Category: Reflections

There’s so much panic-inducing content on social media right now.  I have to limit my intake, or else I’d be curled into a ball of despair and frustration.  

Until today, I’ve been mostly positive.  We’ve had a little break.  We’ve gotten some projects done and enjoyed some much-needed family time.  We’ve been in contact with family and friends.  We’ve been out in nature and learning online and exploring our interests a little more deeply.  It’s been good, and I’ve been sharing a lot of that in my social media space.  Yesterday was a little tough.  I shared that on Facebook, too; minor frustrations couched in humor are still socially appropriate.  

But today I stepped away from social media.  I didn’t want to share any of it, because today was crappy.  Not just for me, but for a lot of people I love.  I have two close friends with kids in the hospital… not virus-related, but frightening and made scarier by the increased possibility of complications and exposure.  My brother-in-law got laid off. A friend in the restaurant industry set up a go-fund-me to help pay her bills.  

And all of these heavy sadnesses take up space in the back of my mind; space that I need in order to manage this new, working-and-schooling-from-home reality.  And then, the little things pile on top. 

I broke my toe last night.  There’s not even a good story.  I dropped my phone.  It hit weird and wrong.  My whole toe is purple and swollen and I can’t move it.  It hurts to walk.  

Two of our pet guinea pigs died today.  Within an hour of each other.  We’re not sure why.  A virus?  The temperature in that basement room?  Maybe the iceberg lettuce that I fed them, not knowing that they should only have romaine?  There’s guilt there.  And sadness.  And that sadness touches an anxiety so close to the surface that the tears we cry contain multitudes, because they’re for so much more than our lost little pets.  

It rained here all day.  Jack came home at noon because they didn’t have enough work to keep him busy all day.  What if he can’t make 40 hours this week?  What if he can’t make 30?  

And then all of this weird sadness and fear pools in my gut to create a swirl of guilt because… my kids are healthy.  We still have jobs.  We have so much to be grateful for.  And others are struggling so much more. 

So where does that leave me? 

I’ve learned that I’m hesitant to let myself have feelings.  I’m a chronic bottler… I shove all those emotions down deep until I can no longer stand the pressure and then I explode.  

I’m trying to do better.  I’m trying to acknowledge my feelings and sit with them.  I’m trying to get curious about them and feel them, even when they’re shitty… Even when other people have it worse.  So today, I stopped trying to rally the troops.  I stopped being the cheerleader.  I told them I felt frustrated.  I told them I was in pain.  I held them and we all cried over those freaking guinea pigs.  We read some books.  We watched some videos.  We ate some lunch and washed the dishes, but I didn’t force a schedule.  I didn’t fight them.  We retreated to our own separate corners and then we came back together to grieve and breathe.  

I’m feeling a little better now.  My foot is less achy.  My heart is less achy.  I’m still saying lots of prayers.  I’m still uneasy about what the future holds.  But for now, this family can hold each other close and feel all the feelings.  The pleasant ones and the hard ones. And I guess I’ll be sharing on social media after all.  Thanks for reading.  

I love winter.  And I have the privilege of being able to love winter because I am married to an incredible man who is mostly content to do all of the snow-clearing whilst I bake banana bread and read in front of a fireplace and maybe run the vacuum.  

Some teachers will adamantly declare that they don’t like snow days because they cut into the joy of summer.  I vehemently disagree.  I love a snow day.  I love an unexpected day off, with no demands and no accusatory sunshine demanding outdoor enjoyment or relentless activity.  A snow day is for pajamas and movies and good books and card games.  It’s for cooking and sipping warm drinks and cuddling.  Snow days are heaven for those of us who enjoy the blessing of doing a whole lot of nothing urgent.  

Unfortunately, my husband almost never gets to experience the joy of a snow day.  During the long winters, there are inevitably days when he rises with the sun to go to work and the children and I stay cuddled under down comforters until our bladders or our hunger pains awake us.  And then we amble around, perhaps making an extravagant breakfast or watching movies or playing card games in our pajamas.  

Today was one such day.  Never mind that we’re already on vacation.  Today was perfect for lounging.  We had an eventful day yesterday, and I was looking forward to a mostly- relaxing indoor day, wherein the most strenuous items on my to-do list involved loading the dishwasher and dialing the phone.  A little snow fit perfectly into my plans for the day.  

My husband had already tried to run the snow blower before he left for work at 5:30 am.  The slushy mix clogged the throwing mechanism; consequently, he cleared just enough to get his van out of the driveway, leaving the rest. 

I probably could have left it for him, but that would’ve been pretty awful of me.  I know this because I’ve done it before.  I’ve enjoyed my snow day, completely oblivious to the outdoor conditions because I’m spoiled.  And he has come home after a long day of physical labor, looked at me with apparent disappointment, and asked, “You were home all day and you didn’t even clear the walkway?” 

Now, to be fair, that’s the equivalent of me taking the children away to visit family for the weekend and coming home to a pile of laundry and a sink full of dishes.  We are both equally capable of appallingly inconsiderate behavior.  But we mostly try to avoid it.  So I added “shovel the driveway” to my mental to-do list.  

Admittedly, I procrastinated shoveling for as long as possible.  I didn’t want to get my snow gear on.  I didn’t want to fight with the kids to come out and help.  I didn’t want to be cold and sweaty.  But the heavy, wet snow was already turning to slush that would eventually turn our driveway into an impassable sheet of ice.  So I rallied the two children who were home with me, and we donned our snow boots and gloves and began to shovel.  

What is it about the human psyche that allows us to mentally manipulate simple, satisfying tasks into wretched, undesirable chores? 

I do this all the time.  I spend my time and mental energy so inefficiently by agonizing about a task rather than simply doing it.  I’ll think about an unpleasant phone call for a week before I dial the phone.  I’ll make mental lists and written lists and share a litany of to-dos with my husband.  In the time it takes me to guilt myself about incomplete chores, I could have completed several of the offending tasks.  In the time it takes me to decide to clean the refrigerator, I could have cleaned it three times over.  

And so it was with the shoveling.  With the kids’ help, it took less than half an hour.  We were outside, joking with each other and getting some sun and breathing fresh air and getting a little exercise.  Since we were already so close to the car, we hopped in once our job was done.  The kids came with me to run some errands and pick up some ice cream and toppings for our traditional New Year’s Eve Sundae Bar.  We shopped at the dollar store and picked up some pet food and it was actually a really nice afternoon.  

This lesson? This notion that sometimes you just need to DO THE THING, even when it’s not appealing?  That lesson seems to be the theme of this holiday season for me.  Let me give you a few examples.  

– I usually agonize over gifts for my parents.  I stress about it for weeks and ask a million people for advice and wait for inspiration to strike, and inevitably I end up buying a restaurant gift card or something equally uninspired.  This year, I skipped all the agonizing, bought the gift cards, and felt relieved to cross it off my list so early in the shopping season.  

– My bedroom is tiny.  My furniture is huge.  There aren’t a lot of choices about how to arrange it, so it hasn’t been moved in ages.  But the dog hair collecting beneath the immovable bureau became the cause of increasing disgust, so I finally shoved it all around so that I could vacuum all the nooks and crannies.  I got it so clean I wasn’t afraid to put out my new white comforter.  Then I splurged on some throw pillows and actually managed to rearrange a few things, and my new, clean redecorated room inspired the next change…

– About a year ago, one of our sons installed a light switch in my bedroom.  He had to rip open the wall and then he spackled the whole thing to reassemble it… but I didn’t remember the paint color I needed to cover the ugly white spackle.  After a year of procrastinating, I finally went to get paint samples and choose a new color.  I was ready to repaint the room.  Unbelievably, I was able to find a color that was an exact match to what was already there.  So I only had to paint one wall and touch up a few other spots.  It looks fantastic. I wish I had done it a year ago. 

– For the past three years I’ve skipped the whole Christmas Card thing.  That, in itself, was liberating and helped me to evaluate the list of things that I have to do over the holidays.  I’ve realized that about 90% of those things are actually optional.  Who knew?  But back to the card… this year, I had a picture of all 5 kids.  It wasn’t great.  It accurately captured the moods of 4 angsty teenagers who didn’t want to be there and one overly-excited 10 year old who was still looking forward to Santa’s arrival.  It was taken a year ago.  But all the kids are dressed nicely and looking at the camera and nobody is actively sneering or crying.  I took advantage of cyber- Monday sales to turn this photo into a card and I mailed it to all our friends and family.  The photo has prompted laughter and conversations and the sympathy of moms-of-teens all over the country.  Perfection is overrated.  

– And to return to ‘optional’ holiday activities?  This year, we ordered Chinese food on Christmas Eve.  Between church obligations and family activities, the traditional Christmas Eve dinner just didn’t work out.  And you know what?  It was amazing.  No fuss, no mess, just a lot of laughter and gifts and drinks with our grown and almost-grown children.  I think I might have found our new tradition.

Sometimes, letting go feels really good.  And sometimes, doing the thing you didn’t want to do ALSO feels really good.  I learned a lot of lessons this holiday season… about changing my perspective and changing my expectations and changing my approach.  

Maybe those lessons will carry me in to 2020 with a lighter load and a more grateful heart.  Maybe they’ll help me to find my motivation when it’s lost and accept God’s grace when I need it most.  Happy New Year, everyone.  Here’s wishing you gratitude and peace and motivation and grace, in whatever measures bring you peace.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 4^thgrade 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.

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.