to my daughter
May 9, 2016 § 8 Comments
This afternoon you came to me in tears, asking for permission to quit band. Your posture was folded over in defeat, your voice resonated with remorse.
I couldn’t rectify the shape of your request with the form of your eagerness this past fall. The way you would lean your torso toward the marching band, rolling down the car window in passing to let the notes drift on cool currents that chased after us as we turned the corner toward school.
You had begun to find a place for your future self in these fleeting glimpses of tall hats and sharp steps.
Looking over my shoulder, I could still see last year’s struggle in this year’s commitment. Weekend practices to supplement lost class time after an extended illness; you had been working to catch up when you fell in love with the rewards of your effort.
Then, this year, band was a familiar family of strangers as you settled into a new school. I was thinking these thoughts quietly as you waited for my answer.
In those short minutes, I wanted to muscle past whatever moment had undone your joy, to order you over the obstacle or help you see your way through. Except, you’ve always been as stubborn as you are sensitive and I was afraid I might chase you further from the truth.
So, I quit – first. I outlined your options and itemized the practicalities. It was only after I mentioned we would need to change your registration paperwork to accommodate choir as the foregone alternative to band that I saw the same fear that had driven you to quit.
Only then did I understand you were terrified of tomorrow’s solo. Standing alone. Judged.
The girl who worked comfortably in the artistic details of her class play wanted no part of center stage.
It was tempting to give you safe harbor, but the truth is our fears have a habit of reappearing in new challenges until we move past that horrible place where our knees knock and our voice wavers. Until we shine a light into the darkest corners of ourself and look lovingly on those imperfect images of self.
You confessed you were afraid you might be awful.
So we joked until you were ready to work. Then, you practiced until giving up something you enjoy to avoid something you fear no longer made sense.
Tonight you are still, palpably terrified. I can sense the closed throat and loose fingers clutching numbly at false bravado even as we set aside your clothes for tomorrow and you settle your clarinet into its case.
Even if you are awful, completely and utterly horrible, this time tomorrow the worst will have come and gone leaving only the joy that was there before fear.
I’ll be waiting on your stories.
Love, Mom
second chances & simple truths
May 3, 2016 § 2 Comments
My daughter is applying for an opportunity she was denied at the onset of the school year. The process of answering questions that speak to character and individuality, teamwork and excellence were once easy scribbles she raced through in an attempt to make the cut.
The first time around there was an idea that timelines, more than tidiness, spoke to an unwritten qualification. This time around she has been more cautious, but no less intentional. As we near the deadline for second chances, she’s drawing her letters carefully and crafting her answers, again, mindful of their weight.
It was this matter of timeliness that had us talking over what work was left to complete and when she might plan to turn over her student application and teacher recommendations.
We debated the value of early applications as demonstrative of enthusiasm and late applications as either procrastination or care. Then, to muddle things with my signature tendency toward over thinking, I mused that an early application may hint at a hurried effort and could become forgotten as last-minute applications filter in.
It would seem that I was sounding out a strategy, when mostly I was merely exploring the possibilities of a process we don’t fully understand in the interest of engaging my daughter in an opportunity to connect. These dwindling morning moments when she’ll still let me untangle her hair into conversation before school.
There was no right answer, no sure bet or safe choice. Just an excuse to sound out emotions and opinions. Sometimes, in these moments, I’m certain I’m sharing something important; nudging my children towards a lesson that may, one day, serve them well. It is more likely that I am teaching my children a little more about myself and learning more, still, about them.
On this occasion, after I had exhausted my thoughts on timeliness, it was my daughter who cautioned my questions with a very humble and unceremonious:
Mom, someone has to be first and someone has to be last.
There was an exquisite simplicity to her clarity of consciousness; an uncompetitive acceptance of face value and an equality of worthiness. I wish there had been more space in her application for the uncluttered self-awareness that is so often a hallmark of our conversations.
First, last, or somewhere in between, she’s placing herself in a position of possibility and counting on second chances.
sick day
April 27, 2016 § 4 Comments
The morning unfurled itself around the unexpected, a sick child who only hours previously had shuffled sleepily through her routines without the slightest clue something was amiss.
My husband and I had procrastinated our breakfast as I curled over my thoughts, head bowed over busy keystrokes of curious rambling. The day was settling into the loosely choreographed comfort of modest efficiency when our phones interrupted our efforts and reprioritized our attention.
Gathering our daughter from school we traded tasks, moving busily through the mechanics of washing away the early morning stories with empathetic giggles and gentle encouragements. Tending in generous swaths of presence.
It was only after toilets had been scrubbed, school clothes washed, and shared areas sanitized that I turned the corner on my daughter’s room to find her face partially hidden beneath her sick bowl; not in misery, but good humor.
Balanced atop her head, as if it were the most unexceptional accessory, was the silver bowl meant for emergencies repurposed for entertainment.
Pridefully impulsive costuming that turned everything upside right and back to normal.
These are my favorites. Remarkable moments of personality that dress up the predictable childhood experiences with indulgent individuality; shorthand of self in a universal language of play.
to my daughter
April 23, 2016 § 4 Comments
If your big brother kept falling in love a secret, you are wearing your first crush with the sweet enthusiasm of bubble gum blushes. Your cheeks are the most endearing shades of happy and your smile sticks to your words with a crooked permanence.
At first this boy was just another story. Someone from school who did something that made you laugh. Then, suddenly, every story was wrapped in his name; an excuse to sound out new feelings.
This week you offered clues to your crush in confidence to classmates turned confidants. Each day has brought a new telling of the mock horror of their playful taunts over the inevitable disclosure of your affection. You’re too young to date and quick to qualify the fascination for what it is, so we’re just talking our way through the newness of this moment.
I’m letting you enjoy those effervescent butterflies behind your blush while listening carefully for opportunities to learn more about the values you hold dear in others and yourself.
I like that you admire people first for character over image and that you aren’t intimidated by popularity or pressured by peers to pretend a persona that isn’t true. Like your brother you’ve allowed yourself to be vulnerable without losing the backbone of authenticity. We’re having real conversations about issues that are tangent to your emotions and I’m learning more about how you perceive yourself and the world around you throughout this new experience.
When a peer said your crush had a boyfriend, you respected he may be gay and were just as comfortable imagining friendship as you were when another friend said he had a girlfriend. As your well-meaning friends line up reasons for doubt, cautioning you from disappointment, you’ve stayed true to your gut. Through out all the inferences of differences between you, I like that the only change in you has been the flush on emotion that colors your speech.
Most important, you still tend to your friendships and family. You haven’t lost your sense of self even as you fall.
Love, Mom
to my daughter
April 18, 2016 § 2 Comments
Yesterday afternoon we stole away for a moment of girl time among new acquaintances and old friends. It was your second birthday party since our move and the first one that pushed you outside your comfort zone.
I’m convinced the world can be divided into those who can roller skate and us.
I considered demanding you skate, there was even a fleeting moment of guilt induced pressure for me to lace up and drag us both through a painful display of determined whimsy. In the end, I decided to leave my socks at home and allowed you to bring along a quiet activity to fill the time between the others’ laps.
I told you in the car that it can be brave to go against the grain, to recognize your fear and stand safely where you can breathe. There are going to be times in your life when that reservation will keep you safe and give you the clarity to work through the risks and consequences of your choices. I secretly hoped you might change your mind, but allowed you space enough to choose.
It was only after pizza, when the party was winding down, that I spotted you trading your tennis shoes for skates. It may have been the longest, slowest test of will, there was no natural ability or mastery in your effort, but there was an exquisite vulnerability in stepping outside your comfort zone and wearing your fear in a demonstration of stubborn optimism.
Just as it is brave to stand in a solitary self truth, there is strength of character in reaching past your fears and holding tightly to another. We don’t have to be brave alone any more than we have to be perfect. Friendship gives us a safe place to fail colorfully.
Love, Mom
to my daughter
April 1, 2016 § 3 Comments
Lately there’s a single name that freckles our conversations with frustration over manipulations and mood swings, insincerity and gossip. I would love to tell you that this experience is a temporary discomfort, an unfortunate stage of puberty.
Poor behavior isn’t a hallmark of a common experience or a right of passage, it’s a noisy mistake in want of attention. Sometimes unkindness is taught and other times it’s a messy error. Its hard, in the moment, to tell why someone might speak unkindly. Its trickier still to breathe patience in place of hurt and inform a different standard of respect.
I’m sorry someone has made you uncomfortable in your space, but I’m impressed by your character. You’ve held your ground and offered second chances, owned your emotions and held other’s to their choices. You’ve stayed open where others might have closed doors while refusing to pretend away difficult experiences for an easier fiction.
When another child came to you with assumptions you thanked them first for having the integrity to ask you a question rather than spreading rumors. Then, you shared the facts, copping to your own unflattering behavior.
You can’t know yet what a gift you are, that your normal might be uncommonly exceptional. I hope you never cease to see the world with such innocent acceptance and generous understanding.
Love, Mom
to my daughter
March 10, 2016 § 2 Comments
On your eleventh birthday, you proudly proclaimed yourself eleventeen. Younger sister to a teenage brother, it sometimes seems you were born assuming an equality of age while simultaneously performing a playful demonstration of the very youth you feigned ignorance of experience.
I can remember elementary days, picking up your brother from school while you chased ahead of me in full costume. Parading after the older children with a single-minded purpose of falling into line and assuming a place in their day.
You were fearlessly bold before you were old enough to understand unkindness, to feel different or doubtful. Over the past few years you’ve sometimes struggled to be seen authentically amid the familiarity of sameness.
This year, as you introduced yourself to strangers and set about the task of self in a new setting, I marveled at confident expressions that hinted at your playful nature and creative spirit. When others might have sought the invisibility of a crowd, you moved comfortably in your costume of self.
Bulky orange headphones, outdated for their size, draped at your neck or a borrowed baseball cap worn backwards; torn jeans and weathered boots; sentimental accessories and clothes that are a hodgepodge of comfort and convenience. Just this side of pretty with a carefully casual disinterest in compliments.
I have a sneaking suspicion you will soon outgrow this phase in much the same way you ceased to chase neighborhood sidewalks in stained princess gowns brandishing your brother’s forgotten sword in trade for an astronaut costume with pearls.
Even as I cautiously redirect your attention from a new question of feathers and hair color, I’m secretly smitten by the riddle of style that has become reassuringly familiar for its predictable chaos that is your own.
Love, Mom
to my daughter
February 23, 2016 § 8 Comments
This weekend you confessed to me that you felt singled out for help in a class setting, an experience that reinforced old insecurities.
It makes me feel stupid, Mom. I can do it, it just takes me so much longer than the other kids. I’m a slow reader, but I can do it.
I was tempted to underplay the emotions, to tell you that it was no big deal – that your teacher was only helping, but I realize how fortunate I am in your confidence. The truth is our experiences are as real as our perceptions.
I couldn’t imagine sending you back to a setting that undermined your sense of self. How lonely to feel perceived as unable without confidence enough to voice ability.
I drafted a brief letter to your teacher, asking questions and offering understanding. Her response was almost immediate; she outlined the areas where your performance suggested need and volunteered to let you initiate support.
We talked after about how this new awareness created space for you to experiment with greater independence, speaking up in a setting where the boundaries have been safely established. I suggested you begin with a word of thanks, to transform a dialogue of defensiveness into a conversation with mutual respect.
Help comes in many forms, it’s really how we choose to see others’ actions or words of concern relative to how we see ourselves.
Take, for example, your theater teacher. At the same time that one teacher responded to your frustration, another sent a message of acknowledgment.
In a different setting, with a different personality, a teacher saw struggle and used creativity to inspire confidence. When you couldn’t demonstrate mastery of a specific goal, your teacher offered you a new expression of knowledge and your effort was not only accurate, but beautiful.
In both settings there was a need and a mindset of help. In one setting you felt empowered, in another helpless. The only consistent variable between both classrooms was you.
Take note: knowing your challenges and understanding your strengths informs a perception of possibility. You can do hard things.
There’s nothing wrong with needing help.
It’s ok to struggle, to not know, take longer than your peers. It’s also ok to ask for help, try again, rework a problem or request a little more time. We are all more than our mistakes, we’re the sum of our efforts.
Love, Mom
off script
February 11, 2016 § 4 Comments
Last night I had the privilege of watching my daughter’s classmates dress-rehearsal for their 6th grade school play.
There were delightful surprises and scene stealing characters. A meaningful, well-written story with witty one-liners and lessons disguised as puns. It was everything you could wish for opening night, with a few glorious mistakes that stole the show.
In a moment of honest forgetfulness, a main character realized he had lost a line. Center stage, without any distractions, his face processed the revelation and he owned the silence with pitch perfect honesty. He told his parter on stage he had forgotten the line and even asked them directly to “say something.”
The audience’s patience and empathy was as tangible as the actor’s error. We leaned into a moment, completely committed to one another, and I thought:
What if we could all do this in life? Stand center stage to our own experiences and forget ourselves, own our mistakes and move on. Invite others to help while standing tall in humor and humility. Acknowledge the audience without sacrificing self.
Other flubs would follow. Underplayed utterances, small improvisations, hurried lines and voices too quiet or hurried to hear. Colorful strokes of nerves that made the students personalities more amiable than the characters they portrayed. They were, all of them, brave in their own right.
Last, but not least, I want to shine a light on the silent actors who fashioned a beautiful backdrop for the stories acted front and center. Student directors, sound and lighting crews, prop and make-up, set and advertising. Shadows that raced between scenes for weeks to prepare the stage, faces that we didn’t see until curtain call begged a moment’s applause.
Many will remember the handful of stars who stole the spotlight with perfect affectations of difficult accents and seamless character portrayals. I’ll remember the beautiful honesty of imperfect scenes and the whimsical scenery that spoke colorfully of the cast in its entirety.
to my daughter
February 5, 2016 § 4 Comments
Hands in your hair and only minutes from goodbye, I was mindlessly patterning a braid this morning when we fell down a rabbit hole into a story.
I love these casual outpourings. Much like the confetti of broken treasures you used to covet in your pockets, clues to your days discovered in the wash, these snippets of humor and heart are my favorite minutes together.
The teacher who taught a lesson on kindness and empathy with a tender childhood memory; the boy who tested mature language with a misshapen compliment; witty one-liners and curious critiques of superficial nonsense. Fragments of whimsy and philosophical musings freckled with questions and certainties.
Colorful bits with imperfect edges, words that tumble over one another and long thoughtful pauses with dramatic performances. Prisms of personality that capture your light in your telling.
Love, Mom
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