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Ups and Downs

I shaved my legs yesterday.  I also changed my sheets.  I don’t say this to brag; these two minor accomplishments are only relevant because they provide the backdrop for my morning. I began my day today in a state of sleepy bliss.  My smooth legs were just the right temperature under my clean sheets and the tension had somehow evaporated from my shoulders and as many times as I opened my eyes and chatted with my husband and rolled over, I could not manage to pull my head off of the pillow.  I felt utterly relaxed.  And smooth. 

So I stayed there for as long as I could; when I finally got up, I headed to my beautiful, newly-renovated bathroom.  And as I brushed my teeth, a steady stream of water flowed from the light fixture above me onto my head and down my back and I shrieked.  As an independent, self-sufficient woman does, I yelled for my husband.  

As I write this, we still haven’t figured out the source of the leak.  Luckily, I’m married to a plumber, so I have every confidence that he’ll get it taken care of… the best part being that I won’t need to be involved in the process at all unless he needs someone to hold a flashlight.  

But that particular example is a solid illustration of the ups and downs of this week.  Nothing’s been earth-shattering.  No crisis.  No joyful surprises.  Just the mundane, post-holiday, relaxing-recovering-cleaning-gettingthefreakingflu- type stuff that fills the week or two after Christmas.  

We had a nice Christmas brunch with friends; and subsequently, every person who was at that gathering went down with the flu.  A few days on the couch, aching and coughing and complaining… nothing too terrible, but a generally rotten way to ring in the new year.  

And just before we all went back to school, the little one sprained his ankle on a friend’s hoverboard. Being in the running for mother of the year, I told him to ice it and gave him some ibuprofen, and fully expected that he’d be fine by morning.  Except he wasn’t.  He was using the spare set of crutches that hangs out in the garage, and when it came time to get on the bus, I finally told him that he couldn’t go to school. Not because I thought he was in too much pain.  Not because I was worried about his well-being.  He couldn’t go to school because then I would be the neglectful mom who didn’t even take the kid to the doctor and just sent him to school on someone else’s crutches!!!

So I made the doctor’s appointment.  We got the x-rays.  And guess what?  He’s fine. Nothing broken, and approximately 48 hours later, he’s running around like a fool and those crutches are back in the garage.  See? Ups and downs.  Nothing Earth-shattering.  

That’s what this week has been full of; mild disappointments and mundane moments of joy.  I don’t really buy into all that, “New Year, New You” resolution hype.  I’m a public schoolteacher and a mom and a creature of habit.  I make all my resolutions in September; by January 1st, I’m just proud that my kids are still alive and fed.  When the New Year rolls around, I’m settling in and preparing to enjoy a little bit of winter mediocrity.  I’m ready for lazy snow days and jigsaw puzzles and weekend trips to the library to stock up on books and movies to sustain us through the winter dark.  I’m reading up on crock pot recipes to fill our bellies with sustenance and warmth with minimal effort.  I’m stocking up on duraflame logs because I love a fire but not enough to actually build one.  

After the hustle and bustle of the holiday season dies down, what I really need is some space to enjoy all of these beautiful every day moments.  I need to stop and listen to the fire crackle and marvel at the beauty of a snowflake and gently run my fingers through my son’s hair when he falls asleep during family movie night.  I need to relax and enjoy the sensation of newly-washed sheets on newly-shaved legs. And then I need to haul my butt upstairs and hold the flashlight while my amazing husband figures out this freaking leak.  

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Angry

I woke up angry this morning.  Not a little irritated or vaguely annoyed.  Seethingly, vehemently mad at the world.  And for no real good reason.  Nothing unusual, anyway… especially given the season.  Nothing except the fact that, despite my best efforts and frantic, consistent accomplishing, my to-do list kept getting longer instead of shorter. And the list of people willing to help me with it was nonexistent.  My kids were whiny and my house was filthy and the laundry was stacking up and my husband AND my kids were playing video games.  It was 7:30 am.  

I thought, perhaps, that coffee would help.  So I got out of bed and wandered into the kitchen to make myself a double dose of caffeine.  And I was feeling motivated.  So I loaded the dishwasher and finished putting out the Christmas decorations while I sipped on my Winter Blend.  Feeling accomplished, I put in a load of laundry and brought all of the bins from decorating back into the garage.  

My son called for his mom, and I sat on the edge of his bed for a few rare moments of preteen heart-to-heart conversation.  I thought I might be able to shake this funk.  But then I walked back upstairs with a laundry basket and my husband made a pretty benign comment about wanting to change the sheets and I probably looked like my head was going to explode.  “I JUST CHANGED THE SHEETS.  DO YOU SEE THE SEVEN BASKETS OF LAUNDRY THAT NEED TO BE FOLDED?  AND YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT CHANGING THE SHEETS?!?!”

In hindsight, I realize I may have overreacted.  

Thus continued a crappy morning.  I desperately wanted to skip church and get some much needed alone time and clean my dirty house.  I haven’t read a book in almost a month.  I haven’t written anything in nearly as long.  These are bad signs. But the thought of having to explain to the kids why mom could skip church and they most definitely could NOT (added to the fact that I would still have to drop them off and then slink out of the church parking lot like some kind of criminal), motivated me to get dressed and put on my Christmas earrings and get my butt in a pew.  

It started sleeting as I drove in.  Somebody stole my parking spot.  I parked a quarter mile away, stomped through the sleet, skipped greeting the pastor, and headed to my regular spot.  A friend sweetly asked how I was, and I replied, “Unusually and inexplicably angry.” She laughed and commiserated. Even when I’m mad, it feels good to be around my people.  

I sat down and opened my bulletin And wouldn’t you know it… It’s the third week of advent. Do you know what the third advent candle represents?  Joy.  Of course it does.  

I love my church.  I really do.  I love the pastors and the music and the people.  Often, I sit there on Sundays and I am moved to tears. Today’s service was inspiring. And beautiful.  And thought-provoking.  At one point, the pastor spoke about being grateful for the hard stuff, too, because even the hard stuff is part of God’s gift to us. At that moment, my husband reached over and took my hand, because we had JUST had this conversation on Friday, when we were feeling particularly grateful for each other.  

I’m glad I went to church. It was good for me.  But I can’t say that I was feeling joyful just for having been there.  I was maybe marginally less vitriolic.  But as we stood around, catching up with our friends, my husband made a comment about our plans for New Years Eve, and I swear I don’t know what happened to me. I snapped.  Embarrassingly.  Like our friends’ eyes popped out of their faces and they politely excused themselves so I could whisper-fight with my husband in the sanctuary.  

My frustrated but patient husband agreed to take our youngest with him to his parents’ house for a little while.  Our middle son stayed for youth group.  Our daughter came home with me but mostly cleaned her room and stayed out of my way, which was probably wise.  

I cleaned.  You wouldn’t think that would make me feel better, but it definitely did.  I got a ton of laundry done and vacuumed up three canisters of dog hair and dusted and cleaned my baseboards.  I went through an entire canister of Clorox wipes.  I drank a cup of tea and picked up diorama supplies from the dollar store.  I lit some candles, read the first chapter of a novel, and began to write. 

What a difference.  A few hours later, and we’re back to business as usual.  There’s football on the TV and tutoring happening in the dining room and a ten year old constructing a diorama on the coffee table.  I’m going to finish this post and switch from tea to wine and order a pizza because cooking will likely ruin my newly-established good mood.  

I’m going to watch the Patriots game and look over my lesson plans for the week.  I’m going to help this kid with the hot glue gun and then frost some cookies and make peppermint bark with Bea.  I’m going to enjoy my clean house and my beautiful family.  

Tonight, I’m going to find that joy that the pastor was talking about. I’m going to thank my husband for putting up with my mood swings.  I’m going to let my family know that I’ve left them all the jobs that I hate; pairing the socks and unloading the dishwasher and sorting the recyclables. I’m going to remember that the hard days make the lovely ones that much more precious. The angry days, the joyful days, the mundane days… tonight, I’m going to remind myself to remember that God is working in all of them.  

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Giving Thanks


It’s 6:30 am on Thanksgiving Day.  I’ve been up for hours; not because of stress or worry, but because I am so full of gratitude I feel like I could burst.  This is one of those rare moments of joy before the chaos begins.  I lay in bed this morning, thinking of all of the ages and stages of this life.

I reminisced about the Thanksgivings of my childhood; about making place cards and setting the table with my grandmother’s good china while my mother made the broccoli casserole and my dad prepped the turkey.

I thought back to the Thanksgivings early in my marriage, when I showed up at my mother in-law’s house with that same broccoli casserole, tentatively presenting my offering to this new family, hoping it (and I) would be received with love.

I recalled the first Thanksgiving I hosted, for a few family members in our tiny upstairs apartment.  Our kitchen was the size of a closet, and we ate in the living room that year.  To this day, I’m not sure how we made it all work.

I remembered the year that I filmed Cal, dancing in the kitchen as he gently placed alternating white and yellow cheddar slices on a tray, occasionally declaring that this one was ‘broken’ before taking a bite and grinning at me with those freaking dimples.

I went back to the year that we stumbled with our pronouns; our whole family working to ensure that Lee felt loved and safe and supported.

Some of these Thanksgivings blend together in my mind; I can’t recall which years we spent here and which ones we spent away.  Some of them were stressful and chaotic; some were quiet and relaxed.  But there are themes that run throughout.  Love.  Gratitude. Acceptance.  Abundance.

And this morning, my heart is bursting with those things.  Grateful feels like too small a word.  What’s bigger than gratitude?  What is gratitude and peace and joy and love pushing so hard at your heart that it brings tears to your eyes?

Maybe it sounds dramatic. Maybe it sounds like too much. But those tears really are pushing at the edges of my eyes and the only reason is because I am remembering to remember all of my blessings.  Like…

My husband.  This guy is cranky and rough around the edges and a little bit gruff.  And he is the epitome of loyalty and commitment.  He is full of love and he cries at movies and he always does the right thing, even when the wrong thing is easier.  He provides for us and cares for us and when I’m at my worst, he just shakes his head and takes a deep breath and keeps on loving me.  He is my rock and he is an incredible role model for these kids.  He is tough and soft all at the same time, and what on earth would I do without him? Thank you, God, for this incredible man.

Bea.  What an incredible young woman.  The holidays are so hard for her.  She’s been through a lifetime of hardship in her short 16 years, and she still faces each day with grace and strength.  Watching her grow has been one of life’s little miracles for me. When I first met this plucky fourth grader, she had the soul of an old woman and the smile of a cherub (when you could get her to smile).  I had no idea that she would become a part of my heart like she has.  In our first year as a family, I worried about how to make her feel welcome in our home and how to balance the addition of a new family member. I worried that we weren’t enough, or maybe we were too much, and I tried so hard to make it all less awkward.  And now, I can’t even remember what it was like before she was here.  She’s been a part of my heart for so long, and now she’s a part of my family, and we are all better for it.  Thank you, God, for this amazing young woman.

Lee.  Oh, my heart.  This kid.  This kid is awesome.  As in, awe-inspiring.  Incredible. Brave, funny, smart, strong, perceptive, loving, and honest.  This kid is going to change the world.  He is going to bring his whole self out into the world and teach tolerance through love and humor.  He is going to care for his menagerie of pets and use his incredible powers of observation and his scientific brain to accomplish incredible things.  And in the meantime, I get to watch him transform like a butterfly.  Can you imagine that?  We all have hopes and dreams for our children… but I’ve gotten to watch my child grow in ways I never imagined.  He surprises me at every turn, and he brings me immeasurable joy.  His laugh and his heart and his head on my shoulder; they all take my breath away.  Thank you God, for this inspiring, incredible kid.

Cal.  My baby.  My sweet, silly, stubborn little guy.  The one who probably gets away with too much because he’s the baby of the family and I’m a sucker for those dimples.  But Cal is my cuddler.  He’s the soulful one; a deep thinker who seeks God in all of the places.  He’s the one who will spontaneously lead us in prayer, or ask questions about heaven when I tuck him into bed.  He’s sensitive and kind and always wants to do the right thing. He’s my go-getter.  When presented with options of things to do, the rest of the family will say ‘no, thank you’ to all of them; Cal will ask why he can only choose one.  He’s athletic and musical and his guitar skills are on track to surpass his dad’s someday.  When I hear them play together, I get a lump in my throat.  Thank you God, for this sweet, sassy little man.

I am grateful today for all of these blessings; for my stepsons and my parents and siblings and my in-laws. For lifelong friends and new friends and the unconditional love from my dogs.  For a warm, safe home and a log in the fire and new throw pillows.  For our church family and a supportive community and cinnamon flavored coffee.  For the sound of laughter and a shoulder to cry on.

Dear God,  thank you for all of the blessings of this life, even the ones that appear as hardships.  Help me to cultivate gratitude and share it with others, and help me to remember this moment of calm once the chaos begins.  Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.  May you be abundantly blessed.

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Yesterday


Amazing things that happened yesterday:

– I rang in the bell choir despite 3 stitches in the palm of my hand.  And I didn’t launch any bells over the balcony into the congregation. I’m going to call that a win.

– During my committee meeting (which lasted longer that I anticipated), Bea sat and chatted with the pastor’s daughter.  It was great to see her so engaged, and it alleviated my guilt about making her wait.

– By the time I finally finished my meeting, Bea had gone home with a friend (in and of itself, this is pretty cool), and Cal hadn’t broken anything or spilled anything in the sanctuary.

– I made it home in time to vacuum and change into my sweatpants before my friends started showing up with wine and pizza.

 

Yesterday was fantastic.  It was fantastic because it was sad… and then the sadness flowing through a group of people prompted us to finally get together and lean on each other and share the burden and then share some laughs and share some food and wine and then somehow, the sadness dissipated.  It still hung in the air, but it wasn’t weighing us down anymore.

Our pastor is leaving us. Yesterday was his last day.  It was hard.  So many emotions swirl around that; when you have a church family and you have come to rely on that family for love and support and guidance, losing a pastor is painful.  It’s not as painful as a death, but it hurts like a breakup.  Like a breakup with a friend and a parent and your guardian angel all at once.

There’s a group of us; four families from church, who get together on a semi-regular basis.  We’ve done bible studies and camping trips and birthday parties together.  The moms of this group have a text message thread where we talk nearly every day. But this past two weeks, our text conversations have been slow and a bit stilted.  We’ve used words like, ‘biopsy’ and ‘anxiety’ and ‘malaise.’  We were all struggling, in different ways.

And while we all knew we needed each other, we hadn’t been able to coordinate schedules and actually make it happen until this weekend.  So when the service was over, and we were all reeling a little and people started asking, “What’s everyone up to today?” it just all came together.  I hadn’t prepared for guests.  My bathroom wasn’t clean and our dogs smelled like whatever they rolled in yesterday and I was frantically trying to get all the fur off the sofa when the first people started to arrive.  And the timing was perfect.

When I was younger, I needed time to prepare for guests.  I wanted everything to be just right.  I needed to clean and shop and have enough of the right kind of glassware.  I wanted my house to look a certain way, and of course, I wanted it all to look effortless.

But as I grow into parenthood and deeper friendships, I realize that the need for connection is so much more important than any of that. I’ve hosted enough impromptu get togethers to realize that nobody is judging my dust and that people would rather drink wine out of plastic cups together in a room full of laughter than sit at home waiting for someone to go out and buy matching stemware.

I don’t have enough time to postpone the party in favor of the preparation.  Life is short and schedules are tight.  When we have an opportunity to be in communion with one another, I want to embrace that opportunity.  I want to love my people and lean on my people and laugh and cry together.  Yesterday, we did just that.  I’m so grateful for friends who can pray with us and cry with us and celebrate with us. We are so blessed to have people who will hold us up when our knees are weak and love our children like their own.

As an added bonus, one of my dearest friends was also able to join us and bring her kids over for pizza and football.  Her friendship has sustained me through my growing-up years, and her presence grounds me and reminds me that who I am is just the latest evolution between who I was and who I am becoming.  In my mind, we’re still ‘growing up’ together, and when she brought her kids to share pizza and cookies and laughs and a game of manhunt in the dark, I felt a sort of peaceful right-ness that slowed my breathing and made me smile.

Days like these sustain me. If I go too long without consciously connecting with the people I love, the tension builds between my shoulder blades and pours out of my mouth in the form of sharp words and impatient replies.  Instead of bringing my gifts into the world, I begin to send out stress and anger; giving the world the worst parts of me instead of the best ones.

For me, joy comes from the connections in my life.  It comes from my friends and my family; from my children and my husband and even my students.  But when I stop consciously seeking it; when I stop inviting it in, it fades into the background.  When I get caught up in my to-do list and the stresses and the worries of everyday life, it’s the equivalent of cleaning my house for company but never opening the door. Everything seems to be in order, but something is definitely missing.

So yesterday, I opened the door to my dirty house and received the blessing of communion.  Communion as community, fellowship, association; communion as intimate communication; communion as a group of people with shared faith.  This type of communion sustains me, and I am infinitely grateful for it.

At the end of the day, I climbed into bed, still wearing the sweatpants that my mom gave me for Christmas in 1999.  I said a grateful prayer and settled in with my head on my husband’s shoulder.  And the sadness I had felt earlier mixed with the joy and somehow turned into strength and peace. I had been fortified by friendship and communion, and sleep came quickly and easily.

I’m sure it had nothing to do with the wine…

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Question 3


 

My left eye has been twitching for nearly a week.  Everything I’ve read tells me it’s nothing to worry about.  It’ll probably stop when I get more sleep and reduce my stress levels and quit drinking caffeine and alcohol.

Just call me Twitchy, because this looks like a long-term condition.

But seriously, I’m convinced at least some of the problem is all of my anxiety over question 3. Question 3 is on the ballot because a group of ‘concerned citizens’ believe that transgender people are a threat in public restrooms.

If you live in Massachusetts and are even considering voting no on question 3, please, PLEASE, PLEASE talk to me about it.  Talk to me so I can explain how this is about so much more than bathrooms.  I need you to know that a NO vote on 3 means that:

– hospital employees could refuse to treat my son because they don’t agree with who he is.  And we would have no recourse.

– restaurant owners could ask him to leave because they don’t like the looks of him and we would have to accept that.  Because, umm… religious liberty?  Seriously?

– my son could be asked to leave or refused service in ANY PUBLIC PLACE and, legally speaking, we would be out of luck.

And, if the opposition wants to make it about bathrooms, then let’s talk about the freaking bathrooms.

My 8 year old used to stand outside the restrooms in his elementary school, trying to inconspicuously wait until nobody was in there.  Because he was still using the girls room but he dressed like a boy and little girls would question him.  If somebody walked in while he was in there, he hid in the stall until they left.  It took him like half an hour to pee.

I was with him once, before he came out to me.  He was wearing boy’s clothes and sporting a sort of androgynous haircut and he stood outside the bathrooms at our open and affirming church and said, “I don’t want to go in there.”  I didn’t get it.  I insensitively dragged him into the ladies room with me, insisting that his mom was with him and he was just washing his hands and nobody was going to bother him. I was wrong.  A teenaged girl told him that the boys’ room was down the hall. My heart cracked into pieces.

NOBODY is more at risk in a public restroom than transgender people. Every time we go to a new place, my son takes his brother with him to check out the bathrooms and make sure that they’re safe.  Bathrooms are fraught.  And for my little boy?  If some transphobic moron decides that he doesn’t belong in the men’s room?  Who do you think is vulnerable in that situation?

Anybody who is worried about ‘a man in a dress’ or some other nonsense obviously doesn’t know any transgender people.  Or at least doesn’t KNOW that they know transgender people.  Can we please focus on protecting people who ACTUALLY experience harassment?

Instead of supporting the legislation that’s ALREADY in place to protect a vulnerable population, we’re proposing to repeal it because somebody might be uncomfortable?

The idea that you deserve to be comfortable all the time is, in itself, an indicator of privilege.  If you can move through your life without being judged by the color of your skin or the size of your body or your country of origin, that’s a privilege.  If you can walk through a parking lot without carrying your keys as a weapon or walk through a store without being followed by security or enter a public restroom without fear of harassment or assault, then you already experience a level of comfort that is out of reach for many people.

Folks, please.  Don’t be gullible.  Don’t allow fear mongering campaign ads to lead you to place the ‘comfort’ of some over the basic rights of others.

And once we settle this thing?  Once we all vote YES on 3, and move on to fighting for human rights at a national level?

Maybe then my eye will stop twitching.  But I’m not holding my breath.

 

 

 

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The Lake House


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.

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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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Social Security


Lee transitioned just about three years ago.  We legally changed his name about a year and a half ago.  But the legal name change was just a court document.  Until that court document was presented to the social security office, most official documents (think bank statements and insurance information) remained under the old name.  This wasn’t a problem in our everyday life.  The schools had changed everything.  Our usual doctors and dentists were able to note their files. Even our pharmacist changed the name in his system.

But on the rare occasion when we had to get blood drawn or see an unfamiliar doctor, I had to call ahead, or whisper to the receptionist, and plead that they PLEASE NOT CALL that name.

Nevertheless, it happened. And every time it did, my child’s eyes widened and his shoulders dropped and he looked at me with pain in his eyes as if to say, “How could you let this happen AGAIN?”

And then, my son would compose himself and lift himself out of his waiting room chair and defiantly walk up to a surprised-looking receptionist or nurse and say, “I prefer Lee.”

I honestly don’t know why it took me so long to get to the Social Security office.  I thought I just didn’t want to sit in that waiting room forever.  But maybe it was a bit deeper than that, and I was in denial.

Today we went.  We gathered our documents and stopped for breakfast and entered the address into the GPS.

When we walked in, we were asked to check in at a kiosk. For about 45 minutes, we sat anxiously on plastic government chairs in a waiting room full of other anxious people in plastic government chairs.  I had forgotten my book, so I did a little people-watching.  An elderly woman had apparently been waiting for some time, and she walked up to the window as someone else left.  It wasn’t her turn.  She hadn’t been called.  A security guard walked over to check in with her, and he kindly and patiently explained that she needed a number.  Even as she insisted she had one, but couldn’t find it, he checked in with the other people in the waiting room.  Does somebody have number 84?  85? As people raised their numbers, he used a little humor, took the paperwork that the woman handed him, and walked over to the kiosk himself.  He got her a number, and handed it to her with a kind smile.  He wasn’t rude or condescending.  He wasn’t impatient.  He went above and beyond to make sure that she was all set before he went back to his post.

It restored my faith a little.  My previous experience with government offices left much to be desired, and watching this interaction full of faith and compassion left me feeling hopeful.

We continued to wait. We played word games and had whispered conversations.  We played on our phones and doubled checked our documents.  And then it was our turn.

We walked up to the counter. There were two chairs in front of a plastic window with a small slit at the bottom for passing papers back and forth. The woman on the other side of the window was older, with long white hair pulled back into a low ponytail. She wore a green shirt and a layered necklace with white and gold beads.  Her face was impassive.  She wasn’t particularly friendly, but she also wasn’t rude.  She smiled one small smile in greeting, and accepted the paperwork I passed under the plexiglass.  I explained that we needed a new social security card because of a name change.  She nodded, conveying that this was something she could take care of.  And then she asked, “What is the reason for the name change?”

I’m not sure why I wasn’t prepared to answer this question.  I hesitated.  In all the official documents, the indicated reason was “common usage,” and as I mentally reached for this phrase, she noted my hesitation.

Then things began to happen in slow motion.  She looked at me first, trying to determine the reason for the pause.  Not noting any apparent cause, she glanced at my child sitting next to me.  Her eyebrows raised.  Her mouth opened ever so slightly.  Then her brow furrowed and she glanced down at the paperwork and back up to me.  I opened my mouth to answer and she quietly interrupted me by saying, “You’re just changing it.”  Definitively.  With a slight shrug.

I felt as if I had watched her surprise and her judgement move across her face and then I watched her wave it away and choose professionalism and compassion.

It wasn’t until that moment that I realized how vulnerable we were.  I had heard horror stories, of course, of name-change petitions denied. But we live in progressive Massachusetts.  We didn’t even have to appear before a judge. We submitted our documents and the courts supported our right to make this decision for our child.

I hadn’t considered that we would still be vulnerable to a clerk at the Social Security Office.  I hadn’t realized the power she would have in that moment.  She could have embarrassed us.  She could have pushed for answers to uncomfortable questions.  She could have scrutinized our documentation, searching for reasons to deny our request. She could have outed my child to everyone in that office.  She could have cited ‘religious objection’ and refused to serve us.

And for a brief moment, I felt the weight of my own privilege.  I had never felt this way.  I had never been afraid that a stranger had the power to publicly embarrass me or judge my choices.  I had never understood what it might mean to have someone invalidate your existence. And the weight of that was multiplied by the fact that it wasn’t MY selfhood at risk.  It was my child’s.

I sat there, focusing on the small beads in her necklace that wasn’t falling quite straight.  I tried not to stare at her as she typed, but I noted each time that her eyebrows furrowed, trying to determine what box to check or what reason to cite in her database.  She slowly copied information from our paperwork into her computer, and her face remained mostly impassive.

I’m not sure if I had been hoping for something unrealistic.  We’ve had so much support in Lee’s transition that I honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if we had a clerk who said, “Congratulations,” or “You’re so brave,” or even just smiled encouragingly.  In hindsight, I think I must have been expecting something like that.

But in the absence of any encouragement or connection, I began to question the decision to bring him at all.  What if this woman said something hurtful?  What if she outed my son?  What if? What if?

I clenched my hands, as if in prayer.  I glanced at my child, happily playing a game on his phone, oblivious to the tension around him.  I tried to breathe slowly and calmly.  I asked God to please let us make it through this interaction without causing pain to this brave, sweet, amazing kid.

The clerk began to pass papers back to me, one at a time.  First the birth certificate.  Then the name change order.  She quietly said, “I just need to get you a receipt.”  She stood up and walked to the back of the office, shuffled some papers, and returned with the same impassive look on her face.  She handed me the receipt and said, “All set.”

“That’s it?” I asked.

“Yes.  You should get your new card in the mail in seven to ten days.  If you don’t receive it by then, you can call this number.”  She circled the information on the receipt.

I didn’t realize I had been holding my breath, and as I finally released it, a single tear escaped my left eye.  I quickly brushed it away, but she noticed.

My voice hitched as I said “Thank you.”  I gathered our papers and hurried away from the desk.  Lee glanced at me.

“Are you crying, Mom?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

We crossed the threshold into the summer sun and I hugged him fiercely.

“Because nobody will ever call you the wrong name again.”

“So they’re happy tears?”

“Yes, baby.  They’re happy tears.”

 

 

 

 

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Raising These Kids


I had some powerful conversations this week.

In several cases, these conversations started about Lee.  We have specific, important, weighty parenting decisions coming up because Lee happens to be transgender.  Right now, we are one hundred percent comfortable with the choices we’ve made.  He’s a boy. He’s living his life as a boy. Medically, we haven’t done anything irreversible.  He’s taking hormone blockers to delay puberty, but in order to “get our little girl back,” we would just have to change his clothes and let his hair grow and stop giving him the medication.  Early in this journey, I took some solace in that.  Like we were leaving our options open.  But now, it feels like a betrayal.  It feels like I’m minimizing him; reducing his very identity as if it’s just a childish phase.  If you have been on this journey with us, you’ve seen it.  It’s not a phase.  We have a happy, healthy, whole child.  Why on Earth would I want to change that?

But you can only delay puberty for so long.  At some point, we’ll have to take him off the puberty blockers.  And at that point, there are only two choices.  Option A is to do nothing.  Let him develop female secondary sex characteristics.  Of course, I can’t be sure how he’d respond to this, but I can make a reasonable prediction.  Knowing my kid, having been on this journey with him, having talked to other parents and read lots of books and consulted medical and psychiatric professionals, I anticipate that would lead to overwhelming dysphoria, suicidal ideation, and a destroyed relationship with my child. At the very least, he’d go back to being the unpredictable, depressed, self-loathing ‘girl’ he was before he transitioned.  So really, Option A isn’t much of an option at all.  Option B is to administer testosterone.  We can chemically manipulate his body to develop male secondary sex characteristics.  Irreversible changes will occur; deepening voice, body hair, facial hair, broad shoulders, square jawline, male musculature. He’ll be physically and psychologically healthy.  He’ll still love himself.  But he’ll lose his fertility.  He’ll never be able to have biological children.

How do I make decisions about my 12 year old’s future fertility?  Those are not my choices.  They’re HIS choices.  And of course, people will say he’s only twelve.  He’s not capable of deciding what he’ll want when he’s an adult. Right?  Right?

But we can’t wait until he’s an adult.  Do I risk my child’s potential teenage suicide to preserve his ability to biologically reproduce later in life?  Am I projecting my own values on him?  My own fears?

Here’s a secret.  I’m crying while I write this.  It’s terrifying.  It’s huge.  It’s sad. It’s scary.  How can we make these decisions?  As parents, how do we navigate this?

I can’t begin to tell you how often I hear a variation of, “God gave these children to YOU for a reason.”

I don’t believe that parents of LGBTQ kids are especially equipped to handle these kids.  I read stories of children who have been disowned by their parents, attacked by their families, shunned by their church communities… and my heart cracks open.  I don’t doubt that God has a divine plan, and I do believe that terrible things can be the catalyst for amazing good.  But I also can’t subscribe to the notion that God only gives LGBTQ kids to parents who are particularly suited to parent them.

But.  And.  Also…

I do think that some families, some parents, some churches, create environments where kids are allowed and encouraged to be exactly who God made them to be.

I’m pretty confident that we’re going to start our son on testosterone when the time comes. Honestly, a conversation about hormone therapy isn’t comfortable for me with anyone other than my husband, Lee’s doctors, and other parents who have been through it.  I’m not looking for input or advice or sympathy. Of course,  ‘Adult Lee’ would actually the best person to make decisions about his body.  But until he’s an adult, he needs a grown person to use reason and research and love to make the best possible decision, given the information and options available. Nobody knows this child better than his parents.  Nobody loves our child more than we do.  Nobody wants him to be happy and healthy more than we do.  So that makes US the adults best equipped to make the tough choices. When it’s time to decide, it’ll be our family’s decision, and not open for debate.

I’m not writing this to gather suggestions or seek opinions or solicit advice.  I’m writing this because it’s part of a bigger question.  The question that has come up over and over again for me in recent weeks is this: What is my job as a parent?

Following a few conversations, I wondered what the Bible has to say about the topic.  After a quick search, it didn’t really come as a surprise that most references to children (in the Old Testament especially) refer to punishing your kids.  “Spare the rod, spoil the child,” type stuff.

I looked through my Google search results, and one word kept popping out over and over and over again. Discipline.

My son, do not despise the Lord’s discipline or be weary of his reproof, for the Lord reproves him whom he loves, as a father the son in whom he delights.

 The rod and reproof give wisdom, but a child left to himself brings shame to his mother.

 Discipline your son, and he will give you rest; he will give delight to your heart.

 Folly is bound up in the heart of a child, but the rod of discipline drives it far from him. 

 Discipline your son, for there is hope; do not set your heart on putting him to death.

And as I read these verses (all from the book of Proverbs), I heard my husband’s voice.  I heard a man’s voice.  A man who loves his children deeply, and believes that his primary role as a parent is to discipline them.

But in that moment, as in so many others, I wished that I could turn to my holy book and hear a voice like mine.  A woman’s voice.  A mother’s voice.

The closest is the voice of Jesus himself, in the book of Mark.  “And they were bringing children to him that he might touch them, and the disciples rebuked them. But when Jesus saw it, he was indignant and said to them, ‘Let the children come to me; do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of God. Truly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it.’ And he took them in his arms and blessed them, laying his hands on them.”

This voice connects.  This voice resonates with me.  Jesus appreciates the children for who they are, for what they bring.  He honors them just as they are; not for what they could be or might be.  He doesn’t discipline them or try to change them.  He just loves them.

It is our job to love these children as Jesus loves them. To celebrate them and welcome them and help them to grow into the best possible version of who God created them to be. God has given us artists and writers, musicians, pastors, and politicians. He has given us funny little people.  Or serious ones.  He has given us stubborn people, witty people, shy people, adventurous people, caring people, creative people.  But he has given us PEOPLE.  They aren’t blank slates.  They aren’t empty vessels for us to fill.  They are WHOLE PEOPLE.  They have gifts and passions.  They have identities and talents and personalities.

I believe that our children have been created beautifully, uniquely, and perfectly by God.  God has molded them.  Who are we to try to bend them, twist them, contort them into a mold of our own design?

Don’t get me wrong.  Discipline is important.  But in my mind, discipline is something we TEACH our children, not something we DO to them. I want my children to have discipline, not just receive discipline.

I believe it is my job to TEACH my children.  I am tasked with teaching my children love and respect.  I need to teach them how to treat others.  I need to teach them life skills and manners and kindness.  I need to teach them how to respect others and how to behave in a way that will earn respect in return. I am given the responsibility of instilling values and teaching them how to behave in accordance with those values.

Of course, we need to teach them how to behave.  But there’s a difference between trying to teach our children and trying to change them.

Our attempts to change who they are will be fruitless.  No matter how much you believe that your bookworm needs to play football, you can’t turn him into a natural athlete by sheer force of will.  Anyone who has ever tried to get a reluctant reader to happily curl up with a book on a sunny afternoon will understand the futility of trying to change WHO our children are.  Can you manipulate behavior?  Sure. You can make your kid sit and read for an hour.  But you can’t make him enjoy it.

You can get your child to take swimming lessons, but you can’t make him love the water.  You can prohibit your daughter from dating girls, but you can’t control who she’s crushing on.  You can make your son wear dresses and long hair, but you can’t change who he is on the inside.

My children were given to me, entrusted to me, by a God who already made them perfectly.  Their energy, their athleticism, their musical or artistic talent… those things are already in them.  Their enthusiasm, their love of animals, their sense of humor… I would never dream of taking those away from them.

In the same way, I can’t fathom a desire to change their sexuality or their gender or their infinite capacity for love.

My children show me who they are each day. They are growing and learning and ever-changing.

So what’s my job as a parent?

My Bible tells me my job is to teach them, to discipline them, to “train them up in the way they should go.”

My heart tells me it’s to help them become the best version of themselves, just as God created them.

But as usual, the most powerful message comes from Jesus himself.  What do I need to do?

Love them.

It’s that simple.

 

 

 

 

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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.