unedited happiness
July 17, 2012 § Leave a comment
When my heart is heavy I try to write my blessings in my mind’s eye with large loopy letters that leave less room for unhappiness. Lately the weight of my frustrations and the lightness of my joy have teased my balance as I navigate difficult moments in search of greater peace.
Our son’s anger and sadness create tension and frustration casting shadows between pockets of joy. My husband and I grasp at threads of patience willing our son to see problematic behaviors with the same openness we endeavor to appreciate and honor his strengths. He is twelve; old enough to feel wise and young enough to ache openly. The contradiction of his emotions combined with social challenges and sometimes misplaced comprehension create daily struggles that leave us each exhausted.
As our son’s peers mature, tucking small social lessons within greater moments and growing into independence, our son seems stranded, unable to collect and compile the lessons into different actions. My husband and I watch uncertain if we should give our son greater room to fail, hoping the intimacy of difficult lessons may create a greater impression or if we search out a new teaching style to inform our son before he wanders into harm’s way. The questions overwhelm the answers, uncertainty replacing knowing.
This past weekend our borrowed minutes of togetherness brought both joy and frustration. Away from home certain behaviors seemed increasingly challenging. Just as I would give thanks for the sight of my family playing together noisy, angry moments would chase away smiles and peace. Slowly, painstakingly we moved beyond conflict into a new distraction until without warning we would find ourselves caught in another moment of unhappiness.
I write this acknowledging we carry these truths as a family; we cannot dispense blame or divide emotions. It is a messy, uncomfortable piece of our story. I mark this moment in hopes I will one day look back from a place of greater peace with my children and husband. I want the moments of struggle to allow us a greater value for our moments of joy; a truer measure of our journey.
holding a moonbeam
February 4, 2012 § Leave a comment
My daughter sings an Off-Off-Broadway interpretation of “Do-Re-Mi” intoning Julie Andrews timeless and beloved character Maria while playing independently in her room. I in turn hum a cheerfully content “How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria,” the lyrical phrases capturing pieces of my daughter’s spirit in a lovely melody.
She climbs a tree and scrapes her knee. Her dress has got a tear. I have watched my little girl grow from pleading to be hoisted onto a safe tree branch with toddler grunts arms reaching toward the sky to balancing herself in rain boots and princess costumes, tearing her gown while smiling proudly from her perch in our climbing tree. She embraces adventure as eagerly as she slips into costumes; moving with intention and grace all the while unhindered by dirt or scrapes.
She’d out pester any pest. Drive a hornet from its nest. I can imagine her poking a beehive with the same spirited curiosity that inspired willful tugging on puppy dog ears; mischievously and fearlessly testing boundaries. Still, her penitence is real. For all my daughter’s headstrong antics it must be said she does not take any joy from causing harm and her errors are met with genuine tears of remorse. Her heart is as immeasurable as her imagination.
She’s always late for everything. Happily distracted with her own pursuits she is often lost to the boundaries of time, stretching play to capture every drop of sunshine from her day. I can easily imagine her dancing on a hilltop mindless of the passing hours while scavenging for fun and celebrating every miracle of nature.
Many a thing you know you’d like tell her. Many a thing she ought to understand. But how do you make her stay and listen to all you say? Looking into my daughter’s eyes I catch fleeting moments of undivided attention only to have it swept away with the impossibleness of keeping a wave upon the sand. Keeping her still is like trying to catch a cloud and pin it down.
When I’m with her I’m confused. Out of focus and bemused and I never know exactly where I am. Unpredictable as weather, she’s as flighty as a feather.She is gentle, she is wild, she’s a riddle, she’s a child.
My little girl is the heart song that fills my day and I am grateful for the sound of her music; notes of independence and curiosity, creativity and make believe. She’s a problem I do not wish to solve; a moonbeam that shines too brightly to hold within my hand.
love lesson
December 19, 2011 § 2 Comments
My husband and I had a disagreement; an unpleasant exchange that spilled sloppily from our mouths to our children’s ears. Wide-eyed my daughter gauged the exchange, holding her questions and concerns beneath thin layers of surprise and uncertainty.
I gathered my little girl near and said what I needed to hear at an early age: adults can disagree without loving one another less. I reminded her that it is important to try your best to be respectful even when you are angry and to accept responsibility when you hurt another person’s feelings. I watched her measure my words considering their meaning.
My husband and I bring to our marriage unique individual heartaches. We unpack grief or anger in moments of exhaustion or anxiety. Rather than stuff our dirty laundry into the corners of our mind, I try to unfold it; smoothing out wrinkles and carefully claiming each piece of ourselves. It is uncomfortable and challenging, but owning our worst helps us nurture our best.
Tonight my husband echoed my message to our daughter with his own. He apologized for speaking unkindly. The moment had passed, but he stretched his accountability into the present creating an occasion to share a lesson. He reaffirmed my worth by apologizing and his own strength by modeling humility.
I hope my children fall in love and know kindness and compassion, but I also wish them partners that challenge them to grow and a safe place to make mistakes.
gift (verb)
December 16, 2011 § Leave a comment
My husband sings a frustrated chorus of What would you like? every holiday and on each special occasion. There is no simple answer. Last year I wanted warm boots, a long down coat, and a soft robe to ward off the winter chill. They weren’t extravagant gifts, but they made me feel loved. Another time it might be something unique to the occasion; a gift I would look upon with memories, like the silver rattle I gave my husband to announce I was pregnant with our daughter. I rarely tie happiness to things. I may pause over a picture and dwell on a memory; rest my hand on my necklace recalling my husband’s proposal; extract old letters and savor words written in another moment. Small acts of love, little gestures are my greatest joy.
This week my mother sent a collection of gifts in the mail, cluttering our doorstep with happy surprises; ornaments and sweets, tiny tokens of the holiday season. When the boxes arrived today, I found myself as eager as my children to uncover the treasure nestled inside. My mother stretched each gift from an act of generosity into scattered causes of celebration. This, delayed anticipation and whimsical gifts of sentiment, is my Christmas wish this year. I want to fill our home with a sense of celebration and togetherness.
My daughter said to me today: If the Grinch is real and he takes all of our stuff on Christmas Eve, we will be okay. The most important thing is that we have each other. She sealed her words with a hug and kiss before wrapping another of her toys in her doll’s quilt and labeling it with scrap paper for Daddy in a sea of tiny hearts on waves of hugs and kisses. My daughter’s awareness and my mother’s kindness cannot be purchased or wrapped with ribbon. Thinking ahead to Christmas day I know my greatest gifts rest in moments with my husband and children not in pretty packages beneath the tree.
What if Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store? What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more? – Dr. Seuss
to my husband
November 6, 2011 § Leave a comment
Lately I am reminded of our earliest days with our son. My heart recalls the impossible goodbyes in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, immediately lonely for our son’s company and worried about his well-being in our absence. Logically I understood the hospital was trained to care for our son’s needs, but my heart could not fathom leaving him each day. With all my doubts of late, an old question haunts me: Will he be okay?
I carry a special memory of you that I call on when uncertain or overwhelmed by a new challenge with our son. It was the first time we were allowed to hold our son. He was impossibly tiny and covered in a tangle of tubes, you were standing closest while I absorbed the sight of him. In a gesture filled with limitless love, you stepped aside and let me hold our son first. It would have been easy for you to gather him to you for a moment and then deposit him in my arms, but instead you let me hold him and I gathered him close like a salve to a tender ache. In that moment I was whole and at peace with the world, joyful. You stood patently nearby, proud and eager without complaint.
Your quiet strength and generosity allow me the unique experience of mothering from a place of authenticity. Thank you for giving me so much without asking. As I struggle to process my feelings and thoughts, be patient still. I know you are nearby, waiting without complaint.
daddy’s girl
October 22, 2011 § Leave a comment
Her laughter bubbles from a place of genuine joy and spills recklessly, absorbing observers and drawing them into a smile. She is her father’s daughter. His laugh is as infectious as it is spontaneous, ricocheting off the walls with rapid fire guffaws.
She sails across the boundaries of restraint eager and animated. Whimsy and mischief follow her in search of adventure. He leaps into action, driven by curiosity unhindered by caution.
Her features are expressive, her thoughts and emotions an open book. His face is a story of humor and worry as he navigates business and play. I read volumes as I watch them both.
Her heart is as large as her smile, her emotions fragile. I guide her firmly, but with frequent hugs and reassurance. He is deceptively strong, secretly sensitive. I hold both their hands and listen closely for hurt; mindful that despite their strength and humor they require extra care.
measure of time
September 16, 2011 § Leave a comment
Big brown eyes brimming with wonder, my son is fascinated by the immeasurable quality of time. His first insight came over a year ago when he uttered casually: I wish there were a way to recycle wasted time. I immediately captured his words on paper and frequently re-read his sentiment marveling at the purity of his wish.
This summer, as the school year approached, he revisited the subject of time feeling overwhelmed by the dwindling days of summer vacation. Mournful and mindful of each day leading up to the first day of school, he was reflective and sensitive. He would passionately proclaim the imbalance of time’s measurement, convinced that time passes too quickly functioning outside the boundaries marked by the simple hands of man-made clocks.
Last night, he came to me long gangly legs awkwardly tumbling down the stairs, a face marked by discovery and a voice hushed with the awe of awareness and said: Mom, I figured out the true meaning of happiness in life. You can wish all you want for your birthday and Christmas, but you shouldn’t. Time will slip away through your fingers, but you won’t realize it. The true meaning of happiness is to enjoy each and every day.
Again, I felt the need to capture a singular moment in time, my fingers rushing desperately across my keyboard attempting to catch his words in proper sequence. This child that came to me as an unexpected gift, a happy surprise, has marked the passing of years with an awareness and wisdom that inspires me to embrace each moment.
a lesson in labels
August 31, 2011 § 1 Comment
At an early age my son was diagnosed with PDD-NOS and ADHD, a jumbled mess of letters, their meaning uncomfortable and overwhelming. Pervasive Developmental Disorder – Not Otherwise Specified, an Autism Spectrum Disorder, and Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder.
I remember the moment of my son’s diagnoses with physical clarity. My body struggled to draw air while images of my son’s past and future flashed before my eyes; a conscious drowning. My heart heavy with fear for the future, my mind desperate for facts, my body achy with unexpressed grief; physically, mentally, and emotionally I wanted to reject the diagnoses. I worried doctors, teachers, family, friends, and strangers would compartmentalized my son’s spirit and unique mannerisms to fit in the confines of sterile, medical labels.
That day my husband and I promised one another to use our son’s diagnoses as tools for understanding him better and helping him live a full life. We endeavored to discuss our son’s needs honestly, without apology or shame. The first year of his diagnoses was focused on facilitating our son’s emotional, social, physical, and academic needs. Throughout that year we maintained a sense of privacy concerning our son’s diagnoses as we educated ourselves and made difficult decisions. It was important to us that we share correct information and make decisions free of others’ expectations and opinions. We had a small, close-knit support group consisting of physicians, psychiatrists, therapists, educators, family, and a handful of friends.
One year after the diagnoses we shared our news in the lines of a letter as we raised money to support Autism Speaks. Our son tallied the donations and read the letters of support that poured in, aware only of love and kindness from the multitude of faces that were a part of his life. It is with this experience that our son, at the age of 6, first told people he was Artistic. He understood part of his diagnoses meant he had a collection of characteristics typical of children on the Autism Spectrum, but speech delays created an endearing proclamation of Artistic. He would smile brightly at the revelation and continue on his way, unaffected and proud.
With the development of homework, we began to understand new challenges stemming from ADHD. We talked directly to our son and teachers, but less openly to others. Too often I found myself in the company of passionate debates concerning diet and medication. I honor others’ choices for themselves and their children, but wanted our family’s decisions to remain uninfluenced by popular opinions. It was the diagnosis we didn’t talk about.
Standing in line during my son’s Middle School visitation, a woman asked us for medical forms. My son, loudly and abruptly, declared to the woman collecting forms that he has ADHD and takes medication. I flinched at the stark revelation and instinctively looked around to gauge the reaction of those around us. I was still processing my son’s statement when a young girl behind us in a full voice announced she has Asperger’s and takes medication. Just like that, I felt eccentrically normal.
Years of tucking parts of our life into safe pockets of friendship and suddenly it felt okay to let go. My son likes who he is even if he doesn’t like his challenges. There was a lesson there in a moment shared with strangers. For all my efforts to see my son completely, it was my son that showed me he is whole.
promises
July 20, 2011 § Leave a comment
It began with our vows. A lover of language I embraced volumes of potential promises seeking inspiration; I wanted something intimate and empowering to celebrate each of us as individuals while nurturing a future together that would be based in love and respect. It felt essential that the words that would guide us into this new chapter serve as a reminder that we both remain true to our sense of self while evolving into our new identities as husband and wife.
We agreed a marriage was something created and that within our mutual values and common objectives we would stand together as we faced the world. We promised to speak words of appreciation and demonstrate gratitude in thoughtful ways while creating space for each individual to grow. We promised to look for the good in our lives and to be the source of support and strength for one another that we each needed for ourselves. Beneath each wish for our new life, I do was replaced with I will try. This was our beginning.
Soon after we exchanged vows, we broadened our relationship to encompass parenthood. I poured over potential baby names and books on parenting with the same passion I had sought out and created our vows. We shared our unique, individual expectations for what our family would look and feel like. My husband and I confessed our fears and mapped our future path around our own childhood experiences. Still, we learned very quickly that children require both boundaries and open minds. Promises of I will never and I will always cast aside for I will try in moments of improvised answers to unexpected challenges.
Over 11 years later there is no final draft, our promises are still founded in I will try. We face disagreements and disappointment with the same commitment we celebrate accomplishments and growth. It is both more difficult than I had imagined and more rewarding; painful and joyful in a language created and defined by effort. Our promises continue to guide us through new experiences and have fostered a collection of values allowing us to feel appreciated individually, as a couple, and as a family.
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