around here
August 29, 2016 § Leave a comment
The past week has been one of hopeful change, individual growth and familiar routines. Our children have settled into their school days and I’ve recognized new efforts at independence and accountability.
Our son is navigating complicated course material, struggling with doubts and nurturing his confidence with frustrated efforts at self-care. He’s asking for help, expressing worries, taking time to pause between assignments to connect at home and reach out to friends. It is an imperfect practice of resilience, but he’s gaining greater control over academic and emotional challenges.
Meanwhile our daughter is becoming more independent at home, taking greater care of her self and the space she consumes. She’s accommodating new expectations and seeking greater responsibility. Demonstrating small gestures of appreciation that communicate a greater awareness for those around her.
While our children are moving more independently through change, my husband and I are honoring time together; exploring new bike trails and swapping recipes while we draft ideas for our home and schedule plans for the year to come. Without the toxic behaviors of extended family, we’ve settled into gentler practices of parenting that more genuinely express the values and goals we share for our future.
Collectively, we’re nestling further into our community even as we gather quietly around simple family dinners; celebrating old friendships even as we cultivate new relationships.
misplaced memory
August 6, 2016 § 4 Comments
A while back I wrote on the loss of a special piece of paper, something carefully crafted to preserve a sentimental corner of our old home to weight our new home with familiarity. It was the growth chart we had carefully tallied against the door frame between our kitchen and laundry room. Small lines in varying penmanship that marked the passage of time in the progress of height.
Last week, as I vacuumed an overlooked corner of our home, the previously presumed lost piece of paper was found.
Even as I held the list, my mind argued the impossibility of its reality against the fiction of my memory’s certainty. I could replay my error like scenes from a movie that rolled slowly from frame to frame. The folded piece of notebook paper that I plucked from beneath our charging station; admonishing myself for safe keeping something I had not, for weeks, recalled referencing. I labeled it unimportant and shuffled in among so many other displaced items as I breezed through in a moment’s urgency to sweep away the chaos of clutter.
I can still feel the grit of dust and the course chafing of paper against my fingertips, the irritation that ruffled my patience. The satisfaction of crumpling my frustration in the a tidy ball and, later still, the sense of loss that I had been so reckless in my dismissal. The urgency with which I had mentally retraced my steps, unfolding a page and mourning dates and names that guarded a sense of us that could not be translated from numbers to words.
Only, my memory is wrong. The evidence rests in a piece of paper that tells another story. Old lines on new walls now guard the past with presence.
Which makes me wonder of the page I was so certain of. There are no other numbers I have missed, papers I cannot place. Maybe it was nonsense rightfully recycled into waste, but the exercise in mindfulness was not lost to error.
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.
fenced in
June 2, 2016 § 2 Comments
My husband and I have been a bit off, short on patience and disconnected. We jump from irritation to assumption, quickly without looking for the best.
Mostly, we were just tired and distracted. Busy and empty.
Then, we took on a project. As the homes adjacent to our property sold, we recognized a timely need for a fence. Months of our pup commandeering neighboring yards had us worried about alienating strangers with unfortunate bathroom breaks.
So, with lots of space between us, we built a fence around us. Together.
It began with help. Someone stronger than me to balance my husband’s muscle as they set about hefting an auger through feet of clay; establishing space for concrete footings. The days that followed were long days under an unforgiving sky. Tedious work timed to weather forecasts and threats of impending rain.
That first day I began anticipating my husband’s steps and working ahead of his requests. It’s something we don’t often do.
As parents of older children and adults with divided responsibilities, we’ve moved past the early days of courtship. We rally in moments of celebration and appreciation, frustration or harm, but the uneventful days can be overshadowed by a self-centered rote performance of needs with fleeting respites to indulge wants.
We move through meals and household tasks, errands and a myriad of responsibilities without much thought for offers to help or opportunities to ask. Beneath a burdensome sun and under a time restraint, with an end in sight and physical pieces that needed assembly there was an easy assumption of shared effort and an immediate demand for partnership.
My husband and I took the opportunity to voice messages of appreciation as we exercised grater patience in partnership. At day’s end we’re more understanding of each other’s sore muscles and tender emotions, our own strength and the generosity of one another’s help.
Insofar as this is a journal of our days, it must also be said that our children have matured into their own place of partnership in these memories. Our son shouldering greater responsibility to physically demanding tasks and our daughter growing into more independent efforts to assist with practical necessities. Each offering help without hesitation or expectation of acknowledgment.
same dog, new tricks
May 12, 2016 § 7 Comments
Our pup stopped taking the stairs during that awkward, otherwise unmentionable time, just after she was spayed. Still growing into her paws and too small for the cumbersome cone she proudly hefted around her neck, we dutifully childproofed our stairs to protect against pulled stitches or a herniated abdomen.
When her body had healed and the gates were removed, we settled into an amused irritation at our pup’s stubborn refusal to take the stairs; letting her in and out alternate floors of our home so that she could chase the difference in height through our old backyard. It was a small concession for her comfort.
Then, we moved.
Much like our old home, the second floor bedrooms were left to chaos. Our son’s desk and floor are often littered with books and incomplete tinkering; our daughter’s room, a confetti of small figurines and haphazard art supplies. Both children are champion hoarders with colorful treasures that hint at curiosities and distraction.
With the exception of bath time, I thankfully accepted our pup’s convenient disinterest in our children’s space. Less dog hair and no muddy paws, no hazardous pieces that might be ingested or unpleasant inconveniences.
One morning last week, while making breakfast, I playfully asked our pup to wake up the kids. A frivolous command, served over unfinished coffee with a hefty suggestion of sarcasm. I might have just as easily asked her to set the table.
With an ease and familiarity the belied her normal behavior, she strolled upstairs and jumped into first one child’s and then the other’s bed. Sitting over them and nudging them awake until they tumbled, still wrinkled with sleep, to the table. That first morning we watched our pup with unchecked fascination, measuring the possibility and cautious least we break the spell.
It never occurred to us she had changed her mind.
Over the past few days, she has added bedtime to her responsibilities; sitting on my son’s computer and stretching across my daughter’s books, curling against their legs or pacing between bedrooms.
The floors need vacuuming and the bedding is wrinkled and dirty, but it’s a small inconvenience for the smiles in between floors.
perfectly disorganized
February 21, 2016 § 2 Comments
I was methodical in my organization as we packed our old home into storage for our move. Before anything could be neatly preserved with overly articulated labels, they were first sorted by necessity, keepsake, and nonsense. I took full advantage of a heightened consciousness of what we needed and loved, then quickly and painlessly dispensed with the excessive waste that had accumulated in dusty corners and holiday storage bins.
There were things we could not take with – a tiny ant penned by my daughter’s hand into a small dent on the stairway; a smiley face stubbornly swept into the clear varnish on a window sill; my son’s map of the world wallpapered to his old bedroom. The one that pulled hardest at all of our heartstrings was the growth chart inked against the kitchen door frame; hurried lines and proud dates made official by our children’s carefully printed names.
We briefly considered removing the wood and packing it for our move, but compromised over a thoughtfully detailed list of measurements to be transferred to a place of honor in our new home.
Recently, my daughter asked about this paper. Promising myself I would no longer procrastinate, I retrieved the list and congratulated myself on the industry of my thoughtful organization. It was just as it should be, neatly waiting precisely where I had stored it away.
I tucked the paper in a place just under my nose and then proceeded to lose it with record efficiency.
Today I retraced every step trying not to think of the ways I tend to shuffle miscellaneous papers into wastebasket storage with reckless insensitivity. I’ve laughed privately over the irony of my distress while apologizing in panicked disbelief to my children.
Tonight it occurs to me that there is something of a lesson in my loss that I might want to store someplace safe for the future.
stargazing
January 19, 2016 § 9 Comments
I am a great thinker of dreams, a poor planner of deeds. My thoughts are consistently conjuring magic, while my actions are often lost in daydreams. It was this Achilles heel that inspired seasons of good intentions and misplaced effort; glow-in-the-dark stars bundled into forgetfulness.
From the time our first child was born, my husband and I made grand plans to gather the stars for our son. Holidays and birthdays brought books, a telescope, and tiny plastic stars to be stored for another time.
The telescope was a poor quality, a compromise of cost. The books were read and disregarded. The stars, a task postponed until forgotten.
This fall, before the night air became cool, you could find our son lying on the ground outside as our dog ran playful circles around his shape. My teenager was once again the elementary student of the stars, marveling at a sky unpolluted by development.
I would wonder at his thoughts, but leave him to our pup’s companionship. Just a boy and his dog without a care in the world, smaller for the scale of the sky.
There is something comforting beneath the familiarity of the stars; markers of space in memorized shapes.
After our move, watching our son stargaze and our daughter daydream about decorating empty walls, my husband and I revisited an old love with new attentiveness.
This Christmas we shared with our children a new telescope and linked together evenings under the stars. Already this winter we have begun mapping the sky and searching the texture of the moon. We also, finally, hung those pesky plastic stars above our daughter’s bed.
It was only after the last constellation was contrived that our son mentioned his lost stars, remorsefully considering the years his own ceiling waited on our good intentions. It was our daughter who counted her leftover stars and lead the way to making right an old promise.
Now both children sleep beneath the stars and we are all falling in love with old lessons in an ancient sky.
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.
tidy
December 27, 2015 § Leave a comment
The nutcrackers have marched their way back into storage and the ornaments are tucked away for the year, the tree still boasts a gown of light and sentiments from loved ones adorn the wall. It is a time of delightful in-between; our hearts full with the joy of Christmas and our thoughts happily distracted by a brief holiday. This week, in the fleeting days between play and rest, I’ll sort shelves for ill-fitting clothes and misplaced clutter; readying our home to greet the New Year. We’ll tidy our nooks and sweep the cobwebs that our threshold will welcome new dreams.
writing on the wall
December 25, 2015 § Leave a comment
Before our move I traded old artwork for a clean slate. Family rules and whimsical subway art for newly painted walls in want of character. I sought new words cautiously and intentionally, joyfully and hopefully.
The choice came unexpectedly, a delightful recognition of a too often forgotten truth. An unadorned love letter to each new day to be placed where we gather our coats and shoes, backpacks and breath before embarking on our individual paths.
A reminder for the busy days, when we wake tired, not yet ready to leave the comfort of our dreams; when the day promises tests of patience or will with discouragement or disappointment; on the occasions we look too far past today or get muddled in days past.
It is an encouragement for times we second guess our abilities or undermine our contributions; a gentle push when we pause too long on the sidelines of our dreams. Words of encouragement written on the wall, a Christmas wish come true.
scribblechic 