Category: Reflections

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s 30 degrees on April 15^th, 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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

The writer in me

She cajoles and she whines

Let me out. Set me free.

Right now! It’s my time.

 

And the mom (in me, too)

She soothes and she shushes.

Relax. Settle down.

What’s with all this fussing?

 

Small tasks occupy

Every moment of time.

And I cling to hold on

To the thoughts in my mind.

 

The teacher in me?

She says, “Wait your turn.”

Take a breath. We’ll get there.

There is much more to learn.

 

The wife in me whispers,

“Just wait ‘till he sleeps.”

Jot down a note and…. the thought?

It will keep.

 

But ideas float away

Like smoke on the wind.

Swallowed by moonlight;

Will I find them again?

 

 

My father never passes a stranded motorist on the road. He stops to help. EVERY. TIME. The man has a heart of gold, and automotive skills to match.

I have a friend who consistently mails out her Christmas cards on the day after Thanksgiving. They contain beautiful, professional photos of her kids, and are mailed using festive holiday stamps. I am baffled and inspired by this.

One close friend is a single mom to two kids, one with Autism. She is gentle, full of love, and also a fierce advocate. She is one of the strongest people I know.

I have a sibling who manages to coordinate a ‘family gift’ from eight siblings to our parents every year. Her organization is admirable and her patience is endless.

A friend from church consistently makes meals with ingredients I can’t name. She tries not to use the same recipe twice, and her entire approach to food leaves me awestruck. She is equally savvy about wine, and I am so grateful to be able to learn from her. And drink with her.

Several close family members live life with depression and anxiety. I’ve watched them develop strength and grace and self-awareness that astounds me.

My mother in-law has an incomparable sense of style. With random yard sale knick knacks and a little spray paint, she can turn any room into a showpiece. Her home is magazine worthy and once all of these small-ish people move out of my home, I hope she’ll teach me all she knows.

My husband has a voice that literally brings people to tears. Last week, he sang the communion hymn at church, and even our pastor got weepy.

I had an aunt who never forgot a birthday. Like, ever. And she sent a card, snail mail, every single year. I still have them in a box, and I can hear her voice from heaven when I re-read them.

I have several sisters who don’t take any crap from anybody. They learned this from my mom. They are all strong, independent women, and they stand their ground even when it gets uncomfortable. I call them when I need a pep talk. Or someone to call the cable company for me.

Other friends make beautiful handmade gifts. Some consistently and gently have difficult conversations with their kids.   Some home-school. Some run marathons. Some play instruments. Some volunteer with the homeless.

This list could go on for days. I look at the people I love and I see so many gifts. I could tell you something admirable about everyone I know.

But admiration has its down side. Noticing what’s amazing about others sometimes compels me to judge myself. I take the gifts and achievements of my loved ones and hold them up as a standard to be met. I look at what I lack and I analyze myself in comparison to all of these incredible, talented, gifted people. And I forget that each of them, too, is innately flawed and fallible. The thing is… every single one of these people doubts themselves. EVERY. SINGLE. ONE.

As we move into this holiday season, as we each attempt to do our best to move through Advent with an open heart and a joyful waiting and a sense of perspective, let’s be gentle with ourselves and celebrate the gifts of those around us.

When you get that beautiful card from your friend, just enjoy it. Let her know how much you admire her. And mail your card cobbled together with individual shots because the kids won’t all look at the camera at the same time. Or send New Year’s cards. Or skip it all together. The world won’t end.

When Facebook shows you another creative “Elf on the Shelf” shenanigan (and your elf hasn’t moved in three days), congratulate your friend. Laugh at the silliness.  And keep the ‘elf crutches’ on hand for the next time you forget about the little guy.

When you forget to send the holiday napkins to school or wind up stopping for another last-minute gift card at a gas station, take a moment to remember what YOU do well. Somebody out there admires YOU. Pause for a moment to remember why.

And if you’re searching for a special holiday gift this year, find a way to let YOUR people know what you admire about them. It’s perhaps the most meaningful gift of all.