scribblechic

It began as an uncomfortable uncertainty, a nagging sensation that something unnamed was amiss. Looking over my daughter’s assignment notebook this evening I sifted through worries, wondering if her teacher shared my concerns. Like light flooding dark corners, I immediately suspected what I previously could not recall; I had missed my daughter’s parent-teacher conference.

Panicked I searched my phone for reassurance, grateful when nothing appeared on the day’s agenda. Hurriedly, desperate to prove my instincts wrong, I rounded the corner toward my paper calendar and noted my scrawling script firmly affirming my error and mocking my mistake. I had forgotten something previously unforgettable.

I spit my error into words like a bitter confession, dripping self-depreciating humor. My husband registered disbelief, but my daughter’s disappointment framed my failure in a painful silhouette of silence; holding me tightly to discomfort. In that moment I wanted to build a wall of excuses, stacked neatly with logic to explain away my mistake.

It would have been easy to conjure an acceptable excuse that I might find a convenient thread of dismissal from accountability. Instead I considered my children’s colorful errors in judgment and my lofty expectation of genuine remorse and honest admissions of error. I drafted an uncluttered apology to my daughter’s teacher and then settled into a separate apology to my daughter.

Here, where my children know I hold memories safe, I am pushing aside the urge to label myself unkindly for sympathy or to wallow self-righteously for reassurance. I am determined to wear my mistake among my words; holding this day alongside more accomplished moments of motherhood to better remember the sense of humility that accompanies recognition of fallibility. Modeling honesty and remorse as I endeavor to teach compassion and forgiveness rather than hiding my errors behind excuses.

To my daughter, Tonight I wanted to circle the minute hand back to a moment I might have done better; to claim the fragment of an hour designated to align those responsible for your education in attendance and attention. In loosing sight of this commitment I suggested you and your teacher were forgettable, your time and importance negotiable. You are more important than my error, your education greater than this mistake. I’m sorry. Love, Mom

Recently the contents of our garage had been tucked inside an unused room of our home as my husband settled the once cluttered storage space into a long anticipated workspace.  Walls tidied and tools settled, we then collectively began the process of marching miscellaneous items from the temporary corner of our home into their designated nooks of our garage. From here to there we uncovered old favorites; long forgotten toys and seasonal treasures in want of rediscovery.

Last night, as my daughter elaborately procrastinated each exercise in preparing for bedtime, she came to me baring a forgotten fall storybook extracted en route to storage. Strewn across my bed on our bellies, feet swinging in time to the predictable rhythm of the picture book prose we laughed at familiar memories and delighted in new discoveries. I marveled at the little girl who has worked so diligently as a struggling reader to find the words that so long eluded her, now leading me into forgotten memories among the written words of an old favorite.

My daughter has fallen into a phase of preferential company, delightfully apologetic in her favoritism. Every bit the spitting image of her father’s folly, their laughter and mischievous whims are lyrical in their magic. I play along, the misunderstood and overlooked giver of hugs mumbling exaggerated exclamations of malicious favoritism.

Quietly content, I watch their company from the periphery, each demonstration of belonging is a fruition of the promise exchanged when I first watched my husband’s lumbering form balance our infant daughter in the oversized crook of his arm. I saw the strength in her fragility and the tenderness in his weakness. He is as much the guardian of her joy as she is the keeper of his, they balance each other with a language of similarities as distinctive as her dimples or his laugh.

This week you made yourself small, moving into your space so quietly I almost didn’t hear you leaving for the noise of your big brother’s needs. You gifted him my time and attention generously, but in your absence I saw our truth. Yours and mine.

Each of us circle your brother’s needs; drawn by an emotional gravity we fill the empty and wounded places with self, sacrificing wants and needs for a sense of responsibility and obligation. Often we are lost to the path of his experience, while looking over our shoulder at the places where we set aside our plans to better carry the weight of our collective worries.

Know this: In the moments you feel most lost to the pull of your brother’s story, pushed into the cluttered ring of stars in the darkest sky, I see your light. You are never forgotten.

Love, Mom

Unpacking our cramped suitcases I keep marveling at pieces of remembrance tucked in the folds of clothing. Keepsakes that are empty artifacts without the weight of memories. My favorite moment unfolded on the second day of our drive as we detoured from our original itinerary to visit a homestead dedicated to preserving pieces of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s stories.

Wearing a borrowed apron and perched eagerly on an antique desk, I watched my daughter from the bench at the back of the one-room schoolhouse. Listening intently to the teacher’s thoughtful presentation of prairie life for students of days long past my daughter leaned into the words. In a room freckled with strangers the teacher then directed her attention to my little girl inviting her to portray Laura. Back straight, pride resonating in her poise, my daughter’s joy was underscored in the lines of her body.

Then, with a simple request, we traversed an old journey in postures I translated in tones of fear and strength. Laura, would you please read to the class. My daughter’s back bent, curving into a delicate rest for her chin; a safe haven from the watchful gaze of others. Slowly she raised her chin into a forced gesture of bravery, rolling her shoulders back into a framework of fortitude. I’m sure you are a good reader. One careful foot placed in a determined step my Laura moved from doubt to intent. Cradling the book she sought her place among the unfamiliar text. Then, she read aloud. With each word I felt my daughter’s strength – secondhand.

There was no greater moment, no more meaningful exercise so far from our daily lives. As my daughter found her way to the last strand of prose, I exchanged celebratory smiles with my husband and silent applause when my daughter’s eyes found mine. Without the adulation of other’s, these quiet victories clamor loudly across years of frustration.

To unknowing eyes the photograph of my daughter’s head bent over a book is a memento reproduced with each wave of tourists traveling through time. For me the image is riddled with a language of love and knowing that weights it in a strength we will borrow from long after we returned home. A keepsake with a story not entirely my own that represents our past and present.

At bedtime we curled into easy conversation, side by side, replaying the day behind us and talking expectantly about the day ahead. Between our words I watched your eyes study my face, documenting my lines and questioning stray hairs. I marveled with amusement at your honesty and tried to give you answers that would inform how you gaze at your own reflection.

I told you I lingered in the sun too long when I was younger, smile at each opportunity, sometimes forget to wash my face before bed. I gave you honest answers without apologizing for what some might consider flaws.

I didn’t tell you that I don’t feel beautiful and I am often uncomfortable beneath another’s gaze. Even as you studied the tiny hairs on my face and pink blemishes that have accompanied me from my teenage years into motherhood, I tried not to look away and hide from your inventory. I knew you would filter my flaws with love.

My self-awareness is born of old insecurities whose cost undermine my greater worth. The intricate imperfections I wear with an invisible sensitivity are pieces of my entirety. In a room full of strangers the small lines and stubborn mass of hair, brown eyes with green flecks and imperfect smile are mine alone.

One day you may similarly find pieces of yourself you might change and I hope that in those moments you will remember you are a collection of differences, pieces of a puzzle that create a unique image. More importantly I hope you will know that it is the poetry of your mind and the span of your heart that inform the world of your true beauty.

Love, Mom

Last night the high school auditorium was hushed as rows of parents, siblings, and grandparents waited in the darkness for a familiar face to cross the stage. I knew from rehearsal when my daughter would enter and where she would stand among the young ballerinas, but I didn’t expect the rush of tears that betrayed my own emotions. More than watching the culmination of a year’s worth of Thursday afternoon practices, I was my daughter’s witness to a journey that began years ago.

Toddler arms outstretched to gather wind into her stride and eager twirls between footsteps, her joy and sense of self-expression extended beyond choreographed movement. This melody of movement accompanied us to her first dance lesson over five years ago where unkind words from her instructor introduced shame to joy. The little girl who so often invited dance into her daily movement became self-conscious of self-expression.

This fall my daughter asked to return to dance. She wanted to learn the graceful movements of a ballerina and fly again. The months between then and now have been a balance of hope and doubt, faith and fear. We returned each week to a gentle teacher who guided lessons with kindness and we honored our commitment until the final curtain call.

Moving forward, outside the lights and without the costume, I know that our new experience accompanies the old. My daughter’s footsteps may stray from the pink slippers of our Thursday classes, but her movements are inspired by her strength and informed by lessons in possibility.

This weekend my daughter attended a birthday party. Just as families were dropping off their young guests, uninvited raindrops scattered plans in a new direction. When the party was redirected to an indoor location I found my daughter displaced among strangers. The other girls, familiar from another experience, clamored together into a group of one while my daughter was left standing alone, gift in hand.

To my daughter,

Thank you for being strong enough to stand comfortably by yourself. Without inferring injury you moved towards belonging never loosing sight of your independence.

Rather than race into a cluster of girls eager to huddle together in another mother’s car you patiently waited for our host. At the moment, I wished you company rather than noticing your decision. In hindsight I hope you are always reserved when offered a ride with a stranger.

As the other mother realized you were standing alone she called the girls to befriend you, encouraging someone to step forward and wait alongside you. I was as grateful for this mother’s attentiveness as I was saddened by the girls’ collective hesitance to lend you company. I only saw a little girl left out and allowed my emotions to clutter my perspective.

There were no tears or anger, no eagerness to escape the sidelines. You stood in a moment, comfortable with yourself and patient with others. You held friendship like the gift in your hand and moved independently even as I wanted to shelter you.

Following your lead I stepped into my own discomfort and let go, giving you room to be successful. I welcomed our host’s offer to bring you home and waited anxiously for the party’s end. When our front door opened sometime later, you tumbled through on a gust of words winged with smiles. You found your way.

This day was such a small moment in our lives. Another party in a string of childhood gatherings that blend into an unexceptional pattern of predictable memories. Still, there was a moment in the mundane when you were exceptional and despite my worries wrapped in heartstrings, your strength and faith in others were greater than my assumptions.

I hope you are always prepared to move against the grain to find your own way.

Love, Mom