to my son
April 20, 2016 § 4 Comments
I’ve been trying to decide if there’s room in this space for me to introduce your identity as a writer. It’s a gift I’ve kept close to my heart, a secret that I treasured as an exclusive audience to your developing skill.
In much the same way a parent might take pride in sharing an athletic ability or musical talent, it has been my greatest joy to share my love of writing with you.
Until now most of your writing has been forced and shaped by academic restrictions. It’s only in your private writings and personal letters that one can see the contradiction of your internal awareness for your experiences in contrast to your outward mannerisms; it is in these works that your voice and style, confidence and curiosity shape a prose that is enviable.
This brings us to an exciting development. You are writing a book. A witty science-fiction work with a strong storyline and endearing characters, cliff hangers and comical one liners.
I’ve been reading your thread since your first paragraph, but you’ve begun to broaden your efforts to accommodate the work of editing and constructive feedback from a trusted teacher. Something that you once played at has become a passion and your definition of self is becoming broader.
You so often categorize yourself by interest over talent without allowing for a depth of character that invites a life rich with multifaceted experiences. Scientist, inventor, gamer, writer.
None of us are one or the other, we are fragments of everything we know and cannot fathom.
Maybe you will work in a lab or write code, maybe you’ll stay at home and raise a family or craft a novel that inspires new dreamers. The future is still unwritten, but this story that you’ve started is worth finishing.
I wake up wanting to turn the page, to see this next chapter unfold.
Love, Mom
Murphy’s Law
April 19, 2016 § 5 Comments
It is an infallible inevitability that whenever my husband must travel for work, something will go wrong. In fact, I plan accordingly for chaos; I fold it into my expectations the way my husband neatly packs his bags. Sometimes I wonder if a cartoon cloud has been assigned my schedule or if I am responsible for inviting rain with the force of my thoughts.
Less a pessimist and more a planner, I persistently endeavor to ready myself for worst case scenarios. The truth is we are never truly prepared; we rise to challenges by choice.
Here is what a spontaneous hour at the veterinarian reminded me:
- We create space in our lives for risk. Dogs, like children, do not defer to convenience and our commitment to them demands we detour as necessary.
- Children are more capable than we assume, they thrive with responsibility because it validates their unique strengths and reinforces messages of ability over need.
I’m not in a hurry to do yesterday over, but I’m pretty proud of myself and my children. We were present for one another and accountable for ourselves. Our pup is on the mend and we’ve added a new story for when my husband returns home.
Murphy’s Law might dictate anything that could go wrong will, but I like to think everything worked out just fine.
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 son
April 15, 2016 § 2 Comments
Last night we attended a lecture given by your childhood hero, Bill Nye. Walking through the unfamiliar space you began shrugging and snapping, staccato movements on a loop of increasingly rapid repetition; enthusiasm stemming through your limbs like joy tapped into a morse code of movement. In an auditorium crowded with thousands of science-minded fans, you sat at attention as if the room had shrunk to accommodate an audience of two.
Stowed away in my purse was a note you had written Mr. Nye when you were 5 years old. So many years ago I envied this man the fame that you might draft him a letter given your disinclination for writing, the physical demands of shaping letters against the tide of faster ideas often a burden of inconvenience. I reasoned that Mr. Nye must receive so many letters that surely your effort would be lost in his company and as such I should be allowed to keep this time capsule in your penmanship for myself.
Yesterday I confessed my crime of hoarding a letter intended for someone else and had hoped you might gain a signature on the envelope, but the night did not lend itself to a private audience and we left the lecture for a leisurely walk. With long easy strides you casually forgave me my trespass and offered effusive thanks for the evening’s events.
It was enough to be present.
I think sometimes we all forget the luxury of this truth. So often we strive for dramatic performances of appreciation in celebratory moments, losing the elegance of a simpler delight.
In your letter you had invited your hero to play. Yesterday it was enough to find yourself in the same room.
This gratitude for what is and the ability to see wealth in less, it is such a small part of why I am so proud of you and such a large part of why I am better for your gentle lessons.
On the eve of a special birthday, I’m wishing you a lifetime of joy in small moments of mindfulness that you may always find enough within.
Love, Mom
mouthful
April 5, 2016 § 2 Comments
Ever so often, and almost always between seasons, my husband and I commit ourselves, passionately, to a new, good idea. An unfamiliar exercise or a new meal plan, something novel enough to be intriguing without the burden of a long-term mindset. Last fall it was a new cardio routine. This spring it’s a new cookbook. Each, in its own way, a flight of fancy.
Our most recent indulgence required new pantry staples and more invested meal planning. My husband has been blending smoothies and doting over dinnertime. I have been stubbornly resistant, reframing expectations to accommodate those personal preferences that bring me joy.
While my husband stoically drinks his measured water and chokes down protein powder, I have charted compromises. He’s holding steady to the rules, admirably and with more restraint, while I cling devotedly to my morning cup of coffee and conjuring excuses to drizzle honey.
Of all the poor habits I’ve exercised over the years, I am perhaps most proud of my ability to manipulate a chore into an act of playful defiance. I don’t like a one size fits all meal plan and I’m a firm believer in moderation and pleasure.
There will be something new, someday soon, but this exercise of wrestling rules into contrition and cooking up better habits has me smiling in the kitchen, thinking mischievously about good behavior and indulging in healthier bites with smiles.
to my son
April 4, 2016 § 1 Comment
Unhidden in the chaos of your school papers, I found these playful term test strategies:
I love that you still hide funny messages where you know I’ll look; fragments of borrowed smiles and innocent mischief that hint at your sense of humor.
Thank you for laundry day laughs.
Love, Mom
foolin’ around
April 1, 2016 § 2 Comments
I’ve been playing at April Fools since my daughter was a toddler; a whim turned tradition and the one day a year my children expect me to be purely foolish. For all the days I mask a smile at their mischief, it has become an excuse for me to play at foolery.
The first year it was a savory meatloaf shaped into a curious cake with tinted mashed potatoes and a catsup smile. Subsequent years the surprises were only sweet; there was a frozen kid’s meal replaced with faux fish sticks and the year I splurged on chop sticks for candy sushi (the kids’ favorite), grilled cheese that you couldn’t tell was an imposter and an unfortunate lasagna that photographed better than it tasted.
Over the years April Fools have evolved to accommodate early morning surprises, juice that was jello or spoons frozen in a cold bowl of cereal. There was the time my husband “surprised” me with iced coffee in a warm to-go cup and I, to my daughter’s delight, masterfully spit the contents in an unladylike fashion.
This morning my sleepy (unsuspecting) teen and preteen woke to cereal in a (sanitized) dog bowl and snacks shaped like bones.
The day is not done and we’ve one meal to go; I’m working on a cookie pizza for dinner.
Wishing everyone sweet surprises and frivolous fun!
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
seasons & self
March 31, 2016 § 2 Comments
Last fall I sent my children off to new schools in an unfamiliar community buoying them daily with encouragements to strike up conversations and invite introductions; to intentionally look for opportunities to connect.
I nudged my children purposefully, firmly, toward vulnerability. I watched each child work through the emotions of creating new connections, the tender fractures that come from opening themselves to chance.
Disappointment and acceptance created an emotional topography of self and community that we used to map the experiences of friendship and the complexities of risk as they created a space of self somewhere new. In these early days I contented myself by disappearing into the background; centering the unfamiliar in new routines and borrowed comfort.
It was only when I found myself standing, alone, in an atrium that echoed with the casual greetings and easy exchanges of old friends that I remembered the awkward sense of displacement that comes from feeling lost in a crowd.
Gone were the early morning confidences, lunch dates and PTC meetings. There were no more after school conversations at the playground or fragmented exchanges between grocery store aisles. It has been a year of invisibility as my husband and I lost ourselves in time shared settling our home and beginning again at something new.
There have been weekends shared with old friends nearby and longer weekends with friends from a place we still remember as home, but most days I am still a ghost among strangers; indulging in the whim and work of quieter pursuits.
As the winter battles spring in the work of changing seasons I am lost to memories of summers past. Rain rattles against the windows and I wonder if there is magic enough in sunshine that new hellos might stick to our hearts like sand against our skin.
great intender
March 21, 2016 § 5 Comments
I’m a great intender of good intentions. If only my thoughts and actions would consistently align. This past week, in the quieter moments of reflective distraction, I returned to my wish for an online atmosphere of simplicity in anticipation of creating change that might realign my actions and intentions for a more genuine representation of self.
Authenticity and integrity are values I endeavor to model with my choices and my distraction online had begun to contradict my desire for a more streamlined consciousness for those individuals and experiences I was enjoying from the periphery of attentiveness. The ease of press, swipe, tap had overshadowed the work of greater connectivity.
Additionally, I was consuming images that fed a mindset of scarcity; homes arranged into personal advertisements for style and photographs that hinted at manically impossible family experiences. Online presences rarely capture the broken pieces of normal days, unless they have been intentionally filtered to counterbalance perfection as a qualification for the ever rising accomplishment of imperfection.
It all felt just a little manipulated and insincere. Add to this the obligation of elaborate chains of commentary and the entire process became a bit exhausting. Sifting through my social media feeds I felt lonely for conversation over coffee and intimate messages outside the public pool of uncertain interpretations.
As someone who naturally prefers a small company of close friends over an elaborate network of acquaintances, my online accounts felt disingenuous to my individuality. Last night I edited my accounts for a new experience; clicking out of relationships and interests until there were only a small number of family and old friends. Then, I logged off.
If limiting the available distractions was a first step, changing the rhythms of my communication is my next endeavor. This week I am practicing a hands-free approach to my days, walking away from those conveniences that promise connection for more mindful presence offline.
scribblechic 