Category: Reflections

In the center of our downtown area, there is a rotary.  The island in the middle showcases a Vietnam War memorial and beautiful landscaping, as well as crosswalks that help usher pedestrians across this busy intersection. 

Community groups often gather in this space, holding signs to promote their favored cause or candidate, and no permit is required to do so.  

Yesterday was my first event in the rotary.  I am a member of a Pride Allies group in town, and we organized and LGBTQ+ Pride Rally, inviting members of the community to gather in support.  I packed up my collection of Pride Flags, a bulk-sized box of skittles, and a cooler full of water.  We had rainbow stickers and markers and poster board for anyone who didn’t bring a sign. We were ready.  

*****

A slightly awkward preteen boy pulled up on his bicycle.  I greeted him, asking if he was part of the local middle school GSA.  “No.  I go to a different school.  I was just going to the store and I saw you here, so I decided to come back for a while.”  He stayed for three hours.  

*****

A little old lady, wearing wrap-around sunglasses and struggling to see over her steering wheel, smiled at us and waved as she puttered around the circle at about 7 miles per hour.  

*****

A large man in a mid-sized sedan drove through a little too fast.  He saw my sons standing with their signs and their flags, leaned halfway out his window, and bellowed, “FAGGOTS” before he flipped them off.  

 *****

A bald man in a grocery delivery truck shouted, “Happy Pride! Keep it up!” and send out two short blasts of his truck’s startling horn. 

*****

A twenty-something woman with spiky pink hair leaned a bit out her window and shouted, “GO QUEERS!” while pumping her fist and honking her horn. 

*****

A family of four drove by with their windows down.  A preschooler in her car seat shouted, “Happy Pride!” out the window.  The rest of the family was silent.  

*****

A middle-aged woman in a white SUV drove almost all the way through the rotary before shouting, “I LOVE MY WHITE HUSBAND” and speeding away.  

*****

A woman in her fifties, driving a Subaru with a co-exist bumper sticker, shouted “Thank you!” as she drove past.  

*****

A bald man in a pickup with an NRA logo in the window smiled and gave us a thumbs-up. 

*****

On more than one occasion, we were pleasantly surprised.  Our own stereotypes were shattered by the tradesman and truckers who threw us a thumbs-up or blared their horns.  

*****

There is research that tells us that simply having a GSA (formerly ‘gay-straight alliance’, now updated to mean ‘gender-sexuality alliance’) in a middle or high school reduces suicide rates.  That’s even if students don’t ATTEND the GSA.  Having it in place and visible speaks to the culture of the building.  It lets students who often feel ostracized and alone know that they do have support. 

If that’s true in a school, imagine how much MORE powerful it is in our communities.  

I won’t lie; the negative responses stuck like barbs.  They pissed me off.  But the honks and waves and cheers of support outnumbered the negatives by a hundred to one. 

A whole group of kids left that rally feeling a little more seen and a whole lot more supported.  They had a chance to hear the nasty comments and then build their resilience with the backing of a hundred honks and cheers.  

I’m going to call that a good day.  

There is a stretch of I84 in New York, just before you hit the Taconic Parkway.  At first, you catch a glimpse of the mountains through the trees on your right.  Every time I pass that place, my heart skips a beat.  I know what’s coming.  

A few moments later, you round a slight left turn at the crest of the hill and the whole of the Hudson Valley spreads out in front of you.  You can’t see the river just yet, but you see the hills and mountains in the distance, and my heart whispers home every time I see it. 

I never thought much about the landscape of where I grew up.  It was background to the more important things.  The piano lessons and soccer games and bonfires.  The boyfriends and pool parties and teenage drama. 

But now it speaks to my soul.  I feel the ache in my chest.  I love it and I hate it, too. 

*****

My parents split up for a few months when I was in first or second grade.  At the time they had two kids.  Maybe it seemed like easy math. They each took one.  

I was the obvious choice to stay with my mom.  After all, Frank wasn’t even my Dad.  Well, he wasn’t my biological father, anyway.  I didn’t BELONG with him. 

And Dad took my little sister, Justine.  They moved two hours away to stay with my Aunt outside of Albany.  

I tell you this because, during their eventual divorce some 15 years later, we split up the same way.  Like our bodies remembered where we BELONGED.  

Justine belongs to Dad.  And I belong to Mom.  It’s been that way for as long as I can remember.  

*****

There is muscle memory that kicks in as I drive the route to my childhood home.  I notice the things that are the same.  I note the countless ways that things have changed.  I remember my elementary school bus stops as I drive past.  Marlena lived there.  Missy lived there.  That was Chris’ grandparent’s house.  I wonder who has moved on and who is still here.  

I pull into the driveway.  I know to park on the grass.  Dad’s pet peeve has always been people who don’t know how to park.  We had a double-wide driveway and I could see the steam coming out of his ears when my teenage friends parked smack dab in the middle of it, so nobody else could get by. 

The house is a different color now.  The fence is gone.  The pool has been replaced by a hot tub.  They’re lovely changes.  But they still strike me.  There’s a dissonance.  This place is home.  This place is foreign. 

*****

When I graduated from High School, my parents threw a massive party.  I think there were a hundred people in our backyard.  My friends were playing chicken in the pool.  My family sat around in folding chairs, eating homemade meatballs and talking about how fast the children grow.  Dad started a bonfire in the barrel out back, and my friends and I cheered as we threw in our notebooks and binders to be devoured by the flames.  All of Dad’s family came, pinching my cheeks and handing me envelopes and congratulating me as if I were one of their own.  

*****

I wander into the backyard with my cooler and my bags and my gifts.  I’m greeted with hugs and “Let me carry that” and “How was the ride?”  It is lovely.  I head upstairs to the bathroom.  Most everything about the house has changed, but the bones haven’t.  It’s weird how the eight steps to the second floor remain the same but feel so different under my feet.  The stairs feel smaller and the bathroom feels larger and I look at the tub and wonder how my sister and I ever fit in there together.  

*****

One time, when we were small, my mom found a booger on the bathroom wall.  Yeah.  You read that right.  Someone was in the bathtub and picked a boogie and just… wiped it there.  

Mom was grossed out.  She yelled at my little sister.  It MUST have been her.  I was too old and too smart and too clean to do something that gross.  I stood in the bathroom doorway, wrapped in my towel. I listened to my mom yell and I watched my little sister’s eyes go wide as she insisted, “It wasn’t me!”  

It took me far too long.  My mom was still yelling.  I didn’t want to get involved.  But then I saw the tears welling in my sister’s eyes. 

“It was me, Mom.”  

“What? It was YOU?” she was shocked.  Indignant.  I braced myself for the tirade.  She took a deep breath.  She looked at my sister.  She looked at me.  Back at my sister.  I can’t remember if she apologized.  I do know that she looked at me, still seething a little, and said, “Thank you for telling me.  Thank you for being honest.  Now go clean it up.”  

She never yelled at me. 

*****

Today is my sister’s baby shower.  I brought some appetizers and a salad.  I worked for hours yesterday threading tomatoes and olives and cheese and salami on skewers.  They were pretty and I was proud.  

I made sure that everything was prepped in my cooler so I wouldn’t take up too much space in the kitchen. I prefer to stay out of the way, to stay in the background.  I’m unsure of my footing and I don’t want to stumble in front of everyone.  My sister set out my fancy antipasto appetizer kebabs on my new serving tray while I placed the curved shrimp along the edge of a fancy glass dish.  We worked side by side at the dining room table. 

*****

My mom had been dreaming of that table for years.  When it finally appeared in our dining room, her face lit up as if she had finally ARRIVED.  It wasn’t a hand-me down.  It wasn’t disposable particleboard furniture.  It was a solid, oak dining set, with leaves and a chair to match.  It seats 12 with lots of room and maybe 16 when we squished.  She was so proud to host holidays at that table.  For the first few years, she covered it with a clear, plastic tablecloth, so we could protect the surface but still see the beautiful wood finish.  She loved that stupid table.  He got it in the divorce. 

*****

We sit and chat, the women talking motherhood around one table, the men talking sports around another.  The kids play on the swingset and run around the yard.  My sister is glowing.  She’s beautiful and nervous and gorgeous, in that way that only very pregnant women can be.  She doesn’t realize yet what a miracle she is because she’s a first time mom and she only feels bloated and sweaty.  But I know better now.  I’m in awe of her.  

The weather is beautiful.  I packed sunscreen but I don’t need it because we sit in the shade of an oak tree that covers half of the yard now.  The kids climb that tree and sit on the lowest branches, swinging their legs and eating snacks.  

*****

We planted that tree together.  I don’t remember who was there, and I’m not sure how old I was.  But I know that the tree was small enough (and I was small enough) that I could sit on my Dad’s shoulders and reach the top of it.  When we put it in the ground, we imagined the day that it would be big enough for our children to climb in the branches.  

*****

The afternoon is lovely.  The food is delicious, and the conversation flows easily.  Stories get told and repeated.  I’m listening to one about my aunt.  Elizabeth pipes in.  “Is this the hair dye story?”  She smiles and laughs.  “We’ve heard that one before.”  I haven’t.  I laugh anyway, as if I’m in on the joke. 

Elizabeth opens her gifts, and we all ooh and aah over tiny baby clothes and blankets.  It is a celebration.  A joyful one. 

I overhear snippets of a conversation.  Someone says that Dad must be excited for his first grandson, after all these girls.  I have four boys.  I don’t speak up, and I feel as if I’m betraying my children.  I feel as if I have been betrayed.  I smile anyway. 

*****

Growing up, my dad washed the dinner dishes, and I dried.  I’m not sure how that came to be the rule. It was a sort of unspoken agreement.  The little kids cleared the table and swept the floor.  They finished pretty quickly, and then it was just me and my Dad.  Doing the dishes.  Sometimes we talked.  Mostly we didn’t.  We just worked there, side by side, every night.  We were a good team.  I remember the day that I noticed that I wasn’t looking up to him anymore.  We were eye to eye.  It felt like a milestone.  

*****

As we clean up, I end up drying dishes next to my Dad.  Right back in my old spot.  I say something.  “Wow.  We haven’t done this in a while.”  He smiled and nodded.  “I was just thinking the same thing.”  And mostly, we keep working in silence.  It is a weird, ordinary, beautiful moment.  

My dad pulls out cardboard takeout containers and insists that I pack up some leftovers.  He knows how teenage boys eat, and this is good stuff.  Over the years, I’ve come to understand that Dad has two concrete ways of loving.  He will fix your stuff and he will feed you.  For two decades, I’ve been too far away for him to love me in the ways he knows best.  We’re only just starting to figure out alternatives.  But for today, I am happy to accept his love and his penne a la vodka. 

*****

The baby shower is wrapping up.  A few people have already left.  Normally, as the sister of the guest of honor, I’d stay until the bitter end, cleaning up and making small talk.  But because I’m home so infrequently, I decide to bow out a little on the early side.  I have something important to do. 

I leave the baby shower and head toward Sarah’s mom’s house.  I haven’t been there in 20 years.  I asked for the address, but later realized that I didn’t need it.  My body remembered the way.  

*****

It was July of 2020.  A friend from high school text-shared an article from my hometown newspaper.  At first I was confused.  It was about a house fire.  Heartbreaking.  Tragic.  The daughter survived, but a little boy and his dad lost their lives.  I didn’t make the connection.  I didn’t recognize the last name.  I texted a question mark.  She replied, “That’s Sarah’s family.  Sarah’s ex.  Sarah’s son.”  I couldn’t catch my breath.  I couldn’t see through the tears.  

I didn’t know if they’d let us in to the funeral.  COVID and all.  The rules were unfamiliar.   Family only.  Masks.  Six feet apart.  I drove there anyway.  I’d stand outside if we weren’t allowed in.  I just needed to be there.  I didn’t know what else to do. 

 *****

In our friend group, Sarah was the solid one.  She was strong and spirited; just a little more mature, just a little more aware than the rest of us.  She had a wild streak, but I never saw her lose control.  She had an easy smile and an infectious laugh.  So, in eighth grade, when she asked me if I wanted to skip gym class and walk to the high school with her, I jumped on the chance.  The high schoolers had a half-day and she had a chance to kiss her boyfriend before he got on his bus. We thought it was a quick walk, in that way of children who can’t accurately estimate time and distance.  Surely, we’d be back before lunch.  We had old-school Swatch watches, and as we began to realize the walk was longer than we thought, we picked up the pace.  We ran, full-tilt, through the nearby backyards.  One old lady shouted at us from her porch, baffled.  We arrived, out of breath, and just in time.  I hid beneath the bleachers while she found the guy and kissed him goodbye.  But he was just a side note to this story.  I don’t even remember his name.    

When we finally made it back to the middle school, three class periods later, we were sure we’d be caught.  We braced for the punishment.  But miraculously, we arrived between classes.  We snuck in through the gym door.  Nobody ever knew we were gone.  The first time we told that story, we were 13.  Through the decades that followed, we retold it countless times, always to an audience who found it far less amusing than we did.  That memory brought us belly laughs well into our adulthood.   

 *****

Of course, the funeral was heartbreaking.  I sat there, unable to hold back the tears for a child I barely knew. I cried for that spirited, optimistic, thirteen year old girl; the one I could still see so vividly running through strangers’ backyards; the one who could never have known that her path would be interrupted by such a tragic turn.  I watched her and I continued to be in awe of her.  She was still standing.  She was still full of grace and gratitude, with grief settling in to the empty spaces.  I realized that when people say they couldn’t go on without their kids, they’re full of hubris and ignorance.  Of course you think you can’t.  But you do.  It is your only option.  My friend stood there, supporting her daughter and holding on to her family and mourning her loss in the arms of the people who love her.  Is it heartless to say it was beautiful?

*****

Maybe my body remembered the way to the house, but my brain blocked out the route.  I forgot that I would drive right by.  Right by the spot where we stood, nearly two years ago, staring at the charred remains of a house, placing down flowers and saying futile prayers. Crying in each others’ arms.  

My breath hitched as I took the turn.  I couldn’t hold back the tears.  It’s not even my tragedy.  It’s not my pain.  And still, I hope that by holding it a little, I can lighten it for her.  

*****

I pull in right behind her; she waves a polite wave, as you do in this part of the world.  I’m halfway down the driveway before she realizes it is me.  Her eyes light up, and that familiar, infectious smile spreads across her face. “What are you DOING here?” she asks. 

“Surprise?” I say, a little meekly, because I’m not sure this is my place and I have shown up anyway.  “Kate said she was coming to meet the baby.  I hope you don’t mind that I crashed.”  She wraps me in a hug and I am humbled and honored to be part of this moment with her. 

In the two years since I last witnessed her grief and grace, she has become even more beautiful.  Her baby is only two weeks old, and she has the glow of a new mom.  But there is something more.  There is a calm, a peace, a gratitude… she exudes something that I can’t quite explain.  Her pain has given her a depth that I can only admire, because I don’t have the words to describe it.  

*****

Of course, the baby is beautiful.  Her older daughter plays the piano and presses me for embarrassing stories about her mom in middle school.   I politely decline.  There are laughs and baby cries and exasperated teenaged eye-rolls and it is all so incredibly, mundanely beautiful.  

*****

As I climb back into the driver’s seat, I check my phone to see how long my return trip will take.  The service that far out in the country is unreliable. When Google asks for my destination, I push the button for ‘home.’  After a long wait, my phone declares, “Can’t find a way there.”  

How appropriate.  

***** 

Visiting my childhood home is hard.  I don’t know if it’s hard like this for everyone.  It’s not bad.  It’s just exhausting.  It brings up so many memories, so many feelings, so many long-forgotten moments. 

It’s a three-hour drive home, and I need it.  I need the time to think and process and unwind and regroup.  

Maybe I don’t have a horrible memory, like I’ve always told myself.  Maybe I’ve just spent most of my adult life away from the people and things that will spark recollection.  

What is it about this place?  Home.  Can I still call it that?  It rips my heart out and then, in an instant, fills it with joy.  This place is beautiful.  It is brutal.  Brutiful, as Glennon Doyle would say.  

But maybe I’m thinking about it all wrong.  Maybe it isn’t this place.  Maybe it isn’t the ‘going home’ that is brutiful.  

I think… maybe it is just LIFE that is brutiful.  

Beautiful things happen.  Horrible things happen.  And we continue to put one foot in front of the other.  We visit friends and go to work and hug our kids and celebrate all of the joys that we can. 

Fully living means showing up for the hard things and the easy things and all the things in between.  It is beautiful.  It is brutal.  

And I am grateful for it. 

“So, how do you define family?” a friend asked me, as a group of us warmed ourselves by the fire pit.  The air was crisp and the conversation had gotten deep. 

I had just shared a little of my story; how I am an only child with ten siblings, and a parent to five kids with three different moms.  

It seemed like it should be an easy question to answer.  It seemed odd to me that I had never asked myself before.  And yet… I couldn’t come up with a response.  

*****

A few days later, I asked my 15 year old.  “How would you define family?” 

“People who share your DNA,” was his prompt response.   

I pushed back. “Well, by that definition, Bea isn’t our family.  Grandpa Frank wouldn’t count as family.  Your dad wouldn’t be MY family.”

He revised his answer, “Okay, well… how about people you live with?”  

“If that’s your definition, then your brothers aren’t your family.  Aunt Sarah and Uncle Brandon aren’t my family.  My dad isn’t my family. I feel like that doesn’t fit, either.” 

He sighed his exasperated teenaged sigh, “Jeez, mom.  I don’t know.  I’m only fifteen.”  Dramatic pause.  Shrug.  Smirk.  “I actually don’t know much.”  Aaah.  A rare admission of truth. I laughed. 

And then I continued contemplating.  What’s family?  What does it mean to be family?  

*****

Something else has happened recently.  Bea isn’t talking to me.  She’s in her first semester away at college and she won’t return my calls or texts.  I send care packages and get no response.  She’s removed herself from my cellphone plan and hasn’t answered about her plans for Thanksgiving.

It’s breaking my heart. 

*****

And all of that has me thinking about family.  I think of Bea as MY family, but maybe she doesn’t think of me as hers.  

That realization brings me back to my childhood.  My father met his third wife when I was eleven or so.  She had five daughters, which was awesome.  That summer, when my dad went to work, I spent my days with them.  We rode our bikes around the neighborhood, built forts in the living room, and set a fire in the kitchen (that’s a whole other blog post).   We swam in the community pool and played flashlight tag after dark.  The oldest two girls were right around my age.  We became fast friends.  

Eventually, my dad and his wife bought a house together.  They wanted this new house to feel like home to everyone, so I had a bedroom.  It was shared with my stepsister, but it was billed as “our room.”  There was a full sized bed for us to share, and I had my own spot for stuff in the closet. It was a conscious attempt at blending a family, and it felt really nice.  I already liked these girls a lot, and I couldn’t wait to be part of the family.  

It took me far too long to realize that you can’t just make yourself part of someone else’s family.  You can’t show up a few weekends a year and expect to be a sister.  It didn’t matter how much I wanted it.  They had each other 365 days a year.  They had me for maybe 15.  They had their inside jokes and their mutual friends and no matter how hard I tried to fit in, I would always be a visitor there.  

*****

But there was the opposite, too.  My mom and my stepdad got married when I was about four.  I don’t really remember a time before they were together.  When my three younger sisters were born, I never thought of them as my half-sisters.  They were just my sisters.  And Frank was just my dad.  We were a pretty typical family. I was never treated differently.  Dad just had four daughters.   

And in that home, where I lived most of the time, where I knew I was part of it all and accepted and loved… I still never quite fit in.  

I was the only kid who left for long weekends to go see my other dad.  I had to deal with divorce drama that my sisters didn’t understand.  I was the timid one; the neat freak who loved country music and shied away from conflict. I was (and still am) just a little more different from them than they are from each other. 

I have another half-sister, too.  Sarah is nearly a decade younger than me.  Her mom is my dad’s second wife.  Mostly, she grew up with her mom and I grew up with mine.  As kids, we would see each other a couple weekends a year.   Our age gap and our infrequent contact had kept us from really getting to know each other until we were grown.  

And when we started to spend more time together, I realized that this sisterhood was different.  The first time we hung out at the kind of local dive bar that we both love, we ran the pool table against opponents who were obviously surprised that a couple of girls could beat them.  We discovered that we love the same music. We have the same mannerisms.  We like the same food and laugh at the same jokes.  We communicate in the same way.  We both like the rush of riding a motorcycle, but hate the spin of a merry go round.  It was strange to think that I had spent so little time with this sister who was so much like me.  

Genetics are a powerful thing.   

*****

So I circle back.  What is family?  I still don’t know.  I can’t define it.  And if I can’t define it for me, I sure as hell can’t define it for anyone else.  

That’s really hard right now.  I want Bea to PICK ME as part of her family.  But I can’t control that.  I don’t get to say I’m her family and have it be so, just like I couldn’t just become a sister all those years ago.  

All families are complicated.  Mixed and blended families are just another version of complicated.  Attachment, love, loyalty, shared history, genetics, traditions… these things weave us together, and we become entangled.  

Maybe that’s what family is.  Maybe if you spend too much time trying to untangle it, to sort it our or define it or fix it… maybe you’re missing the point. Maybe the beauty lies in the messy, complicated, undefined nature of it.  

That leaves me without a definition.  Instead, I have a plan.  I’m going to stop overthinking it.  I’m going to stop trying to define it and control it.  

Because no matter how you define it, family is a blessing.  Today, I am choosing to just be grateful for it.  

Earlier this week, I was walking around a little lake here in town near the football field where my son was practicing.  I was admiring the foliage and listening to a podcast and stopping every so often to take photos.  At one point, I realized I was smiling.  It was a spontaneous, content, all-by-myself smile.  It struck me as strange.  And sweet. 

It happened again making dinner.  I was listening to music and chopping vegetables and when I felt the corners of my mouth turn up, I didn’t even really know why.  There was just a contentment, a pleasure, a calmness that came over me.  And I smiled, all alone in the kitchen.  

I recently got a new mug.  It’s colorful and textured, and when I sip my coffee in the morning, I love the feel of the grooves under my fingertips.  I love the sound of my fingers against the ceramic.  Somehow, this mug makes me slow down and appreciate my coffee even more. 

The pace of my life is slowing down.  Some of it is work related, for sure.  Compared to the past two frantic school years, this one seems nearly normal.  I’m not reinventing everything.  I can pull from my old files and I can experiment with new activities and I can take a few moments to laugh and joke with my students without worrying about falling further behind.   My own kids are older now, and I can stay a little late to make copies and plan lessons without panicking about child care.  

And sending Bea off to college has certainly made a difference. There’s one less schedule to track and one less mouth to feed.  Of course, I still worry, but it’s less immediate.  I worry about whether she’s making friends and getting her work done and having fun… not when she’s coming home or if she has laundry to do or if she made it safely to her friend’s house.  

The two remaining teens spend most of their time in their rooms or out with friends.  The living room will stay clean for days, with the exception of accumulating dog hair.  Their messes haven’t disappeared; they’re just contained behind closed doors and cloaked in loud music.  Every so often, I yell about the clothes they need to wash, or the stack of dishes on a nightstand.  But I don’t spend my evenings cleaning up after them.  

This year, I’m determined to help them develop a few skills; cooking being on top of my list at the moment.  So they add to my grocery list, and every Tuesday, Lee is in charge of dinner.  On Wednesdays, it’s Cal.  Thursdays belong to my husband.  So my cooking responsibilities have been cut in half.  Which is great, because my driving responsibilities and my church responsibilities have multiplied.  

I’m keeping busy, for sure.  But it just feels different.  I drive my son to football practice, but because someone else is cooking dinner, I can stay and walk around the lake.  I’m hosting and attending church meetings, but I can sit in my upstairs office and sip my tea while I zoom in.  

Mornings used to be frantic.  There was rushing and yelling and missing shoes and barking dogs and I was the only one bearing the weight of the responsibility, because Jack would already be at work.  Now, Lee takes care of the dogs and gets ready quickly, because he knows he might get a ride and breakfast from Dunkin Donuts, if he’s early enough.  Cal gets up as we leave, and he walks to school, so there’s no worry about catching a bus if he’s running a few minutes late.  

I’m cherishing those rides to school with Lee.  I order breakfast on my Dunkin app, and he runs in to grab his bagel and my coffee.  The ride to school is about 15 minutes long, and I’ve learned more about him and his friends and his life in those short rides than in all of our dinner table conversations combined.  Bea leaving has been a reminder of how precious those moments are.  Soon, he’ll be driving himself, and those rides will be a sweet memory.  

I’m trying to be more mindful of those moments when they happen.  I’m trying to be more mindful overall, I guess.  And now, I have the time to do it.  For years, I would try to meditate, or get an exercise schedule going, or just find the time to slow down a little.  I thought something must be wrong with me because I felt so frantic all the time. 

But there was nothing wrong with me.  I was just in the thick of it.  In the thick of parenting young children and building a home and building a life and taking care of all the things that no one else could.  

I feel like this particular season is a well-earned respite.  I have managed to help those small children become young people who are helpful and self-reliant and capable.  They can care for their pets and do their own laundry and arrange their own social lives.  They can cook a few meals and at least one has demonstrated the ability to acquire employment.  For sure, there is a lot of work left to do.  After all, someone still has to teach them the difference between the nightstand and the sink.

We arrived at our vacation rental in the evening, and we were finally ready for bed around midnight.  We had spent some time getting familiar with our new surroundings, but I still wasn’t sure what supplies were provided and where they were stored.  I noticed that the toilet paper roll was almost empty.  But there was no replacement roll in the bathroom.  Maybe I could find one in the basement.  Or the pantry. But I was too tired to look.  I noticed the box of tissues that would be my backup plan, mentally put ‘toilet paper’ on my shopping list, and climbed into bed. 

In the morning, I stumbled into the bathroom, bleary-eyed, remembering a little too late that I needed to look for another roll.  I looked to the left, expecting an empty cardboard tube… or maybe a single square.  And there, mounted on the wall, was a brand new roll of toilet paper.  The old one was in the trash can, a few feet away.  I walked into the kitchen and thanked Jack for replacing it. “Where did you find the extra toilet paper?”  He looked at me blankly.  

It dawned on me slowly.  It wasn’t him.  It had to have been… a TEENAGE BOY?  One of my offspring took that initiative?  Looked in ANOTHER ROOM for a replacement?  When there was a box of tissues right there in the bathroom?  PRAISE JESUS.  

*****

In the morning, we grabbed a few bottles of water and slipped into our bathing suits. We were on the boat by 9am.  Nobody complained about the early wake-up as we pulled away from the dock.  I sat in my favorite seat in the bow of the boat.  Lee took the coveted spot next to me.  As we skimmed over the water, I glanced to my left.  His eyes were closed.  His hair was blowing in the wind.  The smile plastered on his face reminded me of afternoons at the playground; him pumping harder on the swings to see if he could get his toes to touch the trees.  God, I love that smile. 

This kid has been practicing the art of surliness for over a year.  He’s a master.  But every once in a while, he forgets that he’s trying to project coolness and misery.   I was busy cherishing that moment, when Jack decided he wanted to play.  He increased the speed and took a hard left.  This boat can practically do donuts in the water, and he was testing its limits.  Lee’s eyes popped wide open.  He glanced at me, wide-eyed.  But that look wasn’t fear.  It was pure joy.  He held on to the nearest handle, and his smile was replaced by the biggest grin I had ever seen.  He laughed out loud, and when the boat straightened out again, I could hear him singing along to the radio.  Bliss. 

*****

Jack and I wanted to do another cruise after lunch.  The kids wanted to hang back and watch a movie and make root beer floats.  So they stayed behind.  The adults threw a few drinks in the cooler and pushed away from the dock.  We putted around and admired the houses on the shoreline. We found the party cove and did some people watching.  The dark clouds started rolling in, and Jack opened up the throttle.  When we hit a wave and went airborne for a moment, I squealed with delight, like a little kid on an amusement park ride.  We docked the boat as the first raindrops started to fall. 

When we got back to the cabin, I hung my towel in the bathroom.  Right next to… wait.  What was that?  On the towel rod?  Lee’s bathing suit?  He remembered to hang it up?  Oh, my goodness.  After all these years.  It’s finally sunk in!  I smiled, congratulating myself that this kid might someday be a functioning adult.  

I checked in with Cal.  “Where’s your bathing suit?”  I fully expected to find it on the floor.  He looked up from his iPad, quizzically.  “Ummm… it’s in the laundry.  I did a load while you were gone.”  WHO ARE THESE CHILDREN?  

*****

But really, who are they?  It’s not a ridiculous question.  They’re growing and changing so fast.  Sometimes I notice Lee’s dry humor and perfect comedic timing and I think back to bungled punch lines and bad knock-knock jokes.  Or Cam offers to carry the groceries and I remember carrying all the bags AND him on my hip as I climbed the stairs to our old apartment. 

But the daily grind is a constant distraction.  At home, I remind them to do their laundry and walk the dogs and take their medicine.  I drive them to the mall and to football practice and to their friends’ houses.  I serve them dinner at the dining room table and they groan because I won’t just let them eat in their bedrooms.  They ask me for money and I dole out chores and more often than not, I forget to notice who they’re becoming. 

*****

So far, this vacation has been exactly what we all need.  With only one screen to look at, we all crowd together in the small living room.  The kids want to watch a horror movie.  I hate scary movies.  We tease each other back and forth for a bit, but they actually ask good questions.  They want to know what scares me. Psychological thriller type stuff freaks me out.  I can’t handle zombies or humanoid alien creatures.  I hate creepy-ness.  Dolls that come to life.  Child murderers.  You get the picture.  But I can handle suspense.  I can close my eyes for the gore.  So they choose something gory and suspenseful, and I agree to give it a try.  They agree to turn it off if I hate it.  

As it turns out, I didn’t hate it.  And I learned a few things I might not have otherwise noticed.  Lee gives a great teaser without sharing spoilers. He is stoic and observant and also incredibly funny.  He doesn’t mind the scary parts, but he warns me to close my eyes during the sex scenes.  Cal notices everything and asks really good questions.  He closes his eyes for the gory parts.  He wants to be fearless, but after the movie, he asks me to watch a little bit of a Disney cartoon “to get those images out of my head” and then he sleeps with the light on.  

*****

Our summertime vacations usually consist of camping trips with a group of friends.  Or a borrowed lake house with a few other families.  Or trips to visit family out of state.  Renting a place for just us is a new luxury.  Prompted by Covid and financed by newly terminated child support payments, it feels like a hard-earned reward.  I’m realizing that a vacation feels different when it’s just our little family.  

Don’t get me wrong.  I love those crazy, huge get-togethers with family and friends.  I love the loud, raucous camping trips and cramming too many people on a pontoon boat.  I love the late night laughter and guitars around a fire pit.  

But this year, the pace of this small family vacation feels just right.  Three of our five kids are technically adults, and I’m realizing that the clock is ticking on the time that I have with these last two. I’m grateful for the chance to peek in on them as they sleep in.  To hear their laughter on the water.  To sit quietly by the dock or roast marshmallows in the fire pit.  To watch stupid slasher movies and play cards and notice who they’re becoming.  

Because I won’t have unlimited chances, and I won’t get this time back.  Someday, they’ll be ignoring my texts from their own apartments.  They’ll be paying their own bills and managing their own schedules and securing their own transportation.  They’ll be hanging up their wet clothes and replacing the toilet paper roll and doing their laundry, and I won’t even be there to notice. 

And I want that for them.  OF COURSE I do.  After all, isn’t that the point? And I can just pray that I am able to keep knowing them… to keep learning about who they will become. 

Starting today. 

I found one. 

Swimming.

One of those things that I used to love… you know, before.  Before I became someone’s mom and someone’s wife and someone’s teacher.

Growing up, we had an aboveground pool in the backyard.  I spent my summers splashing and playing marco polo and doing handstands in the shallow water.  When we were little, we would beg my dad to come swim with us… not because we were scared, but because the pool became an amusement park when he vaulted over the side, wrapped his huge biceps around us, and then catapulted us in the air.  For a moment, we were flying.  Then we splashed down, giggling, and popped out of the water, shouting, “Again!  Again!” He would toss us into the water until his arms were sore.

My grandfather had an in-ground pool.  As the adults lounged, the kids developed a constant awareness of our surroundings, because that side of the family wouldn’t hesitate to push you in when you least expected it.  I learned that it was best to jump before you could be pushed.  And it was there that I learned to dive.  After weeks of belly flopping painfully off the diving board, I finally felt my hands hit before my head.  I loved diving off the board.  I loved the feeling of butterflies just before my body hit the water… the excitement and anticipation of being mid-air just before the water enveloped me.  

My teenage years were full of pool parties and cookouts, playing chicken in teams of two, stacked on each others’ shoulders in a slightly bigger version of that first above-ground pool.  My friends loved to hang out at my house, wrestling and roughhousing in the water.  

And then we got the boat.  I loved tubing and swimming in the lake.  I loved jumping off of the back of the boat, not knowing how cold the water might be.  That’s still the way I like to enter the water.  No dipping my toes in.  No wading in a little at a time. No drawing it out.  I prefer the surprise.  A little shocking cold, and there’s no going back. Just jump in.  

In my twenties, I was a little reckless about it.  We would jump from the ledge in the quarries after dark.  20 feet.  30 feet.  A few moments of terrifying butterflies, followed by a satisfying splash.  God, I loved the water.  

A few years later, I took my babies to mommy and me swim classes.  I loved the feel of their soft baby skin as their chubby arms wrapped around my neck.  I loved the surprise and then the joy on their faces as they learned to float and then kick and, finally, use their arms to propel themselves forward.  

But I think that’s also when it started to get harder to enjoy the water.  Trying to change out of my wet swimsuit with a squirming, naked baby or toddler was an exercise in patience, speed, and flexibility.  Watching the kids took precedence over executing a pretty dive or floating on my back and studying the clouds.  I became the thrower instead of the thrown in that age-old pool game of “Daddy/Mommy… throw me!”  

At the same time my body had changed, as well as my swimsuit needs.  I was no longer shopping for a cute bikini.  I was looking for a suit that covered my cellulite and came up far enough on my body that a grabby toddler couldn’t accidentally expose a nipple.  I became self-conscious in a new way.  Swimming became more of a chore and less of an adventure, so I mostly hovered near the edge of the water, reapplying sunscreen and watching to make sure children didn’t drown.  

As they got a little older, a trip to the lake or the pool took on a different feel.  I didn’t need to watch them with quite the same intensity.  They were strong swimmers, and there were lifeguards on duty.  Sometimes I swam and played with them; I never lost my love of the water.  But more often, I would take advantage of a break from parenting and chat with a friend or read a book or just lay in the sunshine.  Respite was a more pressing need than play, if that makes sense.  

And little by little, I think I forgot.  I think I forgot how much joy comes from the water.  I forgot that this is a type of play that I deeply enjoy.  

So this summer, I’m approaching the water differently.  Every single time we’ve taken that boat out, I’ve jumped in to the water.  I’ve had swimming races and dunked my kids and we’ve attacked one another with cannonball splashes.  I’ve dived off the platform and felt those same butterflies… the ones that I felt at 8 when my dad threw me into the air.  The ones that I felt at 10 when I dove into my grandfather’s pool.  The ones that I felt at 15, playing chicken on my boyfriend’s shoulders.  The ones that I felt at 21, leaping from the quarry ledge.  The ones that I felt at 28, letting go of my baby in the YMCA pool.  

I’m so grateful for those butterflies.  I’m so grateful for a body that reminds me that I am still who I’ve always been. I’m so glad I remembered how much I love the water.  

When the kids were little, a ferry ride was something that happened only occasionally, and always in the middle of a long trip.  The ferry was an event within an event.  A mini-adventure on the way to our destination.  

And anyone who travels with little kids knows that preparing for such a trip requires equal parts stamina and strategy.  

My strategy focused on packing.  My goal was to have all the things, and also to pack them in such a way that they were easily accessible.  So the Tylenol couldn’t go in the suitcase with all of the other medicine.  It needed to be in the car bag, in the front seat, where I could reach it.  

And the car bag was too big to bring up on the ferry with all the children and baby carriers and such, so I needed a ferry backpack, which I would strap to my body while I used my arms to carry more important things, like my actual children. 

Our ferry backpack contained: beverages ranging from bottles to juiceboxes.  Crayons. Coloring books. Cards. Diapers and wipes.  Snacks.  A blanket.  My wallet.  Books.  Another bottle of Tylenol. 

Part of the adventure was that you never knew exactly how the Ferry ride was going to go.  There were too many variables.  

Would the kids be asleep when we pulled on?  Would we let them sleep?  Was it worth it to wake them?  Would they freak out because they missed the boat ride? Or freak out because we just woke them up? 

Would the boat be crowded?  Our wobbly toddlers would want to use their little legs after hours trapped in a car seat.  

Would we get to the upper deck quickly enough to grab a seat with a table?  The table is CLUTCH with small children.  

Would the weather cooperate? Would it be too cold or too hot? Does everyone have a sweatshirt? 

Would they want to be on the deck?  Would we lose our table seat if we brought them up to the deck?  

Would somebody throw a tantrum? Stumble and fall? Spill their drink? 

One parent stayed at the table at all times, to make sure nobody else grabbed it.  One parent walked around with whatever kid needed to move.  We went to the restroom in shifts.  We firmly explained that we were NOT buying $3 bags of potato chips for everyone when we had OUR OWN potato chips in the Ferry bag.  

Despite all of the potential pitfalls, most often, the ferry ride was magical.  I remember holding my youngest, walking up from the car, his chubby little fingers pointing out at the boats in the distance, and the wind blowing through his fine, blonde hair.  His eyes lit up.  “Boat, mama.  Boat.”  “Yeah baby, boat.  We’re ON a boat, too.”  His eyes opened wide in disbelief.  With his limited vocabulary, he managed to relay his confusion.  “Car on da boat???”  

Another time, my shy, animal-obsessed baby was clinging to my leg, wobbly and scared.  We didn’t get a table that time, and were trying to juggle snacks and bathroom breaks with the Ferry bag on a curved seat between us.  And someone passed with their German Shepherd on a leash.  “Doggie,” my child whispered, pulling at my sleeve.  And a kind stranger sat across from us, allowing my nervous kid to spend nearly the whole ride, sitting on the dirty floor, petting this patient, gentle creature.  

Sometimes we’d play cards or color.  Eventually, the kids learned that they loved the top deck.  They’d sit next to me on the bench, pointing out the massive homes or the sailboats, or the colors in the clouds. We’d take pictures with the backdrop of the water meeting the sky and then we’d hurry back to our minivan to continue our adventure.  

It was a ton of work, but it was magical.  You know… like parenting. 

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

All of that came rushing back to me yesterday, on our most recent ferry ride.  This time, there were only three of us; my husband, myself, and our youngest.  Everyone else had their own plans, because children grow, as we’re all aware.  I don’t know why it still takes me by surprise. 

We got up early.  Jack showered and let the dogs out.  I got dressed and tossed a crochet hook and a skein of yarn in my oversized purse.  My son threw on a sweatshirt and climbed into the backseat with his phone in his pocket and his headphones in his ears.  We stopped for coffee and breakfast sandwiches and ate in the car. In the passenger seat, I used my sweatshirt as a blanket and closed my eyes.

When we pulled the truck up the ramp and on to the boat, I put on my sweatshirt and grabbed my purse.  I walked toward the deck and watched my pre-teen ahead of me taking the steps two at a time.  Out of habit, I grabbed a seat with a table, almost frantically.  My son went off to explore on his own.   

There was a young family near us.  The mother took a preschooler to the restroom.  The dad set the baby’s car seat carrier on the seat next to him.  He chatted with a toddler and I smiled as I watched him pulled a tub of crayons out of the ferry backpack.

My reverie was interrupted when my son walked over to me, all 5’9’’ of him, leaned over and asked, “Do you think they have any napkins?  I spilled my energy drink.”  I smiled and shook my head, because some things never change.  He walked his nearly-grown self to the counter, asked for some napkins, bought a $3 bag of chips, and went to clean up the spill.  I didn’t leave my seat.  

For about half of the ride, he sat on the opposite side of the ferry.  He had chosen a seat with a good view, and he stared out the window, smiling at the boats, just like he did when he was small.  I rested my purse on the seat next to me and pulled out my crochet hook.  I looked at the empty table in front of me and realized a little too late that I no longer needed to occupy this prime real estate.  

I worked the yarn and the hook, listening to the conversations around me.  “No.  We have snacks in our bag.”  “Do you want to go for a walk with Daddy?”  “Mommy, I drawed a boat!” The nostalgia tugged at my emotions as I was pulled back to those years that seem like moments ago.  

Cal reappeared and plopped into the booth next to me.  He watched me pull the yarn into stitches.  “Wanna try?” I asked, as casually as I could.  “Yeah, sure,” he shrugged.  I held his hands and showed him how to twist the hook and hold the yarn so that a pattern began to emerge.  The tip of his tongue peeked out of the left side of his mouth, like it always does when he’s concentrating particularly hard.  “You got it!” I said, and he smiled at me with the dimple that’s been his trademark since he was born. 

While I watched, a little in shock at both his willingness and his ability to turn yarn into something more, the little girl from the next table kept looking over her shoulder at us.  At first, it was just a couple of glances, but eventually, she turned her whole body around and watched my son intently.  “What is that boy doing?” she asked her mother.  “Looks like he’s making a blanket,” the mother replied.  “A BLANKET?” she exclaimed.  “You can make a BLANKET with STRING?” she whisper-shouted, with the type of astonishment in her voice that only preschoolers can convey.  I caught the mother’s eye and we shared a knowing smile.  What a wonderful age.  

When the girl replied, “Can you teach ME how someday?” I smiled and looked back at my son.  I was pulled back into THIS moment.  In this moment, my son can turn string into a blanket.  He can buy his own $3 potato chips and clean up his own spills and explore without holding my hand.  He can choose his own seat, where he knows he’ll enjoy watching the boats pass by.  Yet he still comes back to me.  He still plops next to me and asks for advice and lets me teach him. 

“Can we go up to the top deck, Ma?  I know it’s cold, but I want to check out the view and take some pictures.”  I smile and look at my husband, feeling honored that he invited us to join him.  “Of course.”  I throw my purse over my shoulder and look back at the empty table, knowing that, next time, I’ll leave it open for someone with a ferry backpack.  

Last weekend, I was talking to a friend and I confessed that I feel like my household has two modes right now.  It’s either inertia… or shouting.  

After a trip to the dump, I asked my husband to drive around town, simply because I couldn’t bear the thought of going home.  I explained that the negative energy in our house was sucking the life out of me.  

One kid is grounded for missing curfew. 

Another kid is barely passing his classes.  

A third kid lost all of his screen time for bypassing the parental controls.  

It’s too much lounging. Too much avoidance and lethargy and sleeping in.  Too much time on screens.  There’s nowhere to go and nothing to do.  

It’s typical February cabin fever multiplied exponentially by a year of COVID restrictions, and the exhaustion is pervasive.  

I think about the energy required to rally the troops for family game night, and then I curl up on the couch with the remote, because I can’t muster the strength.   

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

This morning, I got up early and began working on the children’s message; I needed to record a mini-sermon, based on the scripture reading and our recent theme.  I had been working for a few days to try to come up with something, and I was struggling.  I had a kernel of an idea that came to me at 2am, the night my kid missed curfew and I couldn’t fall back asleep.   But it wasn’t coming together.  I would change one thought, and a new hole would appear.  

So I sipped my coffee and prayed on it.  I tried to breathe, to ‘let go and let God…’ And then it came to me.  I wrote a four minute talk about not feeling good enough and remembering that we are loved no matter what.  I reminded myself that I don’t have to earn love or earn blessings.  God has given those freely. My obligation is only to use them, to bring good into the world.  To bless others.  

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

It was a relief to have that children’s message done.  It had been hanging over my head for a few days, just another thing on my mental to-do list that I was happy to cross off.  

And then I went on with my day.  Jack and I left the house early to go to the junkyard.  In his job, he accumulates copper pieces, which can be turned in for cash.  They opened at 7am, and we drove through the gates at 7:08.  We grabbed coffee and breakfast.  The luxury of a meal without the children cannot be overestimated right now.  

We stopped at the grocery store.  I picked up the ingredients to make hot cocoa bombs, and he grabbed what we needed for a pot roast.  We now had a plan for the day, and it felt good.  One more stop at the dollar store for Valentine’s treats, and then we were home.  All before 9:30 am.  

When we got back to the house, the kids were awake.  In front of screens… but awake.  It was a start.  Jack and I conferred over another cup of coffee.  We were determined to avoid the inertia today.  

I made chili.  We got the kids to clean their rooms.  The washing machine ran all day, and the clean clothes even got folded and put away.  Bea went to work, but we rallied the other two to help make hot cocoa bombs.  It was our first attempt, and even though they were a little lopsided, they mostly stayed together.  Jack filled the chocolate molds.  Cal put the cocoa and marshmallows into the empty chocolate spheres.  I sealed them, and Lee decorated them.   The grumbling was good-natured, and we had a few laughs while we made them.  It felt so good to have everyone working on something together.  Of course, I forgot to buy milk so we could actually USE them, so I’ll have to let you know how they taste some other time.  

What was different about this day?  Was it that Jack and I were on the same page?  Were the kids just feeling the cabin fever, too?  Was it my own attitude?  I thought back to my children’s message.  Maybe I was finally following my own advice.  Maybe I just needed to relax and remember my blessings and let God do the work.  

We spent the rest of the afternoon lounging, but it was the good kind.  We watched a little TV, joked a little, cleaned a little.  Cal played in the snow.  Lee created a new character.  Jack played the guitar.  I read my book.  When Jack’s pot roast was done, we gathered at the dining room table, and I marveled at how different this day had felt.  I was proud and relaxed and relieved that we had managed to avoid both the inertia AND the shouting.  

And what happened next was nothing short of a miracle.  Instead of bolting from the table, Cal asked, “Can we play a family game?”  

GUYS.  I’m not even joking.  Someone OTHER THAN ME wanted to play a game.  Lee and Jack resisted a bit, but in a good-natured, joking sort of way.  And when Bea finally made it home from work an hour later, we were on our second card game.  Lee looked up, and said, “If I gotta play, you gotta play.” 

“Yeah, okay,” she replied.  “Lemme just grab a snack.”  

So we played. There was laughter. There were snacks.  There were excited dogs and even an intermission… and everyone came BACK to finish the game.  No inertia, and no shouting… except for the fun kind.