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Settling

I’m sitting in my office, watching the sunrise at a desk that looks out over a wooded area in the backyard.  The leaves haven’t yet appeared; spring is just beginning to show herself in the tiny buds on the branches.  But the birds are active.  I don’t know birds, really.  I can identify a Robin and a Bluebird, and maybe a Chickadee.  But I find myself drawn to the peacefulness of watching the birds flit about on a spring morning.  I never would have taken the time to notice before. 

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We have settled in to a strange new normal.  It mostly looks like this: 

6-8 am, wake up, go for a walk, shower, coffee, news

8-9 am breakfast, check schedules, wake kids

9-12 pm – work and school, on separate devices in separate rooms

12-1 pm – lunch & connect

1-3 pm – do something.  Go outside, bake, build legos, play games, clean. 

3-5 pm- check school work, email, prepare lessons

5-7 pm- prepare and eat dinner

7-9 pm- watch tv, read, write

9-10 pm- say goodnights

10 pm – sleep

Some days are better than others.  Some days, we feel more connected.  Some days, we’re in our own little worlds.  Some days are filled with too much screen time, and some days we stay outside all day.  Some days feel manageable.  Some days are full of tears.  

Today, I went to the grocery store.  I’ve done this a few times since we began our isolation, but this time was different.  This time, this strange, dystopian reality took my breath away.  I had heard that they were limiting the number of people in the stores.  I had heard that we were advised to wear masks and gloves.  I knew about the plexiglass barriers and the tape on the floor.  I knew about it…. But I hadn’t FELT it yet.  

People waited outside the store, 15 feet apart, waiting to be admitted.  Everyone wore masks.  Nearly everyone wore gloves, too.  It was eerily silent.  

More so than all of these visible differences, the intangibles weighed on me.  Our faces covered, we could no longer offer a reassuring smile to a stranger.  Our gloves and our masks only amplified the palpable fear in the air.  People waited awkwardly for others to pass, allowing the maximum radius of personal space.  People flinched as workers passed by with their carts to restock; perhaps they were too close?  

I usually enjoy my grocery shopping.  Today I couldn’t wait to get out of there.  The tightness in my chest didn’t go away until I was safely back in my car.  And logically, I know that even that is unreasonable.  I had already exposed myself.  I had already exposed others to me.  If damage had been done, none of us would know it for weeks.  

This whole experience is such a strange roller-coaster.  On Tuesday, I spoke with my therapist on the phone.  I sat in my car (the only place I could get a little privacy) and I sipped my coffee and I told her about how GREAT things have been.  The kids have been creative.  I’ve been working on my personal goals.  I’m re-evaluating what is most important and prioritizing and creating and all kinds of cool things.  I explained that there’s something empowering about deciding what I WANT to do, instead of checking off the list of things I am SUPPOSED to do.  On Tuesday, I was feeling good.  

And there are a lot of days when I actually feel pretty good.  I’m noticing some positive changes within my family.  Our time together is less forced.  There’s more room to explore our interests.  I enjoy that the days have a sort of natural rhythm, unencumbered by arbitrary times on the clock.  With so many fewer priorities, I don’t feel as guilty when I take time to do things just for me.  

Of course, there are things that are hard.  Online teaching and learning are super stressful.  I cried twice last week about work.  I want to do a good job and connect with my students, but sometimes the obstacles seem insurmountable. I want to help my own kids and keep them on track, but sometimes the days don’t feel long enough or the battle doesn’t seem worth it.  I worry about my family and friends who are struggling.  Sometimes the thought of another load of laundry is enough to put me over the edge.  Sometimes the filth in the bathroom prompts a banshee scream that frightens my family. 

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I’m sitting in my office, looking out into the dreary, gray, dimness of a rainy afternoon.  But the branch just outside my window is gathering tiny droplets of rain.  They pool in the valleys of the tiny branches, glittering a little, despite the dreary weather.  I sit and watch a particular droplet.  I watch it slowly grow as the moisture accumulates.  I stay focused on the droplet until it swells just enough to let go and fall into the yard below.  I never would have taken the time to notice before.  

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Back to Work

I went back to work today.  Correction: Today I went back to the building I USED to work in, before we embarked on this crazy ‘teaching from home’ experiment. 

When we first found out about the closure, many of us struggled to answer the question, “How will we move our classrooms online?”  Inevitably, the answer was, “We’re not sure… but we’ll make it work.”  

Teachers began to gather resources and collaborate virtually and create shared documents for ideas.  We were slightly comforted by the direction that we weren’t required to present new material; only review to keep kids connected and engaged.  

When our district made the choice to move from optional, flexible online review to something more permanent and structured, the panic set in a little. How would we manage teaching with our own small kids at home?  What would the schedule look like?  What about kids without access?  Struggling learners?  We had so many questions, and not enough answers.  Once again, most conversations ended with some version of, “We’re going to have to make it work.” 

 Administration offered us the chance to come in and gather our materials.  Teachers signed up for time slots.  No more than ten of us could be in the building at once, and we had 15 minutes to gather what we needed and head back home.  We were asked to respect social distancing and not to gather and chat.  

I joked with some friends that this time would feel like the game show, “Supermarket Sweep.”  I expected it to feel a little frantic and silly. 

It did not.  

I had prepared myself with a list of materials to gather.  I had brought along milk crates and bags to load up.  I reminded myself to grab my hand sanitizer (purchased with my own money, for those who are concerned).  I thought I was ready for the task. 

But what I had not prepared for was the wall of emotion that hit me when I walked into my classroom.  The date and a graphic organizer were still written on the board.  Completed work sat in the bins to be corrected.  My planbook was on my desk, filled with notes and ‘to-do’ lists that were no longer relevant.  This space got frozen in such an optimistic time.  We had all expected to come back the next day and continue learning and working in this little community we had built.  

As I gathered materials, I came across lessons and projects that are a part of our classroom traditions.  The popsicle sticks to build a Trojan Horse- a project the kids look forward to each year that won’t happen for this particular class.  The poetry library that I won’t be able to share with them.  The Holocaust Unit that is too intense and emotional to teach virtually.  

I hadn’t fully considered these losses until that moment, and the ache moved from my heart to my throat.  I cried.  

The empty hallways and empty classrooms were further reminders of what we’ve lost.  A few teachers exchanged awkward greetings in the halls, staying a full 15 feet apart and pretending that everything is okay.  

As much as virtual teaching and learning is a struggle, thinking about what we’ve lost is even harder.  Today, I’m going to let myself mourn a little.  And tomorrow, I’ll unpack all those materials and do my best to figure out how to do amazing things with my students in a totally different format.  Because that’s what we do.  

We’re teachers.  We make it work.  

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Day… Nine?

These days are roller coasters.  Everything makes me cry lately.  My emotions are simmering just barely below the surface, and even a little jostle will put me over the edge.  A photo of an Italian hospital.  Tears.  A text from a friend.  Tears.  A fun family meetup online?  Also tears.  I’ve seen such beautiful things and such ugly things from my couch this week… I’m not really sure what to do with it all except show up in all the ways that I can and keep loving my people.  

Truth be told, I’m not really sure if it’s day nine.  I do know that it’s Sunday.  I know this because I got to go to church this morning.  I mean, not face-to-face, shake-people’s-hands church.  Virtual church.  Which actually brought me to tears.  I set up my computer in the living room.  I figured out how to mirror the screen to my TV.  I picked up the dirty laundry and threw it just beyond the frame of the camera.  I rallied my family.  Three of us were dressed; two were still in pajamas.  Two of us had coffee, one drank tea.  One sketched through the sermon.  Another listened while he worked on a puzzle.  I looked at my family, safe and warm and fed and healthy.  I looked to the TV to see a whole community of MY people, mostly healthy, safe, and praying together.  I didn’t realize how much I needed that until it happened.  More tears.  Tears of happiness and relief and worry all at once.  What’s to come?  None of us knows.  But at least we can be assured that we will be loved through it. 

After church, we loaded the kids in the car for a little excursion. I have teens and a preteen who typically like to groan and grumble at all my corny ideas.  Family game night?  Do we haaaave to? A hike in the woods?  I don’t waaant to!  Help me make brownies?  How about I just help EAT the brownies?  But something weird is happening to my children.  Today, they just said, “Okay” and got in the car.  

Something similar happened last night when I ‘made’ everyone play Pictionary.  We finished the game, and at the moment when one kid would normally say, “Can we be DONE now?” there was still a little bit of banter happening. I tested the waters with, “How about just one more?”  I expected groaning.  I expected eye rolling.  But what I got was enthusiasm.  They wanted to keep playing.  I didn’t understand what was happening, but I didn’t want to jinx it, either.  We played four more rounds.  It was beautiful.  

But anyway, I digress.  Jack and I knew the mission this afternoon.  We had discussed it at length.  Knowing that I’ll be home for the next few weeks, I plan to work on a decorating project.  There will be spackling and painting and rearranging… and as part of the plan we found a great piece of used furniture on Craigslist.  We had arranged to go pick it up.  But we’ve been really strict with our kids about social distancing and hand-washing and not spending time with people who aren’t family.  The kids haven’t liked these rules.  As a matter of fact, yesterday, I had to tell my 17 year old that she couldn’t go to her best friend’s house to provide comfort following the recent death of her grandmother.  I tried to be compassionate but clear.  It was still really hard.  I don’t think our teenagers really grasp what is happening out there in the world.  To be fair, I’m not sure I comprehend it.  But these kids need our help to make good choices in a time when very little feels safe.    

And as part of that lesson, Jack and I wanted them to come with us on this little trip.  We all loaded into the truck.  There was good-natured argument in the back, of the ‘STOP-TOUCHING-ME’ variety. That happened right before Bea rested her head on Lee’s shoulder, so I didn’t take it too seriously.  They joked and teased each other and argued about the radio. It all just felt, well, normal.

Until… we went to the ATM, where they watched my husband snap on latex work gloves to operate the machine and handle the cash.  We went to the drive- through, where they saw the workers sanitizing their cash register and countertops.  We drove past the mall and the arcade and a dozen restaurants and salons with empty parking lots.  When we finally got to our destination, they watched THAT guy snap on latex gloves to take our money.  They saw the adults have a brief conversation; us in the driveway and the sellers 20 feet away on their porch.  They heard the conversation, so they knew that the furniture had been disinfected just before we picked it up.  On the way home, we talked about a few things we needed from the grocery store.  We explained that we wouldn’t all go in; it wasn’t necessary and it wasn’t worth the risk.  My 17 year old asked to come.  My husband’s instinct was to say no, but I wanted her to.  I think it was powerful for her to see the empty shelves and the newly erected plexi-glass screens installed to protect the cashiers.  She watched a handful of stunned-looking people picking up bread and fruit and milk.  She observed that nobody was going near anyone else.  I think she was a little ‘shook,’ as the kids would say.  

I don’t necessarily want her to be scared.  I just want her to be safe.  Right now, all of our kids need different things.  Some kids need reassurance and someone to keep them safe and protect them from unnecessary fear.  Some kids need solid information and comfort.  But some of our kids, especially our teens, might need to be a little ‘shook.’  Because at that age, they are fearless.  They’re supposed to be.  That’s how God made them.  So in times like these, they need us to help them to step out of their self-centered sense of immortality and into the real world.  They need a healthy dose of fear to keep them grounded and safe and considerate.  

Today, I think my kids got a beautiful balance.  They participated in a worship service that assured them that they are loved and supported and part of something bigger.  They got a little family fun and a little holy spirit and also a little reality check.  They saw adults who modeled what it looks like to take care of your people in such a strange time.  

Today, they were a little shook, and I like to think they’re better for it.  

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Feelings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So where does that leave me? 

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

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

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

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Something to Give

The house smells like pizza.  My favorite insulated tumbler is full of sweet tea (I haven’t added the vodka just yet), and I’ve read half a novel today.  I woke up early, showered, made a trip to the dump and then took Lee on a Target run.  We laughed our way through the aisles and then returned home with all the fixings for a bake-a-thon.  I’ve talked to my mom, my dad, and my mother-in-law today, and I’ve spent the morning exchanging texts with my sisters and many of my close friends.  

I’m sitting in front of my computer, focusing on taking deep breaths. I’m prayerful and grateful.  

And I am also just a few breaths away from a panic attack.  

When I was a kid, I felt the panic coming on and then I panicked more.  I would spiral so badly that I couldn’t breathe.  I couldn’t move.  I couldn’t speak.  The tears rolled down my face and I felt certain that I was dying.  

This continued into my twenties and thirties, but as I got older, I learned to recognize the signs before they became paralyzing.  I know that the pain behind my rib cage on my left side is my ‘notice,’ if you would.  It tells me I need to pause and breathe.  I need to listen to my body and stretch and pray and summon a mental list of my blessings.  My body tells me what’s about to happen, and I’ve learned strategies for preventing it.  

But what nobody has ever been able to explain is what causes it.   The doctors called it ‘free-floating’ anxiety when I was a kid.  Which always seemed like a ridiculously cute name for something so terribly crippling.  And if it was so freely able to float, why wouldn’t it just freaking FLOAT AWAY?

I could never point to a cause.  I was never able to identify a particular stressor.  My anxiety would appear at the most unexpected times.  It was never when I was in the middle of a crisis.  It didn’t show up for breakups or finals or first dates.  It reared its ugly head in the middle of a lunch date with a friend, or just before band practice, or in a hotel spa.  I didn’t believe the anxiety diagnosis for a long time, because … well, I just didn’t FEEL anxious.  

I’ve been in and out of therapy since I was a kid.  I recently started seeing someone new.  She’s great.  She’s thoughtful and funny and makes connections that I can’t see until she points them out.  And she’s started to point out all the ways that I twist myself in order to feel liked, or wanted, or needed, or respected.  

She has helped me to see that I don’t let myself feel my own feelings, because I’m too busy anticipating the responses or needs of others.  

And I’m starting to notice it in a million little ways.  I haven’t made my own favorite meal in years, because nobody else really likes it.  I let my husband interrupt me, even though it drives me nuts.  I spend so much time worrying about what my readers might want to read that I stop writing altogether. 

All of this is so deeply ingrained that I don’t even know I’m doing it.  I suppress my desires so intuitively that I don’t even realize what’s happening.  That is, of course, until I explode. Sometimes it looks like tears in the shower. Sometimes it looks like a panic attack in the grocery store.  Sometimes it looks like angry screaming at my kids.  

On Monday morning, as I was getting ready to leave for work, Lee called for me.  “Mom…. I’m so sorry.”  Not a good sign. 

Instead of cleaning his room the day before, what he had actually done was shove everything under his bed… including a gallon container of Elmer’s glue.  The container, poorly closed and lying on its side, had deposited a three-foot wide puddle of glue under his bed.  Resting in the glue puddle was an assortment of art supplies, empty cups, dirty clothes, and random trash.  

To say I lost my temper would be a gross understatement.  There was screaming and swearing and crying.  I could feel my pulse in my temple, and I think I pulled a muscle in my neck.  I lost my mind.  

And it wasn’t until my therapy session, two days later, that I was able to tease out what had happened.  She pushed me to look closer.  How much of that explosion was actually because of the glue?  What else had been going on?  What had I done to take care of myself that week? What was I really feeling? 

In hindsight, it was a straw-that-broke-the-camel’s-back kind of a moment.  I had been just barely maintaining the status quo.  I was treading water, trying to be a good mom and a good teacher and a good wife and a good friend, and none of it was clicking the way I wanted it to.  I was a shaken bottle of emotion, and the inevitable explosion took the form of rage.

 I lost it because I had nothing left to give.

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Over the past week, I’ve been trying to ‘be fine.’ I laugh about the empty toilet paper shelves and wonder if people realize that humans lived for thousands of years without paper specifically designed for butt-wiping.  And then I walk a few feet away and buy cough medicine I don’t currently need.  

I tell my students and my kids to ‘just wash your hands’ while I make lists of ingredients for two weeks of dinners, ‘just in case.’  

I floss my teeth and photocopy vocabulary words like it’s a normal day, and then I spend my lunch period Googling various combinations of “Italy” and “COVID-19” and “CDC” and “pandemic.”  

Yesterday, I left work, picked up Lee from his afterschool club, and went to the store… not because I actually thought I needed something, but because I wanted to look around and make sure there wasn’t something I had forgotten.  

Please don’t take the time to write and tell me how crazy that was. My logical brain KNOWS that.  

But I’ve been so worried about LOOKING crazy, that I’ve been ignoring these feelings.  This anxiety is so repressed that it is beginning to seep out of me in ways that don’t make sense.  And maybe that’s exactly what a panic attack is.  It is the spillage that results from way too much trying to be fine. 

I got the call yesterday afternoon that school would be cancelled today in the district where I work.  Within minutes, I had made the decision to keep my own kids home, even though their schools aren’t closing until Monday.  And in that moment, I breathed a sigh of relief that helped me to see that I had been holding my breath for days.  

Today, as the world grinds to a halt in the face of a pandemic, I’m trying to let myself feel my feelings.  It’s okay to be scared.  It’s okay to feel sad.  It’s okay to be happy for the chance to binge Queer Eye and bake brownies with my kids.  All of it can be there at the same time.  The gratitude and the strength can co-exist with the fear and the worry.  

I’m trying to listen to my body and focus on my feelings and get curious about my emotional state. I’m opening my heart so I can be filled with something bigger than all of this.  And when I can embrace all of those emotions and inhale the grace that has been extended to me, I’ll be able to find my center. That’s where I’ll find my gifts and remember that, with God’s help, I will always have something to give.

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Going Stealth

Going Stealth

Lee transitioned in the fourth grade.  Now, four years later, he is in middle school with a bunch of kids who remember him as a girl, and a whole lot of students who know him as ‘the trans kid.’ 

And we all know that people can be mean.  And kids this age can be brutal.  There’s a core group of kids who refer to him as “that tranny.”  Of course, they never do it within earshot of adults, so it’s hard to prove and even harder to combat.  But, despite the ‘haters,’ he’s got a great group of loyal friends.  He’s got support and people who love him.  He is out and proud and unashamed.  

How much of that is a performance?  A show to convince everyone that the bullying and the name calling doesn’t bother him?  I’m not really sure.  I always just assumed this kid had an over abundance of confidence.  His “give-a-damn’s busted,” or some such cliché.  His favorite shirt reads, “Nobody Knows I’m Trans,” and I love him for wearing it proudly.  

But times, they are a changing.  He’s applying to High Schools.  And he’s excited about something I didn’t see coming.  

Going stealth.  

In the trans community, it’s a particular privilege (although this isn’t true for all trans people, especially those who with a non-binary identity) to be able to ‘pass’ in social situations.  When people in transition get ‘read’ as the correct gender by strangers in public, it’s often a milestone.  In unfamiliar situations, Lee has always had ‘passing privilege.’  Because he never went through a female puberty, he presents as male.  His hair, his clothing, his name… all of those non-medical changes were enough, at the tender age of 8, to prompt strangers to view him as a boy.  Now that he’s older, we’ve taken some medical steps, so his jaw is squaring, his shoulders are widening, a little shadow has appeared on his upper lip.  He’s pretty consistently gendered correctly.  

And having this ‘passing privilege’ opens up the option to ‘go stealth.’ He can simply rely on the general public to perceive the correct gender and not share his trans identity. 

That’s what Lee wants to do.  He wants to start at a new school, and just, well… keep his privates private.  He wants to be known for his artistic talent and his anime obsession and his animal-whispering skills.  He wants to make new friends and just BE, without answering uncomfortable questions and explaining himself to people who may or may not genuinely want to understand. 

His room is currently plastered in Pride flags.  Gay pride flags.  Pan pride flags.  Trans pride flags.  And last week, he asked me if he could take them down.  I didn’t know how to react.  The question was so unexpected… so out of character… that I wasn’t sure where it was coming from.  He read my face and clarified, “If I get to go to a different high school, I’m taking down my flags and climbing back into the closet.”  His phrasing made me giggle, but his words broke my heart.  

And, of course, it’s HIS choice.  It’s HIS lived experience we’re talking about, here.  

I haven’t lived as a trans person, so I don’t know what it’s like for him to be ‘out’.  I can’t imagine how hard it is to feel like you have a target on your back, especially as you navigate the nightmare of middle school.  But I do know what it’s like to have a secret.  To worry that someone might find out the thing that you so desperately want to hide.  To be afraid of the truth.  

Secrets are scary.  They can be used against you.  As blackmail or punishment or even a defense in court.  If a straight person murders a trans person, they can actually argue that they were so shocked and surprised by someone’s trans-ness that they’re not responsible for their own actions.  SERIOUSLY???

So, while I’m sure it would be easier for him to go to school as a boy and just ‘pass,’ I’m also worried about the repercussions if his ‘secret’ gets out.  Will he face potentially violent reactions if his peers feel like they’ve been lied to? 

I keep playing the ‘what-ifs’ in my head.  I keep imagining worst-case scenarios.  But I also need to imagine the relief at finally being able to just blend in.  The comfort of not having to watch your back or read between the lines or second-guess every interaction.  

Ultimately, I don’t think my opinion on this one is worth a damn.  He’s got to decide.  He’s always going to have to decide.  Every time he meets someone new.  Every time he starts a new job or makes a new friend or gets close enough to date someone.  Every time he enters a relationship, he’s going to have to make a choice.  He’s going to have to decide if the risk is worth the reward.  

And I can’t protect him from it.  I can’t mitigate the risks or predict the outcomes.  I can only be there to support him through it; to cheer him on through the wins and comfort him through the losses and remind him that his value is not dependent on other people’s reactions to him.  

Just like every other parent, I suppose.  I can’t fix the world for my kid, so I have to prepare my kid to be brave and bold and vulnerable and kind.  I have to help him to be cautious AND resilient as he becomes the incredible adult human that God intended him to be.  

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February Vacation

  

I’ve been browsing Facebook more than usual, because I’m on vacation this week. And it’s fascinating to get a glimpse of what my friends and acquaintances are doing.  There are ski trips and museum trips and big smiles and happy families.  There are pictures of beautiful beaches and tropical drinks and colorful sunsets.  I see old friends in bikinis, looking better than I ever did in my 20s. I have a friend who is on a once in a lifetime trip to Tokyo this week to visit her son.  How amazing is that?  

And, because I know and love these people, I am happy for them.  These are awesome experiences and once-in-a-lifetime trips.  These people deserve their vacations.

But holy cow, guys.  That’s not what my February vacation looks like.  And it’s not what it looks like for most of the people I know.  

Jackie’s kitchen ceiling collapsed this week.  She’s putting on a smile and being a trooper, but… GOD.  That sucks.  

Rebecca’s kids are with their dad this week. She’s working overtime to distract herself.  She hates missing vacations with them.    

Stephanie sent her kids to Florida to visit Grandma (at exorbitant cost), so that she can pack up her house and get ready to move.  She’s spending her days at work and her nights packing boxes.  

Jennifer is a single mom to two kids.  She’s fitting in her oil change and her trip to the DMV and taking her kids on day trips to pretty cool places.  She still feels like she’s not doing enough.  

Annie drove with her family to Florida.  Everyone was sick and it took two days longer than it should have.  But they made it.  

My kids have been watching too much YouTube and playing too many video games and when I finally got them out of the house yesterday, they argued the whole time.  

To the dads trying to entertain stir-crazy toddlers… You’ve got this.  

To the moms planning activities and crafts and distractions… You’re amazing.  Even when it ends in tears. 

To the parents who are letting your kids play too many video games… It’s fine.  They’re fine.  

To the working parents trying to cobble together child-care… Stay strong.  You’ve got this.  

Guys, let’s be in this together.  It’s not a contest.  Love your kids.  Go to work.  Have fun when you can.  Keep showing up for your family.  But take time to rest.  Cut yourself some slack.  You’re doing great.  

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Fourteen

Last night, my house was full of teenagers and laughter and off-color jokes.  There was pizza and painting and loud card games.  There were make-your-own sundaes, drowning in chocolate syrup and Swedish fish, because Kyle invited four friends over to spend the night in celebration of his 14th birthday.  My husband thinks I’m crazy, but I loved every minute of it.  Because when teenagers gather in groups, they forget the adults can still hear them.  They become wrapped up in their own inside jokes and their crude humor and their developing sense of self.  When they’re gathered like that, you get a glimpse of them becoming.  Becoming individuals.  Becoming adults.  Becoming the version of themselves that doesn’t have anything to do with you.  

Watching your kids grow up is a pretty universal phenomenon, but like childbirth or any aspect of raising kids, it’s also intensely personal and life-changing and brutal and beautiful. 

Today, my firstborn is 14.  Despite all evidence to the contrary, deep down, I think I thought he would be little forever.  When he was born, I couldn’t imagine a day when he wouldn’t need me to take care of him.  Yet, here we are. 

Today, my heart aches.  It aches with sadness AND joy and I didn’t even know that was possible.  Where did my baby go?  How did I get so blessed?  How can he be so funny and brave and talented?  Where did all of that come from?  

When did he get his own, caustic, incredible sense of humor?

How did he learn to draw like that? 

Where did that confidence come from? 

Why won’t he do his homework? 

Where did the years go? 

What will I do when he doesn’t need me anymore? 

If the goal of this whole thing is to help him become a real, functional, grown-up person, why does the thought of him NOT needing me bring me to tears?  

For all these years, people have been saying, “Enjoy every moment,” which is sage, yet impossible, advice.  And I’ve tried.  I try to enjoy every phase and appreciate each stage and just love the little moments.  But the moments are slipping away.  If fourteen years went by in a minute, the next four or five will be gone any second. 

And I can’t stop time.  The best I can do is notice its passing.  I can look around in this moment and pause to take it all in. 

There’s a gaggle of teenagers on my living room floor on sagging air mattresses, wrapped in cartoon-character blankets.  

There are two boxes of donuts on the counter, for when they wake up craving carbs and sugar.  There’s extra coffee for the parents because they will be full of carbs and sugar. 

There’s a fourteen year old with orange hair and trendy glasses and a smile that lights up the room, anticipating his traditional birthday breakfast donut.  

There’s a dusting of snow on the ground and two dogs asleep at my feet, while I sip coffee from the cup holder in the reclining couch that we almost didn’t buy because “Cup holders belong in cars, not couches.”  That logic was wrong, by the way.   

There’s a strong, funny, talented, kind, and easily-distracted bald dude sitting next to me who fills my heart with overwhelming love and also sometimes incredible frustration, and I look at him and I see my future and I also understand this teenager just a little better.  

There are two more kids upstairs, one sound asleep who was fourteen yesterday and will spend this weekend writing college essays.   The other is playing online games with his friends at this early hour.  He’ll be fourteen any second.  

The moments blend together and then separate with amazing clarity when you least expect it.  

There’s a giggle from the gaggle in the living room.  They’re stirring. 

In a moment, there will be more moments to enjoy.  And while I watch this child becoming who he will be, I will try to remember that I am becoming, too.  I am growing into this next phase of parenting; the phase that looks more like worrying and advising and celebrating than supervising and shuttling and, well, raising.  

They’re growing.  They will soon be grown.  And, thank God, there’s still so much to look forward to…

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Parent Teacher Conferences

I’ve recently changed my approach to parent teacher conferences.   My therapist helped me with this. 

During my therapy sessions, I often talk about my kids.  I’m passionate, thoughtful, caring, worried, creative, supportive, and obviously madly in love with these growing humans.  I talk about their challenges and their talents.  I talk about their poor attitudes and their astonishing kindness.  I talk about their bravery and their laziness.   I SEE them.  And I will break my back to do what’s best for them.  

Then I go into parent teacher conferences and I listen meekly, as if I don’t have anything to say.  I don’t make excuses for my kids, because I don’t want to be THAT parent.  I don’t question the teachers because I trust them.  I don’t offer suggestions for fear of stepping on toes.  

I listen.  And while I can tell that these educators truly care, they’re often bringing me in to talk about a problem.  An unmotivated child.  A child struggling with trauma.  A child with mental health concerns.  A child with ADHD or anxiety or depression or all of the above.  I hear about missing assignments or poor social skills or questionable decisions and I hang my head because all of these stories feel like a litany of my failures.  I take responsibility for their weaknesses and their mistakes and their choices.  I feel as if I am there to receive a punishment for poor parenting.  The guilt catches in my throat, and I’m not sure what the appropriate response is. The teachers look at me expectantly.  They’d like to hear what I’m going to DO.  They want to be reassured that the parents will take charge and FIX this once we get home.  As if we didn’t know.  As if it were that simple.  

Because, you see, I KNOW these kids.  I’m not operating under the illusion that they’re perfect little snowflakes. I’m not oblivious or absent or unconcerned.  I’m not hearing these things for the first time. Quite the opposite.  We hear the frustration and we FEEL it, too.  We know our kids have struggles. But we are engaged and thoughtful and our family is working hard to raise healthy, competent, confident, thoughtful, kind, motivated human beings who respect themselves and others and the world around them.  We are teaching them gratitude and responsibility and self-care and respect. 

In the past, I’ve sat through parent teacher conferences as if I were on trial or somehow receiving my punishment for poor parenting.  

This time, I did it differently.  Taking my therapist’s advice, I took control of the conversation.  I listened, but I also used my voice to paint a picture of life in our house.  They complained about homework completion. I shared my philosophy about NOT driving back to school to retrieve forgotten books or assignments.  Not because I don’t care, but because I don’t want to send the message that their forgetfulness is my responsibility.  Not to mention that nobody has the time to drive to three schools picking up forgotten materials at the end of a busy work day. I described what homework time looks like, with me bouncing from living room to dining room to den, answering questions and giving pep talks and making threats and offering suggestions to three students who struggle to complete their schoolwork independently.  

They asked about outside therapy.  I talked about our experiences with four therapists in three years and the trials of finding providers who take my school-provided insurance and the state-sponsored health care that Bea receives.  They talked about creating opportunities to socialize outside of school.  I shared our attendance at support groups and church events and music lessons and play rehearsals and play dates.  And lest they think that these children are defined by their shortcomings, I bragged about their awesomeness.  The adversity they’ve overcome.  The speaking engagements, and DCF hearings and family visits and church missions and performances where they let themselves shine for the world to see.  

They brought up suggestions that I’ve tried a million different times in a million different ways… rewards and punishments and behavior charts… and instead of explaining what DOESN’T work for my kids, I spent some time explaining what DOES help.  Weekly progress reports.  Creative projects.  Cuddling on the couch with tea and some work to complete.  Nighttime chats.  After school chores and wi-fi timers and doing their own damned laundry. When they asked about medication, I shared the dosage and explained the morning routine and that I sometimes have to leave while there’s a kid in the shower.  And if he didn’t take his medicine it’s because I couldn’t actually watch him so I shouted it four times and left a note and texted him and he STILL forgot.  So instead of feeling the silent blame, I asked if we could simply leave extra with the nurse for the days he forgets.  Problem solved.  

And from now on, I’m not going to parent teacher conferences to silently receive information.  The purpose is not for the teachers to teach me all about my kids.  I know my kids, better than probably anyone on the planet.  I’m not there to learn, and I’m not there to be reprimanded.  I’m there to listen and share and problem-solve and partner with these dedicated teachers.  Because we’re all on the same team.  We’re all working toward the goal of raising and educating decent, competent humans.  

And nobody should feel guilty about that.   

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2020

In recent years, the “Self-Help” section of bookstores and libraries has changed to “Self-Improvement.”  I know this because it’s one of my favorite sections to browse.  I’m a lover of books in all forms, but I especially love ones that weave together psychology and science and personal stories, exploring the myriad ways that humans have endeavored to become better humans.  I love learning about how our brains and our environments work together to motivate our actions; I’m fascinated by all of the ways that we can change our own habits and personalities; I’m amazed by all of the factors that work together in our conscious and our unconscious to make us who we are.  

And I like the name change.  Self-help implies brokenness, and I don’t believe I am broken.  I do, however, believe that all things can be improved.  Myself included. 

In fact, I believe that it is our obligation, while we’re here on Earth, to become the best possible versions of ourselves.  I believe we owe it to the world and to our creator and to our families and friends and neighbors and to OURSELVES to keep learning and growing and improving.  

So, I find myself here, in the New Year, thinking about resolutions, which have become little more than the butt of a joke.  On January 3rd, people ask, “Have you broken your resolution yet?”  Most of us will violate these promises to ourselves in the first few weeks of the year.  Resolutions work for some people as a form of self-improvement.  But a resolution is so rigid.  It’s a vow.  And it’s usually a vow to make some sort of large change which we have previously been unable to sustain, despite multiple attempts.  

Does the date make a resolution somehow more attainable?  Perhaps there’s something about starting on the first of a new year that appeals to our sense of order, but my most sustainable changes have started on, oh, say…. a random Wednesday in October. 

And, really, about 90% of my resolutions have been some form of ‘lose weight’ over the years.  

I’m hesitant to write about this, for fear of messing it up.  You see, I have been learning a lot about health and body positivity and self-acceptance, and much of that is fundamentally at odds with my inner desire to be thinner.  

And my inner desire to be thinner is fundamentally at odds with all I believe about human variation and the inherent value of people and our shallow cultural assessment of beauty. 

I’m not going to write about those things, because lots of educated, intelligent people have written about those things.  If you’re interested, you can read personal stories and scientific research and cautionary tales.  

If you’re fascinated by the brain, you should read, “Thinking, Fast and Slow” by Daniel Kahneman.  If you’re into self-improvement, you should read “Atomic Habits” by James Clear.  If you want to learn more about being healthy and fat, you should read about ‘Health at Every Size.’ 

And what I’m going to write about is how I’ve taken all of those things and squished them together into a vague plan of how to be a better human in 2020.  

I’m trying to find a better balance.  I’m building habits that make me feel better about myself, instead of playing into all the ways that the world wants me to think that I’m not good enough.  Does that even make sense?  

Because, the truth is, I do think it’s possible to believe that you are ENOUGH, and still know that you can be better.  But the only way to do it is to find YOUR version of better.  What will make you a better YOU?  

A better ME would write more.  Writing makes me feel more myself.  I know I’m doing something I’m meant to do when I write. 

A better ME would spend more time in nature.  Being outdoors brings me peace. 

A better ME would spend more time enjoying my children. My kids remind me what joy looks like, if I only take the time to see it.  

The list goes on and on.  It’s too much to tackle all at once.  But I’ve learned a little about habits and since October, I’ve started “habit stacking.”  What this means is… I take a habit I want to develop and I attach it or ‘stack’ it on top of a habit I already have. 

For example; I’m terrible at flossing.  I hate it and avoid it and then feel like a petulant child at my dental check ups when they tell me that I need to floss more.  But I do brush my teeth every day.  So I stacked flossing on top of that.  Every time I brushed my teeth, I was reminded of my commitment to floss.  It was yucky and irritating at first.  But that was months ago.  Now it’s just part of my routine.  And once I added the flossing, I stacked ‘take a multivitamin’ on top of that.  So with very little effort, I managed to add two small habits that, cumulatively, will likely have a positive impact on my health.  

I did the same to make a shift in my breakfast routine.  A few months ago, I generally ate nothing or some sort of egg sandwich; neither option was healthy.  But I ALWAYS had coffee.  So I stacked ‘eat fruit’ on top of the coffee.  Every morning with my java, I also had an apple or a banana or a handful of raspberries.  On weekend mornings, I might still have a bigger breakfast with my family, but fruit first gets me off to a better start.  

I don’t like myself when I’m dieting.  I become compulsive and obsessive.  I have an all-or-nothing attitude and I become self-deprecating and cranky.  The numbers on the scale dictate my mood and I ride a roller coaster of self-congratulating and self-loathing that totally sucks.  Newer evolutions of weight-loss programs are beginning to acknowledge this unhealthy cycle through things like “non-scale victories” and ‘small changes.’  But those programs still make their money by making us feel like we’re somehow broken and in need of fixing.  

I’m not buying into it anymore.  I’m not broken.  In fact, I’m pretty amazing in a lot of ways.  And the ways that I can improve aren’t about the way I LOOK at all.  Here are my goals for 2020:

– Walk the dogs more.  Get outside.

– Do more yoga. 

– Spend 1:1 time with at least one kid every week.

– Find and cook new, delicious recipes.  

– Be more present. 

– Write.  Write a lot.  

I’m not going to do this all at once.  I’m going to stack my habits and make small changes and enjoy feeling like I’m becoming the best possible version of myself.  

Whether you made a resolution or not; whether you’ve stuck to it or given up or changed it, know that you are enough, right now, in this moment.  Make sure anything you vow to change takes you on the road toward being MORE you.  

And the rest of us will be abundantly blessed just to know you.