Remember the Bad Times Too

*Just a little note that all the tests came back fine. I am dealing with negotiating some food issues and that will take a little time. I wrote this little piece when I was waiting on results and yea, maybe I'm not so good at waiting. And my mind wanders. 

Even as I await the results of the test that will tell me if I will die early, I fight falling into cliche. Quickly the things I’ve dreamt of peacefully slip away. The African safari, spending an extended time on a Hawaiian beach, the many books and stories I want to write….. they quietly retreat and I don’t even feel sad for them. These were things to fill my life after the main act.  My husband and children were always all I ever wanted. And I got them. The End.

Except I wasn’t quite done with the main act. There was more I wanted to do with them. Maybe  not necessarily do, but I wanted them to know more. More about me, more about what I know, more about life.

I am glad I know my path. I am glad I won’t grow old alone- that has always been a fear. I will leave this world when it is largest for me. I feel a relief to know that I wasn’t lazy or worthless the last few months. The illness justifies all I’ve felt.

But I don’t want my children to remember me like this. It will get worse, but I don’t even want you to think back to now and think this is what your mother was like. I hate the fatigue that has taken over my life and prevented me from being the Mother I am in my mind. I need you to know all the things I wanted to be for you.

You won’t remember but Sally was a tiny baby and the older two were two and four years old and we were driving down the road and I saw the biggest turtle I have ever seen slowly making his way across the road.  I made Daddy stop the car and I got you out to watch the turtle on his long slow journey across the road. Daddy was worried about traffic and safety, which is good - but I wanted you to witness the beauty and awe of this magnificent creature crossing the road.  I wanted to always have time to slow down and wonder in awe with you.

I wanted you to remember the spring day it had been raining all day and we walked with umbrellas and raced leaves in the curbs on the streets. I want you to remember all the hours we spent swimming at the beach. I want you to remember bike rides. I want you to remember snuggling in the morning before the day starts. I want you to remember how we can just sit and laugh and laugh. And I definitely want you to remember that I can still do a cartwheel.  I love the way Sally brags about that to her friends and their mothers.

Even if its impossible to remember all the conversations we’ve had, I want you to remember that we had conversations. We talked about hard things. All the times I’ve talked with you about your questions related to sex and your bodies - that was not easy for me. But I made myself do it. I would rather you ask me than ask the kids at school. That cool relaxed attitude I have? I am white knuckled on the inside…. but I don’t want you to know that. When you ask from the bottom of your heart why people don’t want gays and lesbians to be able to marry if it doesn’t even affect them…. it breaks my heart as you learn of the intolerance in this world, but it makes me proud that you are thinking about it. And when you want to buy condoms and open them to see what is in there? I calmly say, go ahead. While I’m dying inside. Not only because of the discomfort, but because how can you be old enough to ask? And I thank God for my little one who saves me from being so old when she says that those (condoms) are for removing the hair from unwanted places on your body. And I thank God for her big sister who told her this, trying to protect her little mind.

I want you to remember the feel of these conversations, because I always want you to have them. Stay open. Connect. Ask the hard questions. Try to find the answers, even though they don’t always come. I’m sorry I don’t know how mankind started. I don’t know which theory is correct. And yes, if Adam and Eve were the first couple, their kids would have had to reproduce together. And I’m so glad you would be overwhelmed if you were picked to be the first man on earth. That is a perspective I hadn’t entertained before. And never ever lose that empathy that allows you to think of things from perspectives other than your own.

I want you to remember our sunset picnics on the beach in Sanibel. I want you to remember the mountains of Tennessee. I want you to remember the intense stifling wet heat of Louisiana and Mississippi. I want you to remember skiing on the mountains in Colorado. But don’t lose sight of all the gifts close to where you are. Find the beautiful places close to your home, wherever that may be. Get fresh air; its always healing. Turn off the screens. Know yourself. Deeply. You will change. That is good. Learn how to soothe yourself. You will need it. Play music - it is the only activity that engages your entire brain at one time.

Remember the games we played. The fires we built. The hours we sweated and cried over homework. Remember when I tried being the Tiger Mom? Ha. Remember the time Daddy and me toilet papered your rooms for April Fools Day.  Remember sneaking in my room and sleeping on the floor next to me. I secretly loved that. Remember when you were sick and throwing up all night - how we talked and snuggled and how I held your back and I washed your face with a cold wash cloth. Don’t remember it because it makes me look good but remember it so you can do that for your child.

But, dear babies, as hard as it is for me to write, please don’t only remember the good times. Please remember the hard times too. Please remember when I wasn’t perfect. Please remember when I yelled at you, when I ran out of patience, when I could take no more. Remember the times I had to walk away. Remember all the deadlines I missed. Remember when you had to wear dirty clothes to school because there were none clean. Remember wearing mismatched socks. Remember eating cereal for dinner. Remember when I cried and fought with Daddy.

Because when these things happen to you, I will not be here to remind you of them. I don’t want you to feel like a failure or a freak when you aren’t able to keep up. When you aren’t able to be super human. You see, my plan was to be here for that.  I was going to tell you my stories of my shortfalls, to come to your aid and help when things get tough in real life. . Because they do. For everyone. Not many people will let you in on their pain, and you might feel lonely and depressed. You will make mistakes. You will lose your temper. And I want you to know thats OK, thats normal.

I wanted to share with you my faith. I haven’t done that enough.  It is strong, and non judgemental. And always questioning. Maybe thats why I haven’t been able to share enough. I tried to give you the freedom to learn how you really feel and believe, what resonates within your own heart. I wish I had shared, wished I had known really, that my faith is much like that of my grandmothers and my father. They are the quiet, strong believers whose faith is between them and their God.

So, my little blessings, try to remember it all. Be gentle with yourselves when you can’t. Life is cake for dinner and life is brussel sprouts for dinner. The key is to have balance. And the other key is knowing you will never have balance. Grandma Patsy always told me that nothing too good or too bad lasts for too long. Remember this little nugget when things are tough. But, most importantly, remember it when things are going well. Practicing gratitude in the moment imprints happiness on your soul that can last a lifetime.

The Power of No Words

It is said words are power.  Words can do anything, make anything happen. There are so many of them.  How to arrange them, pick them, put them in the right order is always the conundrum. 

Every now and then, people will say the right thing in an impossible situation.  Most of the time, people stumble over their words.  Or use words they know won’t help but are most commonly called upon when one must acknowledge an unfortunate turn of events.    

“I’m sorry,” or “How can I help?” or some other grouping of words that can, in no way, ease the pain or express the depths of our feelings. 

When I was 20, I had my tonsils removed.  I had been sick for a year, and finally the decision was made.  A tonsillectomy on a child is a day or two of being down, but on a 20 year old, with no complications, we were told two weeks.  I laid on my mother’s couch for a week.  Unexpectedly, my Daddy showed up.  He sat in the uncomfortable rocking chair next to the couch as I tried to be polite.  I guess I fell back asleep.  For the next week, my mother either was out or retreated to her bedroom - to give us space I guess. My Daddy rotated between the uncomfortable rocker or under my feet at the end of the couch for the entire week.  

And here’s the catch:  I don’t remember him saying ten words the entire week.  He would show up, ask how I was doing that day and if I needed anything. I never needed anything because my mother was doing all that work. Instead of leaving, he would then read, or watch TV, or nap, or just sit.  All day.  Every day.  Sometime in the afternoon, he would kiss me goodbye, and tell me he would see me in the morning.  

Then I started watching him.  He is not a touchy-feely man or very expressive.  He avoids conflict, probably because he doesn’t have much patience and can be short tempered.  But the way he can sit in silence is an extraordinary gift.  He holds pain for people, if only for short periods of time.  He can sit with the sick or the elderly, and click on a baseball game, and say, “I’ll bet you five bucks the Braves win.”  Even though I would bet he has never watched a complete game in his life, being that watching sports bores him.  In turning on that game and sitting there, he is taking the cancer away or lessening the loss of a loved one for just an afternoon.  He allows people to retreat to a happier place ever so briefly.  He has the rare ability to just BE with them. Few or no words are spoken. 

In the last months of my father’s father’s life, the Alzheimers had made my grandfather paranoid and anxious.  My Daddy drove the hour to his parents house several days a week to do his thing - just be with them. I was with him once and I was sitting in my grandparents now quiet living room with my Daddy and my grandmother and my grandfather.  My grandfather was upset about the kids hiding in the trees in the front yard.  My grandmother kept admonishing him that there were no kids out there.  The kids had been gone for years.  I was in silent shock at seeing this person who used to be my grandfather act like this.  This was the conversation for an indeterminable amount of time.  My Daddy wasn’t saying anything.  He was reading a paper or something regular that shouldn’t have been happening because we should have been trying to do something for my grandparents, something to help both of them.  

Finally, my Daddy got up, folded the paper, and walked outside without saying a word. “What the fuck?” was all my 20 something brain could come up with. “Don’t leave me here with them like this.  I am scared.”  But I was still frozen solid, words failing me.  

So I sat in the living room listening to my grandfather worry about the imaginary kids safety or learning that these kids were scoping out his house to rob him blind in the night. I listened to my grandmother tell him there were no kids - sometimes gently and lovingly, other times exhausted and exasperated. This is how it was with him - we had to tell him things over and over and over. I might as well have not been there - words were failing me.  I didn’t know what to say or do. 

After awhile, my Daddy came back inside.  He told my grandfather that he had talked to the kids and the kid’s parents.  Everything was ok.  They were just playing and there to keep them company.  My grandmother and I just watched in awe as my grandfather finally starting settling down.  

I was so ready to blow out of there at that point.  I was exhausted, frightened and needed to go.  

But my Daddy picked up his book and settled in on the couch, saying nothing. 

Coming Around Again

Lindsey recently wrote a post about our bodies and how to pass on healthy attitudes about our bodies to our children. A brave and very wise woman responded and shared how she gains weight when things aren’t going well and what to learn from that. 

The last two years have been fraught with changes for me - some external that you might be able to see or I could easily explain.  Most of them internal, some of them I can verbalize, but most of them I can’t. 

For the last few weeks, the stars aligned in a nasty way. I couldn’t shake a cold, I couldn’t finish anything, my husband was traveling a ton, and varied from being crabby and distant when he was home.  Everyone was annoying me and it scared me that I didn’t like anyone or anything anymore.  Everything became a weird dream in which everything was amplified.  My children would never get through needing help with their homework because of their disabilities, my house will never, ever be clean or organized until the kids moved out and then it would get clean and perfect and I would die of lonliness on the spot when I realized they would never be back for good. I could never possibly be a good wife, good mother, good daughter, good friend, and failed miserably at all of these. I was an overweight failure who couldn’t write, couldn’t finish anything, and had no friends and we would never have enough money to pay our bills. 

When I read this post about depression, I ceded that I might be depressed. And maybe I was, but I think it was more, and less than depression.  There were some things that I had been unintentionally stuffing deep down, and it came a time that there was no more room in there to keep it down.  And then I started to pay attention, and this stuffing was actually causing pressure; it became too much of an effort to keep it in.  I could literally feel the tears behind my eyes all the time, but they were stuck there behind my eyes, unable to break through. 

And then, of course, there came a point where it had to release.  I was very scared of the release, of who would be hurt now because I could no longer hold it. Trying to describe it, I keep coming up with gross images that I don’t want associated with this time and piece.  So I think I will go with a child losing a tooth.  At first, it is almost imperceptible, but something is changing.  Then you realize that there will be a change, and you are given time to grapple with it.  There is a huge build up, and  you simply can’t ignore it.  

And then the tooth comes out with lots of blood purging out and leaves an empty hole.  Then you realize that the bleeding has stopped, and there is a nice new open space, making room for new growth. 

And it’s really fun to rub around on that spot, wondering what will come.  Sometimes you may think about the old tooth, or think about the scary feelings associated with losing it.  Or the new space may feel a little vulnerable.  But mostly, it feels open and full of possibilities. 

Fog

We cross this bridge every day driving to school.  It is a beautiful view any day you cross it, any season.  Grays Bay is on the right, and the main lake is on the left.  The bridge crosses to a narrow strip of land, where there is barely room for the two lane road to wind through the trees. 

Many days the lake looks very different on each side of the bridge.  The bay could be smooth, while the main lake shows the currents of the wind.  The bay could be showing slight waves, while there are white caps just 30 yards away. Or the bay could be frozen, while the main lake is still open.  

On the particular day I snapped this picture, each side looked the same.  That is, we couldn’t see any water on either side because the fog was so thick. It was a little eery, as there are very few foggy days on this particular bay. We knew the fog was temporary, that we would see our lake and the beautiful views again. We also understood that we couldn’t see everything that we normally see. Yet this fog was very, very real and I had to drive very carefully and focus on what was directly in front of me in order to get to school safely. I had to understand that anything in the periphery was almost certainly a skewed view. 

Growing up near the swamps of Louisiana, I am no stranger to fog.  They even have road signs that remind you that visibility is limited in the fog. But the sun also shines hot and bright down there and the fog rarely lasts. 

Several years ago, we rented a house on an island off the coast of Maine and the fog set in for days.  Having never experienced this, I thought I would go crazy.  We literally hired a boat to take us to the mainland so we could drive inland for the day, and experience clear vision. 

My life has been a bit foggy lately and I really wish I could hire someone to take me out of it.  To remind me of the clarity that I have worked so hard to achieve. So that I can see everything as it is, rather than through the distorting haze of this heavy wet fog. 

A Process

My favorite days are when I have an open morning and even better if there is nothing on the schedule until picking up the kids from school.  And immensely better if I have worked out before coming to sit for hours. 

I grab my latte and sit with my computer.  Without a plan.  I read blogs, and make lists, switching from window to window, going where my [thoughts] takes me.  If I feel the need to connect, I will make a concerted effort to send emails, or comment on blogs or facebook.  But usually, I will just read, jot notes on pressing things that come to mind, relaxing into a no pressure, reflective, quiet readying for my day period.   

This may not be a quieting of the mind, but it is a slowing, a centering.  Usually, over the period of 30-45 minutes, one of two things occurs.   I land on a topic, or idea, and am able to focus and write for the morning.  Or, I acknowledge that there are too many other things I need to do, and go to town crossing those off the list.  Either way, I work straight through the morning and/or early afternoon and feel wonderful about whatever I have accomplished that day.  I also have energy, confidence and enthusiasm that carry all through the evening with my family.   

Without a doubt, though, the centering time, the time before I know what the day will bring, is the best time of my day.  It is during this time, I hold hope and possibilities and dream as if I have 10 lifetimes ahead of me.

I can write the novel about my grandmother’s life.  My memoir writes and twists and edits itself before my eyes.  I plan trips to D.C. and Africa and Alaska and Mardi Gras and Northern MInnesota.  I am holy, seeking more divinity, feeling God’s will metastisizing through my being. I plan weeks of healthy, wholesome meals that I am positive my family will eat.  Feelings of undying love for my husband prevail, and avenues to keep things alive.  I have beautiful, sweeping gardens that offer solace and retreat to my family.  I envision plans and events for our kids, our school, our community that will generate unabounding excitement.  My house is clean, all the clothes are washed, and all the chores are done.  

Then my cup feels lighter, and knowing my latte is coming to an end, I force myself to choose one thing.  One thing that will make a difference.  This is one of the hardest parts of my day.  I look at all the choices, and know that most will not get done to the degree I desire.  I have to make a strong and concerted effort to focus on what I have done, not what doesn’t get done, or I spiral into inaction.   So I very deliberately take one step forward, and I write, or I plan a meal or two, or I pay some bills and I check in with the tutor.  And I feel good about it.  I remind myself, daily, that I can not do it all.  And what I do is not only enough, but it is good.  

And there will be another day and another latte and another moment when I have all those choices again.  

    

All Nighter

I ran a huge event on January 12 that went splendidly well.  And then, many said predictably, I got really sick.  I missed some social events that I was actually excited about.  I don’t have as many social events since taking back my family last fall.  I am making huge attempts not to schedule things that aren’t important to me.  I spent a couple of entire days in bed, and parts of other days for over a week.  Just as I was feeling better last Sunday night, when my husband and I had watched one show and were getting prepared for another, just before 10 p.m., my youngest daughter wakes up with the worst stomach virus in the history of the universe.  Without getting too down and dirty with the details, suffice it to say our entire army of cleaning products were used, and we left windows open all night in January in Minnesota to fumigate.  

I pulled an all nighter.  She was sick at least twice an hour, we stopped counting at 10 times around 2 am.  My youngest daughter is tough as nails, especially when it comes to stomach flus.  She spent the better part of her first three years throwing up, and knew to run to the toilet to get sick by the time she was 18 months old.  She is often stoic about stomach viruses, sometimes not even waking me up.  

But this one was different.  The night is somewhat of a blur, but the pattern is clear.  She would writhe in pain, her body straightening and stiffening into a board.  She would cry out sometimes in sharp cries, sometimes whimpering.  I would rub her if she would let me, and she only let me when she had given up hope, when all of her was used up.  

Then, suddenly, she would bolt in the bathroom to be sick.  After about 11, there was nothing left, and she became intimate with the word bile.  All I could do was hold her hair back, rub her back, and watch.  Watch her little abdomen roll uncontrollably, her shoulders following suit, her neck roll just enough to allow her blond head to crush against the back of the toilet. 

Then, the reprieve.  We would lay in bed and wait for the next one.  I would start to doze, and then I would hear something like this:  “Mama, how come I didn’t know the word bile before now?”  

I rolled from my side to my back with a little giggle.  “I’m not sure Sals.  I guess its just not that pretty of a word and it just hasn’t come up before.”  

Quiet. Dark.  With a crack of light from the bathroom, so we can find our way when the next battle comes. 

“Mama? I should have known that word.  My stomach has always been sick.” 

I had made my husband go sleep in the office because he just can’t handle this.  He goes nuts when he can not do anything to make it better.  Her pain becomes his unbearable, unfixable pain that morphs into fear, betrayal, and anger.  

Her questions and insights in the in between times became my anchor for the night.  

“I don’t understand the tuning of a violin.  You tighten the string to tune it, and it gets loose again, usually because of the water in the air.  But why does it just break at some point with no warning?”  

I know it looks like things, or people, just break without warning.  But there is always a warning, a sign, if you pay attention, and if you know what you are doing.  

“Why was I born last? Would I be the same person if was born before Chaucer or Chloe?”  

When we noticed the sky turning from the darkest black, to a little lighter black, she noticed the shift and asked why.  I explained that morning was coming soon.  

“Really? I thought the night was longer than the days in the winter.”

It is, honey.

“Wow.  That night flew by.  You mean we did an all nighter? Yes! I can’t wait to tell Chloe and Chaucer I was the first one to do an all nighter.” 

And as the sun edged its way through our blinds, I held my daughters hand, and we finally slept. 

Blessings of a Bad Day

I am smart enough, or evolved enough to ask some questions.  Serious questions like, when I am in tears over everything and every one is upsetting me..... “What time of the month is it?” or like now, when I am sick, “Is everything as bad as it seems, darker than usual, because I am sick and under the weather?”  

I consider it progress that I ask the questions, even if I don’t answer them correctly.  I was really looking forward to this quiet week after the crazy week I had last week.  Honestly, I like both kinds of weeks - busy and full of action, and quiet non scheduled weeks.  I know there is no perfect time, and it is probably better that it happened this week, but being sick has really thrown me off my game.  

I actually love it when I am able to give in to sickness.  Just say, we can’t do it.  Whether its me or my kids, giving in, laying in front of the TV or in bed, canceling obligations, and just getting thorough it.  Although I fight this, I often embrace it when I must.  

But my world is weighing heavy on me now.  Substance abuse problems tearing families apart. Families that are close to us, our children.  Allegations of sexual abuse from families in our school.  Nasty divorces, like you wouldn’t believe.  Parents driving their kids under the influence.  Adults acting like teenage girls.  A suicide in my hometown.  The heavy, heavy weight of teaching my kids to navigate this world and wondering if I can do it. 

Oh yea, and this cold.  Which somehow seems harder than anything.  Yesterday, nothing was going right, you know those days?  Nothing big, but everything little.  I woke up to a very troubling email, on an issue that is constant but sometimes demands more.  I couldn’t write a thing... except a lengthy thank you letter for my event last week.  Being sick, I am even less able to multi task than usual, and spent the better part of the early afternoon dealing with learning issues at school.  Steve called from out of town and he was distressed that his meeting didn’t go well.  Last night, I needed help disciplining my son, who is so, so sweet and kind but has to be held responsible for his actions, or inactions.  I find it almost easier to fight my headstrong daughters than to help my son be responsible.  I didn’t know what to do, so I told him I was taking all of his new fatheads off his wall.  Well, that was a disaster and I ended up being the only one crying as he pulled them off his wall, saying “I’m really sorry, Mom.  Please be careful, Mom.” I wasn’t angry or out of control, I was just trying to find something that might mean something to him.  Also, trying to tune it, I broke my youngest daughter’s beloved violin, which she plays all the time. 

I was in tears when my husband arrived home from out of town exhausted, and he surprised me.  

“Do you want to go out? Take a drive somewhere?  I’ll handle this.”  

“No.  I can’t.  I feel so bad.”

“OK.  I’ll draw you a bath.”  What? Who is this? I vaguely remember this man I dated, then married years ago.

  

“There is already a kid in my bathtub.  Can’t go there.”  

“OK. Honey.  Just get in bed and read.  I’ll finish with the kids.”  I can’t get in bed to read because my son’s brand new 6 foot fathead is laying on my bed.  I just spent the last 30 minutes unsticking it because it rolled together when I took it off his wall and now I don’t know what to do with it.  

I get up to check on my older daughter who is in the bathtub.  I walk in my bedroom and see that the huge football player fathead is not on my bed anymore, and I quickly see that my youngest daughter has tried to clean my bed off for me, but has gotten caught up in the fat head, which is stuck to itself and her, and she is trying to deal with it without letting me know.  

I burst into tears with a wailing sound and plonk on my bed and hold my pounding head.    My older daughter is calling from the bathtub, “What’s wrong, Mom?”  And my younger daughter is silently trying to fight the sticky fathead herself.  If I were in a different state, I would have taken a picture.  My husband comes in and says, again, that he will fix it.  He tells me to go downstairs and I do.  

I play our old pinball machine with tears streaming down my face.  The tears are from being sick, frustrated, challenged with the day.  They are also from all the heavy things going on in families close to us.  They are fear from what has happened to the life we imagined having, fear of losing the closeness with my husband.  They are also, thankfully, tears of happiness and a little hope.  

One by one, they come down.  Chaucer says he is sorry and brings a picture he has made and offers to play with me.  I tell him that I don’t know what to do with him.  I am so proud of him.  He is such a good, kind, nice boy that I am so proud of.  I know you don’t mean to do the things you do.  I know it is the attention deficit disorder, but you are still responsible for your actions.  Mostly, I hug him and tell him how much I love him and he has tears in his eyes.

Sally comes down with a note apologizing for breaking the ornament and wrecking the fathead.  I kiss her head and say thank you, but I know they were accidents and she was just trying to be helpful and supportive.  

My husband comes down and tells me he beat the fathead and it is back on the wall perfectly.  He says he will take the violin to get fixed.  He is calm, and good with the kids.  He says he has already stepped in and handled some of the issues at school.  I am still crying, not sure why, but probably for all the reasons listed above.  And because it feels like it has been so long since I was supported, and it feels so good to have them caring and helping in a loving manner.  I haven’t felt this in so long.

I took a bath with candles and headed to bed, only to find a sweet letter written by my daughter.  It was folded like a letter addressed to Mama Sweetgirl Countryman.  I started crying again.  Maybe some of the things I do sink in.  Maybe they do matter.  I wrote her letters most every day at camp with these salutations.  Chloe Mama’s Baby Countryman, or Chloe Dancer Extraordinaire Countryman, or Chloe Wild Girl Countryman.  She never said anything about it and I never asked.  And now, six months later, she addresses it to me like that.  She noticed.  

She wrote how much she loved me.  She also said she asked Chaucer if he was upset about the fatheads and he responded, “Yea.  I guess.  But I’m more upset to disappoint Mom and see her upset.”  This fills me because she was taking care of her brother when I wasn’t able to, and it scares me because his heart is so fragile.  

Finally she said, I’m glad you are writing now.  I love having a mother that writes.  It makes me proud.  If you write a kids book, I will be the first to read it.  Dont. Know. How. To. Write. How. This. Makes. Me. Feel.    

I have been working so hard, fighting really to find my place.  I haven’t found it, and times are not always or often easy now.  I miss my children terribly now that they are all gone all day.  Too much around them is work, rather than relationship building.  I struggle to find a new path for myself, and trying to redefine myself puts unexpected pressures on my marriage.  

Now, I find myself thankful for that  horrible day yesterday.  I would not trade it.  I was so depleted that I had to depend on my family.  I had to let them be there for me.  My husband was soft and kind and calm.  My kids were amazing. Oh, what it is to feel.  To feel pain and frustration, and sadness.  And to feel love and support and kindness.  And to know that not everything is wrong in the world. 

Especially our little world.  

The Good 'Ole Days

Children accumulate multitudes.  I intentionally and with restraint rarely buy my kids toys.  First of all, they have plenty.  They have always received many gifts from many people and are the recipients of many second hand toys of friends and relatives.  Somehow, we are still bulging at the seams. 

Then there is the paper and art work and books.  I am a book lover and have not cleaned out their books EVER.  My oldest is eleven.  Thats eleven years worth of accumulating children’s books.  I always said that we were saving them for the youngest.  I would not let them get rid of any books, even if all the pop ups were torn out, some pages ripped, bindings falling apart.  I don’t have any of my childhood favorite books, and I wanted to make sure theirs were saved.  

So, last weekend I cleaned out shelves and shelves and boxes and closets of all of our children’s books.  I threw away (horrors!) the books whose bindings were done and that were falling apart.  I saved a few of the baby/toddler favorite books for each child.  (Honestly, sadly, I can’t remember any many of my third child’s favorites, so I made up some that were her favorites.)  We saved a bag of good ones for the new nephew/niece coming in March.  We fixed up their bookshelves with favorite sections - Diary of a Wimpy Kid, American Girl Series, World’s Record Book, Captain Underpants, and Baby Mouse.  And I made sections for two of them with “just right” reading books that they could turn to when needed.  And I have about 10 bags of books to donate. 

Guess what happened?  They want to read all the time.  They love how neat the shelves are, and now the shelves seem like they are for them, not a bunch of younger kids. 

You see, I was holding on to a time and years that have passed.  I thought I could stop time by keeping these favorites around. Some of the ones that I really liked didn’t become their favorites.  I held on to the hope that they could love what I loved.  While doing this, I was holding them back from finding their passions.  

We are still Taking Back the Family.  We are cleaning, purging, making room for who we are now, not the family we were several years ago.  We are making spaces and steps for growth for all of us.  Even if their childhood looks different from the way mine was or what I had pictured for them. 

I wished I had read more to them.  We read all the time, every night at least.  Often several times a day.  I loved reading to them and wanted more of that time back.  

Now they read things that I don’t read and it is hard to find a book that all four of us want to read.  It is also hard to find time for all of us to read together - with homework and even the limited activities we have now. 

Since the purge, my little ones have been asking for story books that we can read in one sitting again.  Sometimes they let me read, but often they want to read.  The cool nights have come and we are spending many nights reading by the fire before bed.  

These are, still, the good ‘ole days.  

Erasing the Lines

I remember hearing a speech about education either before I had kids or when Chloe was a baby.  Back when education and parenting were all theories that worked to perfection.  Back when I knew it all.  

The speaker was a father of four school age kids.  He opened with a cute little vignette.  He said his world was opened by the birth of his first child.  By having his own child, he finally, finally knew what kids were like.  And then his second child was born.  He was humbled by this experience, but was ultimately grateful because if he hadn’t had that second child, he wouldn’t have known there were two different kinds of kids in the world.    And then his third child was born, and, again he had to remold his ideas of categories for kids.  As an educator, I guess God didn’t think he was getting the message.  So, it took a fourth child for him to realize that, like snowflakes, all children, and all people were unique and operated in the world with their own internal compasses.  

I chuckled appropriately at his quaint introduction, smugly wondering if I was more qualified to give this speech.  

Ten years later, I have learned to heed caution when I have smug thoughts like this.  I have learned to brace myself and proceed gingerly.  I have learned to recognize an, often painful, lesson heading my way just as I can recognize the almost imperceptible cooler currents of August air letting me know Old Man Winter is always watching.  

Turns out, it was OK that I was smug that day.  I have always had a visceral understanding, and a subsequent appreciation of the differences in people, all their strengths and shortcomings, and how the world needs it all in order to function. To this day, I find it hard to take a stand on any side of most issues, given my propensity to understand, believe and feel both sides.  (Oh yea, except for my husband’s side.)  

When I was kid, I always wrote stories.  Or rather, I started many stories.  But my favorite part was planning the stories.  I would spend hours writing the descriptions and histories of the characters, or describing the houses and places that would eventually be in my story.  I would create an entire world and setting.  Often I was bored after that with the actual story line.  So I would move on to create another story.  

My newest lesson is a fun one, not painful.  (She says thankfully.)  It’s like starting a new story.  The lesson is basically an extension of all people are unique and special and should be honored for who they are. The new lesson incorporates complexity.  I think all people are much more complex than I have given them credit for in the past.  

This new discovery is a grass roots one, starting with myself and my family.  My kids go to a wonderful school where many adults know them intimately.  It’s not just their classroom teachers, but many specialist teachers (art, gym, drama....etc) and the associate director of the school.  They are opening my eyes to the complexity of my children.  I hadn’t realized how I had already put them in boxes that they may spend a lifetime trying to escape.  Even armed with the knowledge that the world does this and how much I fight it, I have come to the realization that I have done it.  

My oldest daughter’s greatest gifts are her persistence, her vibrant personality, her interpersonal skills, her artistic, musical, and writing abilities and her problem solving skills and her can do, will do, let’s do mentality.  I praise these all the time.  

My son’s greatest gifts are his athletic prowess, his mathematical and reasoning skills, his happy disposition, and his ability to charm anyone around him, making him much loved by anyone, adult or child, who comes in contact with him.  

My youngest daughter’s gifts are a little harder to articulate.  She values her relationships and is intensely loyal.  She is very slow to warm, cautious, and always follows her own internal compass, regardless of the external stimuli.  Her mind is always moving, processing and she needs quiet and alone time to process.  She will not talk to people unless she has something important to say, and does not like talking in front of groups of people.   She is athletic, very independent, loves drawing and writing, and is tough as nails.   

Last spring, I was talking to my son about the fitness test and talking often of the goals of the Presidential Award.  My oldest daughter finally came up to me and asked why I expected that out of Chaucer but not her.  Hmmmmm.

Last winter, my oldest daughter had an accident that ended up being painful for weeks.  She had to have an unexpected “procedure” at the hospital and it took lots of pampering and attention on our part.  My husband and I kept quietly wondering why it happened to her, rather than one of the other two, who would have been much tougher and less work.  The principal of the school called to say that in her 40 years of being in the school, she had never experienced such a tough kid.  Hmmmmmmm.

Last spring, some things were occurring in the second grade.  My son’s teacher started sharing some of them with me, and I brushed it off, saying he was always happy and, luckily, he didn’t get caught up in that.  She said, “Well.  I don’t agree.  I have found him twice crying in the bathroom.....”   Hmmmmmmm

My son has a reading disability and has to be pulled out of class to get extra help.  They  scheduled his tutor during art time because he had not appeared to care much about art.  He came home terribly upset because “Art is the best place to mix colors and poetry together.”  What?  Hmmmmmmmm

Sally’s first grade teacher came up and said she so appreciated Sally volunteering to give her “presentation” first.  She was so impressed at how well Sally carried herself while speaking in front of the class.  Hmmmmmmmm.

An assistant at school told me a beautiful story about Sally searching for days at the book fair for books for (the assistant’s) grandaughter.  Sally brought her books several times, often not saying a word.  She had this incredible awareness and was nurturing that relationship differently than we understood.  Hmmmmmmmmm

I am excited about my new discoveries.  I am giddy about erasing the lines I have inadvertently drawn around myself, my children and all those around me.  I am thrilled to discover the complicated complexities that are often hidden and obscured.  

Mostly, I am anxious to discover what limits I have put on myself and the opportunities that exist outside of the box.  

It comes in waves

Inspiration, that is.  Sometimes loud,crashing, fast waves.  Yesterday, I dropped my kids off for warm up before the meet and ran two errands that took around 45 minutes.  I was having idea after idea after idea.  I couldn’t hold on to any of them.  I didn’t have a journal, and couldn’t have used it if I did. It was similar to labor; it was like contractions.  The ideas would come, and I could envision pushing the idea onto paper, into a blog post, into a short story, into the book. It was a physical urge, all I could do not to pull over and start writing. And it would ease, and I would try to plant it into my short term memory, to come back to this incredible idea. And I would relax.  Physically. 

And two minutes later, here comes another big idea.  Totally different idea, but same process.  Elation, excitement.  Hold it. This is good.  And the ideas came faster and faster and I could not hold them.  They went back out to sea, and I knew they would be lost.  Just as I was frantically trying to hold on, I knew they were lost.  

I could take the practical approach.  I’m sure there is an app that could help with that. Voice pages maybe? This would probably really help me. Let go , that is.  I do a version of this when I am writing.  Often I keep an open Pages document, and just jot ideas as they come. Sometimes, if I am writing intensely (I will just include the thought in parentheses and move it when I edit later.  If I edit.)  However, surprisingly, I rarely go back to these notes. And if I do, I often have no recollection of where that seed came from.  And if I do remember, there is no water for that seed, no energy in my mind.  But, the voice app would help me let go, would quell the anxiety of the loss, because it would be stored, not lost. 

Or I could take a different approach. Frame it differently, as I read earlier today. These fleeting ideas, that I feel so passionately about, could be used as a lesson in trust.  If I have these great ideas, there will be more. Ideas are not finite. I have room for many more. There will be more, just like those. 

I am not always mired down in sentimentality, but sometimes I am.  Some days (quite possible certain days of the month) a pool of tears just sits behind my eyes. I fear I can’t take one more beautiful sight, I can’t be thankful for one more thing, lest I burst with the fragility of it all. 

Last night, my youngest daughter had her second to last game at the little kids soccer fields.  They are quaint fields on the grounds of a Catholic Church. We often bike to the games, soccer balls and water bottles strapped to our backs. We have been doing this for 6 years, since my oldest daughter started soccer. Sally rode in the baby seat of the bike until last year.  This year she rides her own bike.  There are woods all around for siblings to make forts or bug hunt or play hide and seek. Often there are nuns strolling the grounds, temporarily lulling us into our little safe bubble where all is well. The six year olds smile and run and try hard and do group hugs. They rarely get mad and have no idea who wins.  Some of them don’t even know yet that you can win or lose a soccer game. 

Last night after the game, my co-coach (yes, I coach even though every thing I know about soccer is from my 8 year old) and I sat in the grass and watched every one leave and let the kids run barefoot and play.  This is our second year with this gig.  We did it because no one else would and learned that we loved it. We work well together, and we did it again this year only because the girls give us so many hugs. We talked about many things, more breadth than depth because every few sentences was interrupted by kids. We lamented that this would be our last year doing this -- because the girls need more than we can offer.  They need someone to teach skills, and teach them that there is winning and losing and some kids are, actually, better soccer players than they are, and some kids will be mean and say things like we don’t want you on our team because you aren’t very good at soccer.   We will leave these for the next coach, because, really, it is more than we can bear right now. 

Another reason we won’t coach together next year is that my friends little girl, less than a month younger than my daughter, will have to repeat Kindergarden next year. This decision tore at my friends heart for months, hoping that her intuition was wrong. It isn’t fair for me to focus on my sadness around it, or my daughters. The fact that they won’t ever be in class together again, that they won’t graduate together, that this dear friend will not be as close as we had thought.  Yet, the loss was coming in waves last night.

I must remember it comes in waves. If I have been given these great people and great moments in my life, there will be more.  People and moments are not finite.  I have room for many more. 

P's sweet hands on my daughter's shoulder (tears pooling)

Easter

I was awakened earlier than I would have wanted on Easter morning - probably around 6:30. I heard the little pitter patter of feet running into our family room, which is just on the other side of the wall that our bed is on. I love this pitter patter. On Christmas, I generally set my alarm for very early, and sit in the dark by the lights of the Christmas tree, and wait for them to wake up, so I can record them and their excitement on camera, so that I can hold on to it forever.

But, on Easter, I let them wake up first. I hear them coming, and, upon waking, I am delighted at their excitement. I listen to their hushed voices, savoring the pure joy of happiness, yet unencumbered by the heaviness that inevitably will come in life. Inexplicably, the little ones will not start without their big sister. When my oldest daughter wakes first, she too, will go and get them before they start. I love this, want this, but not fully understanding the bond of siblings, a yearning I will have all the days of my life. So when I hear, “Let’s get Chloe,” and hear them rushing out, I quickly contemplate trying to sleep for the thirty seconds more it will take for them to be back, I try to pull myself out of the grog of heavy sleep, so I can listen to their voices, for a few sacred moments, in sync, on a team, no fighting or bantering.

Steve gets up and goes in there with them and I lay in bed enjoying the peace. I have had a heavy heart lately, and we have had a hard few weeks. So many thoughts of Easter (that will have to be addressed at a later time). No squabbles yet, so I pick up a book that I have been reading, Devotion, a spiritual memoir of sorts, and try to get a golden nugget to hold on to for the day.

The egg hunt is delayed for as long as possible, but they are too excited. I get up and head out with my camera, leaving my heart inside, as it is too heavy to carry today.

By 8:30, they are done, Steve is on the couch asleep in front of the TV yet again, and I am looking at the next four hours with a mix of panic, dread, sadness, lonliness, and, worst of all, hopelessness. I am saving the reasons for all of this for another day. I want to bolt out of my house to a coffee shop, as I do many weekend mornings now, but the thought of that being my Easter morning paralyzes me. I scan through Easters past. I think of all the families and all the fun they will have today. I weigh the fear of going to a coffee shop alone on Easter, contrasted not only by the high profile holiday , but also my kids being home, unattended, playing video games and watching TV. This scene stabs me, but I know I am empty and have nothing to give them. I say a quick prayer (to whom? ) that they not be too scarred by this, and ask for strength to pull myself back together, so that I can be the Mother I so desperately want to be. I brace for impact for what my husband will say when I say I am leaving for the morning. Holidays and traditions are very important to him, and as he is judging himself for being so sick, he will also judge me for not carrying on while he physically can not.

This bracing for his reaction turns out to have been unnecessary. He knows. We are both drowning and each, singularly and alone, know that to save our ship, we have to do whatever it takes to save ourselves. He offers, through his cough and pounding headache, “We could all go for a walk. Change it up.” I’m sorry, I can’t. Neither of us has the energy to rally the children. I know this. “Maybe if we have time when you get back.”

“Sure,” I say, knowing I don’t mean it. But this offering, along with the freedom to go, becomes a lifeline for the day. He is trying. I am trying. I go through the drive through for coffee, and go on a long drive. I half listen to Krista Tippets On Being show, and my thoughts are racing, tears flowing. More so, not because of what is going on, but for the loss of this Easter for our family.

A few years ago, a friend of mine found out she had breast cancer. She had to have a double masectomy as soon as possible. The surgeons next opening was on Christmas Eve. It was her daughter’s first Christmas. When I went to visit her in the hospital on Christmas Eve, she told me of dropping her daughters off with family, and kissing them goodbye , saying, “Merry Christmas.” She explained that she sacrificed this Christmas with them, so she could take care of herself, so she could have many Christmases to come.

So, I grasped on to the memory of my friends’ comments about Christmas Eve years ago, and my thoughts and feelings and tears flow freely without judgement. I will take care of myself, today and in the future, so that I may once again enjoy my family as I so desperately want to.

This will be the most honest expression of some of my sadness and struggles that I have put out for others to read to date. I like to cover these struggles up for a multitude of reasons. Vulnerability is one reason. Another is that these musings are not uplifting or validating and seemingly serve no purpose, for the reader or the writer. It is not focusing on the good, adjusting the attitude, which are the platitudes I often use to move through pain.

I will post this as a leap of faith. Maybe, just maybe, by recognizing the feelings and identifying them, the act of putting it out there will help to release them, and perhaps move through them. Since no one reads this, I know it is just an exercise for me. But, when others have done it, like Lindsey in A Design so Vast, it has helped relieve the pressure of my ballooning hopelessness, and puts me back in the company of real humans, living real lives, experiencing the not so good, along with the good.

Cutting down the Christmas Tree, Year 15

For the last 15 years, we have gone to Tallackson's Tree Farm in Big Lake, Minnesota to cut down our tree. This year seemed easier, at first. It was a warm 45 degrees and the sun was shining. No need to make sure we had all the snowsuits and extra garb to stay warm. No diapers or sippy cups to pack. The kids got themselves dressed for the most part, packed what they needed for the day, and off we went.

I had a letter I needed to mail to my grandmother and he said, "What's this?" A letter I need to mail to Nana, I want to drop it in the box on the way out. OK. When we drove the 2 houses to our mailbox, he put the letter in the mailbox. I said I didn't want it in the mail box, I wanted to drop it in the US Post Mailbox. "It will post faster here." I don't care, I want it in the US Post box so no one will mess with it. "No one is going to mess with this." Now, it didn't really matter where it was, and most probably no one would mess with it, but I just don't like doing it that way and I CANT UNDERSTAND WHY YOU ARE ARGUING WITH ME ABOUT THIS WHEN THE US POST BOX IS ANOTHER 50 YARDS DOWN THE ROAD.

Steve and I always want a latte for the hour plus drive, so he obliged me and we went to Starbucks. Then I was being a little high maintenance, and he obliged me because he knows he can be that way too - I wanted to stop at Lunds to get tweazers. I needed a new pair and I wanted it NOW otherwise THIS ONE HAIR WILL BE DRIVING ME CRAZY ALL DAY AND YOU WILL HAVE TO HEAR ABOUT IT. He didn't really mind stopping once I explained it like that. So then he asked me to get some donuts while I was in there. OK.

I came out and needed one more errand. Now I know that I was pushing the limits now, but it was in the same parking lot, same little strip mall. I needed some conditioner for my hair and WE WERE RIGHT THERE. I hadn't been able to get it all week because someone always had to be somewhere and didn't want to stop. Now they all had a movie, Steve had his coffee and donuts, so I wanted to stop. So he stopped. And he was very nice about it.

On the road now. We get on the interstate and their movie is over. Wow. The dog is jumping over the back seat and landing on the kids. They are screaming. About the dog. And wanting another movie. So we pull off at the next exit, the one after we entered the interstate. Steve is losing it now, but trying not to let on. He gets out to take care of the dog and Chloe unbuckles to change the movie.

All is well and we are off again. We pull out of the gas station where we stopped and are about to turn left to make a quick right to re - enter the Interstate. Chloe can't find the remote to work the DVD player and is getting louder and more frustrated with it, the dog has gotten out of his leash and jumped on the kids again, and Steve starts yelling that this is my fault because I didn't get out and help when we stopped. I snap back that there was nothing I could have done because he was doing a GRAND job of RE - TYING up the dog and Chloe was changing the movie. We make a U turn and screech back into the closed gas station we just left. Now Steve is pissed. He opens the rear of the Suburban and PUNCHES the dog and the kids start crying because he punched the dog and WHY CAN'T WE FIND THE REMOTE? I am at a cross as to what to do. I yell at Steve that he has upset the kids and he can't punch the dog while I am looking for the remote. I eventually, after removing half the crap from the car, find the remote under the seat.

FAMILY HOLIDAY TRADITIONS ARE NOTHING BUT FUN!

So we are back in the car, everyone is calm, some small sniffles coming from the kids, Steve is being extra nice because that is what he does when he feels bad for losing it. I am about to laugh because we are at the same light where we are going to turn left to make a quick right for a reentry onto the interstate and NO KIDDING BUT I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM. I quickly wonder to myself if I can hold it for the hour or so trip , and decide I can't , so I just laugh and say I have to go to the bathroom. If he would have ignored me and driven on, (which I would have done) I would have said it again, and I guess he knew this and didn't want to hear about it for the next hour. So, instead of that left that we had tried to make twice before, he went straight and pulled into another gas station and was very nice about it and asked me which side of the car the gas tank was on because we might as well get gas. I am laughing out loud now even though he isn't quite able to do that yet. I asked if anyone had to go to the bathroom and the kids yelled, "Can we get out and get a toy?" "NO!" I did get Sally out and we went to the bathroom and came out and they were ready to go. We did sucessfully re- enter the interstate at this point, and one of the kids asked, "Are we almost there?"

We talked about rethinking this tradition and going to the lot down the street.

But what will we really remember when we see the photos from the day?