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Summer Rut

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is actually what happens in my head.

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

I have a plan.  And that’s a start….

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Photographs

I’ve been a part of a lot of parent support groups.  The ones for parents of transgender children always wind up talking about photos.

With all that we have going on; all the dangers and discrimination that our kids face; all the advocacy and human rights campaigns, the bullying, the fear-mongering, and the legal battles, you’d think we wouldn’t have time to worry about the little things.

But we do.  We worry about the big things AND the little things. We talk about the safety of chest-binding and recommend prosthetics and specialized clothing products.  We discuss pros and cons of medications and surgery and therapies and the details of how to navigate insurance claims. We talk about suicide attempts and mental health and family rejection.  We talk about so many things….

But we also, inevitably, wind up talking about old photographs.

I went to my first parent support meeting less than two weeks after I found out that my child was trans. Somebody brought up old pictures… but I hadn’t even thought about photos yet.  I couldn’t understand what the big deal was about PICTURES… I was still trying to wrap my mind around what it even meant to be transgender.  I was learning a whole new vocabulary.  Phrases like ‘gender dysphoria’ and ‘sex assigned at birth’ were entering my vernacular and I still wasn’t sure how to speak this language where I referred to my child as ‘he.’  I was in a state of shock, feeling curious and numb at the same time; feeling profound love layered on top of profound fear, and knowing that it was my JOB; no, it was my DUTY to press through the discomfort for the sake of my child.

I sat through that first conversation, half-listening to a mother’s grief, but not really understanding why it mattered so much.

Fast – forward three months. The new name was becoming more natural. My pronouns were right more than half the time, and my mistakes were more generalized; I misgendered the dog and my sister and my best friend; not just my son.  It still felt disingenuous to tell strangers I had “four sons” instead of “three sons and a daughter,” but I was beginning to understand I was holding something sacred, and that was more important than what any stranger believed.

And then pictures began to disappear off the shelves in my house.  Small 3x5s and 5x7s, missing.  I didn’t connect the dots until I found them, stashed under my child’s bed. These photos… these memories. They brought me such joy!  Look at those pigtails and smiles and frilly little skirts.  This apple-picking photo is one of my favorites.  And here they are, hidden in the dark.  I cried, alone on his bedroom floor.

I composed myself and knew that I couldn’t bring that grief into my conversation with my son.  So later, with feigned, casual indifference, I asked, “Hey.  I found a bunch of pictures under your bed. What do you think we should do with those?” I was terrified that he would want to destroy them or get rid of them.  He had already asked me to donate the keepsake dresses; from his baptism and his first birthday and his first Christmas. I secretly tucked them in the back of my closet, because I couldn’t bring myself to give them away.

“I guess I’m not sure.” He replied. “I mean, I know they’re important to you.  But I don’t really want them on the shelves.  Maybe we could make an album?”  This kid was so insightful; at the tender age of 9, he was still weighing my needs against his own.  I cried again, but this time the tears came from a combination of relief and pride. We made an album.  We reminisced together as we filled a book with his old ‘girl’ photos and replaced our framed photos with gender-neutral or masculine images.

But there was one photo I couldn’t let go.  It was the only professional photo I had of our whole family.  I left that one on the wall in its frame, not realizing the impact of that one picture.

Shortly after that, we had a sticky childcare situation.  We asked for help from friends and got a new sitter to come sit with the kids for an hour or two.  It was a frantic, emergency sort of situation, and while she came highly recommended, I didn’t know this woman at all.   We were short on time and pressed for help, and I chose not to disclose my child’s gender transition to this stranger who would likely only be part of our lives for an hour or two.

When I came home later that afternoon, my child was sullen.  He was struggling with something, and I worried that I had made a poor choice by leaving him with a stranger.  I probed a bit, asking about the sitter.  “How was she?”  “Did you have fun?”  “Did you get in trouble?”  I peppered him with questions.  He told me that she was fine, that they did, in fact, have fun, and that nobody got in trouble.

“So, honey… what’s wrong?”

He looked at me, with his huge brown eyes and paused.  I knew this look.  This look meant he needed to say something that he thought might hurt me.  This look meant he was measuring his words and weighing his emotions.  He took a deep breath and whispered, “She asked about the little girl in the picture.”

My heart broke wide open. I had unintentionally outed my son; embarrassed him and set him up to share this highly personal detail with a total stranger all on his own.  He was nine years old, and I had failed to protect him.

I hugged him and I cried with him and I apologized and we took that damned picture down.  It took that moment for me to realize how selfish I had been.  All along, I thought I was being supportive.  But that one photo… that one relic that I thought to be so important… it hurt my child more than I had ever imagined possible.

So now, when parents in support groups talk about photos, I don’t tune out.  I lean in and I feel their pain and I hear their grief and I gently share my story.

For me, at first, those photos held weight; they felt important.  Now, I look at them differently.  What’s important is my child.  His happiness, his wholeness, his peace.  Those photos are just pieces of paper.  Putting them away doesn’t negate the memories.  It doesn’t eliminate the past or diminish the love.  Putting those photos away was an act of love.  It was a release for both of us.

And in the end, it felt good.

 

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Peaceful

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

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My Three Dads

My father and my mother met when they were 18.  I was born when they were 19.  They split within a year.  When they talk about their brief marriage, they will both kindly explain, “We were just too young.”

I’m sure it all felt much more complicated as they lived through it, and I was so little that I don’t remember it at all.  Here’s what I know.  My mom left. Perhaps her reasons were compelling but that’s beside the point.  Today I’m telling my Dad’s story.

My dad was a single dad before he could legally drink. He kept me safe and loved me and changed my diapers and rocked me to sleep when most of his friends were out being rowdy kids. He was my primary parent during the time when I (according to child development experts) was forming my strongest attachments.  Maybe that’s why we think alike.  Maybe that’s why I feel such an incredibly strong connection to my dad, over the miles and through the years.

Ultimately, my time living with my dad was short. He sometimes tells the story of when my mom took me back, and I can feel his heart break each time he recounts it.

But my moving back with my mom didn’t diminish his commitment to being a part of my life. Every long weekend, he spent 8 hours in the car; two to pick me up and two to drive me back to his house on Friday night.  And then the same on Monday to bring me back to my mom’s house.  In hindsight, that seemed a bit unfair, given the fact that my mom was the one who moved away.  But he never complained.  Okay, well, maybe he complained a little.  But not until I was old enough to realize that his desire to spend time with me outweighed the inconvenience.

Each time we began the trip, we stopped at Dunkin’ Donuts.  Dad got a coffee and a coffee roll.  I got a Boston crème donut.  I now live in the suburbs of Boston and I have a bona fide Dunkin Donuts addiction. I can’t help but think that these things are connected.

My dad and I didn’t see each other as often as either of us would have liked, and those car trips were probably not what either one of us would have chosen as ‘quality time.’  But in the end, I’m glad we had all those hours in the car together.  We had time to talk about everything and nothing. I shared my secrets and he gave advice.  We both sang along to cassette tapes, and he explained the story behind Dire Straight’s “Money for Nothing.”  I developed a lifelong love of Simon and Garfunkel, and to this day, I can’t hear “The Boxer” without picturing my dad banging his fist on the steering wheel along with the crash of the drum. Because of these trips, there are some songs that will be forever tethered to my dad in my heart.

But even as we drove these distances, my dad demonstrated his kindness and generosity to the world. In this time before cell phones, my dad never passed a stranded motorist. Never.  Even if he’d been driving for four hours, even if it was pouring rain. My dad has a mechanical gift, but he is also a helper, through and through. He never hesitates to use his gift to brighten someone’s day, and I am in awe of him.

I was my dad’s firstborn. He married his second wife when I was small, and they had two more children; a girl first and then a boy. My sister and my brother and I are all lucky to call this man our father.  When my dad married for the third time, it was the real deal.  He married the woman he was meant to be with. She is as generous as he is, and she brings out the best in him.  And he didn’t flinch at the fact that she had five daughters of her own.

If you ask my dad, he will say he has eight children.  He has raised us all and fathers us all and loves us all.  He is the man who taught me how to open my heart and my home and to welcome people without reservation.  It’s not uncommon for me to visit my dad and stepmom and to find out that someone new is living in their home.  They’ve welcomed nieces and nephews, children, grandchildren, friends of friends… often for a few nights, but sometimes for months at a time.  I strive to have a home like the home that my dad and his wife have created.  That kind of welcoming is a gift.

His generosity, with his time and his talents and sometimes even his money, is boundless.  He’s the guy that we call when someone’s washing machine breaks, or someone needs a car repair, or someone needs a babysitter. He’s the one I call when my heart is broken or my dryer has stopped working, and either way, he can fix it. My dad is my hero and my champion. He is unflinchingly positive and he’s famous for saying, “… but if that’s my biggest problem, I’m doing alright.”

I’m so grateful for my dad. He’s taught me so much about the kind of person I want to be.  I’m blessed to have him in my life, and my kids are so lucky to have him as their Grandpa.

One of the hardest things for my father was when I began to call another man ‘dad.’  I know that this broke his heart, but he came to terms with it in a beautiful way.  He says that he finally realized that love is not finite.  My love for my stepdad didn’t mean that I loved my dad any less. More people to love and be loved by a child could never be a bad thing.

And so, with humility and love and grace, my dad began to respect and admire the other dad in my life.

Frank met me for the first time when I was about four.  I was so shy that I pulled my dress over my head and refused to say hello, but eventually, he won me over.  My stepdad and my mom were married for more than 20 years.  They had three more daughters together, and this dad is steadfast and strong and stoic.

Picture Bill Bellechick, but handsomer.  A man of few words, because actions speak louder.  A “Do your job” kind of guy who’s happiest with the sleeves cut off of his shirt.  He’s the kind of guy who will roll his eyes and swear when you back your Buick into the basketball hoop, and then spend 6 hours with a winch and a plunger working the dent out of the bumper.

When I was first met my dad, he had a German Shepherd named Bucky.  Bucky was a beautiful dog; huge, and well-trained, but I was afraid of him. At that time, I was still a little afraid of the man I would come to call ‘dad.’  But I watched them together, this hulking man and this massive dog, and they were both affectionate and playful and I learned that deep down, they were both teddy bears.  To this day, I have a soft spot for Shepherds- both my dogs are Shepherd mixes, and I think of my dad every time I watch my gruff husband lay on the ground and make kissy faces with these mutts of ours.

As we were getting to know each other, my dad and I didn’t have a lot of common interests.  I was a bookish kid, and despite his best efforts, I never could, “Watch the bat hit the ball.”  I remember him pushing me on the swingset in the trailer park where we lived. In retrospect, I’m sure he had a million other things to do, but he would joke about launching me out of my swing, monotonously pushing while I screamed, “Higher! Higher!”

Before my younger sisters were born, I remember it used to be a treat when dad would ask, “Hey.  You wanna go get gas with me?”  He’d smile and wink, and my mom would pretend she didn’t know that he bought me a candy bar every time we filled up.

As the family grew, my dad remained the same.  He remained hardworking and stoic, loving us through actions that we didn’t always appreciate.  My dad didn’t say much, but when he spoke, we listened.  My dad’s love was easy to take for granted, and for that I owe him an apology. He loved me so well that I sometimes forgot that he didn’t have to.

When my mom and dad divorced, it shook us all.  I was technically an adult.  I had graduated college, and was living on my own in Boston. But my dad shows his love by doing.  Did I mention he’s not much of a talker?  So when I moved 5 hours away, he couldn’t change my oil for me, or rotate my tires, or load up his truck with a yard sale couch that I wanted to buy.   My dad and I had to navigate a new relationship, and if I’m totally honest, we’re still working on it.

But recently, I was back home for my high school reunion and I got a flat tire.  He came to pick me up.  He bought some fix a flat and spent his afternoon checking for leaks and then replacing a faulty valve stem.  Because he loves me.  And I will forever love this man who didn’t have to be my Dad.

And now I get to Tom. Dad number three.  But only chronologically, because this guy has earned his place in my heart.

Tom had no obligation at all to be a parent to me.  He met my mom when I was an adult, about to have a baby of my own.  In all honesty, I didn’t really think he’d be an important part of my life.

How wrong I was.  Tom has accomplished an epic feat.  He has won the hearts of all four of my mother’s daughters.  He is a patient listener with a quiet calm that will heal whatever is ailing you. He is kindhearted and steady and generous.  He is thoughtful and endlessly patient.    Tom is exactly the man that my mom needs in her life, and by extension, we are blessed to have him in ours.

He tolerates late night dramatic phone calls and embraces my rambunctious children.  He sends thoughtful gifts and leaves sweet messages and fixes things you didn’t even know needed fixing.

Tom, I love you, too. Thanks for being the Dad I didn’t know I needed.

To all the men out there, loving your children and loving other peoples’ children, you are appreciated and loved more than you know.  Thanks for doing the most important work there is.

And to my three dads; I love you all, and your card is in the mail.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Stages

This week, a few things shifted at home, and it became glaringly apparent that I am moving into yet another stage of this parenting thing.

Shift #1:

Sadly, our morning babysitter had to leave us this week.  It’s good news for him; he has a great opportunity and he’s excited to move on. Of course, we will miss him, but we were lucky enough to find a new sitter relatively quickly.  I interviewed her on Sunday, and planned to have her start on Thursday.  I confirmed on Wednesday night, feeling like we were all set.  On Thursday morning, she was supposed to be here at about quarter to seven.  At 6:55, I texted, concerned that she hadn’t arrived.  At 7:00, I called, hoping to hear she was on her way.  At 7:05, I began to prep my kids for their first morning alone.

Now, just to clarify, I later heard from the sitter.  She was profusely apologetic and had slept through her alarm.  We’ve worked it out.  It was nerve wracking, but that’s sort of beside the point.  The actual point is this:  My kids got themselves on the bus.

This was not without a lot of prompting and rehearsing and calling and texting on my part.  They were home together for about 20 minutes, and then there was one, left on his own for another 20.  They’ve certainly spent that much time alone before; the difference is that they were never responsible for watching the clock and actually accomplishing things while they were home alone.  They’ve never stood in the driveway and waited for the bus without an adult (but they’ve certainly ridden bikes and scooters and played basketball in the driveway- why does waiting for a bus seem so much more dangerous?).

As a side note, I just Googled how to punctuate the end of that sentence, and the answer was not made apparently clear.  Perhaps because my use of the parenthetical is wrong; but I’m not changing it.

Anyway, having received texts from both kids that they were waiting for the bus, I proceeded to call their schools to verify that they had actually arrived.  During this phone call, I provided a brief explanation regarding the circumstances and my inquiry, all the while fearing that someone would be reporting me to Child Welfare for neglect.  So far, so good, but I’ll keep you posted.

Shift #2:

My middle child approached me on Tuesday with a question.  Exactly how far was he allowed to ride his bike?  Could he go to the High School?  To the center of town?  To his best friend’s house?  After reviewing safety rules about helmets and how to cross the street, we negotiated the perimeter of his roaming area.  It’s pretty big.  But I remember being just a year or two older than him and riding more than ten miles to meet up with a friend at the other side of our rural ‘town,’ on roads that had speed limits of 55 and no sidewalks at all.  I remember how grown up I felt, and all the lessons I learned about how to look out for myself and for my friends.  I learned the importance of checking in (so as not to lose this massive privilege).  I became more independent and confident and I very much want my son to experience those same things.  So I said a prayer and I checked his helmet and I texted his friend’s mom and then I let him go.

He’s gone riding with a small gang of ‘bikers’ every day since.  They ride to the park and to Dairy Queen and to 7-eleven.  They wind up at each other’s houses, playing with pets and various video games.  But they’re out in the world, navigating traffic and store clerks and moms with strollers and babies on swings.  I’m sure they’re making mistakes.

They’ve probably been a little too loud as they wandered the shelves, selecting whatever junk food they could afford with the change they scrounged from the couch cushions and the minivan cupholders.

They’ve probably tried to buy gummy bears with a stack of dimes, still short by 30cents.

They’ve probably been a little too rowdy on the playground.  Hopefully, they haven’t forgotten all of those lessons about being considerate and watching out for little kids.

They’ve probably been using language they wouldn’t use in front of their moms.

They’ve probably ridden a little too fast down the hills or past the pedestrians.

For all of that, I apologize.  But, please be patient with him as he learns.  When your babies are little, 12 years old seems so big.  When your babies are grown, 12 still seems so small.  But no matter your perspective, a 12 year old is still a kid; a kid who is ready to make some mistakes and to learn from them. A kid who needs guidance AND independence.  So as I ask for your patience, I also ask for your help.

Please shoot him a dirty look when he says a bad word.

Please shout, “Watch for little kids” or “Slow down” if he’s being careless.

Please remind him that his mother probably raised him better than that when he gets too big for his britches.

Please lend him the extra dime if he’s trying to buy a bottle of water.  Please let him learn the hard way and put them back if he’s trying to buy gummy bears.

As I send my child out into the big, bad world to make his mistakes, it makes me feel better to think that there are other mothers out there, looking out for him and keeping him in line.  Because it takes a village, and I need your help.

Shift #3

Bea is almost 16 now. I can hardly believe it.  And as Lee pushes for more freedoms, I find myself trying desperately to get her to be more independent and to try new things. She’s been living with us for nearly two full years now.  She’s made so much progress, and she still has so many struggles.  Her most preferred activity is watching TV, and her favorite place to be is in her room.  She consistently balks at my suggestions to go DO SOMETHING with her friends, and she’s intensely private, so when conversations veer into the personal, her most likely response is, “I’m not talking about that.”

But this week, I’m living with a different kid. She WALKED to the center of town with her friend and used her own money to get her nails done and go do Dairy Queen.  She’s stayed up past her (self imposed) 7:50 bedtime almost every day this week, to chat or cook or finish homework.  She let me sit on the edge of her bed and chatted well into the evening.  She wrote a journal about something incredibly personal, and then she SHARED it with me.

This amazing young woman is stepping out of her comfort zone, over and over again.  I’m so grateful to know her and so proud to be a part of her life and also a little terrified that she’s so, so close to being grown.

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

It’s Friday night, and I’m in between moments of shuttling kids and cooking dinner and shouting, “Take a SHOWER already!” I’m taking a moment to process the changes and reflect on these new stages.

In moments like these, I struggle to find the words to describe the wonder I feel.  Perhaps awe-struck comes close, but it seems insufficient.  “I marvel” hints at it, but the word isn’t quite grounded enough.

I need a word that means, “I feel grounded and settled and in awe of all the things around me that I cannot control.  I feel an overwhelming love for these kids in all of their stages, and I feel utterly content in the truth that I am not the one in charge of this progression.  I am full of faith and wonder and peace.”

What’s the word for that? Because I’d like to sit in it for a while.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Emergency Room

My grandmother died of a brain aneurysm at the age of 45.  It shook my mom’s world, and she’s always wanted her four daughters to closely monitor our brain health.  We all had baseline brain scans done in our early 20s, at her request, so the doctors would have a basis for comparison, should we ever have a problem.  In her early 40s, my maternal aunt had an aneurysm, confirming my mom’s fear that this condition runs in the family.

What’s scariest about an aneurysm (a weakened blood vessel in the brain), is that people generally don’t know they have one until it ruptures, and a ruptured brain aneurysm can kill you pretty quickly.  It’s a terrifying thought.

On Tuesday morning, on my way to work, I noticed that I couldn’t see clearly out of my right eye. Being a contact lens wearer, this is a pretty typical phenomenon for me. I probably got makeup on my lens.  I figured I’d just clean it when I got to work, and that’s exactly what I did.  I popped the lens out of my eye, gently scrubbed it in my hand with a little saline, and popped it back in.  Then, I started to teach.

My eye continued to bother me throughout first period.  I began to think that maybe the lens was scratched or torn.  I checked again.  This time, the lens ripped in my hands.  Crap! My spare pair of glasses was in my other vehicle, and my options were becoming limited.  I’m legally blind without my contacts, so there was no way I was going to get through the day with only my left eye.   I asked a co-worker to drive me home to get my glasses and a spare pair of lenses.  I was embarrassed and contrite, feeling silly that I had to leave work and that I had to drag my friend with me.  She reassured me that she didn’t mind, and we had a few laughs on the way to and from my house.  I thought this was going to be the big event of the day.

I was mistaken.

Having made the trip home and having put in new contacts, I assumed the rest of the day would be uneventful.  Oddly, the vision in my right eye was still not right, so I decided to scrap the contacts altogether.  I put on my glasses, and went back to work.  I co-teach a class with a really great teacher.  She’s talented and smart and funny and great with the kids. Luckily for me, she’s also super observant.

As I explained the morning’s events, she was looking at me oddly.  She said, “I don’t want to freak you out, but maybe you should go see the nurse.”  I looked at her quizzically, and she explained, “Your one eye is super dilated, and the other one isn’t.  I just think you should go get checked out.”  At this point, I still thought it had something to do with the lenses or the time I had spent poking at my eye.  I took a look in the mirror and went to talk to the school nurse.

The nurse suggested that I call my eye doctor.  And despite knowing better, I Googled this bizarre symptom while I waited for the receptionist to answer the phone.  I scrolled through my search results while I explained my situation and made an appointment with the eye doctor.  But I could no longer focus.

When you look up “What could cause only one eye to dilate?” the top answer on the list is “brain aneurysm.”

I called my primary doctor. I tried to stay calm. The receptionist put me through to a nurse. I told her about the single dilated eye.  I explained the thing about the contacts, but also the part about my family history, and she put me on hold to talk to the doctor.

When she came back, I waited for her to say, “Keep that 1pm appointment with your optometrist.”  I wanted her to say, “It’s probably just irritated.”  But she didn’t say any of those things.  She said, “How quickly can you get to the emergency room?”

You know those moments when time stops?  I was talking to the nurse and trying to text my husband and wondering if I should get a ride or call an ambulance.  At the same time, my heart was breaking in half because I was imagining what my kids would do without their mom, and wondering if I was going to spend my last minutes making frantic phone calls and what if I passed out before I could tell anyone what was happening to me?  I was terrified, and I started to cry.

I grabbed my purse and began walking toward the main office.  Tears streamed down my face. A friend and coworker was walking about 20 feet in front of me.  I called her name, too scared to be embarrassed.  I asked her to walk with me.  I told her what was happening.  She walked me to the office and ran to get her keys.

I went to the principal and explained that I had to leave.  I was totally unprofessional and slightly incoherent and I couldn’t stop the tears.  She was kind and supportive and made sure that my friend was okay driving me.

The ride to the hospital wasn’t bad. I promised my friend that I wouldn’t stroke out in her truck, and she joked and distracted me and was generally wonderful.  When we pulled up to the emergency entrance, she asked if I wanted her to stay.  I promised that my husband was on his way, assured her that I would be fine, and promised to text later.  I walked in the front doors, and she pulled away.

I didn’t realize how scary it would be to be alone in that waiting room.  I walked in, and was directed to sit down and wait for a receptionist to check me in. There was only one person in front of me, but the two minutes I waited felt like an eternity.  My mind began to race again.  What if I had made it here, to the hospital, but I passed out before I could tell anyone who I was or why I was here or what was happening to me?  What if THESE were actually my last minutes?  I didn’t want to die alone in this hospital.  I realize now that all of these thoughts sound melodramatic, but in that moment, they were real.

I’m typically an optimist; quick to dismiss physical symptoms as ‘it’s probably nothing.’  I don’t like to dwell on the negative because I honestly believe that humans attract energy and if you spend too much time on negative thoughts, you attract negative energy.  I tried to distract myself.  I tried to pray.  I tried to think positively.  But I COULD NOT stop worrying about dying.

After a two-minute eternity, I was called up to the receptionist.  I leaned in closely and said, “Look at my eyes.”  The two women at the desk cast concerned glances at each other.  When I said that I have a family history of brain aneurysms, they called the triage nurse over.  They got me a wheelchair.  They took me right away.

As soon as I was talking to people again, the panic resided a little.  I made an offhand comment to the triage nurse.  I said something to the effect of, “It’s probably nothing.  I probably just scratched it while I was messing with my contacts.”  She looked at me and scrunched up her face and shook her head, while she gently replied, “That doesn’t happen.”  She explained that external trauma like that wouldn’t cause dilation.  It might cause your eye to water or swell or get red. But a dilation problem would be related to the brain or the optic nerve.  They had already requested a CT scan to check it out.

I felt like I had gotten the wind knocked out of me.  Again, I thought of my kids.  The nurse took my blood pressure and took me to a stretcher and started to wheel me into the back.  I assumed I was going to a room, but it was a busy day, so I was parked in the hallway in an area that they use as a patient ‘room’ when they’re out of space.

Two different doctors came to talk with me.  They asked me about medications.  They numbed my eye and poked at it to check the pressure.  They did vision tests.  They asked me about medications again.  They asked me about eye drops.  They told me they were just waiting for the CT scan.  They told me to sit tight and try to relax.

I rolled over on the stretcher to face the wall and I tried to be brave and I tried to be positive and I tried to pray.  Mostly I just cried.  Silent tears, facing the wall in the hallway of the emergency room.  I realized that wasn’t helping things.  I called my mom.  She’s a nurse.  I wanted her opinion and her reassurance and a little bit of distraction.

When I told my mother where I was and why, there was a long pause at the other end of the line.  I realized my mistake.  My mom was terrified.  It took her only a moment to recover, but I could hear it in her voice. She said things like, “You’re in the right place,” and “I’m glad you noticed it so quickly,” and “I’m not scared, but of course, I’m concerned,” and I realized that I probably just shaved a few months of my mother’s life.  She did great, as moms do, but she was not in a position to be objectively reassuring. She was afraid, too.  When we hung up, she texted that she loved me, and I began to cry again.

When my friend had dropped me off at the hospital entrance, I told her the truth when I said that my husband was on his way.  What I didn’t tell her was that he had to take his work van from his job back to the shop, get on the motorcycle (which he had ridden to work), ride the motorcycle an hour back to our house, pick up his personal vehicle, and then come to the hospital.  There was no way it would take any less than two hours.

As I sat in that hallway, my mind began to race again.  You see, the motorcycle that my husband was riding is mine.  He likes to borrow it sometimes, and we both love to ride.  But he’s a less experienced rider than I am. He also has a bad track record on a motorcycle, and has laid one down more times than either one of us would like to admit.  And anytime he’s riding, I get a little nervous.  He always calls or texts to tell me when he’s arrived safely.  So after about an hour, I began to anticipate his call.  After an hour and a half, I began to worry in earnest.  What if he crashed?  What if we both wound up in separate rooms in this ER?  What if our kids came home to an empty house because both of their parents were in the hospital?

I knew this was ridiculous. I realized this pattern of thinking was absurd and unhelpful.  So I decided to distract myself again.  I picked up the phone.   I considered calling my dad or my sisters, but I didn’t want to scare them.  I thought about texting my best friend, but she would want to do something to help, and she was in the middle of teaching. I decided to text my church friends and ask for prayers.

This was a good call. I have a few women friends from church with slightly more flexible schedules than my teacher friends.  They responded right away, with a perfect balance of concerned prayer and inappropriate jokes.  They made me laugh and I didn’t feel so alone and I was able to distract myself with these text messages until my husband finally arrived.

I didn’t realize that I was holding my breath until he arrived and the air rushed into my lungs.  He sat next to me and held my hand and joked and distracted me and asked questions and hugged me.  Just having him there made all the difference.  The fear began to dissipate.

They finally did the CT scan. The results were unremarkable.  They sent me home, confident that my brain was fine, but unsure of what the problem had been.  My eye was still dilated and I couldn’t see right.  Ultimately, it stayed like that for 12 hours.  They referred me to an optometrist for the next day.

I couldn’t see.  So I couldn’t drive.  I couldn’t teach.  I couldn’t ring bells with the church bell choir as planned.  I cancelled everything for that evening and the next day, feeling slightly guilty, but overwhelmed with enough fear to drown out the guilt. Jack and I both contacted our jobs to plan for another day out of work so we could go to the opthamologist and get this figured out.

We went to bed on Tuesday evening with my eye still dilated and a lot of fear about what might be going wrong.  I woke up on Wednesday morning with perfect vision and normal pupils.  Not surprisingly, we went to the appointment, and the eye doctor told me that my vision was fine and that my pupils were normal. She asked me a lot of questions about drugs or medications or eye drops, trying to pinpoint what the problem may have been.  Ultimately, the answer was, “We don’t know.”

“We don’t know, but you seem fine now,” was the conclusion.  “Come back if it happens again,” was the general consensus.  “Sometimes these things just happen and we don’t know why,” was offered by way of explanation.

So I’m glad it ended well. I’m glad it wasn’t any sort of tragedy. But I’m left feeling scared and insecure and worried about what actually happened.  I’m left feeling guilty that I left work “for no reason” because no reason was ever identified.  I’m left feeling like a child who overreacted to a minor injury; as if I somehow made it up or brought it upon myself.

I’m hopeful that writing this all down will help me to let some of that go.  I want to process these feelings of guilt and fear and panic, and then be able to move on.  I want to feel gratitude for my good health, for as long as it lasts.  I want to be fully present in the joy of spending time with my family.  I want to be confident in my professional capabilities without second-guessing what my colleagues might be thinking.

But I’m not there yet. Today, I’m still a little scared and guilty and worried.  I’m trying to be okay with that.  These feelings?  These crappy, uncomfortable, yucky feelings?  They almost always have something to teach me.  I just have to be willing to sit with them long enough to learn the lesson. Thanks for sitting with me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Mother’s Day

I grew up with the kind of mom who spent weeks using spray paint and Styrofoam to create the type of Halloween costumes that won the school contest every year.  I had the kind of mom who made a home-cooked meal for dinner every night; the kind of mom who vacuumed every day.  She was the kind of mom who wouldn’t leave the house without makeup, but also the kind of mom who would wipe off her makeup in a heartbeat to jump in the pool and swim with us.

My mom was 19 years old when I was born.  She named me Amy Joy because she says I was her greatest Joy.  That’s pretty admirable, because I accidentally got pregnant at 26, after college and with a full time teaching job and I’m pretty sure that terror trumped joy when I found out. But I digress.

Motherhood for her was an escape route from a home riddled with alcoholism and a childhood tainted by trauma. Her mom, from what I remember, was pretty awesome.  She was funny and loving and full of life.  Until a brain aneurism took her at the tender age of 46.  My mom was 23 when she lost her own mother. At the time, I didn’t get it.  I was young, and I figured my mom was grown up, so she didn’t really need her mother anymore.

In hindsight, I can’t imagine.  I can’t imagine being a young mother, with a brand new second baby, and losing your mom so suddenly.   The older I get, the more I think about the heartbreak, the devastation she must have felt. It dawns on me now that I’m nearly as old as my grandmother was when she passed.

When I was a baby, I think we had a pretty rocky start.  I don’t remember any of it, but she and my dad didn’t last long.  They both say they were just too young.  (My dad is an amazing man, and he has always loved me fiercely.  He’ll get his own blog post for father’s day.)   Mom moved back to her hometown, into a small apartment over the bar that her father owned.  She worked as a waitress, and in my brain there is a snapshot of me, probably around 3 years old, sitting on the bar with a massive jar of maraschino cherries between my OshKoshed legs, snacking like I owned the place.  We lived there together for a while, until she met my stepfather.

My stepdad is a rock. He’s a provider, and he loved me like his own.  I think that he anchored her during this time in her life. They had three more daughters together, and my mom embraced a pretty traditional form of motherhood. She had graduated High School, but never gone to college, so employment options were limited in our small town.  She kept waitressing for a little while, but then settled in to running a home daycare for a large portion of my childhood.

Mom was always affectionate and energetic, but there came a time, somewhere in my preteen years, when her yearning for something more became more than a yearning.  My mom went back to school when I was in High School. She had always wanted to go to college, but as a dyslexic child, the people around her didn’t have the tools to help her realize her potential.  She always thought she was dumb.

She’s far from dumb. She’s really smart.  Admittedly, I was a bit resentful during High School when she started taking classes.  This meant that the rest of us had a lot of slack to pick up.  It was then that I really realized how much she had done for us, behind the scenes and with very little gratitude, for all of those years.  In hindsight, I am in awe of the strength and determination it took to go back to school at this late stage, with four kids at home and a full time job running a daycare. But my mom is nothing if not determined.

She did it.  My mom and I went to college at the same time. She got her associate’s degree and then her bachelor’s degree.  After 25 years, her marriage to my stepdad ended.  While that was traumatic for us all, I think it was part of my mother’s transformation.  She was realizing her dreams.  She was becoming the smart, independent, determined woman she was always meant to be.

My mom lives in Florida now. She moved there a few years ago with Tom, who is her perfect match. He treats her as an equal; he shakes his head and sighs when she’s being ridiculous, and he happily joins her when she’s craving an adventure.  He’s pretty amazing, and they’re really, really good together.  Once in Florida, Mom went to nursing school at an age when most people are thinking about retirement.  She became an RN and lives near the ocean, which has always been her dream.  She got her eye makeup tattooed on, so she no longer feels the need to apply eyeliner before she leaves the house.

My mom is far from perfect. She’s made a lot of mistakes and she’s infamous for her terrible gift-giving (Sorry mom.  But you’re getting better. Keep trying.)

And despite her flaws and faults, my amazing mother has taught me who I want to be.

She has taught me that your past doesn’t have to define you.

She has taught me that what you know to be true about yourself trumps anything that others believe.

She has taught me that motherhood is full of joy and sacrifice, and that loving your children will make up for all the mistakes you’re bound to make.

She has taught me the importance of staying true to yourself.  She has shown me how to achieve joy by striving to reach your potential.

She has showed me how to love fiercely, how to be unapologetically me, and how to laugh at myself when I feel like crying.

She has taught me the importance of tenderness and honesty.

She has shown me how to be brave and bold and kind.

My mother is my inspiration, and on this day and all the others… I am so grateful to have her in my life.

 

 

 

Posted on

Diary of a Weekend

Friday Night.

It’s almost the weekend. School is over, and I’m only bringing home a small pile of papers to grade. I’m packing up my stuff and getting ready to leave work and the phone rings.  It’s moderately disappointing news, and I try not to let it affect my mood.  A co-worker comes in, looking for a book that I might have borrowed and forgotten to return.  I panic and begin to search through my materials, feeling guilty and slightly irritated, because I’m pretty confident that I returned it. From the other room, another colleague shouts, “I found it.”  I’m relieved and aggravated at the same time.

I get home and put down my bags and the phone rings.  It’s Bea’s guidance counselor.  This is the thing I won’t recover from this evening.  I’m worried and stressed and trying to solve a problem, and it’s all made so much harder by the fact that I’m not her mother (n) but it’s my job to mother (v) her.  And all the love in the world doesn’t make up for the fact that I’m not her mom, and sometimes what a girl really wants her mom.  And then I realize that I’m making it about me, and it’s not about me.  It’s about her, and what I need to do is show up and listen and do the best I can because, really, that’s all any of us can do.

Next, I get to drive Lee to a roller rink birthday party.  And then three of us (Cal, Jack, and I) go to the third grade moving up dance. Which is what every working parent looks forward to from 7-9 on a Friday night.  Cal had the time of his life, while Hubs and I mostly tried to avoid the smell of a hundred sweaty third graders and occasionally check the Bruins score.

So we finally pried my son away from the free candy and line dancing, and headed home.  Then my husband ditched me to go watch the Bruins game. I was going to read or write or do something productive, but I wound up watching Netflix and falling asleep on the couch.  As Friday nights go, it wasn’t on the top ten list, but it wasn’t a tragedy.

Saturday.

I am so goddamned angry right now.  Why is everything always swearing and yelling and whining and misery around here? Why can’t we just enjoy each other’s company?  Why can’t we spend quality time together and laugh?  Why can’t we help each other and enjoy the weather and just be freaking happy?

I’ve been reading Brene’ Brown’s book, “Rising Strong,” and I read it and I think I’ve got a good handle on this.  I read stories of people with unreasonable expectations, and I think “That’s not me,” but you know what?  It IS me. It is totally freaking me.

I just want to happily straighten up the house, all of us together, you know… not just me.  And then I want to happily pack up some snacks and head to the lake and then sit on the shore and soak up the sunshine and read my book and play in the sand with my kids and then swing on the swings and freaking smile with my hair blowing behind me like I’m in one of those commercials for organic yogurt or something.

And the reality is, my house is moderately neat but not clean and everybody’s getting yelled at for not helping and Jack just told the kids they have to get rid of all their pets by the end of the week, and Bea doesn’t want to do anything that requires her getting out of her bathrobe and Lee won’t stop crying because he has to give away his guinea pig and Cal just keeps trying to sneak outside to play and I can’t say as I blame him, ‘cause I don’t want to be here, either.

Saturday Night.

After this afternoon’s rant, I took Bea and Lee shopping- we ran some errands and bought some things that smell good- candles and air fresheners and coffee.  Bea got her eyebrows waxed, and that pretty much made her day.  Cal and Jack went out on the boat, which pretty much made their day, so things were looking up.

And then we had a lovely visit.  The house got cleaned, and the fajitas were delicious and timed perfectly so that we were ready to eat when my in-laws arrived.  We chatted and ate and enjoyed each other’s company and exchanged gifts and watched the Kentucky Derby. The kids were good and the dogs were good and the house was clean(ish) and then we ate cheesecake.  Once everyone left, Bea and Lee went to bed, but Jack and Cal and I watched “Civil War” as a refresher before we go to see “Infinity Wars” tomorrow.  I blissfully fell asleep on the couch, about two minutes before the climax of the movie (as is my typical pattern).  For a day that started out so crappy, it ended pretty beautifully.

Sunday.

This morning, I woke up to dog pee on the carpet.  Again. It’s my own damned fault, because I’m so used to being able to let the dogs out after dinner and then forget about them until morning.  But the big one is getting old.  She can’t hold it that long anymore.  So somebody needs to let her out right before we go to bed.  But obviously, we forget.  It’s not habit yet.  So for the past two weeks, we’ve been cleaning up pee on the carpet.

You know when you clean something nasty with a particular cleaner, and then that cleaner is always associated in your mind with that nasty smell or whatever?  Well, I’m at the point where I can’t tell if what I’m smelling is dog pee or carpet cleaner because every time I smell that damned carpet cleaner, my brain says, “Eeew.  Dog pee.”  I think I’m just going to rip up the carpet.

So I put cinnamon buns in the oven.  At least then, the house will smell like something good.  So now I’m sipping coffee and writing while cinnamon buns bake in the oven, and even if they are Pillsbury from a can, I feel a little like Betty Freaking Crocker, and I’m going to enjoy it for a while before I have to switch the laundry and shower and get ready for church.

Church.

I volunteered to teach Sunday School today.  I feel sort of obligated to do this because I’m part of the Christian Education (CE) committee at my church, but in the two years that I’ve been on the committee, I’ve realized two (embarrassing) things.  First; I am more of a control freak than I like to admit.  Second; although I’m a teacher by trade, I am terrible at teaching Sunday School.

So this morning was predictably disappointing.  I missed the sermon.  I missed communion.  I missed hearing my husband sing in the church band.  I missed hugging my friend who is struggling, and I missed the sweet smile from the lady who tells me how lovely my boys are even when they’re being loud and distracting and, well, boy-ish.  And instead, I headed to the back rooms and made an attempt (somewhat like herding cats) at reading and discussing a bible passage with third graders.

I mean, it was okay. It wasn’t painful.  It just wasn’t fulfilling.  So then, after the service, I joined my friends for Coffee Hour and I wanted so badly to connect with these people I love, but I felt like I mostly just stood there awkwardly, being in a bad mood and gauging how I only had 10 minutes before I needed to leave, so I probably shouldn’t get into any sort of meaningful or important conversation.

The whole morning felt like a miss.

Sunday Afternoon.

We got our whole family to agree on a movie and go to the theater together, which, in and of itself, feels like a win.  Nobody fought over popcorn or cried because I wouldn’t buy nachos.  I gave them a dollar for the crappy claw game and Cal didn’t cry when he lost.  Lee took advantage of the “Free Refill on a large popcorn” policy, and replenished our supply all on his own, without me having to leave the theater at all. There’s something cool about him being that grown-up.  Bea threw a pair of fuzzy socks in my purse before we left, which I thought was weird but when she was freezing and put them on about halfway through the movie, it was just adorable and endearing.

We all enjoyed the movie- we’re that family that has seen every Marvel Comic film at least 3 times, so this one was sort of an event for us.  Even Bea is getting into it, which is surprising and sweet and really, really nice.  Overall, it was a pretty great afternoon.

Sunday evening.

I have been trying new recipes in an attempt to eat better and expand our dinner repertoire.  Tonight’s plan was a turkey rolatini recipe, which looked amazing in the online photos. It was filled with a mix of herbs and wrapped in bacon, so it had definite potential to be a keeper.  The problem is the fact that it was flattened and rolled meat.  I fully expected this dish to be delicious, but not pretty like the picture on the website. In fact, I introduced this recipe idea as a ‘potential Pinterest fail’ when I pitched it to my husband.

 

But, guys… guess what? It came out AWESOME.  It was pretty AND delicious.  So this morning I was Betty Freaking Crocker and tonight I was Martha Freaking Stewart and I was feeling pretty good about myself. Of course, Lee wouldn’t eat it because it was meat, and Cal wouldn’t eat it because it had green stuff inside, and Bea replied, Meh,” when I asked if she liked it. But whatever, because I thought it was amazing.

Reflecting.

On Sunday nights, I have a habit of reflecting back on the weekend.  What was the overall vibe?  Pretty good? Kinda crappy?  Amazing?  Awful? But this weekend, looking back, was pretty representative of weekends at this phase in my life.  There were moments of rage and moments of bliss. There was mild disappointment and contentment and peace and pride and frustration.  There were moments that I felt like I was failing at this whole parenting thing, and moments when I felt like I could teach others how it’s done. There were moments I wanted to escape and moments I wanted to last forever.

I’m not going to ‘enjoy every moment’ like I’m often advised by well-meaning old ladies.  I’m going to enjoy the enjoyable moments.  And I’m going to breathe and get through the difficult ones.  I’m going to laugh and cry with my people, and we’re going to get through this crazy life together.

I’m sitting here, in the middle of one of those quietly content moments, typing a blog and reflecting on the ups and downs of life, and, I kid you not… from downstairs, a kid just shouted, “Mom?  I think I’m gonna puke!”   God does have a sense of humor, doesn’t he?

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Hide and Seek

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Priorities

We visited family out of state this past weekend.

There was a party at my sister’s house, and I arrived early to drop off a flying squirrel. (That’s another blog post.) But when we arrived, my sister’s mother was sitting in the kitchen.

My sister’s mom is my ex-step-mother. She was married to my dad for about 5 years between 1983-1988. I never lived with her, but I spent long weekends and summers with her and my dad during that time. We never had a hostile relationship, but we were never close. After she and my dad divorced, I had no reason to see her. I’ve bumped into her maybe 3 times in the three decades since they split.

I give you that background to give you a sense of our relationship, which is basically nonexistent.

So, anyway. I was the first to walk in to my sister’s kitchen, as my family trudged through the snow behind me. I said hello, gave her a friendly hug, and (re) introduced her to my youngest son who was right beside me. She commented on how much he had grown, and then asked, “Don’t you have a daughter, too?”

Time stood still. My other son was coming up the stairs. I could see him kicking the snow off his shoes, about to open the door and walk into the middle of this conversation. I felt two simultaneous urges. First and foremost was the urge to protect my son. But creeping in quickly, in a close second place, was the impulse to defend my ‘choice.’

I wanted time to explain it to her. I wanted to tell her the story of his transition. I wanted to describe the sullen, sad, suicidal daughter that I had at 5 and 6 and 7 years old. I wanted to emphasize that this transition has changed our lives for the better. I wanted to tell the stories that clearly illustrate that this isn’t a ‘phase.’ I wanted her to understand our story.

The fact that my sister hadn’t shared Lee’s transition with her may or may not have been relevant. My sister has been one of Lee’s staunchest supporters. These two have a special relationship (hence the flying squirrel. I promise I’ll explain that later. It’s a good story). They share a love of animals and a spunky sense of humor and total disregard for my overly anxious parenting. Maybe she didn’t share because she knew it wasn’t her story to tell. Maybe she didn’t share because it wasn’t relevant information for her mom to have. Maybe it just never occurred to her. But in that split second, I wondered if she didn’t share because she knew it wouldn’t be well received.

All of this passed through my mind in the nanosecond before Lee walked through the door. I was unsure of how this woman would react. I didn’t have time to be tactful or feel her out or provide a thorough explanation. I had a second. So I turned to her and smiled as my child turned the doorknob. “Not anymore!” I quipped, just before I cheerily turned and put my arm around my son. “This is Lee.”

I couldn’t really read her reaction; surprised, for sure. Appalled? Supportive? Confused? I don’t really know. And I’m just beginning to realize that I don’t really care. Because Lee bounded through the door and hugged his Aunt and said hello and ran off to play with his cousins, knowing that he is surrounded by love and support from the people who really matter.

And I learned a lesson. I got my priorities straight. Because my initial impulse was so much more important than that second urge.

I’m slowly learning that it’s not my job to make others comfortable with our family. It’s my job to love and support and protect my kids. It’s my job to teach them and help them to grow into the best possible versions of themselves. If we can open some hearts and minds as we travel this journey, then we’ve accomplished something beautiful.

But we’re bound to encounter others. We’re going to run into people who don’t understand or people who don’t agree. We won’t always be able to explain things thoroughly and kindly and get people to understand.

Sometimes, we will have to smile, and hug each other and walk away, knowing that our family is strong and faithful and beautiful and supportive…  and we don’t need strangers or acquaintances or ex-step-mothers to validate our love.