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September

Composition notebook.  School registration.  New sneakers.  Building tour.  Doctor’s appointment.  Hair appointment.  Nail appointment. 

Gym.  Trainer.  Football registration.  Clothes shopping. Summer reading.   Skateboard.  “I’m going downtown.  Can I get 20 bucks?  15?  10?” 

First car purchase.  Work.  Gym.  Insurance.  Registration.  Driver’s ed.  More work.  Gym again.  “Can you pick me up?” “We need pet supplies.”  

*****

They’ve all needed different things over the past few weeks, as we try to get back into our groove.  

I need things, too.  Time in my classroom.  New bulletin board borders.  Crock pot recipes.  A new planbook.  Groceries.  Gas.  Time to breathe.  

*****

We’re doing it.  We’ve all gone back for at least one day of school.  The lunches got made and the forms got signed. Everybody had shoes that fit.  Nobody missed the bus. 

And this long weekend is a bit of a tease.  We got through three days, and now we have three days off.  It provides the illusion that this all might actually be manageable.  That we might still be able to get our errands run and go for drinks with friends and have quality family time and get the laundry done on the weekends before it all starts again.  

This weekend, we will.  I did go for drinks after work on Friday.  Yesterday, I did get some shopping done and spend some time with friends.  The kids were going in all different directions; one to work, one to a friend’s house, one to shop downtown.  And when we all got back home, there was chaos and teasing and those kids made me laugh until I cried.  

I’m just STARTING to feel the pressure of being a working mom again.  In September, I feel like I CAN do it all.  I’ve had the whole summer to recharge.  I had weeks to plan the first weeks of school.  I got a bunch of projects and errands done, and while I certainly didn’t finish EVERYTHING, I’m not really feeling behind just yet. 

There’s the novelty of a new group of students.  The excitement of hitting the re-set button.  The opportunity to correct last year’s mistakes with a new group of kids.  There’s enthusiasm and optimism where exhaustion and apathy were, just a few short months ago.  

But after 22 years of making this particular transition, I’m growing a little jaded.  I’m wary and weary because I’ve travelled this road before, and I know it’s not going to last.  I WILL fall behind.  I will scramble to get my lessons planned on Sunday nights.  I will forget to sign the field trip form. I will get up at 6am to make sure I get the grocery shopping done on Saturday morning before the rest of the family wakes up.  I will leave the laundry in the washing machine for three days and have to restart the machine.  I will forget to do the oil change and miss the dog grooming appointment because I forgot to add it to the google calendar.  I will miss work because of a sick kid and I will miss my kid’s open house because I have to work.  

*****

I’m sitting on my couch, admiring the plants that I haven’t killed, which is a small miracle in and of itself.  Two kids are still asleep.  A third is playing video games.  Jack is in the kitchen, cooking eggs and sausage and potatoes.  It smells so good. As I sip my coffee, I’m mentally reviewing my plans for the day, wondering what type of family fun I might squeeze in that the kids won’t resist.  

Today, I’m just going to think about today.  I’m going to be in this moment, without worrying about all the moments to come.  Maybe there’s some sort of relief in finally realizing that it’s all inevitable.  No amount of September planning will prevent the December overwhelm.  No amount of August prep work will make March feel less dreary.  

And no amount of June exhaustion will carry through until September.  It’s a cycle.  I’ve travelled it enough to know where the peaks and the valleys are.  So while I’m here, at the top of the mountain in the sunshine, I’m going to take in the view, take a few deep breaths, and try to just ENJOY it. 

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Consequences

Teenagers are tough.  I mean, they’re also amazing and funny and FUN to be around… until they’re not.  

Sometimes it’s hard to remember that they’re still kids.  They might be HUGE kids.  They might even LOOK like adults.  But they most definitely are not adults.  They are literally unequipped to make smart choices because they don’t have fully functional frontal lobes.  

We try to teach them.  We try to model for them and train them and talk to them but ultimately, they are going to be out in the world without us and they will be faced with thousands of choices.  Sometimes they’re going to make the wrong one.  

Maybe you’ve got one of those teenagers that just always makes good choices.  Bless your heart.  You can probably stop reading now. 

Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to find out about them later, when your kids are ‘safely’ in their 20s and 30s.  Hearing stories from our older boys, we cringe… and we’re grateful that we missed out on all the worrying that would have accompanied awareness. 

Or maybe you’re IN IT right now.  Like we are.  And being IN IT means that we have to make choices about how to handle it.  I’m lucky to have a husband who is right there with me, because he makes it easier to stick to it when we’ve decided on a consequence.  But deciding on a consequence is so freaking hard. 

Sometimes I wonder if being a teacher makes me overthink these things. When I was in undergrad, aspiring teachers learned about positive punishment, negative punishment, positive reward, and negative reward.  In this case the positive and negative aren’t emotional states.  They simply refer to giving and taking away. Positive punishment adds something.  Putting your kid on dish duty for a week is positive punishment. Negative punishment takes something away.  

When my kids do something wrong, the easiest and most immediate punishment is to take away their phones.  It’s a thing I can control, and it’s REALLY upsetting to them when I take it away.  For a while, it was my go-to.  

Taking the phone is definitely a punishment. A punishment is designed to make them miserable.  It makes an impact because it makes them feel bad.  Presumably, that bad feeling will make them avoid bad decisions in the future.  Sometimes it works.  

It took me a long time to figure out what wasn’t working about punishment in our house.  I struggled with it as much as the kids did. If I took away their phones because I was trying to punish them, and then they wound up painting murals or catching frogs or building shelves, I was so torn.  I loved that they were doing great, creative, fun things but weren’t they supposed to be miserable?  Was I teaching them that all of these great things are a result of being ‘punished’?  The whole thing became more about screen time, and I realized I needed to address that as a separate issue… not as a punishment, but on the regular. 

Another concern was social isolation.  I have one child who struggles with friendships and has been through periods of depression.  When that kid was grounded, without his phone, I’d cut off all of his budding friendships.  It didn’t feel responsible.  It didn’t feel healthy.  

The more I thought about it, the more I went back to those undergrad lessons.  I assume they use different language now; we talk more about consequences than punishments.  We talk a lot about natural consequences.  The result of a bad choice should be related to the bad choice.  In some cases, the natural consequences are apparent. If you threw your phone in a fit of anger, now you have a broken phone.  Sometimes we can create consequences that seem to be the obvious ‘result’ of a bad choice. If you graffiti a wall, you have to clean it or repaint it to fix the damage you caused.  In other cases, the natural consequences are so far removed that the kids don’t see them.  The natural consequence of vaping might be lung damage, but that’s not concrete enough to a 13 year old.  They don’t care about that yet.  So you have to come up with something. 

Most parents I know have two go-to options.  Ground them.  Or take their phone.  I definitely do these things.  Those are negative consequences.  Taking something away.  

But recently, I’ve had more luck with positive consequences.  GIVING them something.  A new responsibility.  A daily chore.  A way to prove themselves and earn back our trust.  

We had a recent shoplifting incident.  I was beside myself.  I honestly believed that my kids would never… but they did.  They were banned from the store and from the mall.  They were grounded.  They lost their screens.  They had extra chores.  But the most impactful consequence was that I assigned them a writing prompt each day for a month.  What is integrity?  Write about a time you felt proud of yourself.  Why do we have laws?  These writing prompts opened up a lot of important, meaningful conversations and debates.  They got our whole family thinking and talking about our values.  (Thanks to my mom for the great idea). 

What I’m learning is that positive consequences give me more opportunities to engage with my kids about their choices.  I feel like I’m teaching them instead of just punishing them.  A kid who has a stack of dirty dishes in his room might get put on dish duty for the whole week.  It teaches him something.  He’s building a skill.  Bonus that it helps me out.  Instead of giving me another job, it takes one off my plate. 

A few other things I’ve learned:  

-I don’t have to give them a time frame.  That’s freeing.  I used to think I had to give the consequence an end date.  Now I’ve found myself saying things like, “We’ll revisit in two weeks,” or, “You haven’t earned our trust yet.” 

-I can ‘tweak’ things as I go.  If something isn’t working, I explain why and make a change.  

-I can ‘do it my way.’  I always thought of grounding as social isolation.  But it doesn’t have to be.  If my kid is making bad choices when unsupervised, then they can’t be unsupervised.  But I could decide to still let them have friends over here when I’m around.  

I’m learning as I go here… and I’d love to hear from other parents about what works (or worked) for you! 

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This Mess

I wake up to weird things in the house lately.  These kids stay up later than me now, and the evidence of their nighttime activities leaves me baffled. 

There is a two-gallon insulated Igloo drink cooler on the floor in the bathroom.  Why??? 

A mutilated can of sweetened condensed milk sits in the refrigerator.  Someone obviously couldn’t get the can opener to work, and maybe went at it with a knife?  What were you even planning to do with sweetened condensed milk after midnight?

A blue striped towel, the coloring drained in patches.  It’s been bleached by hair dye and dropped on the bathroom floor. 

A small saucepan on the stove, dried remnants of ramen noodles stuck to the bottom.  

Wrappers.  Wrappers everywhere.  Cheese-stick wrappers.  Lollipop wrappers.  Band-aid wrappers.  I find them in the most random places.  Next to the dog’s bowl.  On the side table.  Behind the toilet.  

There are socks on the dining room floor. A fork under the couch.  Eyelashes on the coffee table. 

Why are my dishwashing gloves in the backyard? 

Guys, these are REAL things! 

What is HAPPENING here??

These little messes annoy me.  But I’m grateful that they didn’t leave a whole sink full of dirty dishes after a night of binge-baking.  It’s been known to happen.  I’m glad that there aren’t snack bags all over my living room, like last week.  I’m grateful that nobody forgot to turn off the oven or blow out a candle or push the freezer door all the way closed.  I’m glad that I didn’t wake up to burned brownies or a newly-pierced nose or a flooded basement because someone overloaded the washing machine.  (All actual, true events.) 

And then I have that moment.  The moment when I remember. In a few short years, they’ll be gone.  There won’t be any messes to wake up to.  There won’t be any 2am giggle fests.  There won’t be any disastrous baking attempts or pink hair dye or midnight ramen.  

It will be so clean.  

And so quiet.  

And so strange.

Oh, God.  I pause.  I say a prayer of gratitude.  I vow, once again, to take in these moments.  To laugh at the absurdity of the bathroom cooler and the backyard gloves and the mutilated can of sweet milk.  To appreciate their curiosity and their fearlessness and their appetites.  To be grateful for the chance to teach them and laugh with them and love them.  

One day very soon, I’m gonna miss this mess.   

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Past Tense

A friend is struggling with his child’s new pronouns.  We were together recently and he slipped.  His wife corrected him.  He nodded, corrected himself, and kept going with his story.  

A little while later, he was telling another story; this one from a few years ago.  He used the wrong pronoun and his wife, again, gently corrected him.  He nodded, but then paused.  Eyebrows raised, he shrugged. “But they were still she back then.” I felt his struggle.  I’ve been there.  

*****

Lee came out as trans when he was nine years old.  He’s sixteen now.  

The fact that he’s sixteen, alone, is unreal to me.  He’s driving.  He’s got a job.  He’s a young adult.  But that’s a common phenomenon.  Parents can’t believe how quickly their kids grow up.  

The second, less common phenomenon is that his transition was simultaneously just yesterday and so long ago. I vividly remember the steps in the journey and also… I can’t remember who I was when I took those first shaky steps. 

*****

When Lee first came out, we made a lot of changes simultaneously.  A haircut.  New clothes.  New name.  New pronouns.  Other changes came later.  Puberty blockers.  Legal name change. Social Security card.  Passport. Eventually, there was testosterone.  But at the beginning, I didn’t know any of that.  I didn’t know where we were headed.  I just knew I needed to love my child.  To listen and learn and stop thinking I knew things because I didn’t know at all.  

Practically, the new name was pretty easy to master.  I messed up occasionally, for a few weeks.  He went from Leah to Lee.  He lost a syllable.  I frequently started to shout his name and then remembered, choking off the last syllable at the back of my throat before it escaped my lips.  

Emotionally, the name change was hard.  I chose that name so deliberately, so lovingly.  I loved the way the letters curled around each other when I wrote it out in my careful script.  I loved the way the sounds rolled off my tongue.  I loved the way the first and middle names sounded in tandem.  And he just dropped a syllable.  For months, I tried to get him to choose a new name with me.  I wanted it to be something sweet-sounding and carefully chosen.  He just wanted it to be masculine.  

The pronoun switch didn’t really trigger any emotion, but it was just harder.  In practical terms, you use pronouns more often than you use someone’s name.  And gendered pronouns are so ingrained in our speech that we use them without thinking.  For months, I would pause awkwardly before I used any pronouns at all. My speech became stilted and it felt as if I would never speak fluently again.  

I misgendered the kids, the dogs, my students, and my friends, but I eventually got Lee’s pronouns right.  

Except in the past tense.  Except when I was looking at this child in pigtails and a purple dress.  Except when I was telling old stories and relying on old memories, because THERE, in those memories, that child was still Leah. 

It always felt awkward, and I didn’t know how to navigate it.  Until I did what I should have done all along.  I asked him.  

My animal obsessed kid gave me a pet analogy.  “Mom, imagine you have a pet.  And you thought it was a girl for a long time.  Girl name.  Girl pronouns.  And then imagine you find out you were wrong.  Your pet is a boy!  So you start calling your pet by a boy name and using he/him pronouns.  You might make mistakes in the beginning, out of habit, but you try to get it right.”

“But when you go back and talk about your pet’s first vet visit, you don’t switch back because that’s what you called him then.  You get it right because you know better now.” 

“Mom, I’ve always been a boy.  You just didn’t know it.  But now you know so you have to try to get it right, even when you talk about the past.” 

*****

So that’s what I did. 

At first, it felt clumsy.  Awkward.  Like learning a new language.  I had a thought in the old language.  And then I had to translate in my head before I spoke.  

But here’s the thing about learning a new language… eventually, you get to the point where you’re not translating in your head anymore.  You’re THINKING in the new language.  

So if you’re a parent in the thick of it… if you feel clumsy and awkward?  Keep at it.  Keep practicing. It gets easier.  It becomes natural.  

Even in the past tense. 

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What do you want?

I’m learning something about decision making, and it feels like it’s coming far too late in life.  

Let me give you an example from about 14 years ago.  I have one young child and I’m pregnant with my second.  Money is tight and I’m frequently exhausted.  Friends are planning a night out.  Someone just went through a tough breakup.  I’m the only one with a minivan that will fit us all, and I’m the perfect designated driver because I’m not drinking anyway.  I’m a little on the fence about whether I want to go, and I talk to Jack about it.  

My focus is on the fact that my friends need me.  My friend is going through something hard.  She needs emotional support.  And there’s the whole van/driver thing.  If I go, it makes everything easier.  I’m a little worried about the money, but I think I should still go.  

Jack listens to this line of reasoning, getting angrier and angrier.  I think he’s mad because I’m going to spend money.  Because I’m leaving him home with two kids.  Because he’s jealous that I’m going out with my friends. 

It took me ten years and a million variations of this conversation to finally understand that he WAS angry, but not for any of the reasons that I thought.  He was angry because he thought I was making decisions out of a sense of obligation when I didn’t really WANT to go.   He felt like I was allowing myself to be USED.

Mind blown. 

Since I made this discovery, it’s shifted things for me.  I have to start with asking myself, “Do I really WANT to do this thing?” 

And if the answer is yes, I need to LEAD with that when I talk to my husband.  This is a thing I want to do.  These are my reservations.  Will you talk it through with me?  Of course, it’s not all smooth sailing, but it’s made the conversations easier; we’re speaking the same language now.  

For me, simply WANTING to do something was never enough of a reason.  And the inverse is also true.  NOT WANTING to do something wasn’t enough of an excuse.  For Jack, the WANTING or NOT WANTING has always been primary. 

I don’t know if that’s just our nature, or ingrained gender roles, or the way we were raised.  In therapy, I’ve started to understand the depths and dangers of my ‘people-pleasing’ and conflict avoidance, and I’m working on them.  I’m trying to get in tune with what I want and then work for it.  I’m trying to ask for the things I need instead of passively hinting and then sitting with the disappointment.  

In a way, having teenagers in the house is helping with this.  These kids constantly WANT.  They want snacks and rides and food and sleepovers and money and trips to the ice cream shop.  They want ALL DAY LONG.  They’re not spoiled.  (Well, maybe a little.)  But for the most part, they’re just growing and trying to assert a little independence before they’re allowed to get a job or drive a car. I want them to go places and do things.  I just wish it didn’t require so much commitment on my end.  

So I’m learning to prioritize what I want.  It’s easier when I have solid plans.  When they need a ride to the mall, I can say, “Sorry.  I’m going out to lunch with a friend. I can take you later or tomorrow or you can try to get a ride with someone.”  

But when I’ve been running around all day and I just got dinner in the oven and folded the last load of laundry and I finally sit down with a good book, it’s a little harder.  

“Can you bring me to the movies?”

“Not now.” 

“But why not?”

Because I’ve had a long day.  Because I drove you all over God’s green earth yesterday. Because gas costs a fortune.  Because dinner is already in the oven.  Because I’m tired.  Because this book is good.  

Because I don’t want to. 

Can that be enough? 

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Fostering… again

It all happened really quickly this time.  I mean… quickly in the way that DCF only moves quickly in an emergency situation. 

But I guess it’s really been brewing for months.  

This particular student isn’t technically MY student (which is actually important because of conflict of interest stuff).  But I know her well.  We have a good relationship.  She stops by my room to chat or to procrastinate or to vent, and she’s really something special.  And I know enough about her situation to know it’s not good.  

Over the past months, I’ve talked about her with Jack.  Each time, he holds up his hand as if to say, “Stop right there.”  And he raises his eyebrows and simply says, “No.” And every time, I’ve agreed with him.  “You’re right.  You’re right.  I know you’re right.” He smiles and hugs me and tells me I don’t have to save everyone.  

And so I wait.  I wait for someone else to step up.  For something to change. For DCF to find a new placement. I pray for this young woman and for her family.  And I listen to her vent and I help her with her homework and I dispense after-school advice to her and her friends.  Until…

*****

Wednesday

First period, she came to my classroom, clearly upset.  She started telling me a little about the situation.  She felt sad.  She felt scared.  She was going to move in two days and miss the last week of school.  I reassured her.  I listened.  She needed a hug, and despite all of the stupid school rules, I wrapped my arms around her and squeezed.  

When she left, I emailed the social worker.  She’s someone I know fairly well; she was in my home once a month for the five years that Bea was with us.  In my email, I said I hadn’t talked to my family and I wasn’t ready to make any commitments … but I wanted to know if this amazing young woman was going to a safe, stable placement. 

 The answer was no. 

And I realized I couldn’t wait anymore.  I hid in the principal’s office while she was out to lunch, because I needed a private place to call my husband.  I told him the situation.  “Can we just do a week?  Let her finish out the school year?” And without hesitation, he replied, “OF COURSE we can do a week.  Of course.”  Pause.  “But you know it’s not going to be a week, right?” I took a deep breath.  He was right.  Of course, I’d thought about that, too.  What would happen after a week?  Once school was over?  How much would change in the next 7 days?  And my amazing husband interrupted my thoughts with, “Just take her. We’ll figure it out.  Just take her.”  I started to cry.  

I thanked God for sending me this deeply GOOD man to be my partner and my rock and my strength.  Together, we talked to the kids, who were also incredible.  Cal’s response was, “As long as I get to keep my bedroom, then it’s fine with me.” Lee said, “I think it’s a good idea. Honestly, mom, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner. I kinda figured this was gonna be a thing we just DO now. ”  And a few hours later, when I checked in again he told me, “Actually, I’m excited.  The house has felt a little empty since Bea left.  I think it’ll be good.” 

So, that afternoon, I re-submitted our DCF paperwork.  It was a pretty quick process, because mostly we were just updating a few dates.  I made an appointment to meet with the social worker the next day.  

*****

Thursday

I was eager to talk to this young woman about what was going on, but the department advised me to wait.  I knew they were right; the thing about child placement is that it can literally change at any minute.  A distant relative could be located.  A cousin could step up.  Our application could be delayed or denied for some random, arbitrary detail or missing piece of information.  I wanted to give her some time to process; I wanted to be able to answer her questions and calm her fears.  But I didn’t want to set her up for disappointment if it wasn’t yet official. 

So we went through the school day, and she began to say her goodbyes. She asked me to sign her yearbook and told all her friends that tomorrow would be her last day.  She’d made a lot of great connections with adults in the building.  She asked a lot of us if we could be friends on Facebook, and when we inevitably said no, she gave us all her personal email address so we could stay in touch.  The whole time, I was praying that all of these goodbyes would be a moot point by the end of the day.  

After school, the social worker visited.  We asked about each other’s families and marveled at how much the kids have grown.  She asked about Bea and we gave her the update.  We went through the formalities.  She took out her tape measure and noted the dimensions of the bedroom.  She tested our smoke detectors and asked where we keep our medications.  She gave us a brief outline of the family history and told us that we should be approved as an emergency placement by the end of the day.  The visit ended at 4pm. 

By 5 o’clock, we had official confirmation.  But this young lady still didn’t know.  She was out with friends.  She should be home by 8, and the social worker planned to tell her then.  In less than 12 hours, she would leave her current home and she still didn’t even know where she’d be going. 

At 8:15, the social worker texted me.  “She’s been told. She has your number, and she’s going to reach out.”  

And about two minutes later, I got a text that just said, “Hi.”

After a few quick texts, I called her.  She was in shock and still processing.  We talked a little and I told her the way it all played out from my point of view.  I told her we’re excited to have her.  I told her to try to get some sleep. 

I was awake all night. 

*****

Friday

In the morning, her foster mother and the guidance counselor loaded her belongings into my minivan.  She would leave with me in the afternoon.  

We hadn’t seen each other since this decision was made.  I caught her eye in the hallway, but there were students everywhere.  It was not the right time to chat.  We both kept moving in opposite directions.  

During first period, she was in French class.  She got a pass to go to guidance, and we finally connected.  I asked her if she was okay.  She said yes.  I ask her if she was anxious.  She said no.  I asked her, “On a scale of 1-10, how weird is it that you’ll be living with a teacher?”  She smiled, shrugged, and said, “Like a 2.  Well, if it were Mr. Kensey or something it’d be like a 20.  But it’s you.  So… yeah.  Two.”  I laughed out loud.  

We were a little awkward with each other during the day, but in a sweet, playful sort of way.  We were both a little nervous. We were both hoping for the best. 

When the final bell rang, she appeared at my classroom door.  We chatted while I cleaned up my room and packed a few things.  We waited for the hallways to clear out, and then we went to gather a few of her things from the guidance office.  The teachers had started a little collection for her.  There was a gift basket with gift cards to Target and Home Goods, a few small trinkets, and a book of well-wishes. 

This kid is so loved.  I hope she felt it.  

Before we even went home, we went shopping.  We got throw pillows and soft bedding and a bunch of toiletries. We bought a couple of new outfits and some new socks.  She lit up when I said she could buy LED lights for her bedroom.  She was grateful and enthusiastic and adorable.  

*****

That first weekend, I barely recognized her.  She was quiet and timid and supremely agreeable; a far cry from the sassy, outgoing, outspoken student I had come to know.   She was still getting her footing.  She took photos of her new room to send to her friends and family.  The little dog slept at the foot of her bed. We binge watched Stranger Things and made some of her favorite foods and just got to know one another.  

*****

It’s been ten days now.  She’s settling in.  

Last night, I was reading in my bedroom.  She and Lee and two dogs were sprawled across the carpet, making jokes and outrageous requests and belly laughing.  

This weekend, she jumped right in on family game night and joined me for grocery shopping and she and Lee are already plotting to convince us to get a new pet.  

I know we’re in a honeymoon period.  No parenting is easy, and foster parenting has so many complicated layers.  Maybe that’s the reason WHY these beautiful, easy moments feel so incredibly special.  

We’ve got the whole summer ahead of us.  We’ve got time to get to know each other, to establish routines, to have adventures.  I’ve got the next few months to spend quality time with Lee before he gets his license and takes that next step toward independence and adulthood. 

I’ve got the next few months to connect with these kids.

To make memories. 

To make mistakes. 

To learn lessons. 

I’m not going to pray and wait for it to get easier.  I’m not going to leave the work to someone else.  My life is always more bold and more beautiful when I say yes to the hard things.  When I get in there and get my hands dirty and let my heart get a little bruised. Bring it on. 

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Second Day

Today is the second day of summer vacation.

My body still woke up at 5:30.  That will begin to settle back to 6 or 6:30, and by the end of August, I’ll be sleeping in until 8:00.  But for now, I’m going to enjoy these quiet morning hours with my computer and a cup of coffee.  

Yesterday, I woke up early, showered, and headed to the store.  We needed dog food and I had to buy some snacks to bring to book club. It was my first day of summer vacation, and I was headed to my friend’s beach house in Maine for our June book club meeting.  What an awesome way to kick off summer! 

I felt a little guilty about leaving the kids alone for that long on their first day of summer vacation.  Cal and Lee would be fine.  But we have a new foster daughter.  She moved in on Friday.  That’s a long story for another day, but I especially didn’t want her to feel bored and abandoned while I was away for the day. 

I tried to set them up for a good day.  I made sure we had sandwich stuff and mac and cheese and plenty of snacks.  I put dinner in the crockpot.  I watered the plants and fed the dogs and emptied the dishwasher, just to increase the likelihood that I wouldn’t come home to a sink full of dishes.  

I counted the hours.  If I left at 10:30, Jack would probably be home by 2:30. Four hours.  That’s reasonable.  Two movies.  If we’re lucky, maybe a movie and a shower.  They would be fine.  Of course, it turns out I had nothing to worry about.  By the time I left at 10:30, all three of them were still asleep.  When I texted at noon, they were making mac and cheese. They all said they needed this day to lounge and do nothing.  I’m glad they got a chance to do that… and I’m glad it’s not what I did.

I had an absolutely incredible day at the beach.  The weather was perfect.  Sunny and warm, but not too hot.  We arrived around noon and had some snacks and some drinks before we moved our chairs to the water’s edge.  There were five of us this month, and all five of us have been part of book club since our very first meeting, over 16 years ago. I think it’s an amazing track record.  We actually met twenty years ago; we all taught fifth grade in the same school.  Four of them were classroom teachers, and I was the special educator on the team.  Only Faith still teaches in that school.

As evening approached, we stood on the sidewalk near a restaurant across from the beach, checking out a menu and trying to make a decision about dinner. A vaguely familiar voice said, “Hey, Faith!”  This former colleague stopped to make small talk and then took the rest of us in, one at a time.  You could see the brief moment of recognition when she noticed Cathie.  Her eyes widened and she smiled.  Then she shifted her gaze and recognized Joanne, Noelle, and me.  It was a strange, crazy, blast-from the past sort of moment, magnified by the fact that there were five of us that she hadn’t seen in nearly twenty years.  

Of course, it was nice to briefly connect with this former colleague.  We made small talk and wished each other well.  But it was a bizarre sort of moment for us, too.  It didn’t seem possible that we hadn’t seen that woman in 15 years, but that we hadn’t gone more than a month or two without seeing each other. 

What are the chances?  What keeps a group of friends connecting and meeting and caring about each other’s lives for twenty years?  Why do some people pass through our lives and some just drop their bags on the floor and settle and STAY with us? 

I am so incredibly grateful for the friendship of these five women.  I’m grateful that they’ve made this group a priority for nearly two decades.   Our families often joke about whether or not we’ve read the book.  And sometimes we get a little defensive because we really do read and discuss books.  We have a whole system for choosing the next book and finding discussion questions and sometimes we have really great, deep discussions.  And sometimes, we spend 4 minutes agreeing that the book wasn’t that great and 4 hours catching up on each other’s lives. 

I’m starting to realize that this group works because, deep down, we all see that the books are just a means to an end.  Sure, we like to read.  And we like to talk about books.  But most of all, we like each other.  We rely on each other’s advice and encouragement and wisdom.  We get together and we laugh and we cry and we hold each other up when things get tough.  What an incredible gift.  What a great way to kick off the summer.  

I came home feeling energized and relaxed and refreshed.  

And it was a good thing, too.  Because, of course, I needed that energy to remind the kids to handle that sink full of dishes.  

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Rally

In the center of our downtown area, there is a rotary.  The island in the middle showcases a Vietnam War memorial and beautiful landscaping, as well as crosswalks that help usher pedestrians across this busy intersection. 

Community groups often gather in this space, holding signs to promote their favored cause or candidate, and no permit is required to do so.  

Yesterday was my first event in the rotary.  I am a member of a Pride Allies group in town, and we organized and LGBTQ+ Pride Rally, inviting members of the community to gather in support.  I packed up my collection of Pride Flags, a bulk-sized box of skittles, and a cooler full of water.  We had rainbow stickers and markers and poster board for anyone who didn’t bring a sign. We were ready.  

*****

A slightly awkward preteen boy pulled up on his bicycle.  I greeted him, asking if he was part of the local middle school GSA.  “No.  I go to a different school.  I was just going to the store and I saw you here, so I decided to come back for a while.”  He stayed for three hours.  

*****

A little old lady, wearing wrap-around sunglasses and struggling to see over her steering wheel, smiled at us and waved as she puttered around the circle at about 7 miles per hour.  

*****

A large man in a mid-sized sedan drove through a little too fast.  He saw my sons standing with their signs and their flags, leaned halfway out his window, and bellowed, “FAGGOTS” before he flipped them off.  

 *****

A bald man in a grocery delivery truck shouted, “Happy Pride! Keep it up!” and send out two short blasts of his truck’s startling horn. 

*****

A twenty-something woman with spiky pink hair leaned a bit out her window and shouted, “GO QUEERS!” while pumping her fist and honking her horn. 

*****

A family of four drove by with their windows down.  A preschooler in her car seat shouted, “Happy Pride!” out the window.  The rest of the family was silent.  

*****

A middle-aged woman in a white SUV drove almost all the way through the rotary before shouting, “I LOVE MY WHITE HUSBAND” and speeding away.  

*****

A woman in her fifties, driving a Subaru with a co-exist bumper sticker, shouted “Thank you!” as she drove past.  

*****

A bald man in a pickup with an NRA logo in the window smiled and gave us a thumbs-up. 

*****

On more than one occasion, we were pleasantly surprised.  Our own stereotypes were shattered by the tradesman and truckers who threw us a thumbs-up or blared their horns.  

*****

There is research that tells us that simply having a GSA (formerly ‘gay-straight alliance’, now updated to mean ‘gender-sexuality alliance’) in a middle or high school reduces suicide rates.  That’s even if students don’t ATTEND the GSA.  Having it in place and visible speaks to the culture of the building.  It lets students who often feel ostracized and alone know that they do have support. 

If that’s true in a school, imagine how much MORE powerful it is in our communities.  

I won’t lie; the negative responses stuck like barbs.  They pissed me off.  But the honks and waves and cheers of support outnumbered the negatives by a hundred to one. 

A whole group of kids left that rally feeling a little more seen and a whole lot more supported.  They had a chance to hear the nasty comments and then build their resilience with the backing of a hundred honks and cheers.  

I’m going to call that a good day.  

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Home

There is a stretch of I84 in New York, just before you hit the Taconic Parkway.  At first, you catch a glimpse of the mountains through the trees on your right.  Every time I pass that place, my heart skips a beat.  I know what’s coming.  

A few moments later, you round a slight left turn at the crest of the hill and the whole of the Hudson Valley spreads out in front of you.  You can’t see the river just yet, but you see the hills and mountains in the distance, and my heart whispers home every time I see it. 

I never thought much about the landscape of where I grew up.  It was background to the more important things.  The piano lessons and soccer games and bonfires.  The boyfriends and pool parties and teenage drama. 

But now it speaks to my soul.  I feel the ache in my chest.  I love it and I hate it, too. 

*****

My parents split up for a few months when I was in first or second grade.  At the time they had two kids.  Maybe it seemed like easy math. They each took one.  

I was the obvious choice to stay with my mom.  After all, Frank wasn’t even my Dad.  Well, he wasn’t my biological father, anyway.  I didn’t BELONG with him. 

And Dad took my little sister, Justine.  They moved two hours away to stay with my Aunt outside of Albany.  

I tell you this because, during their eventual divorce some 15 years later, we split up the same way.  Like our bodies remembered where we BELONGED.  

Justine belongs to Dad.  And I belong to Mom.  It’s been that way for as long as I can remember.  

*****

There is muscle memory that kicks in as I drive the route to my childhood home.  I notice the things that are the same.  I note the countless ways that things have changed.  I remember my elementary school bus stops as I drive past.  Marlena lived there.  Missy lived there.  That was Chris’ grandparent’s house.  I wonder who has moved on and who is still here.  

I pull into the driveway.  I know to park on the grass.  Dad’s pet peeve has always been people who don’t know how to park.  We had a double-wide driveway and I could see the steam coming out of his ears when my teenage friends parked smack dab in the middle of it, so nobody else could get by. 

The house is a different color now.  The fence is gone.  The pool has been replaced by a hot tub.  They’re lovely changes.  But they still strike me.  There’s a dissonance.  This place is home.  This place is foreign. 

*****

When I graduated from High School, my parents threw a massive party.  I think there were a hundred people in our backyard.  My friends were playing chicken in the pool.  My family sat around in folding chairs, eating homemade meatballs and talking about how fast the children grow.  Dad started a bonfire in the barrel out back, and my friends and I cheered as we threw in our notebooks and binders to be devoured by the flames.  All of Dad’s family came, pinching my cheeks and handing me envelopes and congratulating me as if I were one of their own.  

*****

I wander into the backyard with my cooler and my bags and my gifts.  I’m greeted with hugs and “Let me carry that” and “How was the ride?”  It is lovely.  I head upstairs to the bathroom.  Most everything about the house has changed, but the bones haven’t.  It’s weird how the eight steps to the second floor remain the same but feel so different under my feet.  The stairs feel smaller and the bathroom feels larger and I look at the tub and wonder how my sister and I ever fit in there together.  

*****

One time, when we were small, my mom found a booger on the bathroom wall.  Yeah.  You read that right.  Someone was in the bathtub and picked a boogie and just… wiped it there.  

Mom was grossed out.  She yelled at my little sister.  It MUST have been her.  I was too old and too smart and too clean to do something that gross.  I stood in the bathroom doorway, wrapped in my towel. I listened to my mom yell and I watched my little sister’s eyes go wide as she insisted, “It wasn’t me!”  

It took me far too long.  My mom was still yelling.  I didn’t want to get involved.  But then I saw the tears welling in my sister’s eyes. 

“It was me, Mom.”  

“What? It was YOU?” she was shocked.  Indignant.  I braced myself for the tirade.  She took a deep breath.  She looked at my sister.  She looked at me.  Back at my sister.  I can’t remember if she apologized.  I do know that she looked at me, still seething a little, and said, “Thank you for telling me.  Thank you for being honest.  Now go clean it up.”  

She never yelled at me. 

*****

Today is my sister’s baby shower.  I brought some appetizers and a salad.  I worked for hours yesterday threading tomatoes and olives and cheese and salami on skewers.  They were pretty and I was proud.  

I made sure that everything was prepped in my cooler so I wouldn’t take up too much space in the kitchen. I prefer to stay out of the way, to stay in the background.  I’m unsure of my footing and I don’t want to stumble in front of everyone.  My sister set out my fancy antipasto appetizer kebabs on my new serving tray while I placed the curved shrimp along the edge of a fancy glass dish.  We worked side by side at the dining room table. 

*****

My mom had been dreaming of that table for years.  When it finally appeared in our dining room, her face lit up as if she had finally ARRIVED.  It wasn’t a hand-me down.  It wasn’t disposable particleboard furniture.  It was a solid, oak dining set, with leaves and a chair to match.  It seats 12 with lots of room and maybe 16 when we squished.  She was so proud to host holidays at that table.  For the first few years, she covered it with a clear, plastic tablecloth, so we could protect the surface but still see the beautiful wood finish.  She loved that stupid table.  He got it in the divorce. 

*****

We sit and chat, the women talking motherhood around one table, the men talking sports around another.  The kids play on the swingset and run around the yard.  My sister is glowing.  She’s beautiful and nervous and gorgeous, in that way that only very pregnant women can be.  She doesn’t realize yet what a miracle she is because she’s a first time mom and she only feels bloated and sweaty.  But I know better now.  I’m in awe of her.  

The weather is beautiful.  I packed sunscreen but I don’t need it because we sit in the shade of an oak tree that covers half of the yard now.  The kids climb that tree and sit on the lowest branches, swinging their legs and eating snacks.  

*****

We planted that tree together.  I don’t remember who was there, and I’m not sure how old I was.  But I know that the tree was small enough (and I was small enough) that I could sit on my Dad’s shoulders and reach the top of it.  When we put it in the ground, we imagined the day that it would be big enough for our children to climb in the branches.  

*****

The afternoon is lovely.  The food is delicious, and the conversation flows easily.  Stories get told and repeated.  I’m listening to one about my aunt.  Elizabeth pipes in.  “Is this the hair dye story?”  She smiles and laughs.  “We’ve heard that one before.”  I haven’t.  I laugh anyway, as if I’m in on the joke. 

Elizabeth opens her gifts, and we all ooh and aah over tiny baby clothes and blankets.  It is a celebration.  A joyful one. 

I overhear snippets of a conversation.  Someone says that Dad must be excited for his first grandson, after all these girls.  I have four boys.  I don’t speak up, and I feel as if I’m betraying my children.  I feel as if I have been betrayed.  I smile anyway. 

*****

Growing up, my dad washed the dinner dishes, and I dried.  I’m not sure how that came to be the rule. It was a sort of unspoken agreement.  The little kids cleared the table and swept the floor.  They finished pretty quickly, and then it was just me and my Dad.  Doing the dishes.  Sometimes we talked.  Mostly we didn’t.  We just worked there, side by side, every night.  We were a good team.  I remember the day that I noticed that I wasn’t looking up to him anymore.  We were eye to eye.  It felt like a milestone.  

*****

As we clean up, I end up drying dishes next to my Dad.  Right back in my old spot.  I say something.  “Wow.  We haven’t done this in a while.”  He smiled and nodded.  “I was just thinking the same thing.”  And mostly, we keep working in silence.  It is a weird, ordinary, beautiful moment.  

My dad pulls out cardboard takeout containers and insists that I pack up some leftovers.  He knows how teenage boys eat, and this is good stuff.  Over the years, I’ve come to understand that Dad has two concrete ways of loving.  He will fix your stuff and he will feed you.  For two decades, I’ve been too far away for him to love me in the ways he knows best.  We’re only just starting to figure out alternatives.  But for today, I am happy to accept his love and his penne a la vodka. 

*****

The baby shower is wrapping up.  A few people have already left.  Normally, as the sister of the guest of honor, I’d stay until the bitter end, cleaning up and making small talk.  But because I’m home so infrequently, I decide to bow out a little on the early side.  I have something important to do. 

I leave the baby shower and head toward Sarah’s mom’s house.  I haven’t been there in 20 years.  I asked for the address, but later realized that I didn’t need it.  My body remembered the way.  

*****

It was July of 2020.  A friend from high school text-shared an article from my hometown newspaper.  At first I was confused.  It was about a house fire.  Heartbreaking.  Tragic.  The daughter survived, but a little boy and his dad lost their lives.  I didn’t make the connection.  I didn’t recognize the last name.  I texted a question mark.  She replied, “That’s Sarah’s family.  Sarah’s ex.  Sarah’s son.”  I couldn’t catch my breath.  I couldn’t see through the tears.  

I didn’t know if they’d let us in to the funeral.  COVID and all.  The rules were unfamiliar.   Family only.  Masks.  Six feet apart.  I drove there anyway.  I’d stand outside if we weren’t allowed in.  I just needed to be there.  I didn’t know what else to do. 

 *****

In our friend group, Sarah was the solid one.  She was strong and spirited; just a little more mature, just a little more aware than the rest of us.  She had a wild streak, but I never saw her lose control.  She had an easy smile and an infectious laugh.  So, in eighth grade, when she asked me if I wanted to skip gym class and walk to the high school with her, I jumped on the chance.  The high schoolers had a half-day and she had a chance to kiss her boyfriend before he got on his bus. We thought it was a quick walk, in that way of children who can’t accurately estimate time and distance.  Surely, we’d be back before lunch.  We had old-school Swatch watches, and as we began to realize the walk was longer than we thought, we picked up the pace.  We ran, full-tilt, through the nearby backyards.  One old lady shouted at us from her porch, baffled.  We arrived, out of breath, and just in time.  I hid beneath the bleachers while she found the guy and kissed him goodbye.  But he was just a side note to this story.  I don’t even remember his name.    

When we finally made it back to the middle school, three class periods later, we were sure we’d be caught.  We braced for the punishment.  But miraculously, we arrived between classes.  We snuck in through the gym door.  Nobody ever knew we were gone.  The first time we told that story, we were 13.  Through the decades that followed, we retold it countless times, always to an audience who found it far less amusing than we did.  That memory brought us belly laughs well into our adulthood.   

 *****

Of course, the funeral was heartbreaking.  I sat there, unable to hold back the tears for a child I barely knew. I cried for that spirited, optimistic, thirteen year old girl; the one I could still see so vividly running through strangers’ backyards; the one who could never have known that her path would be interrupted by such a tragic turn.  I watched her and I continued to be in awe of her.  She was still standing.  She was still full of grace and gratitude, with grief settling in to the empty spaces.  I realized that when people say they couldn’t go on without their kids, they’re full of hubris and ignorance.  Of course you think you can’t.  But you do.  It is your only option.  My friend stood there, supporting her daughter and holding on to her family and mourning her loss in the arms of the people who love her.  Is it heartless to say it was beautiful?

*****

Maybe my body remembered the way to the house, but my brain blocked out the route.  I forgot that I would drive right by.  Right by the spot where we stood, nearly two years ago, staring at the charred remains of a house, placing down flowers and saying futile prayers. Crying in each others’ arms.  

My breath hitched as I took the turn.  I couldn’t hold back the tears.  It’s not even my tragedy.  It’s not my pain.  And still, I hope that by holding it a little, I can lighten it for her.  

*****

I pull in right behind her; she waves a polite wave, as you do in this part of the world.  I’m halfway down the driveway before she realizes it is me.  Her eyes light up, and that familiar, infectious smile spreads across her face. “What are you DOING here?” she asks. 

“Surprise?” I say, a little meekly, because I’m not sure this is my place and I have shown up anyway.  “Kate said she was coming to meet the baby.  I hope you don’t mind that I crashed.”  She wraps me in a hug and I am humbled and honored to be part of this moment with her. 

In the two years since I last witnessed her grief and grace, she has become even more beautiful.  Her baby is only two weeks old, and she has the glow of a new mom.  But there is something more.  There is a calm, a peace, a gratitude… she exudes something that I can’t quite explain.  Her pain has given her a depth that I can only admire, because I don’t have the words to describe it.  

*****

Of course, the baby is beautiful.  Her older daughter plays the piano and presses me for embarrassing stories about her mom in middle school.   I politely decline.  There are laughs and baby cries and exasperated teenaged eye-rolls and it is all so incredibly, mundanely beautiful.  

*****

As I climb back into the driver’s seat, I check my phone to see how long my return trip will take.  The service that far out in the country is unreliable. When Google asks for my destination, I push the button for ‘home.’  After a long wait, my phone declares, “Can’t find a way there.”  

How appropriate.  

***** 

Visiting my childhood home is hard.  I don’t know if it’s hard like this for everyone.  It’s not bad.  It’s just exhausting.  It brings up so many memories, so many feelings, so many long-forgotten moments. 

It’s a three-hour drive home, and I need it.  I need the time to think and process and unwind and regroup.  

Maybe I don’t have a horrible memory, like I’ve always told myself.  Maybe I’ve just spent most of my adult life away from the people and things that will spark recollection.  

What is it about this place?  Home.  Can I still call it that?  It rips my heart out and then, in an instant, fills it with joy.  This place is beautiful.  It is brutal.  Brutiful, as Glennon Doyle would say.  

But maybe I’m thinking about it all wrong.  Maybe it isn’t this place.  Maybe it isn’t the ‘going home’ that is brutiful.  

I think… maybe it is just LIFE that is brutiful.  

Beautiful things happen.  Horrible things happen.  And we continue to put one foot in front of the other.  We visit friends and go to work and hug our kids and celebrate all of the joys that we can. 

Fully living means showing up for the hard things and the easy things and all the things in between.  It is beautiful.  It is brutal.  

And I am grateful for it. 

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What Else?

Yesterday, I had one of those days when I ran around until I crashed.  You know those days?  When you have so much to do, you don’t think you’ll ever get it done?  You finish one thing and ask, “What else is there to do?”

I took a personal day yesterday, and I still woke up at 6am.  By 8, I had emailed my sub plans, completed two projects for church, and showered.  By 10, I had gotten an oil change and picked up groceries.  By noon, I had been to the dump and the post office and the carwash.  My sister’s baby shower is today.  I made the appetizers, cleaned out the cooler, and wrapped the gifts.  I dropped off the bibles at church for our event on Sunday.  I picked up Lee from a friend’s house and stopped by Home Goods to buy a cute little tray for the shrimp.  I finished crocheting my nephew’s baby blanket. 

My husband gets irritated when I rattle off my to-do list to him.  But I when I’m looking at a day like that, I need to walk it through.  I need to think ahead so I’m not driving in circles or wasting time. I need to have a ‘to-do’ list and a shopping list and a plan.  

And sometimes, that’s not even enough.  On my way home from the grocery store yesterday, I was literally giving myself a pep talk.  Out loud.  In the car.  

“It’s gonna be okay.”  “Breathe.”  “Most of this stuff doesn’t even NEED to get done.”  “It’s okay if you don’t get to it all.”  “This is your DAY OFF. Try to enjoy it at least a little.”  

*****

It used to be that ALL of my days felt like that.  Rushing home from work to pick up the kids at daycare.  Dinners, baths, homework, playdates, sports… when the kids were small, I had to actively participate in all of those things.  Now, they make their own plans.  They sometimes need me to drive, but they also walk and ride their bikes and grab a ride with a friend.  They can feed themselves and bathe themselves and wash their own clothes.  It’s a brave new world.  For sure, they need reminders, but my days aren’t as full as they used to be. 

But when those busy days do come, they take me back a couple of years to that constant frenetic pace.  It’s weirdly nostalgic to feel that frantic.  That probably sounds crazy.  It wasn’t that long ago.  I miss it and I don’t. I miss holding their little hands in Target.  I squeeze twice.  They squeeze twice. Two long squeezes.  One short squeeze.  Repeat. They don’t hold my hand in public anymore.  But a few nights ago, we were on the couch.  The kids got me to watch Stranger Things.  And Lee was feeling cuddly.  He flopped across the couch, with his head in my lap and his hand near mine.  I grabbed it and squeezed twice.  He squeezed back. Twice. 

*****

After I put the groceries away, I made myself a cup of coffee and an omelet.  I sat at the dining room table with a napkin and savored the food and the silence at the same time.  A moment of calm.  

When the rain stopped, I pulled the potting soil and my new clay pots onto the porch.  I sat in the sun and repotted my plants, feeling the warmth on my face and the soil on my hands.  A moment of bliss.  

While I assembled the appetizers, I listened to an episode of my favorite podcast and cried over the lives lost in Uvalde. I raged and I mourned.  I said a prayer and I made a donation.  A moment of healing. 

At Home Goods, I rushed in, picked out a tray, and headed for the register.  Lee grabbed my arm.  “Seriously, mom?  Are you okay? I usually have to drag you out of here. What’s the rush? Can we look around?” He was right. I took a deep breath.  We browsed, checking out pet beds and artwork and fancy serving dishes.  We played our usual game, grabbing the ugliest items and proclaiming, “I found it. This is the one you want. I know it!” Giggles and eye rolls.  A moment of connection.  

*****

My life is still so incredibly, beautifully full. The days are busy and the years are flying by.   And here I am, collecting moments. 

What else is there to do?