private seeds
February 5, 2011 § Leave a comment
After a swim lesson, absorbed with my daughter’s transition from mermaid to winter wear, I over-looked the naked woman.
Between the hair dryers and our belongings my daughter stumbled into a middle-aged woman undressing; a breast swung free from an indiscernible bra barely missing my daughter’s form. Questions and confusion danced across my daughter’s face; a stranger, someone she wasn’t allowed to talk to, was exposing parts of herself my daughter had been taught to protect with privacy.
I shifted my body providing a curtain and gathered the rest of our items. I thought back to my daughter’s earliest insistence of respectful space, private seeds as her young mind termed privacy and realized she had grown into new questions and my responsibility to meet them with an open mind and important truths. In an unexpected moment I had an opportunity and obligation to embrace the naturalness of nakedness and private seeds.
early bird
February 3, 2011 § Leave a comment
I wish I could paint the moment I met my son. He looked at me with large brown eyes and I could not speak for the overwhelming beauty of his tiny soul. I slipped my fingertip into his firm grasp and pleaded silently that he know what I could not say. It was a handshake of sorts, a new partnership in my endeavor as a mother. I promised to do my best if he could hold on tightly and know that he was loved.
I stumbled through my first months as a new mother. The book What to Expect When You’re Expecting was unfinished and my first Lamaze class a date yet unmet when my son came into this world prematurely. I was intimidated, unprepared, and overwhelmed.
I counted my blessings between emotional greetings and departures from the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit that was my son’s first home. Hospital visits were weighted with the worry of first time parents and magnified by monitors hovering over sleeping infants where musical mobiles ought to have been. Oblivious of our audience, my husband would sing What a Wonderful World in the gravelly tone of Louis Armstrong to the tiny bundle tangled in tubes and I would nestle our son against my skin feeling more complete with him near.
While I felt helpless and weary for my inability to make everything better, my son met his challenges with energy and strength. Tiny hands repeatedly removed the breathing tubes until doctors understood he could breathe on his own. My husband and I had sought his bedside hoping our love would give him strength, but it was his strength that gave us hope. It is this memory I recall each time he faces a new challenge. I watch my son and wait for signs that he is okay; eager to help, but aware of his strength.
forecast
February 1, 2011 § Leave a comment
The weatherman is predicting a snowfall that promises a rare proclamation; anticipation builds as school children await two words yet unspoken. Snow Day. My children smile in their sleep already dreaming of icy escapades. I peer into the early morning darkness at the fine dusting of snow that holds hope for a backyard fortress of frost populated with a battery of snowmen. Inside, the pantry is stocked with cocoa and marshmallows; movies and popcorn, board games and books stand ready for indoor distractions. I savor my morning coffee and send out an early morning wish on cold winter winds for the simple joys of a Snow Day.
Saturday morning
January 29, 2011 § Leave a comment
My children sweep their hands in lazy circles over droopy eyelids, their limbs heavy with sleep as they slowly shuffle into the kitchen. The day begins quietly, conversations percolate as I sip my morning coffee. Breakfast is a scavenger hunt for something indulgent as we settle at the table haphazardly, the family dog nestled beneath my husband’s chair. Sunlight streams in through the windows washing away the evening’s dreams and Saturday unfolds.
a book
January 27, 2011 § 1 Comment
A book. Such a small thing in which to lose an entire person. Just as an author breathes life into her characters, these characters draw me through the Looking Glass into their world.
As a child I was an early reader and this interest was a companion in times of change. My parents divorced when I was very young, forever altering the landscape of my life. Homes, friends, expectations became unpredictable. Still, the familiarity of the written word gave me peace. Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. by Judy Blume, accompanied me on my journey into puberty when my own mother was miles away. The comfort and guidance of a woman’s voice anchoring me in a sea of turbulence.
Books fueled teenage fantasies of first loves and inspired daydreams during algebra. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, predicted complicated suitors with confusing messages of disinterest and adoration; Mr. Darcy was the standard by which I measured the boys in high school.
Later, required college reading would help me identify a passion in the vast world of academia. Shakespeare, Descartes, Min-Zhan Lu, and Foucault challenged me to push against my own boundaries and awakened a student of English, Philosophy, and Sociology. I started to see language as an instrument with which I could mold the world around me.
As a mother, books are part of my children’s daily regimen, nurturing their imaginations with pages of well loved books. Before they could read, each child would nestle into my lap, our time together a meeting place for exploration. On countless afternoons Shel Silverstein lead us down a magical sidewalk where humor and creativity inspired laughter and conversations centered in curiousity. Over time my children began to request new titles, their choices spoke of unique personalities finding their way in literature; picture books became chapter books, non-fiction evolved into research for their own ideas.
My story is common to many. Still, my passion for the possibility lurking between the covers of a new title calls to me and I am happily lost to another journey with an old love.
dance lesson
January 23, 2011 § 3 Comments
In a moment I could not have predicted, a routine childhood experience taught me an extraordinary lesson.
My daughter lives in a space of possibility. Each day we begin a new story weaving dramatic moments into the mundane; I quietly marvel at her creativity and confidence. Countless evenings my husband, son, and I fulfill the role of audience to living room theater and dance performances. Some time ago, hoping to draw upon my daughter’s natural interests, I enrolled her in a popular local dance class.
Prior to the first class I enthusiastically prepared for a new chapter in my daughter’s life. I purchased leotards, required shoes, tights, and tote. When the big day came the air around my daughter was charged with electricity born of her enthusiasm.
In the studio, the girls gathered around the instructor, each a familiar face to the teacher and one another. I held my breath hoping my daughter would find her place among the tiny tutus. As the group began the ritual of stretching my daughter looked lost, but stumbled into the others’ examples with a smile and eagerness to learn. My daughter’s joy was mine and I relaxed into the background of mothers visiting quietly in the adjoining room.
With the sudden unexpectedness of lightning on a cloudless summer day, the teacher said something unkind to my daughter. I watched my ballerina stop, the teacher’s words washing over her and robbing her of her smile. As clearly as I shared her joy, the heartache and confusion casting pain in my daughter’s eyes stole my breath.
Quickly my mind asked “Why?” and “How do I help?” Just as I was searching my mind for how to mother and protect, my daughter lifted her tear-stained face and approached the teacher. In a small, but firm voice my daughter said; “Excuse me. What you said hurt my feelings. You should say sorry.” And then my own tears came as easily as my heart filled with pride. My daughter’s spirit eclipsed the injury.
A couple of years have passed, but the picture I took on that first day of class hangs proudly in our home. It is the day my daughter taught me a lesson about life and how to live gracefully with pride.
scribblechic 