play lessons
November 12, 2016 § 6 Comments
This morning I chauffeured both children to a robotics meet. We were there for my son, that he might support his team, but I quickly lost my daughter to new friends and a budding interest.
We fell into easy conversations as the teams competing worked collectively through individual challenges. They were patiently competitive, generously cooperative.
I was reminded of another day, years ago at a neighborhood park. A spontaneous collaboration between sand and water with young children whose age, skin color, needs and abilities were as diverse as their language. That day, like today, I marveled at the partnership and individuality of their effort.
Today I’m giving thanks for the lessons in play, the ingenuity of arts and science that foster appreciation for creativity and community. The universal language of respect and curiosity that invites hope with humble gestures of kindness and bold acts of imperfect effort.
If you want to see tomorrow’s leaders at their best, offer them an uncertainty and then give them room enough to play at creative solutions.
grace & growth
October 25, 2016 § 3 Comments
It’s been a week of ups and downs, watching my children grind through the mechanics of personal struggles. Some common to their age, others unique to their personalities. The only universal space between their discomfort was my reaction, the language I used to acknowledge their emotions.
I’m working to listen through the urge to guide, offering empathy over direction. In trading the wisdom of my experiences for serving as a witness to my children’s challenges, they’ve gained greater authority and accountability for their mistakes as well as their success. They are growing up and this task of mothering is no less difficult for their independence.
There’s grace in the growing.
listening clearly
September 28, 2016 § 5 Comments
Years ago our daughter told her elementary school nurse that she was home sick. The nurse and secretary called me so that I might offer encouragement, but our daughter patiently explained to me that she was the kind of sick that needs to go home.
It was a time when our daughter’s language was jumbled in order, when we had to listen intentionally to the entire thought and then double-check her meaning.
Less patient teachers, family and friends would finish her thoughts, rush the pattern; leap to false conclusions in their best efforts to demonstrate understanding. Most times our daughter gave up, burdened by the frustration of being misunderstood, and waited in silence to unpack her feelings at home.
Our daughter is no longer flagged for needs, her diagnosis no longer invites intervention or special care like her older brother. There are still long pauses and endearingly obscure turn of phrases, but she’s become better about speaking out and standing up for her thoughts.
It’s made her a more generous listener, more conscientious speaker; it’s made me a better listener, too. Sometimes.
I was thinking of this during our son’s school conferences. Specifically, the manner in which we are constantly assigning and infusing meaning with little clarification or confirmation.
In two classes our son had fallen behind, but both teachers spoke generously of his ability and gently of his anxiety. The language of his grades was an incomplete picture of his relationship with his teachers and classroom experience.
I had attended the evening’s conferences with a list of worries and questions, but I found myself listening, rather than speaking, to an unexpected pattern of meaning. Our son was repeatedly identified as a perfectionist with extreme anxiety over performance. He was noted as a respectful student and a thoughtful peer. A young man with artistic ability and unique math skills struggling with an internalized set of doubts and fears.
In the space of an hour I stopped worrying about performance and became immeasurably curious about our son’s emotions and the gaps between our conversations.
What I wanted to see was secondary to what my son might need his father and I to know.
The past couple of days I’ve been speaking less, listening more; changing my expectations and asking new questions. I’m assigning a different value to those worries I used to dwell on and double checking red flags for meaning.
Listening clearly.
one day
June 9, 2016 § 3 Comments
I spotted the beach last weekend and wondered if both children might discover a new sense of familiarity this first summer away from old routines. Each season since our move brings memories that awaken a disoriented contentment, a loneliness for something uncertain or a guilty exuberance over an intangible certainty. Home is a memory of something simultaneously old and still unknown.
I wanted only an hour of their time, without guarantee they might one day return. It was all I asked for – time enough to explore a new idea for possibility over permanence.
I suggested both children consider the unfamiliar beach an experiment and reinforced my encouragements by traveling light. Faded towels and hastily filled water bottles, sunscreen and a last minute football. No books that might stretch on through shifting sun patterns or sketchbooks that would demand extra care. No elaborate sand tools or snacks. I left the unused, inexpensive inflatable rings buried in my bag as a leftover intention from another day.
A gesture of optimism or guilty bribe.
The beach was quietly busy with comfortable stretches of space between clusters of children; room enough to bury our feet long past the edges of our towels without our conversations reaching our neighbors. Toddlers wielded clumsy shovels against misshapen castles and teenagers waded past the reach of adult reminders.
My children settled into a solitary excavation of distracted amusement. Hours fell comfortably like the sand that dried against our skin and I held my thoughts while stealing photographs of their uninhibited joy least they change their minds and ask that we return home.
In the end we stayed until the temperature threatened good sense, both children bartering our leave with promises to return. One day for another and more to come after. A new pattern emerging in the sand.
foolin’ around
April 1, 2016 § 2 Comments
I’ve been playing at April Fools since my daughter was a toddler; a whim turned tradition and the one day a year my children expect me to be purely foolish. For all the days I mask a smile at their mischief, it has become an excuse for me to play at foolery.
The first year it was a savory meatloaf shaped into a curious cake with tinted mashed potatoes and a catsup smile. Subsequent years the surprises were only sweet; there was a frozen kid’s meal replaced with faux fish sticks and the year I splurged on chop sticks for candy sushi (the kids’ favorite), grilled cheese that you couldn’t tell was an imposter and an unfortunate lasagna that photographed better than it tasted.
Over the years April Fools have evolved to accommodate early morning surprises, juice that was jello or spoons frozen in a cold bowl of cereal. There was the time my husband “surprised” me with iced coffee in a warm to-go cup and I, to my daughter’s delight, masterfully spit the contents in an unladylike fashion.
This morning my sleepy (unsuspecting) teen and preteen woke to cereal in a (sanitized) dog bowl and snacks shaped like bones.
The day is not done and we’ve one meal to go; I’m working on a cookie pizza for dinner.
Wishing everyone sweet surprises and frivolous fun!
monday’s child
January 4, 2016 § 5 Comments
Sleepy heads and heavy feet, full hearts and forgotten routines. We’re back to early mornings and long days, heavy backpacks and extra circular commitments.
I struggle against school mornings. Waking my children to herd them through breakfast and dress to catch their bus before the sun has dismissed the evening sky it’s labor.
Already it seems they have begun to outgrow their childhood like ill-fitting clothes that cannot contain the limbs of their dreams. Most mornings I watch them travel the short distance to their bus stop and marvel at how quickly the days pass.
Last night I set my alarm a little earlier, that today I could quickly prepare an unexpected treat. Something simple and warm, playful and sweet to stretch the morning hour.
Monday began with homemade pancakes and new shoes, under dark skies and over snowy sidewalks. Small protests against the cool air and early hour, last-minute objects and extra hugs.
So often we race through the week, eager to chase our responsibilities for play. Today I’m begging stillness in the frenzy of our demands that I don’t hurry the blessings of this day.
monday
November 16, 2015 § 2 Comments
Today dawned gray and damp, winter chill seeping into the morning air. In quiet rebellion of Monday’s burdens, we lingered beneath our bedding and fought off the minute hand with heavy eyelids.
Rain coats too thin for the cold and fall jackets ill-fitting the dampness, it is an uncomfortable in-between. Our shoes slosh with the inconvenience of persistent puddles and our hands tuck cautiously in determined resistance.
It is a day for heavy blankets and long books, old movies and afternoon naps. Except that my children can no longer hide from responsibilities beneath living room forts and make-believe adventures.
Instead we venture past the dampness toward daydreams of day’s end; their forms bent against routine and their minds clouded with remnants of sleep.
tasks & tears
October 19, 2015 § Leave a comment
It was a weekend of homesickness and responsibilities. A hodgepodge of half hearted distractions and earnest busyness. Early morning board games and late night movies, afternoon chores and lost hours in between; days that were outwardly unexceptional with moments of tender awareness.
Saturday afternoon our teenage son learned to mow the lawn, a small rite of passage as we simplify pieces of our life and share new responsibilities. My husband gave our son room to demonstrate accountability and our son leaned into the effort with care. I watched my boys, father and son, moving across the yard in their tasks and marveled at the peace and pride between them. Despite the bluster of teenage disinterest, I recognized the poorly hidden attempt to please.
Sunday our daughter crumbled beneath the weight of a heavy heart, lonely for old friends. There are no words of comfort for such loneliness, only patience for the tears that came unbidden. Some days all we can do is move in harmony with sadness. I gave our fiercely independent daughter room to be vulnerable; in response she curled a little closer into my side, reached a little further for my hand.
A chore and a sorrow; unexpected invitations for awareness. Our children do not outgrow a need for purpose and comfort. Maybe the language of their asking is unfamiliar, some days they push against our offerings rather than pulling at our sleeve. Other days the awareness comes more quietly in uneventful tasks and uninvited tears, small questions of purpose and gentle requests for comfort.
a tale of two desks
October 15, 2015 § 4 Comments
Our home is new, the walls were built quickly and the floor echoed only with the pattern of curious day dreamers; potential buyers in want of a moment’s recognition that hinted at belonging. There are no hidden doodles on the stairway, no layers of paint to hint at past favorites or failed curiosity. The floors have not been refinished and the carpet does not conceal a forgotten treasure. It is our work to create a story; to weigh each corner with evidence of life.
The hollowness of such space has become an invitation to lend substance, to moor the emptiness with new importance. There was much we did not bring with; the space of new rooms a poor fit for old pieces. In trade we sacrificed previous belongings for used replacements. Welcoming pieces of furniture that read like unfinished chapters in lingering signs of wear.
The first was a heavy, oak desk. A tidy workspace that hinted at school days past; a teacher’s desk still proudly adorned with a pencil sharpener. I wondered at the children who may have once flocked to the invitation for movement; restless students roaming the tidy rows of an unknown classroom, chatty conversationalist seeking a fleeting word of connection, the eager worker bee or wordy writer with a worn tip.
I fell in love with the metal cylinder that proudly boasted the name of our former home and wanted to gift our daughter a piece of something lost in our move. The weight of home and a solid space to dream on paper. Deep grains and superficial scratches that promise a labor of love.
It was a similar joy that drew my husband’s eye to an old science desk; the slightly marred black work top and tidy wooden legs of an old classroom workspace. Too large for our son’s room, it has the promise of a project as my husband and son will craft it into a new desk. A love note to our son’s enthusiasm for science and sentiment for a favorite teacher.
I envision heavy microscopes and notebooks with doodles, smelly liquids and messy mistakes. Peers leaned into a lesson and friends chatting over open tables. More importantly, I see a childhood interest in a familiar shape.
These pieces are in stark contrast to the new nightstands and blank walls of our children’s rooms. Workspaces that tell stories and guard a place of creativity as we sound out the colors and textures of home; the past and present converging in weathered wood.
To my children,
Your desks are your place to take risks. Write what you feel and draft new ideas. Make messes and take chances, this is not the place to be cautious. The work of childhood awaits your mark.
Love, Mom
to my children
June 14, 2015 § 2 Comments
Last Wednesday we piled into the car for a short drive up the street. The weather lately has been uncooperative, wet and cool then hot and humid. I was thinking mostly of the clouds as we drove the short distance, my eyes on the blue patches of sky second guessing the decision to drive; we might have walked after all, but then I was also already planning what we might need to do later.
It was in arriving that I lost track of all the mundane thoughts that had only moments before held my attention. Time stood still as years chased old memories around a tiny bundle of hope swathed in love. I can’t recall the last time I held such a new life or when the memory of your own infancy felt so tangible against the impossibility of your adolescence.
Sometimes magic sneaks up on us in plain sight.
Memories tumbled unbidden of days lost to old photographs and fractured reminiscing. It seemed a trick of sentiment that I could recall days long past with the clarity of yesterday even as you leaned curiously over the tiny sleeping form who fascinated us with content irreverence for our fussing. My children bent tenderly in respectful fascination over another’s miracle.
How quickly the years have slipped from the moment beneath my feet. Time is a funny measure of life, memories changing the weight of minutes into something we cannot so easily define.
Love, Mom
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