off track
April 7, 2015 § Leave a comment
There is a singular line of questioning at my children’s more formal education meetings that perpetually derail my confidence. It is a whisper into an uncertainty that leaves me raking my thoughts for better answers than the truth.
What are your child’s interests?
This question of interests has the unpleasant sensation of a dream interview for which I am inexplicably naked in my choices.
At a time when so many children are committed to interests whose measure of success are weighted in structured programing, my children stumble through quieter demonstrations of creativity outside extracurricular agendas or team schedules. If you looked into the chaos of their rooms you would find hidden troves of reappropriated objects crafted into physical representations of daydreams from play interrupted.
I sometimes wonder if I have shortchanged them an undetermined future experience of success without the childhood reference of more consciously choreographed practice and play or the shared responsibility of accomplishment and failure. Today, I tried desperately to frame my daughter’s interests into an answer that felt appropriately conformed and felt shamefully tender to the realization that the very act of shaping her interests into another’s category undermined the unspecific fluidity of her meandering.
My daughter’s interests are undetermined, she’s finding her way into herself and I am trying to refrain from molding what is hers to define.
the hardest part
February 22, 2015 § 4 Comments
I think the longest minute is the one for which there is no control. Worries held captive by the frustration of helplessness. There is no peace for a mother whose child is in need, too far from the span of her reach to offer comfort.
When my husband called yesterday from a camping trip to caution a hurried return with our little girl, my mind danced between the details; an unkind imagination of worst fears. I measured the minutes and miles between us in what ifs without a face to gauge for clues. It is an impossible triage of care, calculating could be’s and hypothetical how to’s without a brow to sweep for temperatures or eyes to divulge discomfort.
Today will be a long day, one not unlike so many other unexceptional days lost under the weather. It is an expected experience as parents, we anticipate need and care as we tend to the wellbeing of children that will one day care for themselves and others in our absence. In last night’s fleeting fears I recognized something greater than the familiar worries of seasonal inconveniences, I was reminded of the inevitability that each exercise in helplessness seems an invaluable lesson in faith and hope that we can survive the impossibility of our hearts wandering outside the safety of our keep.
second fifth, last third
February 12, 2015 § Leave a comment
Tomorrow is my youngest child’s last elementary school classroom party. It’s a funny emotional hiccup that keeps pulling at my attention today, a small acknowledgment that these otherwise unexceptional experiences are exquisitely fleeting in their inconvenience. For all the times I cursed the chaos of crafts or the responsibility of organizing restless bodies into overly enthusiastic efforts at recreation, I am suddenly unwilling to imagine this is the last time I will chase after last-minute necessities or fuss over the impossibility of reinventing traditional games into politically correct, themed celebrations.
If I am entirely honest, I should confess that I won’t miss the preparations; the uncomfortable suspicion that I have overlooked or underestimated an idea. The secret insecurity that manifests in wanting to please the partygoers and not lose face among mothers who so often seem in possession of a secret knack for the task of controlled silliness. Most often I drift to the sidelines of the synchronized madness, marveling at the mechanics of my child’s community of peers and wondering at what futures wait for them as they grow further into the personalities I have had the privilege of witnessing.
More than the festivities of the day, I am mindful of the impossible goodbye within the routine of these elementary traditions. It is my second time navigating the halls of my children’s fifth grade experience, my last third party of the school year, and a bittersweet milestone as we near a new beginning and move further from the halls that guard memories of my husband, son, and daughter’s childhoods.
to my children
February 10, 2015 § Leave a comment
I wish you knew the fullness of the little moments when you are greater siblings for the friendship between you. Last night you tossed yourselves attentively into one another’s company; one needing guidance and the other basking in a sense of purpose. Asking for help and offering assistance, teaching and learning, you were navigating a language of appreciation.
To my son, Your little sister so often bulldozes you with a bossiness you mostly tolerate good-naturedly. She is quieter in her praise, quick in her frustration, but ever thoughtful in her admiration. Yesterday she leapt at the opportunity to study your favorite subject, eager to speak as your equal. Despite the ease of your mastery you were mindful in your manners, patient and respectful as you tempered your knowledge without undermining her ability. For a moment I imagined the father you may one day become in the brother you already are; kind and wise, patient and enthusiastic.
To my daughter, One of the greatest lessons we can offer as a family, is an ability to sound out our uncertainties and accept another’s help. Watching you delight in an opportunity to learn, framing your questions into an eagerness to grow, was a lovely demonstration of trust and respect, vulnerability and honesty. You might have struggled though your answers in a more solitary endeavor and gathered the same information independently, but inviting your brother to share a source of joy was a gift of appreciation that spoke of a gentler personal wisdom. There is no academic standard for character, it is a success measured by the health of our most valuable relationships.
To you both, There will come a time your lives will diverge as your choices lead you to new places and partnerships, may you always look to one another as sounding boards of wisdom and friendship.
Love, Mom
growing up
January 22, 2015 § 6 Comments
Perhaps it is because my children are of an age where I find myself unintentionally referencing outside expectations and their growing independence with an insincere acquiescence of external values, but lately I am unimpressed with the accomplishment of maturity. I hear my voice contorted into hollow directives as I play at my role of adult, chagrined by the unoriginality of my dialogue and lonely for the magic of my children’s childhood expressions.
There are few lingering exclamations of exaggerated mastery, those treasures of language that once speckled conversations with endearingly irrelevant statements of fact and whimsical brushstrokes of self. Pronunciation and tense were a chaos of communication that drew me into a Seussical world of impossible realities that I became adept at translating into the gray language of the world around me. Some days the gray seems to suffocate the prisms of possibility from our speech.
There are fewer pockets of clutter as play seems relegated to more private spaces. I give thanks every day for the carnival of colorful figurines that circle the perimeter of the bathtub, poised in a silent story line, for interrupting the monotony of my routine with an act of imagination. I tenderly note the direction of the characters, wondering at the changes in their stance and marveling at the endless performance of which I am a second-hand witness.
Most worrisome is the absence of Why, a word that so often announced the beginning of a new adventure with enthusiastic curiosity. The school years have directed our attention to a more singular expectation of mastery and I miss unraveling all the possibilities of the unknown.
To my children,
Growing up is about balancing responsibilities; we are all committed to basic burdens that exist to inform care for self, home, and our world. Do not let your success in these areas define the measure of your maturity. I hope you will continue to color outside the lines and speak in passionate uncertainties. Think less of the answers and more of the journey to knowing. We are never too old to play and always old enough to dream. Don’t ever misconstrue growing-up with outgrowing the child within.
Love, Mom
holding a memory
July 7, 2014 § 2 Comments
If I could hold time between my hands, tangling the past into a gesture of hope to carry close each day, I would keep this weekend near. Traveling to a place unbound by past experiences I found beautiful fragments of both children’s spirit waiting to be captured. Surrounded by ancient trees and nestled in thoughtful details, I curved inward and looked outward, seeing my children more clearly against the novelty of the unknown.
My daughter’s joy was saddled somewhere between horseback and nightfall. I loved the sight of her, dressed up and hair down, chasing fireflies unhindered by the suggestion of opulence in the cobblestone paths and ornate indulgences of her surroundings. She gathered details with the same attention she charted the path of light twinkling between shades of evening, drawing our eyes to delights unseen.
If my daughter’s joy twirled in the air like the tail of a kite weaving fluidly between moments, then her brother’s bliss was marked by the noisy clamoring of fireworks disrupting a quieter contentment and lending cheer.
My son’s joy was spontaneous, he leapt into celebrations enthusiastically absorbing each experience. The child I so often guard against the unknown and lead through social expectations charted a path of independence and community. I marveled as he welcomed each opportunity to engage with his surroundings, moving confidently through activities unhindered by doubt.
These gifts, recognizing beauty in overlooked details and embracing new experiences, are the keepsakes of character I most wish to keep present as I unpack the clutter of vacation. A treasure of perspective illuminating joy.
overlooked insights
December 5, 2013 § 7 Comments
During the Christmas season an eager tread of little feet races with heavy percussion down our stairway, announcing each day. A drumroll of anticipation as my daughter wakes immediately conscious of an unspoken promise and shakes off sleep hurriedly, meticulously combing our home for a small indication a guest has visited us in preparation for the holidays.
From the first day of December until the eve of Christmas Day each child scours the corners of our modest home for a subtle clue that we have hosted a holiday visitor in our sleep. The idea was born of a tiny notebook I uncovered at a local card store and has evolved into a beloved tradition.
This holiday whodunnit began a few years back, at a time when our son was on the cusp of certainty as he quietly challenged Christmas magic; still under the spell of the season but carefully curious of his doubts. With four years between our children I wanted to hold tightly to the innocence of their faith in things unseen; from the secular practices of Christmas to the personal and intangible sincerity of Faith.
The seasonal clues that sprinkle our home are ever-present, overlooked items that suggest something greater hovering beneath the everyday. It is the practice of searching for magic that has challenged logic with wonder. What began in play has created a practice of choice, nurturing a perspective of faith in things both seen and unseen. The message I hope will linger in my children’s hearts and minds long after we stow away our Christmas trimmings is this:
There is beauty and magic everywhere, everyday; it is up to us to tumble into consciousness eager to find meaning in overlooked moments of insight.
spoken word
October 5, 2013 § 4 Comments
In the tidy space of one day, both children inspired pleasure and amusement with off-the-cuff commentary that left me temporarily speechless.
With an utterance unladylike but honest, my daughter interrupted our bedtime story to acknowledge the villain with an uncluttered, under-the-breath exclamation of character assessment. Her sweet voice projected a more worldly declaration of devious bastard. Smitten with her choice of devious, I was slow to process the noun in her fragmented statement. Accurate and indulgent, appropriate in application and inappropriate for her age, I set aside the book we shared to applaud and inform both word choices; context and comprehension suspended just long enough for me to revel in her language.
Still distracted by my daughter’s unexpected exclamation, I soon found myself pausing over my son’s passionate declaration that school is a husk of broken promises and lies in response to a routine, How was your day? Promised the company of scientists speaking at his school, he piled misfortune on top of misplaced promises to hold adults to empty assurances. I empathized with his disappointment and acknowledged the imperfection of good intentions, while savoring the elegance of his frustration.
Each utterance as sweet as their infant mastery of naming; echos of discovery and exploration in language that carves out space and colors their experiences with self.
sleep talk
July 27, 2013 § 4 Comments
My children have grown into independent bedtime routines; quiet moments at the end of the day punctuated by solitary interests. My son may linger over a discarded electrical relic, curiously dismantling it into mismatched pieces or curl into the pages of a book. My daughter will gather fragments of toys onto her comforter, rearranging pieces into a collective artistic expression or fill notebook pages with doodles, lists, and fairytales. I retreat into the pages of a book, periodically noting the length of light spilling between their rooms into our hallway.
This week my children invited me into their space with conversations on the cusp of sleep. My son was more fleeting in his sharing, a simple acknowledgment that despite our chaffing opinions and contrary perspectives he loves me. A sentimental pinpoint when I mapped the day in my mind. My daughter called me from the corner of consciousness, filling the air around us with wonder and uncertainty. Questions circled the lingering light and I understood why she puts pen to paper dispensing thoughts to clear her mind for dreams.
Contentedly I quietly recalled the countless evenings I fell asleep tucked into my children’s days and marveled at how we create belonging between good night wishes and I love you; tidy practices like nursery rhymes and beloved bedtime stories nestled on shelves to weigh pieces of tomorrow in yesterdays and connecting us in a string of memories.
scribblechic 