of rage and moments of bliss. There was mild disappointment and contentment and peace and pride and frustration.  There were moments that I felt like I was failing at this whole parenting thing, and moments when I felt like I could teach others how it’s done. There were moments I wanted to escape and moments I wanted to last forever.

I’m not going to ‘enjoy every moment’ like I’m often advised by well-meaning old ladies.  I’m going to enjoy the enjoyable moments.  And I’m going to breathe and get through the difficult ones.  I’m going to laugh and cry with my people, and we’re going to get through this crazy life together.

I’m sitting here, in the middle of one of those quietly content moments, typing a blog and reflecting on the ups and downs of life, and, I kid you not… from downstairs, a kid just shouted, “Mom?  I think I’m gonna puke!”   God does have a sense of humor, doesn’t he?