between the lines
July 5, 2011 § Leave a comment
I set the book aside, knowingly. Days passed and I would greet the title with each dawn, waiting for the right moment to begin. On a cloudless day, beneath a brilliant blue sky, I sat in the shade of my backyard and slowly welcomed old memories between the lines of another’s words. With a lump in my throat and a full heart, I read The Anti-Romantic Child: A Story of Unexpected Joy by Priscilla Gilman.
Our lives have different beginnings, but our stories are hauntingly familiar. We meet in a place of beauty; kindred spirits bound by grace born of love for our children. Two mothers searching for and finding joy in our children’s extraordinary gifts and challenges.
My son, my first-born, was my homecoming. The first time our eyes met my speech failed, but my heart opened in an awakening. Large brown eyes, sage and serene, mirrored my own. Long, thin fingers wrapped around mine and centered me in a place of peace. I fell into contentment.
There were no other children to contrast my son’s development and I was blissfully unaware of heartaches and struggles looming in the shadows of our future. We toiled away hours, days, months, and years oblivious to red flags that would later signal an otherness. Endearing traits would later become cause for concern.
One doctor, with little more than an unsettled feeling, refered us to a child psychiatrist that would see what we had not. Diagnoses and abstract initials hovered heavy, stealing the air from the room as we began to understand our son in a new language. With love and hope we have found our way amidst the endless unknown determined to embrace our son for the special soul that he is.
Between the lines of a stranger’s story I have found strength and inspiration; a celebration for the unique spirits that accompany us on our journey through motherhood.
Please note: This post is my effort to capture my initial feelings as I read this very special book. I consciously did not reference the author’s words but rather my emotional connection to the experience of reading them.
am (not)
July 4, 2011 § 1 Comment
The word (not) tucked in the middle of a thought frees me of accountability. I am (not) a cook. Read: dinner may be bad. I am (not) a cleaner. Read: I didn’t clean the [insert floor/bathrooms/stove here]. I am (not) an athlete. Read: I don’t have to fail because I have yet to try.
I am (not) a runner. The thought of people watching me run makes my chest tight and I get a little clammy. Still, I have come to find the commitment and passion in a runner’s voice inspiring. So I set (not) aside and invested a little time and energy into trying. I ran.
Today I completed my personal c25k challenge. I am (not) a runner and there is no 5k in my near future, but I am inspired by the feeling of having done something new that I did (not) think I could.
oasis
July 4, 2011 § 1 Comment
My husband’s schedule is unpredictable. Long hours and busy weeks are as common as spontaneous vacations. To create a space of togetherness, a place we could unwind and embrace a stolen moment, we indulged in an outdoor family room.
I am certain there are more extravagant yards, but ours speaks to our individual personalities and the needs of our family collectively. A large sandbox tucked under a tree and normally cast in shade offers our children a place to create and permission to make a mess. My husband’s grill allows him to indulge in a toy all his own. I am happy to curl up with a book under the clouds. Happily we move in the space together.
Still, the evening hours are the most endearing. Sitting around the fire pit, toasting marshmallows and unfolding the days events or watching our children chase fireflies entranced by the flickers of light in the dark. In this quiet space there are no distractions from the moment, it is an oasis from the chaos of our days.
fireworks and forgiveness
July 3, 2011 § 1 Comment
A neighborhood 4th of July party gave me lazy, happy hours among friends and a moment of raw awareness with my son. My guard down, I had settled into the festivities when my eye caught my son’s face. Angry, emotional sparks snapped at the air around him. I drew him to me and guided him to a quiet corner of our guests’ home. Slowly I acknowledge new, painful truths for my son and myself. He isn’t okay and neither am I.
In angry accusing tones my son lashed out at peers for perceived unkindness and at me for not defending him. In fairness to the children, his anger was not born of their behavior. In fairness to my son, I could not give him the fierce defense he sought. We sat, side by side, separated by equal parts pain and grief.
The moment passed and we parted, each resigned to our own hurt. My son withdrew into a space of his own and I let my own frustrations spill in a wave of need to a friend, her compassion allowing me a cleansing release. The remainder of the evening passed without fireworks, but forgiveness for things we cannot control weighs heavy on my heart.
sugar and spice
July 2, 2011 § Leave a comment
It began with a tiny tool belt strung at a sassy angle across her hips. My daughter, face determined, shook her head with frustrated disappointment. No tools. The problem seemed obvious, but my curiosity was endless. I watch my children perpetually lost to their stories. Each new interest is an unexpected introduction to another piece of their personality and I am smitten with their spirit of adventure. As my daughter stood dressed in preparation for a new chapter, I remembered an earlier day.
I secretly wished for a daughter when her life was still a newly formed possibility. My son was an all-encompassing source of joy and I couldn’t imagine another boy. I began imagining a daughter. I daydreamed about a little girl who would scale climbing trees in a princess dress, play in the dirt as easily as host tea parties for teddy bears, and in time I was blessed with a dream come true.
Her character is a complexity of contradictions. Strong in spirit and fragile in moments of uncertainty; kind in moments of compassion and fierce when overwhelmed by frustration. Her room and clothes are the trappings of a little girl, but she plays alongside her big brother. It seems fitting that she would fill her brother’s cast aside tool belt with pink handled tools. Her first project a table and chairs of her own design, doll height and coated in purple paint.
paper cuts
July 1, 2011 § Leave a comment
Recently a friend shared something powerful, a personal challenge. As she generously unraveled her story, I drew parallels between our lives. In sharing the burden of our challenges with the same support and kindness we celebrate accomplishments, there is a sameness that envelopes our unique differences. She is ever my friend, the same girl I met years ago, only now there is more to love.
As she has opened up I have come to wish her a place to share her story, to cast her challenges into inspiration; charting her progress and providing hope and comfort to others finding their way. It is a wonderful story and she is a talented woman.
I cannot ask another to go where I have not. It is joyful to write about beautiful moments with my children and overwhelming to share pieces of private pain. I hint at my old nemeses, body issues and self-esteem. Still uncovering private challenges leaves me feeling raw and vulnerable to air. My chest tightens and I want to shake the weakness away, disown those pieces of myself.
Paper cuts on our spirit. Wounds too small for others to see and painfully obvious to ourselves. Still, somewhere in the open air, healing begins.
six dollar pants
June 30, 2011 § Leave a comment
The City Museum in St. Louis is place that transforms possibility into reality. From the moment I saw the winding tunnels, I wanted to be little again with a license to wander. Stepping into a tunnel, I walked into a wall. I was wearing a skirt. Backing carefully out of the tunnel I left my husband with both children to find a pair of pants. After all, I was standing in a place of possibility.
My search began in the obvious place, the store planted directly behind the admission counter at the front of the building. No pants. A deep breath and determination created hope. I asked where I could find pants the way one asks what day it is and was directed to the vintage resale shop on the 4th floor. Like a treasure map, I followed the path to the store my mind swirling with adventure.
Scavenging racks of clothes, I found my vanity in a row of denim cut offs. With waists that reached to my rib cage and lengths that alternated between inappropriate and silly I grabbed an assortment of sizes, dodging the purple and pink technicolor terrors and setting my vanity aside in the dressing room. For six dollars I traded my self-consciousness over body image for adventure and indulged the child within.
counting
June 29, 2011 § 1 Comment
I came across a quote some time ago that comforts me when I attempt to measure something intangible. Not everything that counts can be counted, and not everything that can be counted counts.
Recently I looked to the tally of my blog count and felt momentarily discouraged. Busier days on my graph seemed to mock the absence of guests on other days and I felt a little lost in the space of numbered measurements. Which lead me to back to basics. What am I measuring?
In the beginning, there was only me. Even my husband didn’t realize I had begun to write. So why does a bar graph distract me from the joy of journaling my thoughts? What counts and what am I counting?
This is my reminder to myself to stop counting views as a measure of success and to remember it is the act alone that counts.
shadow friends
June 29, 2011 § 1 Comment
My daughter and I were walking into swim lessons last night, the angle of the sun casting matching shadows in front of us. In happy tones she declared: Look Mom, our shadows. It’s almost like I am not little and we aren’t just us, we’re friends. The same.
I loved that the sun stretched our time together into something that extended beyond the present into friendship. I wonder if I will ever cease to see the little girl who sleeps like an angel; eyelashes resting delicately on sweetly rounded cheeks. My mermaid in the water, splashing and gliding carefree. Or the class clown, animated with an infectious laugh casting a shield of humor to guard her insecurities. I cannot yet see the young woman in my daughter’s shadow, but I am inspired by the little girl beside me.
idon’twanna
June 29, 2011 § Leave a comment
One word, stretched out in whiney tones, marking a space of resistance even as I begrudgingly follow the predetermined path of my day. Summer school and swim lessons tugging me forcefully from beneath the weight of evening dreams and into morning routines. I want to pout, plug my ears and hum to drown out the sound of the alarm clock nagging me out of bed. Instead, I curl up with a cup of coffee and let the sunshine fade my frustrations. Saturday I will sleep in.
