labor of love
May 26, 2016 § 2 Comments
I think there is a great fiction to marriage, one that informs false expectations and unrealistic standards. How is that two imperfect people could possibly perform a perfect union?
Of all our friends, I have yet to meet the image of my ideal that I held as my standard so many years past.
I’ve known dear friends who toss playful banter with barbs that wound. Others whose actions contradict the sincerity of their words. Few who are genuine in their brokenness.
Sometimes I wonder if we aren’t all propagating a greater harm in projecting elaborate performances of happily ever after. I like to think happy is a choice and responsibility.
My favorite couples are those who let the mask slip and reach for one another when it is easier to pull apart. Their anniversaries are more than a tally of years, but milestones that mark choices.
Our children understand the work of marriage with messy gestures of empathy and patience; our friends are not mislead by framed photographs of choreographed smiles.
My husband and I have been visible in both anger, sadness, and disappointment with the same honesty we share our joy and comfort.
On the difficult days I try to remember the man who held our children at their most fragile moments of life. On the easy days I lean into the familiarity of his playful disposition. Every day I try to give thanks for the home we build with our choices.
I want our children to understand that beyond the exhilaration of falling in love, there is a labor of love in the work of building a life.
Today, for just a moment, I want to celebrate the beautiful mess of marriage. For better or worse.
seasons
May 25, 2016 § 8 Comments
This stretch of time between school and summer, days that feel like weeks for the weight of backpacks burdened with distracted longing for sleepy mornings and frivolous afternoons; it is a season to itself.
Even in our new home, where the expectations are uncertain for the unfamiliar terrain of potential distractions, the days feel like an echo of seasons past; the shape of our resistance to routine a performance of muscle memory.
Just two more sleeps, three full school days. One band lesson and three final exams. We can count our anticipation in endless combinations of responsibilities.
The next few days are predetermined, a tidy accounting of borrowed books and final assignments; classroom celebrations and yearbook exchanges. It is the days to come that pull our attention toward something else.
Unclaimed minutes to wander new sidewalks and explore new trails. Ice cream flavors to temper warm days and stargazing on cloudless evenings. Friendships that form poolside and sleepy afternoons lost to pages of a new book.
It is something more still, it is an ageless season of common ground. A time to remember our youth even as we savor the experience of our children’s childhood. Remember whens wrapped around new memories as they unfold.
to my daughter
May 24, 2016 § 3 Comments
Yesterday you came home casually piecing together a misunderstanding that left you feeling misplaced. A mistake born of good intentions that made you feel silly, then guilty, as other’s reacted to your error.
Beneath your tough exterior and flippant shrug, there was a tenderness that belied your dismissive attempts at humor.
Last night I wanted to help you piece together the moment; if not to fix it, then to create peace in place of frustration. This morning I am more humble for my own experiences.
Saying something without intending to upset someone else, the tone and texture of your words or mannerisms chafing at another’s emotions until the moment becomes unintentionally hurtful. Loosing perspective between another’s reaction and our defensiveness.
The things we might have said and the way we guard our heart. The balance of fact over truth. Blame over burden.
Maybe everything doesn’t need to be understood, perhaps it is enough to be present in our own experiences and have faith in others’ goodness.
Sometimes we let the broken pieces lay where they fall and trust others to see past the mess to our best.
Love, Mom
to my daughter
May 20, 2016 § 5 Comments
I don’t know what this moment will feel like years from now, but today rejection feels intimately unjust and impossibly unfair.
For the second time in nine months you have been rejected for a voluntary leadership role, a peer mentoring experience that would have placed you in a position of service. It’s a responsibility in which you would have excelled, but where integrity and character felt second to chance.
You were so intentional in your second application, so thoughtful and cautious in your effort that I thought for certain fate would acknowledge your resilience with opportunity. Perhaps we were wrong to feel confident, but I cannot imagine teaching you to practice for disappointment.
I could tell you that life isn’t always fair or reassure you that everything happens for a reason, but sometimes things don’t work out and all we are left to choose is how we handle ourselves in the face of disappointment.
I’ll confess there was a panicked moment of desperate temptation to rearrange events to conspire for joy; to temper emotions with action. Except I didn’t want to puppeteer a false sense of accomplishment for a hollow achievement or undermine a decision that should be made independent of parental interference.
Then, when you bemoaned those veteran ambassadors who sometimes act unkind, I realized you might have been spared a complicated company in which you could have felt a burden to belong greater than a call to service.
Life isn’t fair. Sometimes things happen for a reason.
Here’s what you can do: advocate for those small improvements you felt passionately could strengthen the integrity of the program.
Encourage those who make the decision to share how they eliminate candidates and to identify what they look for in student applications. Allow the process to become a learning opportunity that nurtures growth.
Propose limited terms so that more children have an opportunity to participate.
Let the school know that you think children should be told in person not on paper that they were not chosen. I love the generosity of that opinion.
Each of these small changes have the potential to create a legacy beyond spirit days and building tours.
Most importantly, keep yourself open to possibility when you most want to close yourself off against further disappointment.
Love, Mom
planning & presence
May 19, 2016 § 4 Comments
We are an unusual family in our casual attentiveness to planning ahead. There is little talk in our home of college and career, even less of accomplishment. My son’s sophomore year of high school is almost over, but he’s no closer to knowing what comes next and there’s grace in the absence of certainty.
We aren’t practicing for big tests or stressing over academics. Our son is only newly exploring who he is outside the suffocating influence of family we no longer see.
For years our son lived under the toxic barrage of great expectations projected by my In-Laws. Suffocating under the ideals he might change the world with exhausting messages of genius. It’s an unfair label for any child to carry and leaves little room for either dreams or error.
He was their Autistic grandson with Asperger’s who was “better than” everyone else. Only, he’s always only ever been a boy with Autism who is sometimes heartbreakingly average in the wake of distorted misconceptions. I wish that they had met the little boy drowning beneath their disillusions.
This past year, moving further from the influence of such unhappy demands, our son has blossomed without so many questions of college and career. Gone are holidays and birthday’s tainted by endless critiques of accomplishment. Without the yardstick of failure looming largely over his hopes, he’s dreaming his own future in a language that speaks more to character than qualifications.
Right now he’s figuring out high school, worried more about making friends than making the grade. Choosing classes instead of career paths. Someday will come soon enough, but today is already here.
on dressing rooms and self-image
May 17, 2016 § 3 Comments
As the days turn warmer, I am left little escape from an unwanted voice; a knowing unkindness that lurks in old insecurities.
Words once used by my father to shape my image of self, have become my own inner monologue. Toxic, unhappy thoughts that leave me curled shamefully away from my image of self.
They are the doubts that tell me to cover-up and hide away, to make myself smaller to become more.
There was a time I fought valiantly against the voice, a tender promise to my young children to model a woman of strength and good health; physically, mentally, and emotionally. I drew boundaries and set rules, established routines and tended to my well-being.
I ate well and rested intentionally, curated time for self and honored a kinder language of care. In time illusions of weakness reshaped themselves into ideals of strength. That version of myself is missing in the mirror, seated moodily alongside the discontent teenage version of herself.
Today, wrestling ill-fitting shorts in an unfavorably lit dressing room, I considered hibernating until the leaves change, sweaters are mandatory, and comfort food might be dismissed as preventative cold therapy.
I wanted to hide from a broken image of self, forgetting that a stronger version of self must first be nurtured with kindness.
I may never again relish swimsuit season, but I still want to savor the sweetness of sunshine. I’m going to think a little less about how I appear in distorted reflections and poor lighting to better bask in those places where I move intentionally with purpose and passion.
I want the image my children use as a gauge for strength and truth to be one of self-care and kindness; a reflection of happiness that can only be mirrored in choices that reflect respect and love.
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.
post script
May 10, 2016 § 2 Comments
It’s over. Your solo is done. I’m still holding tightly to the memory of your performance and the exuberant message you sent me just moments after your evaluation.
I did AWESOME! I made a couple of mistakes, but otherwise I was amazing!
This day was not easy, nor was your performance perfect. There were hours of dreaded anticipation and moments of panicked uncertainty. I may have wished you an easy performance, but your mistakes were glorious for your stubborn resilience and tender courage.
You walked in to your test withdrawn, hunched over your fear like it was holding your place when your accompanist directed you to lead. Swinging your body toward the sound of his kindness, you tapped your beloved boots to tempo as you raised your instrument to a smile.
Audacious and fiercely genuine, it was a glimpse of the girl I know at her most comfortable in her least comfortable setting. Then I heard the sharp squeak of a single note scrapping out of place.
It seemed traitorous that this lost artifact of early practices would betray you just as you had relaxed your guard. I wanted to push myself through the monitor and tell the man observing you that only yesterday you were home sick, unable to breathe and exhausted; to will you a second chance at a truer performance of ability.
You, however, didn’t falter.
One deep breath as your eyes kept place and you were back. No tears or apology, no excuses or awkward explanations. It was better than if you had played without error.
I did AWESOME! I made a couple of mistakes, but otherwise I was amazing!
And so you did, you were, you are.
Love, Mom
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.
scribblechic 