What my parents taught me when they didn’t know I was watching; what my kids taught me when I thought I was teaching them. The life-long challenges and joys of sharing life with siblings, spouse, cousins and friends-who-are-also-family.
We had a whole collection of Dr. Seuss books when our kids were little. I read them so often, I could do it with my eyes shut. If you’ve ever fallen asleep while reading a bedtime story, or even a middle-of-the-morning story, you can empathize. The Cat in the Hat Comes Back was a favorite. It chronicles Sally and her brother’s second misadventure with the crazy feline. Near the climax, their yard is covered with pink snow, spread by the Cat in the Hat’s “assistants” Little Cats A to Z. Those two uptight kids are dismayed by the antics of these twenty-six imps, and yell at the Cat in the Hat to take them away. . .
Our dog died of pneumonia in the winter of 2016. Let that one event stand in for all the happenings of a season that felt uniformly grey and burdensome. On April 20th, I wrote in my journal: “I am so utterly depleted!”
After pouring out my feelings in my journal that day, I called my husband at work. I told him I wanted to get away for a week - a writing retreat. We talked about what that would look like, and I finished off the conversation with, “Just a wild idea. Think about it for me.”
He responded immediately: “I’ve already thought about it. I think you should go.”
Two weeks later, the first week in May, I found myself alone . . . .
Don’t get so caught up in the obstructions immediately in front of you that you fail to focus on where you are going.
The winter after our second child was born was a challenging one for our family. We had naively imagined that after my husband completed his master’s degree, our greatest difficulty would lie in choosing between job offers. Instead, we found ourselves back in our home city, where my husband cobbled together a couple of low-paying jobs into a six-day work week that provided something of a livable income. We had one car, and a workplace that was impossible to reach by transit . . . .
I have come to the conclusion that thank you is the most versatile phrase in the English language.
As a ten-year-old, I thought I didn’t know how to accept compliments. When people would praise my performance after I participated in church or played in a piano recital, I had this vague feeling that I needed to find a response that was simultaneously self-deprecating and brilliant. Quite a tall order for a 10-year-old.
I reflected on my conversations of the last week with deep satisfaction. “I’ve been listening.”
Brief story from my single adult days. I had two friends - let’s call them Herbert and Mabel, since those most definitely aren’t their real names. I’d usually see both of them a couple of times a week at the university medical school library (I wasn’t in medical school, but the cool kids hung out there) or the “Institute” - a student center for my church just off campus. One week, I was bemused to realize that in our little snatches of conversation, both of these friends were telling me the same story.
On Monday, Herbert said, “I’ve got a big decision to make.”
You may be wondering why I refer to my individual children as “they” rather than “he” or “she.” There are two answers to that question:
The Uncomplicated Reason: This blog was not my children’s idea, and yet they are often key players in my stories. To preserve their privacy, I won’t be using their names - but I realize if I use gendered pronouns, it narrows the pool of suspects considerably. By sticking to the non-gendered they/them, I’m giving them a better chance for anonymity.
The Deeper Reason: One of my children identifies as queer and nonbinary. Nonbinary, in case you are not familiar with the term, means that they don’t see themself as male or female, but neutral.
You won’t be a good mother. Not if by a good mother, you mean what I meant.
It is possible to take optimism too far. It wasn’t until I had my third baby that I really let go of the hope that I could one day figure it all out and become a perfect mother. Don’t get me wrong: I knew I wasn’t there yet. I messed up every day. But right up until I brought that third delightful bundle of possibilities home, I kept stubbornly believing that perfection was possible, and if I read enough parenting books and tried really hard, every second of every day, I would eventually master the feedings, the bedtimes, the teaching, the discipline and - voila! - produce well-adjusted, intelligent children who would never grow up to say, “My life would be better if only my mom had done X - or hadn’t done Y.”
Bless this pain, for it will bear its perfect gift to you in its perfect time. (Rusty Berkus)
I learned to ride a bike back in the dinosaur times, before knee pads and helmets. When I was seven, my parents (bless them!) bought me a bike with room to grow into. My dad would take me to the street in front of my house (it ran down a gentle slope, which I remember as more of a precipice), perch me up on my heavy bike, run with me for awhile, and then let go. Over and over, I fell.