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.
picking & choosing
April 4, 2015 § Leave a comment
Fresh flowers are an intimate indulgence; inexpensive clusters of personal favorites a simple joy. I’m grateful for the luxury of this weekly whim of sunshine on my window ledge. The colorful distraction is a smile that pulls at my attention as I sweep through daily tasks. It is a small kindness to myself, a doting attentiveness for my home, an uninhibited appreciation for a modest beauty.
I am familiar in my choices; seasonally and sentimentally. Today, in anticipation of Easter, I lingered over the colorful exuberance of perky blossoms begging a broader canvas than the tightly packaged company of their neighbors. I hesitated between favorites seeking a color and bud that whispered of childhood Easter eggs and the sweetness of forgotten traditions; little girl bonnets and the stillness of Sunday service.
Then, I remembered my daughter’s face just yesterday as she swept through the front door with two bundles of carnations, contrasting shades of pink highlighting a prideful blush as she gushed over the care with which she choose her bouquets. They weren’t my choice and I promised myself a tiny concession; planning my morning errands to facilitate this moment among quiet friends.
Mentally I gathered my bundle, already nesting them in place in my mind’s eye. Juggling vases and rearranging. My choices kept drifting to my daughter’s blooms, trying stubbornly to compliment her choice with my own. I saw her disappointment as I rearranged and suddenly my choice was more complicated.
I recognized my daughter’s unpretentious heartiness in the carnations’ blossoms. I heard the same language of care and choice, celebration and ceremony that are quiet hallmarks of our home. This Easter I am choosing my daughter’s expression of beauty and creating a new memory, honoring the care with which she made her choice and the joyful practice of picking flowers.
reading & retirement
March 14, 2015 § 3 Comments
Five years ago our daughter couldn’t read. Despite our best efforts and expensive programs she was slipping further behind her peers academically and her self-esteem was drowning in the shame of self-awareness. In a procedural pairing with a Reading to Intervention school program our daughter began to navigate her struggle to literacy with a hope that became the cornerstone of every set back.
One woman, a quiet spoken, kindhearted soul created a safe space for our daughter to succeed among her errors. The work of reading became an adventure and along the way we fell in love with the educator whose lessons tethered our lives with stories long after our daughter graduated from her company.
This is our daughter’s last year of elementary school and our friend’s last year guiding struggling readers through the emotions and mechanics of reading challenges. It is an impossible and inevitable truth of change and yet, I cannot imagine our lives without this woman. We are better versions of ourselves for the smile that makes us all sit up a little straighter in our efforts.
When I shared with our daughter her former teacher would soon retire, there was an immediate shock that quickly spiraled into grief, wide eyes with tears that threatened to spill unchecked. That’s impossible! Who would they ever get to replace her? What about all the other kids that won’t ever get to work with her? Then, a stubborn nod of her head. She must be moving to another school to help other kids.
This is my wish for so many of the irreplaceable educators who have shared our path, that you know the boundless love of the children whose lives are better for the lessons that extend beyond the school day. Thank you.
measures & meanings
March 12, 2015 § Leave a comment
Yesterday report cards came home from my daughter’s elementary school. Normally I mark the date with a simple reminder, an understated annotation on the calendar that prompts me to shake off traces of my childhood anxieties so that I will not accidentally infuse the language of my children’s learning with a legacy of my father’s impossible expectations. Unhurried and collectively, as a family, we gauge these measures of mastery for markers of growth and areas of concern as opportunities for improvement; assigning value and extracting meaning.
I want both my children to seek room to grow with the same ease they enjoy success; to never tire of learning with a natural, self-driven curiosity for knowledge; to question and claim the process of learning as their own. It is an imperfect, ongoing dialogue.
To my daughter,
You came home yesterday eager to rush through your report card. I had forgotten the day and so you retrieved your papers without waiting for your father or me to accompany you. Scanning the rows of neatly typed standards I watched your smile slip from your face, while darker emotions simmered quietly beneath a steady gaze.
You contested subpar grades with a determined confidence that argued your accomplishment as passionately as you disclaimed success that had come too easily. Raking through the form you couldn’t find the image of self that you sought.
I moved aside, patiently cautious not to coddle your frustration or ease the sting of disappointment. Your body curled against your pride until you were bent in to a tight ball of defensiveness. You wondered when you might be “enough” and I stepped gently into your fears offering light.
Bright girl, this is the first year since Kindergarten that you have not been pulled from classroom work for a supplemental path. You are working among your peers after years of chasing after your place. I want you to stop here and absorb what this means, breathe in the strength of your resolve.
The arc of your progress is a breathtaking measure of persistence. Don’t allow your heart or head to be so closely bound to a shorthand for success that you lose sight of your worth. You were never less than enough.
Love, Mom
to our daughter’s nurses
February 28, 2015 § 2 Comments
I’m sure we seemed unexceptional upon our arrival, a little cautious and confused we carried our worries like the bulky winter coats that guarded us from the evening cold. The experience had the surreal experience of a dream, one I kept expecting would dissipate into the comforts of another reality.
There was something intimidating about the unfamiliar routine of the hospital emergency room. The staff navigated the chaos with a quiet confidence and practiced protocol, a language we stumbled through clumsily. The only thing more discerning than our own displaced equilibrium and anxious disbelief was our daughter’s desperate misery.
Our daughter cried outside your entrance and begged us to go home, her feverish limbs were fortified by a nervous fear. An old experience in another hospital, a casual untruth and empty reassurance, undermined your care. She felt every discomfort with the magnification of these memories and there was no reassurance that could endure the balance of this debt as she measured words for trust.
You called our little girl brave and smart, despite her panic, acknowledging her fear and building a relationship based on respect. She challenged every fact and questioned every uncertainty until her tension slowly unraveled into rest that accepted care. The tears faded into a smile and we left a little more trusting than we arrived, unhealed as yet, but mended.
For the exceptional care that is your standard, thank you. The kindnesses will not be forgotten.
to my daughter
January 29, 2015 § Leave a comment
I have this moment pinned to my thoughts, a smile just askew of my attention. This week you threw a quiet temper tantrum, a storm of self-righteous indignation that simmered beneath deceptively calm waters. At the time I was so very frustrated by a casual detachment from your studies that I contrived to withhold every possible outlet of entertainment, not expecting to uncover a smile. You shook off each consequence with a stoic disregard; boldly you crossed your arms, straightened your posture, and stared me down. Each posture was an exercise in independence, but the cockeyed arch to your eyebrow and determined pucker to your lips betrayed your rage and unraveled my mask of seriousness. I could push no further and so I relaxed into a genuine appreciation for the passion behind your certainty. I did something I rarely managed when you were little, I laughed openly at the ridiculousness of the power struggle between us.
Sweet girl, I hope you choose your battles wisely and find your footing carefully. Know when your cause is lost and be thoughtful in your conviction. Don’t be afraid to look silly, but don’t mock those who guide your choices with love. Never apologize for your strength, but be mindful of your power. Love, Mom
to my daughter
January 19, 2015 § Leave a comment
This morning you stood tall in a determined conviction, the surety of your responsibility pulling the frame of your form to consume the periphery of my attention. Your voice was quiet, but the cadence of your words was persistent. I heard the emotions beneath your interruption before I could make out the shape of your confession.
Your brother had been punished for your actions. The injustice and judgment warred in your conscience and I felt the sincerity of your remorse beneath the tremble in your voice.
The actual error was insignificant, not even worth the details it would take to elaborate. By tomorrow we will have forgotten the cause of the consequence, but there is a memory I hope you recall for all the days to come: standing inside the fear of judgement when you recognized an injustice and speaking for someone else, even when your own voice tremored with the weight of your burden.
Brave girl, the individual who can stand so firmly for another, has the power of flight for herself.
Love you, Mom
gut truths
January 13, 2015 § Leave a comment
My daughter is a notoriously poor speller. Tender to failure and hesitant in hope, practice is as much an act of self-confidence as it is a pledge to improve.
Last week when school was canceled due to low temperatures, she voluntarily set up a spelling station. Practicing the week’s word list and developing a strategy for success she played at mastery and claimed ownership of her list with creativity. On a tiny index card she outlined the number of letters per word and prompted this guide at the top of her improvised desk. Gone was the hesitation or insecurity, resistance to practice or resignation of inability. Test after test she churned out perfectly placed letters in much the same way she once verbalized letters by dissecting them into steps up and down our hallway. In these non-traditional contexts her instincts are true and her efforts attentive, creating a new equation for individual success.
Returning to school at week’s end I hugged my daughter tightly and reminded her that in practice her gut was true, confident and capable. At day’s end it was an out of place voice of frustration in a moment of happiness that interrupted my thoughts with a discouraged: My gut lied.
Sweet Girl, The truest measure of success is not where you succeed, but how you determine failure. Trying in the face of fear and doubt is a greater gauge of ability than excelling in an area of strength. Each effort is an active exercise in learning, each error an opportunity to do better. Your truest instinct was to try. Love, Mom
letters to santa
December 15, 2014 § Leave a comment
This holiday tradition above all others is perhaps my favorite; wishes stretched into words. I can see each child’s age clearly in the evolution of their penmanship and the colorful missteps of uncertain spelling; personalities as certain as their signatures in each messenger of memories.
This year, my daughter drafted a wish that is a most wonderful work of fiction; an impossible request that celebrates her confidence in magic. It is the second year I have wondered at the vastness of her faith while embracing the certainty of her impending disappointment.
It must be said that my children ask for little, they navigate need and want in a language my husband and I first shaped for them. The holidays are steeped in tradition over extravagance and togetherness over selfishness. We temper our wants with logic, but in these letters to Santa there is an expectation of magic that invites the impossible.
As my daughter sounded out her dream last night in lines drenched with hope, I hesitated to guide her pen. To critique her wish would cast judgement and to contrive to manipulate her wants would only postpone the inevitable reality of unavoidable disappointment. Instead, I let my daughter send her wish, knowing it would be met with a measure of heartache, and crafted my own wish into words.
Sweet Girl, One day I hope you see magic in the love that guards your dreams. I hope you live in possibility with eyes that see potential where others see limitations. Mostly, I hope your faith is always greater than your doubts, your joy greater than your disappointments. Love, Mom
to my daughter
December 13, 2014 § 4 Comments
Lately I hover a little closer over your words, gathering sentiments like keepsakes, holding them tightly with a tenderness for the heart and mind who weaves poetry into unapologetic declarations of self.
Two recent favorites, quickly scribbled against the pages of remembering before the memories are muddled with time.
First, something from your school days. I treasure this fragment for the unapologetic honesty of your truth. During conferences your classroom teacher suggested that practice makes perfect when addressing an area of concern. As she extended examples to support the potential of progress within the exercise of practice you interrupted her well-intentioned rote message of success with contradictory evidence, assuring her that you were quite consistently horrible at the task in question. I wish you could have seen how you strengthened your posture; sitting taller in your confession of self, your eyes bright with accountability for your imperfections. May you always see struggles with humor and effort with ownership.
Second, a snapshot of home. So often the furnishings of our daily life are invisible to our experience. We move through the days without considering the presence of comfort or the distraction of inconveniences. In casually discussing the possibility of replacing our family table with another shape or finish to hide the unforgiving wear, you sprang passionately to defend its permanence, clinging to the scars as witnesses to our story with a fierceness that promised to guard our individual imperfections with the same measure of loyalty and honesty. I hope you will always see beauty in broken corners and memories in lines etched across time.
However uncertain you may feel of the world around you, the surety of self you carry in unextraordinary moments is exceptional. I hope you begin always, in each endeavor, from this place of self that claims imperfections with love.
To the Moon and Back,
Mom
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