Category: Marriage and Family

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

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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.

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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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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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.

 

 

 

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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?

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Politics

This post has been brewing for a while. It’s going to be a tough one to write, because I have a tendency to censor myself so as not to offend anyone.

But when you have difficult conversations, somebody’s bound to get offended… that doesn’t mean we should avoid difficult conversations. Just because there will be disagreements and discomfort doesn’t grant us permission to isolate ourselves in little enclaves of support and assume that the rest of the world is evil and malevolent.

I’ve read a few books that have helped me to hone my opinions on this subject… one was Difficult Conversations (Stone, Patton, and Heen), another was We; a Manifesto for Women Everywhere, by Anderson and Nadel, and the most recent was We Need to Talk, by Celeste Headlee.

Reading these books has helped me to shift my awareness of my own conversations, and there is nowhere that impacts me more than within my own marriage.

This political environment has shaken the foundation of my marriage. Does that sound extreme? Good. Because it feels extreme. For 13 years, my husband and I have driven to the polls together, stood in line, provided our shared address, entered our separate booths, and effectively cancelled out each other’s votes. Then we were able to walk out holding hands.

We consistently and respectfully argued and listened and sometimes shouted and often agreed to disagree. But when it came down to it, we agreed on the things that mattered most. We were always able to keep that in perspective.

I’m trying to figure out what changed that. Is it Trump? Is it Facebook? Is it click-bait and media sensationalism? Is it simply because the stakes feel so Goddamned high right now? Is it the environment that changed? Or is it us?

For a while, our fights got bad. Like ‘do we even have anything in common anymore?’ bad. Like ‘why did we even get married in the first place?’ bad.   It felt like I didn’t know this guy all of a sudden, and it was terrifying.

But here’s the thing. He’s the same guy. He’s the same guy I married. He’s the most loyal man I’ve ever met. He’s the guy who ripped down the anti-trans joke posted in the bathroom at work and when his boss asked him about it, he’s the guy who staunchly defended our son to the man who signs his paycheck. He’s the guy who didn’t hesitate when I asked if we could take in a child he barely knew and love her like one of our own. He’s the guy who gives up his Saturday to create a guinea pig habitat in the basement with his kids. He’s the guy who lets a 120 lb dog climb up into his lap because he can’t resist her charms. He’s the guy who is not afraid to rip apart the bathroom because he knows he’ll figure out how to put it back together. He’s the man who freezes his butt off in a hockey rink cheering on his kid, and the one who freezes his butt off in the driveway, fixing that same kid’s truck. He’s the man who makes a mean chicken marsala and serves it up just because he knows it’s my favorite. He’s the man who does the laundry and patiently pairs all the socks because he knows it’s the job I hate the most. He’s the man who holds my hand in church as we pray for the healing of someone we love.

And all of this political angst in our world didn’t change who he is.

There’s all kinds of research about human behavior and communication that fascinates me. There are studies that prove we’re MORE likely to dig in our heels about our beliefs when we learn information that contradicts our original thoughts. We seek out information that confirms what we already believe, while we profess to be educated and open-minded. Overall, as a species, we’re terrible at listening because our brains are always planning what we’re going to say next. Our brains are also hardwired to make snap judgements about our environment, including the people in it. We quickly put people into categories, whether we know it or not. A few key words in a conversation or a post will automatically relegate someone into the category of ‘other’ without our conscious awareness.

Think about the impact of that. It’s insane.

If I only knew my husband peripherally; if I only saw his Facebook posts, for example, I would assume that this guy is an asshole. He’s going to read this… and I’m not writing something he doesn’t know. I worry about how he looks to my friends who don’t know him well. I don’t agree with a lot of what he shares or writes, and I probably have online ‘friends’ who wonder why we’re even together.

But the friends who know us in real life? They see it. They see how we make each other better. They see how we influence each other’s perspective. They see how we learn from each other and force each other to grow instead of shrinking into what we think we already know.

Guys, I’m going to start saying some uncomfortable things, but please stick with me here. My husband often starts his rants with a phrase like, “Freaking liberals…” and I lose my ever-loving mind. Every time I hear him say that, I know something awful is coming and that he has automatically lumped together a whole group of people as being idiots and that I IDENTIFY MYSELF as part of this group. And I get pissed.

It’s a terrible way to start a conversation. I’m already defensive, he’s already irritated, and there’s no way anybody is listening to anybody else because we’ve already moved to our corners and gotten ready to battle.

But you know what, guys? He’s pointed out the other side of this. He’s shown me a million examples of ‘us liberals’ making broad, sweeping generalizations about him, too.

I know I’m entering into difficult territory here, and I know we all need to check our privilege. I know we all have inherent biases and we all have something to learn. But if I really pay attention, I am able to see all of the ways that conversation in our liberal, left-leaning state makes assumptions about my working class, white, male, conservative husband and his beliefs. And none of those assumptions is favorable.

We could argue about the fact that people of color have dealt with this same sort of bias for centuries. We could point out the fact that he’s got a lot of advantages. We could argue that he’s only experiencing what women and minorities have experienced forever.

But isn’t the goal to move to a place where we are all able to listen and respect each others’ views? Aren’t we trying to make a move toward inclusivity? I know this particular white man, and in the same breath, I am learning more and more about the impact of white privilege and toxic masculinity and institutional racism and sexism. But the way to reach him and share what I know and what I’m learning is to start from a place of mutual respect.

Remember, our human tendency is to dig in our heels, especially when confronted with information that contradicts what we think we already know. So if you want to share your viewpoint with an (uneducated) working-class, (unfeeling) conservative, (toxically) masculine, (racist) white, (oppressive) man, you have to take away the words in parenthesis. You have to check your liberal bias, too.

One of the things I find myself saying most in the heat of an argument is, “You’re not LISTENING.” This is the thing that frustrates me the most. When I feel I’m not being heard, I feel that I’m not being respected. But in the heat of an argument, I’m not listening either. I’m too busy strategizing and trying to recall facts and trying to prove how right I am.

How do we move away from that? In our relationships, in our churches, in our communities, and in our country? I can’t profess to know the answer, but I do know what helps us.

First, be clear about what you support. Don’t hone in on what you’re against. When my husband and I find ourselves arguing about some policy or article or statement, it’s too easy to be anti-whatever the other person is saying. Find what you passionately believe we need, and fight for THAT.

Second, LISTEN. Don’t formulate your argument or tally up all the reasons why the other person is wrong. Actually try to understand their point of view. Assume that people have legitimate reasons for their beliefs, whether you agree with them or not.

Third, ASK QUESTIONS. Stop pretending you know things you don’t. You don’t know another person’s experience. You don’t know what they’ve lived or read or been taught. If you sincerely want to connect with people, you have to accept that they know things that you don’t. And everybody knows something you don’t.

The fourth point is intimately connected to the third, and it’s become a bit of a mantra in my house. Just because you haven’t experienced something, doesn’t mean it’s not real. I’m going to write that twice. Just because you haven’t experienced something, doesn’t mean it’s not real.

My husband has never experienced crippling anxiety. He doesn’t understand why I can’t just let things go. He wants me to stop worrying. He wants me to feel better and he can’t wrap his mind around the fact that it’s not that easy for me. But he believes me. He has to accept that, while this feeling is something he’s never experienced, it exists in a very real way for me.

The same is true for me with his ADD. I don’t understand how he can get sucked into a word game for hours but can’t finish sorting the laundry without being distracted. I don’t understand why it’s hard to stay present in a conversation while the TV news plays in the background. I want him to just be able to focus and I don’t understand how it could possibly be that hard. But I believe him. I accept that his ADD is real for him, even though I don’t understand it.

We both had to come to terms with this when our son confided that he is a transgender boy. We didn’t understand it. We couldn’t imagine the feelings our child was experiencing, and it was hard for us to wrap our minds around his unique experience. But just because we hadn’t experienced it, didn’t mean it wasn’t real.

When the going gets tough, that’s what we fall back on. We’re a pretty strong crew. We’re going to fight for what we believe in. And sometimes we’re going to disagree. But I’m pretty sure nobody’s ever read a vitriolic Facebook comment that made them think, “Oh, my. It looks like I was wrong after all.” Ultimately, you’re only going to change hearts and minds by living a life that honors your own truth, and by trying to truly understand the people who touch your life.

So we keep listening and asking questions and making mistakes and disagreeing. And I pray that we never stop learning from each other.

 

 

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Parenting

There is a family that recently left our church. I knew them well enough to feel sad when they went. But then I heard a rumor. I heard that something was said about “the transgender kid” when they decided to leave. I don’t pretend to know the details, and I know how the church rumor mill can churn out dramatic misinformation, so I took all this with a grain of salt… until I recently ran into the mom at the dentist. When I said hello, she barely made eye contact and mumbled her reply, and that was all the confirmation I needed.

I wasn’t friends with these people, per se. Our kids got along. We chatted at coffee hour. She works at the school that my trans son attends, so we had some conversational common ground. She knew about my son’s transition. She had a lot of questions about it, and she wasn’t shy about asking. Maybe that should’ve been a sign, but I didn’t see it.

I’ve said before, when people ask questions and I feel like they’re sincerely trying to understand, I answer. I answer honestly and a little vulnerably and I pray that I’m speaking to someone who truly wants to understand. Today, that makes me feel naïve.

We’ve lived in this amazing bubble of support and encouragement. I’m not ignorant enough to believe that everyone supports our family. I’ve read the ‘comments’ sections on enough advocacy articles to know that there is indescribable vitriol (even, perhaps especially, toward children) around this issue.

So when I hear your comments about a ‘man in a dress’ or see your fear-mongering ‘bathroom bill’ memes with no basis in fact, I know what I’m up against. I can choose whether to educate or disengage. I know what I’m dealing with.

But in the context of friendly, curious conversation at an open and affirming church, I’m not ready. I’m not prepared with my ‘mama bear’ costume and my fierce advocacy. Sadly, I’m learning that I should be.

I’m going to admit something here. As with ALL parenting, none of us is equipped with an answer book. We don’t have the instruction manual for children, and we couldn’t ever develop one because all children are different. Those of us raising transgender children? We’re the same as you.

We have questions and fears and worries. We see our children through their joy and their sorrow. We recognize their beauty and individuality. We worry about them. We celebrate with them. We love them with a love that is fierce and unwavering. We call ourselves ‘mama bears’ and ‘papa bears.’ Those of us who are Christian believe that our children are fearfully and wonderfully made in the image of God.

But there is something different about parenting children such as ours. In the general parenting community, there is room for questioning and doubt. There is room for exploration and uncertainty. Differences in opinion are abundant, but each person’s parenting experience is inherently validated by the conversation.

When you find yourself parenting a gender-variant (gender non-conforming, transgender, agender, non-binary, or any variation on the theme) child, you quickly realize that the validity of your experience as a parent is not assumed. You’re not given the benefit of the doubt, because….

– Maybe they really wanted a girl/boy.

– They must be hippie freaks.

– Someone just needs to lay down the law.

– Kids can’t make these kinds of decisions.

– Who is running things over there, anyway?

– Why can’t they just be gay?

– Biology is biology.

– They’re just trying to push their liberal agenda.

 

I could go on, but you get the point. Those of us parenting these ‘gender diverse’ children aren’t assumed to be competent or sane. Before we can engage in any conversation, we have to prove that we are rational, intelligent people. Then we can move on to explain that no one knows our children like we do. Once we’ve established these two things, we typically have to justify our decision to ‘allow’ our children to transition. Reasons such as, ‘she twice attempted suicide’ or ‘he’s been asking when he’ll get his penis since he could talk’ are generally accepted as valid. ‘She’s always loved dresses’ might convince some. ‘They’ve never identified as a boy or a girl. They prefer neutral pronouns’ will likely be scoffed at.

When parents of transgender children have doubts, we know better than to bring them out with us in public. We know what happens when WE seem uncertain. Our credibility is challenged. Our decisions get discredited. Our fear is exploited, and sometimes, our children are attacked. So we don our bear suits. We fight for our children to be treated with respect. We fiercely and passionately share the reality of loving someone so beautifully vulnerable. We fight and we beg and we demand. We stand by our decisions because NOBODY knows what is best for our children better than we do.

We are lucky enough to live in the age of the internet, and we’ve connected with each other. We know we are not alone. So we bring our fears and doubts, our ‘inappropriate’ questions, our grief, and our uncertainty to support groups- both online and in real life. In those spaces, we ask our hard questions and share our vulnerability. We share the science and question the research and pass along resources. We console the grieving and advise the questioning and generally help each other through this unique parenting experience. In those spaces, we’re assumed be sane, loving parents who just want the best for our children. Just like everyone else.

Our children are not a threat. Not in school, not in church, and not in a public restroom. Our children are beautiful, vulnerable, and unique. Just like yours.

 

 

 

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Organized

I have no fewer than seven ‘junk drawers’ in my house. That’s not counting the 4 cabinets and six baskets where I shove things when I’m frantically trying to make my house presentable. I can’t be the only one. I USED to be a neat freak; it was the defining characteristic of my childhood. I say this as if it might redeem me in some way. Maybe you’ll judge a little less harshly if you know that I was once an expert at organizing.  But things have changed.

I can never find a freaking pair of scissors. They belong in a cup of writing utensils in the game room of my house. But I’ll be damned if I can ever locate them when they’re needed. They’re in my kids’ room. They’re in the dining room. They’re with the wrapping paper. They’re in any one of my seven junk drawers. So, this Christmas, I bought three pairs of scissors at the dollar store. I was NOT going to be searching my house for scissors on top of everything else.

When you go out and buy something you KNOW you already have in your home, just so you don’t have to look for it, that’s a sign that there might be a problem. This chaos in my home is a source of embarrassment. I might even call it shame, which seems likely to be an overstatement, but it’s not.  The feeling is intense.

Rationally, I know that a drawer full of crap doesn’t make me any less valuable as a human, but people judge.  People judge appearances; the appearance of my home is (unfairly) a reflection upon me (not my husband- don’t get me started on that).

Then it makes sense that I want it to LOOK organized, even if ‘organized’ isn’t something I’m capable of at the moment. So I shove things in drawers.

I can’t even blame the kids for this. It’s their junk, yes. But I’m the one who shoves it into drawers and baskets and cabinets. I’m the one who takes all of these innocuous items and crams them into unseeable spaces to be forgotten.

The point of this story is that I finally went through all of these catch-all spaces in my house. Yesterday, I emptied the three baskets of random crap in my bedroom. I picked through all of the tchotchkes in the coffee table drawers. I cleaned out the junk drawer(s). I cleaned out the desk. I rearranged furniture and cleared out a bookshelf. The evidence of my hard work can mostly be found in three huge trash bags in the garage.

Today, my son was able to locate an envelope, stamp, and scissors without blinking and said, “I like this new ‘organized’ thing you’re doing mom.” For now, it feels pretty good. But I’ve been at this long enough to know that it won’t last forever. So when the drawers get full and the scissors are missing AGAIN, I will remind myself that the cleanliness of my house is not a measure of my worth.

But for now, I’m going to enjoy the fact that all 13 pairs of scissors reside in one drawer.

 

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Christmas Shopping

It is December 21st, and I keep hearing about ‘last minute shopping’ on the radio and TV commercials. For the record, my idea of ‘last minute shopping’ is driving around on Christmas morning trying to find an open gas station that sells gift cards. Until I reach that point, I am not conceding to the ‘last minute’ message. I am not succumbing to panic. I have DAYS. To be exact, I have 4 days. 96 hours. 5,760 minutes. I have PLENTY of time.

On my way home from work, I will get to CVS for stocking stuffers. Later tonight, I will email gift cards to out-of-state relatives while I sip a glass of wine. Sometime tomorrow, I will stop at Walmart for underwear and socks. OF COURSE it’s a busy time of year. OF COURSE the budget is stretched thin. OF COURSE I feel pressured to get a million things done.

In the past weeks, I have missed the fundraiser deadline, skipped the football banquet, forgotten the electric bill, and lost important meeting notes. I have been too lax about screen time and too angry about dirty laundry. I skipped Christmas cards entirely, and I still haven’t made the goddamned cheesecake.

But last night I taught my boys to play blackjack. It was fun and silly and totally enjoyable. My husband and Bea went to church to rehearse a song that they’re singing together at the Christmas Pageant.  I heard it was beautiful, and great for the two of them to have some time to connect.  Once everyone was in bed, my husband and I met some friends for a few drinks and an impromptu double date. There were both tears and laughter, and for a little while, I forgot about the endless tasks and the lengthy shopping list and the jam-packed calendar.   I let go of the pressures of the holiday season.

And I realized that, ultimately, I get to decide whether these things are the center of my holidays or just the frame.   I can choose whether I am frantic or focused. I can decide what my priorities are. I can choose whether I contribute napkins or elaborate reindeer-faced cupcakes to the class party. I can decide whether dinner is home made or takeout. I get to determine if my gifts will be elaborately wrapped or stuffed into gift bags. I can choose whether to perceive scarcity or abundance. I can choose to focus on my failures or celebrate my successes.

Today, I’m choosing to celebrate. Most likely with takeout and wine, and who knows…. Maybe even with cheesecake.  🙂

 

 

 

 

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Hostess

I’m totally in my element when I’m hosting a party. Whether it’s cocktails and crudité, football and chili, or pizza and piñatas, I get geared up to be the hostess.

When I was in college, my friends would come to visit me in my little rented cottage on the lake. I’d host dinner parties with lasagna and chicken parmesan and red wine, which was a huge step up from the ramen and cheap vodka we were so used to, and my friends exclaimed, “Girl, you’re so… domestic!” I still get together with those girls and our gaggle of kids and I’m reminded of how far we’ve come.

After college, I rented an apartment on my own, just outside of Boston. It was a beautiful apartment, but I was living on my own in a new city and I didn’t know a soul. I was five weeks into my first year of teaching (and my first year of adulting), and I didn’t really have any friends yet. It was time for parent-teacher conferences, and my new apartment was less than a mile from the school where I worked. So I decided to host a dinner party for my colleagues, between 3:00 when school got out, and 5:00 when conferences started. I set up a buffet table, complete with foil pans and sterno burners. Over ziti and meatballs, I made lifelong friends.

At that same apartment, I began the short-lived tradition of the “End of the Year Luau.” The luau was definitely NOT a dinner party. It was a full-on boozy bash replete with cheap inflatable decorations and plastic ‘coconut’ bras from the Oriental Trading Company. There were cheesy party games that nobody wanted to do but everybody enjoyed; in the morning there were people passed out on every soft surface and my potato chip bowl was halfway down the block in the middle of the street. The second year I hosted this, my landlord stopped by. I was terrified. He laughed at the look of panic on my face and asked for a margarita. The third year, I was pregnant, and my friends repurposed all of my cheap decorations. The Luau took the form of a baby shower. Times they were a-changin’.

There have been so many parties since; first birthdays, housewarming parties, New Year’s bashes, Superbowl parties. Some guests appear in each and every memory; old friends who have moved with me from tequila shots to chicken nuggets. Some of the faces were cherished for a season; friends who were close for a time and then lost touch. Some have been tragically lost, through accidents or illness. Some of the faces have evolved from children to adults; the time passes so quickly.

But these memories help me to hold each of these people in my heart. I can hear their laughter and remember their stories and revel in the fact that we experienced joy together.

That’s what hosting a party is for me. Sure, there’s the frantic cleaning and cooking. There might be some shouting at the kids to clean up the dog doo in the yard and get their laundry out of the bathroom. I’m lucky to be married to a rockstar host who busts his butt to make sure that the house looks great and there’s plenty of food and our guests feel at home.

But there comes a point when people arrive and there’s no time left to clean or cook. Friends offer a hand and the drinks get poured and the food gets served and the party begins. The laughter reverberates. The kids begin to run and shout and spill and crash and the adults dish up pasta and referee arguments and sip on wine and tell stories. And those moments are reserved for enjoyment. There are no bills to be paid or calls to be made or papers to be graded. There will be no vacuuming or folding or dusting. There is a simple objective in that moment- to enjoy each other. We appreciate the talents and quirks and passing stages of our friends and family. We remember that we are loved and we have people to love.

In my mind, that’s the purpose of a party. It reminds us to stop taking ourselves so seriously and to be grateful for our abundant gifts. It reminds us to pause and be joyful.

 

 

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Grateful

My heart is bursting today. It’s full of gratitude and love but also an achiness. As always, there’s a niggling feeling. It rests in the base of my right shoulder blade and emanates from my gut. I know this feeling all too well. It’s fear. Anxiety. Worry. It’s my lizard brain, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Even as I try to relax into the contentment of this day, it doesn’t go away.

I love Thanksgiving. It’s my favorite holiday, by far. There’s the obvious; the family, the food, the pie…  But I also love this day for its focus; a whole day centered around gratitude. And gratitude is the only thing that ever makes the worry go away. A warm shower, a long walk, a good book, a cup of tea, a glass of wine, even the Ativan; those things help me to soothe myself, but they don’t get at the source of the fear.

The most repeated phrase in the bible is, “Be not afraid.” The good book addresses our human tendency toward fear and worry over and over and over again. I know that I’m not alone in my anxiety… all of humankind knows the feeling. Love and fear wage battle in our hearts and minds, in our relationships, in our politics. No one is immune.

But maybe not all of us know the same degree of worry and fear. I can only assume some of us are naturally more anxious than others, in the same way that some of us are naturally taller or more eloquent or artistic or handy. And as I’ve gotten older, something amazing has happened. I’ve actually become grateful for the anxiety. It is one of my many God-given gifts. The anxiety is part of my core, and when it’s not consuming me, it fuels me. This fear has taught me gratitude. It has taught me patience and compassion. It has taught me the skill of self-care and frequently reminds me of its importance. It has opened my eyes to the vast range of human experience and has helped me to adjust my perception of others’ pain.

So this year, instead of fighting the anxiety, I’m embracing it. I’m surrounding it with gratitude and love. I’m bringing it to our celebration, along with my husband’s amazing voice, my son’s sense of humor, my other son’s gentle heart… I’m offering it to be shared with those who love me. On this Thanksgiving day, I am grateful to have loved ones with whom to share my blessings and my burdens. I am thankful to be able to bring my whole self to the table, and I wish the same for all of you.