Category: Reflections

Thoughts and stories about life in general…

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A Good Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Camping

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

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

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

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

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

Preparing for a camping trip is NOT a vacation.

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

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Mindful

I’ve been reading a book about mindfulness.  Today, I got ready to complete one of the exercises in the book.  It was still quiet in the house; everyone was asleep. So I grabbed my cushion and my book and a found a spot on the carpet in the living room.  I sat, crossed my legs, bowed my head, and began to focus on my breathing.  Slowly, I lifted my head and lengthened my spine and began to feel the tension where it typically resides… in my lower left shoulder blade.  I also felt some pulling in my neck and my back.  I breathed into the pain, and began to focus on my exhale.

I heard footsteps, figuring that my time for meditation had ended.  But it was my husband, who is observant and self-sufficient.  So when he noticed that I was meditating, he silently smiled, nodded, and walked away.  My husband is quick to intercept the kids when I’m meditating, so having him awake substantially increased the likelihood that I could continue uninterrupted. I heard him beginning to prepare breakfast.

I closed my eyes again and returned my focus to my breathing.  I was aware of the dog wandering near me; part of what I’m practicing is being able to notice something but not feel the need to analyze or react. So as she wandered, I noticed her but kept my focus on my breath.

Well, my dog isn’t used to being ignored.  She nuzzled her muzzle under my hand and nudged.  My husband stifled a giggle from the next room.  I couldn’t help but smile.

In this busy life of mine, finding time to meditate (or write, for that matter, because I’ve been interrupted 12 times in the last 6 minutes) is a rare sort of treat.  But as I read and practice more, I’m starting to better understand that there is a difference between mindfulness and meditation.

When you’re meditating, you need to be mindful.  You need to let go of extraneous thoughts and focus on your body and your breathing and the sensations of the moment.  You need to let go of the chatter in your brain and focus simply on being in the present.

Meditating requires uninterrupted time.  It doesn’t necessarily require quiet, because you can practice noticing sounds and ignoring them.  But you can’t meditate and answer, “Mom, do we have any cheese its?”  at the same time.  You can’t meditate and let out the dogs or make dinner or read a book with your kids.

But you CAN practice mindfulness through all of that.  You see, meditation requires mindfulness, but the same is not true in reverse. Mindfulness does not require meditation.

So as I tried to practice mindfulness techniques through meditation, when my dog nuzzled my hand and begged for attention, I had a choice to make.  I could shoo her away and continue to meditate.  Or I could focus on the moment and simply be mindful. I chose the latter.

I continued to focus on my breathing, but I also rubbed her nose.  As I breathed slowly, I could feel the change in not only my body, but hers, as well.  She had started off with a sort of desperate need for attention.  She was pushy and adamant.  But as I stroked her ears (she loves that), her breathing slowed.  First she sat, and then she lay down with her head just under my hand.  After a few moments, she adjusted and settled her massive head directly in my lap.

I was still aware of my breathing, but shifted my attention to the soft velvety feel of her ear under my fingertips.  I felt the coarse fur of her neck and the warmth of her skin.  I relaxed into the moment and simply enjoyed sitting on the floor with nothing to do but love my dog and breathe.

Soon, my son entered the room.  There would be no more silence; no more focused meditation… but I chose to continue being mindful of this particular moment.  I noticed his gentleness and his changing voice.  I watched him smile as he settled in on the carpet with us, enjoying the quiet of this moment.  I smelled the bacon coming from the kitchen and relaxed into the kind of peace that is often evasive for a busy mom.

It was short-lived, but beautiful.  Soon the bustle of cooking and gathering and eating began.  The bickering and laughing and teasing took over, and our morning ramped up.

But what I’m learning about mindfulness is this; even once the moment has passed, even when the quiet has been replaced by noise and the doing has surpassed the noticing, that moment has the power to impact the rest of the day.  It sets a tone; it serves as a powerful reminder.

The more I can sneak these moments into my day, the easier it is to find contentment.  The peace comes with the chaos, not in spite of it. When the kids are being rowdy and I can remind myself to breathe and laugh and step into the moment instead of avoiding it, we all benefit.  There is growth in that mindful place.

I’ve probably got another 10 years before I’ll be able to spend significant time meditating.  But that doesn’t mean that I can’t shift my mindset.  I can choose to be in the moment, whether that moment is quietly petting my dog, or refereeing an argument over the last piece of bacon.

And there’s an added bonus to all this noticing.  I have a notoriously terrible memory… but I’m finding that when I take the time to notice a moment, to label it and process it and enjoy it… that moment sticks.  I remember it more clearly and for longer.

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I remember…

The feel of the sand under my toes as I watch my son float in the lake.

The smell of the coffee as it drips into my mug.

The belly laughs at some forgotten joke as we drive home with our ice cream cones in our hands.

The pleasure of learning a new recipe and the taste of Bea’s homemade wonton soup.

The cool of the air in the library basement as Bea and Lee browse the shelves and Cal stacks blocks into a tower taller than himself.

The smooth, cool feeling of clean sheets on my toes as I settle in with a good book.

The scratch of the pencil on the ‘Hidden Pictures’ page of our Highlights Magazine.

The feel of a good morning hug, nestled under the covers, before I’m fully awake.

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Moments build character and gratitude and discipline and strength and love and peace and joy. Moments build relationships. Moments build a life.

I believe that each and every mindful moment brings me one step closer to who I’m meant to be. Maybe my tenderness for this massive black lab is more than it seems.  Maybe I just need the faith to see that God is always working.  And sometimes he chooses a hundred pound, needy lap dog to do his good work.

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Summer Rut

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is actually what happens in my head.

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

I have a plan.  And that’s a start….

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Peaceful

Have you ever had one of those Saturdays that turned in to a beautiful weekend that turned into an amazing week?  Right now, I’m sitting on my couch sipping a cup of coffee on the second day of summer vacation, feeling a deep peace that has been evading me for quite some time.

Let’s go back a bit. About a month ago, my husband accepted a new job.  This was good news; exciting, positive, and definitely wanted. But the thing is, he had been with his employer for nearly two decades.  His boss had been good to him, he was the senior guy, and he could do his job in his sleep.  Plus, he was getting paid pretty well.  So why leave? Well, he had just gotten his plumber’s license, so a bunch of new possibilities opened up.  And the big reason was that he was spending 3+ hours commuting each day.  Ninety minutes to work in the morning and another ninety minutes to get home each afternoon.  To travel 30 miles.  Traffic sucks.

So when he decided to accept the job and give his notice, it was a big deal.  For those of you who know Jack, you may know that he swears he has two emotions; happy and angry.  So while he was a little happy, he was also pretty angry (read: nervous, anxious, uncertain, wary, unsure).

Take Jack’s month of angry and then layer it on top of an intense transition for Bea.  She’s almost sixteen, and the emotions have been coming at her in waves.  We argue now (which is a good thing; normal, and a sign that she’s no longer acting like a guest here), and she was stressed about final exams, and friend drama sucks in High School.  She’s battling with loyalty issues and family stuff, and no kid her age should have to meet with their lawyer to discuss guardianship proceedings between voice lessons and dinner.

In the midst of all this, Lee is losing weight.  Like 20 lbs, and we’ve tried all sorts of different things but none of them is helping. I worry as I beg him to take a few more bites of dinner or breakfast or a freaking ice cream sundae.  I make smoothies and load them up with protein powder and I get up early to make him farina the way he likes it before school. Trying to plan meals that will get him the most nutrients in a way that he won’t fight takes up a substantial amount of time.

At the same time, Cal is growing a bit ‘big for his britches’.  He’s finishing third grade and getting ready to move to a new school for fourth.  He’s one of the big kids now.  He wants to be able to ride his bike into town like his big brother, and he gets angry when he’s not allowed to do all the teenager things. His tone right now is either whiny or angry when he speaks, and (because this isn’t my first rodeo) I know this phase will pass, but that doesn’t make it easy.  I love this sullen little boy as much as my sweet, silly one, but the latter is certainly easier to get along with.

And all of these layers are piled on top of June madness.  If you’re a parent, you know… June is full of end-of-the year busy-ness. Concerts and moving up ceremonies, sixth grade barbecues and awards, final exams, voice recitals, field trips and plays.  The nights are full of activities and the days are filled with emails and messages about the things that I’ve forgotten to add to the calendar.  As a teacher, this is compounded by the fact that I’m also attending and creating these events for my students.  End of the year projects and parties make it even more difficult to find time to grade term papers and essays and write progress reports and jot down heartfelt messages in eighth grade graduation cards.  The emotions are bittersweet, and the time to process them is minimal.

To add to it all, I miscalculated and screwed up the checkbook, so money has been tight.  Like “I messed up and begged the bank manager to waive the overdraft fees” tight.  Like “Holy cow, how am I going to pay for groceries after the overdraft fees” tight.  Like “Hey, sis, any chance you can pay my cable bill?” tight.

The end of the year is always a whirlwind, but this June was particularly stormy.

So, of course, I planned a five-hour trip to a concert in upstate NY, right in the middle of the madness.

I worked to arrange a place for Bea to stay, because she had a weekend event she couldn’t miss.  The department of child services makes this super awkward.  Bea has been with us for two years.  She knows the family, she has friends, and we have plenty of people who are part of our circle who would have been happy to have her.  But Child Services has rules and regulations, so they’d rather have her stay with a certified, licensed foster family she’s never met.  I hated the thought of sending her ‘to stay with strangers’ for the weekend (to which she quipped, “I’m not sure you really understand what foster care is”), and we were lucky to be able to reach a compromise wherein she stayed with a previous foster family.

With that all set, I wanted be packed and ready to go as soon as I got home from work on Friday afternoon.  But in the way of best-laid plans, this was not in the cards.  The kids’ last day of school was that day.  I had to buy teacher gifts and finish progress reports and do ALL THE LAUNDRY.

So in the rush to leave on Friday afternoon, I wasn’t feeling particularly relaxed.  It was going to be a long ride.  We were spending the weekend as guests in someone else’s home, leaving our rowdy kids with an unfamiliar babysitter, and trying to squeeze a visit that needed a week into two days’ time.

Deep down I knew it would be worth it.  These friends have seen me through nearly twenty years of ups and downs.  We met in college and have gone from holding each other’s hair back to holding each other’s wedding bouquets to holding each others’ babies.  For this visit, there were six families with a combined fifteen children.  The parents had plans to leave the kids with two sitters and head off to a concert together on Saturday evening- something we haven’t done in at least a decade.

So, while Friday was stressful, Saturday began the five-day stretch of bliss that I started to tell you about.

I woke up to the sound of children laughing, with my husband’s arm around my waist on an air bed under an unzipped sleeping bag in a Super Mario themed bedroom, and I inhaled happiness.  I wandered downstairs in my PJs, and was greeted by hugs and a staccato chorus of kids shouting, “Watch this!”

Saturday was full of bacon and swimming and trampoline jumping and cooking and drinking and laughing and choreographed dance moves (I’m not going to clarify whether that was the moms or the kids).  This group works like a well-oiled machine.  Someone lifeguards.  Someone pushes kids on the swings.  Someone naps. Someone mixes drinks.  Someone referees the fights in the pool.  Someone sunbathes.  Someone sets a timer for the next turn with a toy.  Someone washes dishes.

And with seamless awareness, we switch.  We all relax and we all pitch in.  We all laugh and we all eat and we all tell stories.  Our kids function like cousins, separated by distance, but coming together joyfully and with the confidence that comes from having known each other for longer than they can remember.  They play and they bicker and they soothe each other.  They compromise and they tease and they laugh.  They share and they clean up their messes and they have dance parties. They form a ‘band’ and practice combining a cacophony of keyboards and guitars and recorder and drums with choreographed cartwheels and dances and then they make all the parents sit on the couch and judge their performance on a scale of 1-10.

And the parents sip cocktails and lean on each other and enjoy the fact that THESE moments are forming our kids’ childhoods.

That was Saturday. The morning and afternoon passed quickly, and when it came time to head out for the concert, we piled too many people into a minivan somewhat illegally (a la 1999) and left our children in capable hands.

As we headed toward the concert, I was a bit skeptical.  “I’m too sober for this,” I thought, as I walked behind a stumbling young woman who seemed too old to be so much younger than I.  We trekked about a mile and a half from the parking lot to the venue. My feet hurt and I felt old and tired and a bit wary about leaving the kids.  The afternoon wine buzz had worn off, and I was questioning my judgement in having decided to participate in this chaos.

And then the band began to play.  We spread out a blanket to stake our claim on the lawn and we danced and swayed and closed our eyes and enjoyed the music.  Tears fell as I rested my head on my husband’s shoulder through “Highway 20 Ride.”  We all drummed the air through a cover of “Take Me to Church” and I danced with my girls like I was on spring break again as the band played “Toes.”  The band played a song I had never heard, and I leaned back on my husband who stood behind me with his arms around my shoulders and whisper-shouted, “I want this to be our new song.”  And as the concert came to a close, a line of moms wrapped their arms around each other’s shoulders and laughed and smiled and swayed and sang along to, “With a Little Help from My Friends.” It was the best night I’ve had in a long time.

On the way home we stopped at a gas station for snacks and after paying the babysitter and checking on the kids, we grabbed our Doritos and Beef Jerky and headed outside to the fire pit.  We told stories and reminisced and, one by one, began dozing off in front of the fire. After some good-natured ribbing, we headed off to bed.

Then, with the exception of the concert, we did it all again on Sunday morning.  After the chaos of goodbyes with such a big group, we jumped into the car and headed home.  Even in the pouring rain with the terrible traffic, I sat in the afterglow of a weekend of renewal the whole way home.

I picked up Bea, and we quickly returned to our normal rhythms.   Sunday night, Jack and I were both preparing for work; him for his first day at a new job, and me for the last day of the school year.  We were energized now, in a way that massaged the nerves into excited anticipation.

On Monday morning, I woke up to the knowledge that I only had to get myself ready.  No lunches to make, no kids to wake, no permission slips or babysitters or breakfast to worry about.  The kids would sleep in and eat cereal when they got hungry.  They would spend too much time watching TV, but it was well-deserved after the weekend’s flurry of activity.  I hopped in the car and stopped for a coffee on my way to work.

I said a lot of goodbyes that day.  I said goodbye to students that had been with me for three years.  I said goodbye to retiring colleagues and friends who are moving away.  I said goodbye to co-workers I likely won’t see again until the fall.  Goodbyes are hard and beautiful, and each one opened my heart a little wider.

Then there was the end of the year party.  A bunch of colleagues gather at one teacher’s house and we all bring food and drinks and our families and we kick off the summer well.  All three kids came along for this, and I think that was the best part. I got to chat with friends, but I also got to watch these three play and bicker and plot and plan like siblings. A year ago, Bea came to this pool party timidly, and was still struggling to find her place in our family. Two years ago, she came to this same pool and refused to swim because she was so unsure of herself.  As I watched the kids splash and play, my heart swelled.  They’re getting so big.  They’re growing and learning and changing and I am so blessed to get to be a part of it.

While we were at the party, I got a text that my in-laws wanted to take the kids to an amusement park the next day.  Bea and I already had plans to do some shopping, but the boys were eager and enthusiastic.

So, on Tuesday (my first official day of summer vacation), the boys went on an adventure with their grandparents and their cousin, and I took Bea on a mission to redecorate her room.

As a general rule, I don’t enjoy shopping.  What I do enjoy is watching as she compares products and checks out prices and prioritizes her needs.  She loves to redecorate, and knowing that it’s an entirely unnecessary proposal, she’s saved up the money to do it herself.  She’s budgeted and made a list and tackles this whole thing with a commitment and sort of professionalism that makes me smile.  We spent the day shopping, with one short break at home for lunch and the bathroom.

Dinner was chicken sandwiches with avocado mayonnaise (from my Weight Watchers cookbook), and as it was just Jack and Bea and I, nobody complained or said it was too spicy or refused to eat.  Overall, it was lovely.

When the boys got home, they were full of stories.  They had a great time.  Turns out, Cal loves a good roller coaster, and is fearless enough to go on them by himself.  Lee enjoyed watching and taking pictures, which worked out, because that’s more his Nana’s speed anyway.  They had a blast and came home happy and tired.

The night ended with the whole family in the living room, sprawled on top of each other and an assortment of blankets.  The dogs were curled on the floor, Jack nodded off a little, and we all watched Doctor Strange. As I sat there, watching a movie we’ve seen at least four times, I breathed in.  I tried to freeze that moment in my mind; our little family, peaceful and tired and content and safe.

That feeling was still there, resting at the nape of my neck and filling my lungs when I woke up this morning.  I don’t know how long it will last.  Today’s plan is pretty low key; a little cleaning, a little time at the lake, a little cooking and a little painting, some video games and some writing.  I don’t know if I’ll still feel this peaceful at the end of the day, but I’m optimistic.

In my life, I’m very intentional about choosing gratitude.  I try not to get sucked into negativity and stress.  I’m mindful of my blessings and I try to see beauty in each day. But some days, that’s harder than others.  It’s hard to appreciate the sunset over the water when you’re just trying to keep from drowning. It’s hard to stop and smell the roses when you’re focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

And so, God gives us ups and downs.  I truly believe that this week feels so beautiful because last week was kinda hard. Not “death of a loved one” hard or “escaping a war-torn country” hard.  It was just “one foot in front of the other” hard.  It was tough enough for long enough that when a peaceful calm finally reappeared, it took my breath away.

The beauty becomes mundane without challenges, so we are blessed with both.  This summer season, I’m praying for the faith to appreciate them equally.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Hide and Seek

It’s 30 degrees on April 15th, and I’m content to sit on my couch with my computer and a cup of tea. I’m under a fuzzy blanket, and I’ve given up on the ideal of productivity for today.  I’m reading a book that’s stretching my brain and reminding me of the beauty of words and the transformative power of a phrase previously unheard. I’m texting Bea upstairs because she’s being reclusive and I’m not above bribing her with takeout.  I’m enjoying the sound of my husband playing Tom Petty on the guitar while the kids and their friends shout a combination of accusations and friendly insults that punctuate an intense game of preteen hide and seek. While I listen to their shouting, wondering if I need to intervene, I can’t help but think about the dynamics of this timeless game and how much learning happens in the context of these unscripted social interactions.

I love that my boys have friends to play with.  I love when they choose to be active instead of sitting and staring at screens.  I love hearing them laugh.  But the game always turns sour.  Someone gives up.  Someone is cheating.  Someone steals someone else’s hiding spot… and they need to solve it.  They need to work it out.  And the deepest value doesn’t come from the running and the laughing or even the exercise.  The deepest value is in the struggle.  It’s in navigating how to disagree and still remain friends.  It’s in learning how to stand up for yourself without trampling someone else.  It’s in learning how to behave when you’re called out for having done wrong.

The past few weeks have been a whirlwind, and I’ve been a car spinning my wheels; first stuck in the mud and then careening toward a tree because the rubber finally met something solid and unexpected. I haven’t been feeling very grace-filled lately.  I’m feeling stressed and tired and pulled in too many directions and overall a little edgy.  I’ve spent a lot of time procrastinating and cleaning up dog pee and making slapped together sandwiches and overanalyzing mundane events.  I haven’t written anything publishable in a while, mostly because my writing has been too personal and raw and incoherent to share with the world.  I haven’t yet had a chance to sort it all out in my head, but I am compelled to write anyway, so here I am.

Maybe it’s the dreary nature of an April that feels like January; maybe it’s the pressure of a job that sometimes feels thankless; maybe it’s simply the repetitive nature of mothering, day after day after day… the endless refrain of “be nice to your brother” and “where are your shoes” and “get the guinea pig off the kitchen counter.” Regardless of the cause, the result is a sort of mild depressive state, wherein I seek solace, not in comfort foods, but in comfort beverages; flavored coffee, chamomile tea, chardonnay.  These are what I look forward to when I leave my classroom with a bag full of papers to grade and the knowledge that my children will likely greet me with requests for homework help and the persistent, daily desire to be fed an evening meal.

I know how this works. I’ve been here before.  I even know how to get out of this rut. I need connection and exercise and play and laughter and a night away with my husband. There is seeking that needs to be done. When contentment and gratitude and peace are evasive, it’s part of a natural cycle.  They haven’t disappeared; they’re simply waiting to be found. So I search.  I try to eat well and laugh and stay motivated and accomplish things so as not to fall into a rut. But how do I cope when all of those things feel like effort, and I have nothing left to give?

Sometimes the pressure to be grateful and content feels like more of a task than I can manage. I feel the need to take action, to solve the problem, to just keep looking until I find peace.  But what if I’m going about it all wrong?  What if I’ve forgotten to take my turn hiding?  What if I need to settle in a warm, comfortable, quiet place?  What if I’m being called to be still?  How often do I forget that the hiding has to balance out the seeking?

This rut that I’m stuck in won’t last forever.  Eventually, I’ll gain momentum and my tires will find solid ground.  The contentment that seems so hard to find during the last portion of our endless winters will come out of hiding and settle at the kitchen table or in the backyard hammock. The sun will come out and the rhythm of the school year will become less of a drudging beat and more of a frenetic rush to the close.  The kids’ spring fever will be satisfied by longer days and higher temperatures and more time outdoors with friends.

As I sit here surrounded by this cacophony of noise, there’s a palpable relief in thinking that I don’t have to jump up and intervene with every shout.  There’s comfort in thinking that my inaction may be as important as my action.

Maybe my cozy blanket and my cup of tea and my good book are not so much an escape, but rather an integral part of the interaction.  Maybe I crave connection so much because I need to be able to hide with the firm knowledge that my people won’t let me stay in this dark, quiet place forever.

As we go through our phases of searching and waiting to be found, it’s comforting to know that we’re not alone.  I’m grateful to be surrounded by amazing people who help to remind me that is beauty in the struggle, that there are lessons to be learned from failure, and that there is a time for both the hiding and the seeking.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Friendship

I’m at a point in my life where my friendships fall into categories. I have high school friends and college friends. I have book club friends and church friends. I have teacher friends and mom friends and almost-friends.

I recently had the chance to get together with some college friends. Three families, including ours, gathered in our small cape, set up some air mattresses, and reconnected. Sixteen people- six adults and our combined ten children- shared one bathroom and a dozen old memories and hundreds of laughs. We bravely conquered the commuter train and the New England Aquarium with our brood and a backpack full of juice boxes. It was chaotic and crazy and absolutely fantastic. We played board games and watched movies and made meals together. We reminisced and we disagreed and we herded children, and having this crew in my house made my home feel more home-y.

The aftermath of this visit had me thinking a lot about friendships. Who ARE my closest friends? Why? How are my friendships impacted by time and distance and life’s circumstances? How can I still feel such connection to people I haven’t seen in years? Why can’t I be more connected with the teacher down the hall, who I see almost daily? Why do those friendships from my childhood (and I’m old enough to think of college as part of my childhood) hold so much more strength than the ones I formed as an adult?

As an adult, I think friendships are harder to find; primarily because we’re looking.

Finding adult friendships seems to me a little like internet dating; it’s too easy to dismiss someone for the wrong reasons. Poor grammar? No way. She homeschools her kids? Nope. She eats all organic? Forget it. You see what I’m saying? We all do it. We make ridiculous snap judgements about whom we should befriend based on stupid, superficial things. At least, I know I do.

But when I get together with these college friends, I am reminded of how little these things matter. We disagree about things. We have different parenting styles. We have different likes and dislikes. But the thing is, we’re friends first, so none of that means anything. What’s true is that we love each other in spite of our flaws and our differences; maybe even because of them.

I met these friends twenty years ago, and I’ve known them more than half my life. I cherish these friendships tremendously. So if one of us eats vegetarian, it’s not a deal breaker. If somebody makes an off-color joke, it’s not a crisis. If somebody screws up the bacon, the only one who rides her about it is her husband. The foundation is so much stronger than anything we set upon it.

The same is true for my book club. We meet once a month; these friendships are also lengthy and cherished.  I met these women my first year teaching. But if you had asked me 17 years ago (when I began my career), who I thought would be part of my life when I was pushing 40, I’m not sure these are the women I would have named. We taught together for fewer than 5 years, but we’ve remained in touch for more than a decade. We get together once a month, and while we do actually read the book (contrary to popular belief), these monthly gatherings are more importantly about showing up. We show up to celebrate and grieve and support each other. We show up to share and laugh and debate. And by showing up, month after month and year after year, we’ve built something beautiful and honest and strong. These women anchor me, and I am so grateful for them.

My newest group of friends is a group of women from my church. It’s been a long time since I’ve formed a group of friends so quickly, and it feels really good. We’re similar but also incredibly different. We push each other out of our comfort zones and then provide comfort during the tough times. When someone is mourning a loss, we pray and we cook and we offer condolences. When someone is questioning a choice or facing a challenge, we listen and we support and we show up with wine. When someone has a flat tire, we pitch in to pick up the kids and put on a spare. We don’t have a long history (yet), but we all seem to know what the foundation is. We don’t need to agree on all things. We don’t need to pretend to be something we’re not. We just need to keep showing up.

I haven’t stayed connected to all of the people I’ve ‘clicked with’ in my adulthood. I’ve stayed connected with the people who made it a priority to show up through the ups and the downs, the good and the bad. So as I look to build better adult friendships, I feel like I’ve figured out where to start. The good news is, I don’t have to try harder or be better or change who I am. All I have to do is show up.

 

 

 

 

 

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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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Home Again

Driving West on I-84 in New York state, somewhere near mile marker 52, I catch my first glimpse of the mountains, and my heart tells me that I’m home. When I pass the ‘text stop’ on this section of road, I mourn the old terminology. There’s something about a ‘scenic overlook’ that acknowledges that the view in front of you is, indeed, spectacular. Worth putting down your phone, at the very least.

If you’re a local, you know that Shawangunk is pronounced ‘Shon-gum,’ but the correct pronunciation is irrelevant when referring to the mountains, which are affectionately called ‘the Gunks.’ I grew up in a place where names overlap, and it behooves one to know the difference between a town, a village, and a hamlet. I once tried to explain to my husband that the Town of Wallkill and the Hamlet of Wallkill are not, in fact, the same thing. When I tried to point out that the Hamlet of Wallkill is actually in the Town of Shawangunk, I’m quite sure he stopped listening.

I moved away from my hometown in 1997, and I’ve reached a point where that was more than half a lifetime ago. I’ve become accustomed to the quirks and foibles of a new place. I can easily navigate a rotary or direct a student to the nearest bubbler. I know how to pronounce Worcester and bang a uey and, much to my dad’s chagrin, I am a passionate Patriots fan.

I don’t go home very often. The reasons are myriad and valid but still a bit lacking. Truth be told, going home is so, so very complicated. Every time I attempt it, I encounter a barrage of unexpected emotions. And every time I leave, I am exhausted from the effort it takes to feel so many feelings.

My anxiety has helped me to pay attention to the cues I get from my body. I know what anxiety feels like. Anxiety is in my gut and my shoulder blade and at the base of my skull. When I go home, the feeling is different. It’s in my chest. And it’s not a tightening; it’s an expansion. My breaths are deep and my lungs fill completely and it’s like my body is trying to make room for all of the emotions that come flooding into my heart. Time slows down. In the moment, I can’t separate the feelings. They tangle into a knot, expanding and contracting as the positive emotions tug against the negative ones and my slow, struggling brain tries to keep up with the barrage.

The physical environment itself evokes emotion. There is the unsettling knowledge that I’m driving down a road that I could navigate with my eyes closed, and yet, off to the left, there’s an entire neighborhood that sprouted in my absence. I imagine the irritation of the driver behind me as I speed up around the familiar curves, only to slow to quickly at an unfamiliar traffic light that’s likely been there for a decade or more. The homes and the stores and the views have changed, but the earth and the hills and the roads still feel like a part of me. Maybe it’s a primal sort of response, but those mountains make me feel protected.

Tangled up with noticing the space around me, I’m also flooded with memories that bring their own emotions along. There’s a pang of regret when I realize that I don’t know if my fourth grade best friend’s parents still live in that house. There’s palpable relief as I recall the time I wrapped my car around that telephone pole and lived to tell the tale. I recall childhood bike rides with fondness and grieve a bit that my kids probably won’t ever know what it feels like to pack a backpack and pedal for hours to meet up with a friend on the other side of ‘town.’ Every turn, every scent, every change in scenery prompts a long-forgotten recollection and I wonder if this happens to everyone.

I think about my friends who still live here. There’s no way they deal with this deluge of memory on a daily basis; they wouldn’t be able to function. Does constant exposure create a sort of numbness? Or perhaps the act itself, the leaving, has created a response in me that simply doesn’t exist for them. Regardless, I look at these strong, beautiful, resilient women. I see their families and their careers and their homes and I can’t reconcile their growth against this background that my brain has relegated to childhood in perpetuity.

As I drive through this place, I feel surprise, regret, peace, and guilt in rapid succession. I wonder, for a brief moment, if all of these feelings are rushing back with an adolescent intensity because I have never been an adult in this place.

My visit is all I hoped it would be. I reconnect with old friends and it is truly joyful. These women help me to remember who I once was and to find her deep within who I am.

If I peel back the layers, I find a shy first grader waiting for the bus. I find an awkward seventh grader with her nose in a book. I see a clueless teenager who thinks she knows it all. I uncover a tentative twenty something writing lesson plans for her first classroom. I see a beautiful bride, optimistic about the future. A new mother, overwhelmed and exhausted. A tearful woman, making hard choices for her family.

This visit to my hometown was good for my soul. But as I drive back East on that same stretch of I-84, it occurs to me that ‘home’ means something different now.

Home is a small white cape with a stream running by. Home is a bunch of kids and too many pets and the comfort of my husband’s arm around my shoulder. It’s a community of family and friends and neighbors. It’s backyard barbecues and baskets of laundry to fold and boating on the lake in the summertime. Home is bathroom renovations and sick tummies and cuddling in front of the fireplace on a snow day in January.

This new home is the culmination of the experience of all of my iterations. And it is beautiful and messy and complicated and perfectly, purely, joyfully mine.

 

 

 

 

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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.