The best way out is always through.
--Robert Frost
Change is the essence of life. Be willing to surrender what you are for what you could become.
--Mirela
When the music changes, so does the dance.
--African proverb
Be miserable. Or motivate yourself. Whatever has to be done, it's always your choice.
--Wayne Dyer
Change is inevitable. Growth is intentional.
--Anonymous
Life is either a daring adventure or nothing. To keep our faces toward change and behave like free spirits in the presence of fate is strength undefeatable.
--Helen Keller
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Monday, April 25, 2011
The Resume of Motherhood
I can think of few activities more depressing than putting together a resume after not working for seven years. I know, because I just did it.
I couldn't remember half of the orchestras I've played in, how long I worked at various places, even had to doublecheck graduation YEARS for college and grad school. I have not contributed to our family's income since 2005. I know, because I still do our taxes. Let me be clear - I am not ungrateful. My husband works long and hard hours to support our family. Even so, time has truly marched on, and has crushed huge chunks of my life into dusty memories.
Ryan asked what I was doing at the computer. When I explained to him what a resume was, he looked at me with a disturbing mix of concern and pity. "What DID you tell them you do, Mom?" Even he knew that my skill at packing three nutritious, individualized bag lunches a day doesn't really impress the powers that be. Nor would my uncanny ability to find lost library books, or to get splinters out, or to read stories with a different voice for each character without getting them mixed up. Hmm. What DO I do, after all?
Let's take today, for example. Today was the last day of spring break. It was gorgeous. I packed a backpack full of snacks, loaded dog, bikes and kids into the car and headed out to Tallman (a local state park). I strapped on helmets and reassured nervous riders, legs still wobbly from the long winter. I showed them a new hiking path that led to a bluff overlooking our expansive, majestic Hudson River. I got to hear them gasp with awe, and watched carefully as they found a place to sit, close to the edge - but not too close! I pointed out the red-tailed hawk soaring overhead, seeking a smaller bird's nest. I lifted logs so they could peer underneath, listened to them squealing at centipedes and grubs. I watched intently as they crossed over rushing streams, celebrating each crossing with cheers and exuberant high-fives. I marveled over a dead snake and discussed its identity and beauty, even in death. I carefully removed a beetle from Matthew's shirt and placed it on a leaf, and watched my son's face as he offered it a farewell goodbye, wishing it "a happy life". I smiled. So did the beetle, I swear.
I offered encouragement and ice cream to tired bike riders on the way back to the car, and felt my heart swell as their tiny legs pushed onward, renewed. I was aware that this moment would never be again, and I was grateful.
I write this post for every mother - every mother who suffers the daily unthankfulness of motherhood. Who pushes loaded grocery carts in the rain, who drives forgotten jackets/lunches/backpacks to school and never hears a 'thank you', who sits through baseball games while juggling bored younger siblings, who forfeits two hours of her life standing around at a birthday party while her child plays away, who gives her last dollar to buy the sweater/toy/book/CD/concert tickets that her child really wants, who stays up until the wee hours with worry and fear about her child's wellbeing and health, who bites her tongue when her 14 year old lashes out at her, who remembers to send in the field trip permission slips/lunch money/party rsvps/parent teacher conferences forms/camp applications/school photo payments, who allows her daughter to ride with a friend to the diner for the very first time, who advocates for her special-needs son to get the very best support possible, who knows where the bat/ball/glove/favorite shirt/Lego/Polly Pocket/piano books/lacrosse stick/eyeliner is, who takes her children to job interviews because she can't afford to hire yet another babysitter just to try to make money,
To you beautiful mothers I say this -- you are not writing a resume. You are engraving an indelible message on your children's hearts. It says, "YOU MATTER." It will not go unnoticed. You are the most important authors there are.
Keep on writing, my friends.
I couldn't remember half of the orchestras I've played in, how long I worked at various places, even had to doublecheck graduation YEARS for college and grad school. I have not contributed to our family's income since 2005. I know, because I still do our taxes. Let me be clear - I am not ungrateful. My husband works long and hard hours to support our family. Even so, time has truly marched on, and has crushed huge chunks of my life into dusty memories.
Ryan asked what I was doing at the computer. When I explained to him what a resume was, he looked at me with a disturbing mix of concern and pity. "What DID you tell them you do, Mom?" Even he knew that my skill at packing three nutritious, individualized bag lunches a day doesn't really impress the powers that be. Nor would my uncanny ability to find lost library books, or to get splinters out, or to read stories with a different voice for each character without getting them mixed up. Hmm. What DO I do, after all?
Let's take today, for example. Today was the last day of spring break. It was gorgeous. I packed a backpack full of snacks, loaded dog, bikes and kids into the car and headed out to Tallman (a local state park). I strapped on helmets and reassured nervous riders, legs still wobbly from the long winter. I showed them a new hiking path that led to a bluff overlooking our expansive, majestic Hudson River. I got to hear them gasp with awe, and watched carefully as they found a place to sit, close to the edge - but not too close! I pointed out the red-tailed hawk soaring overhead, seeking a smaller bird's nest. I lifted logs so they could peer underneath, listened to them squealing at centipedes and grubs. I watched intently as they crossed over rushing streams, celebrating each crossing with cheers and exuberant high-fives. I marveled over a dead snake and discussed its identity and beauty, even in death. I carefully removed a beetle from Matthew's shirt and placed it on a leaf, and watched my son's face as he offered it a farewell goodbye, wishing it "a happy life". I smiled. So did the beetle, I swear.
I offered encouragement and ice cream to tired bike riders on the way back to the car, and felt my heart swell as their tiny legs pushed onward, renewed. I was aware that this moment would never be again, and I was grateful.
I write this post for every mother - every mother who suffers the daily unthankfulness of motherhood. Who pushes loaded grocery carts in the rain, who drives forgotten jackets/lunches/backpacks to school and never hears a 'thank you', who sits through baseball games while juggling bored younger siblings, who forfeits two hours of her life standing around at a birthday party while her child plays away, who gives her last dollar to buy the sweater/toy/book/CD/concert tickets that her child really wants, who stays up until the wee hours with worry and fear about her child's wellbeing and health, who bites her tongue when her 14 year old lashes out at her, who remembers to send in the field trip permission slips/lunch money/party rsvps/parent teacher conferences forms/camp applications/school photo payments, who allows her daughter to ride with a friend to the diner for the very first time, who advocates for her special-needs son to get the very best support possible, who knows where the bat/ball/glove/favorite shirt/Lego/Polly Pocket/piano books/lacrosse stick/eyeliner is, who takes her children to job interviews because she can't afford to hire yet another babysitter just to try to make money,
To you beautiful mothers I say this -- you are not writing a resume. You are engraving an indelible message on your children's hearts. It says, "YOU MATTER." It will not go unnoticed. You are the most important authors there are.
Keep on writing, my friends.
Monday, April 11, 2011
All the Little Unseen Things
A good friend of mine recently reminded me of an email I'd written to her in 2008. Her daughter had lost a tooth and was asking The Question about the Tooth Fairy. She'd emailed several friends asking for advice. I wrote back to her with my experience. She saved my response and very kindly sent it back to me, suggesting I add it to my blog. So, here it is...
**********************************************************************************
Oh boy. You touched on a tender spot for me here. I will never forget being about 10 (!!!!), my dad was tucking me in, and I said, "Wait! I have to put my tooth under my pillow!" He chuckled and replied, "Oh right - for the tooth fairy, right?" Wink, wink. Well, the kicker was that I actually DID still believe in the tooth fairy - it was my one remaining belief in that sort of thing! It sounds kind of funny now, but it was a devastating realization at the time.
***********************************************************************************
PS - Just a little update - Ryan still puts out cookies and milk for Ol' Saint Nick, and carrots for the reindeer. Although he has never verbalized his thoughts to me about a 'real' Santa, he takes great delight in sharing his little brothers' excitement and enchantment on Christmas Eve. Does he actually still believe? I don't know. But, I DO know he fully believes in the spirit of Christmas and celebrating it to the fullest. And that is magical enough for both of us.
**********************************************************************************
Oh boy. You touched on a tender spot for me here. I will never forget being about 10 (!!!!), my dad was tucking me in, and I said, "Wait! I have to put my tooth under my pillow!" He chuckled and replied, "Oh right - for the tooth fairy, right?" Wink, wink. Well, the kicker was that I actually DID still believe in the tooth fairy - it was my one remaining belief in that sort of thing! It sounds kind of funny now, but it was a devastating realization at the time.
The next morning, I discovered a letter under my pillow, and my tooth was gone. I wish I could find the letter so I could share it with you verbatim. My dad had typed out the most beautiful note, and signed it from 'All the Little Unseen Things'. The essence of the letter was that there are all kinds of things in the world that we know are real - love, God, happiness, peace, friendship, (spirits, fairies!) etc - and yet we cannot see, touch, smell, hear or taste them. What makes them real is our belief in them, and our feeling them. People believe in all different kinds of things, but what is important is knowing what we feel in our own selves. The message that I came away with was, there may not be a "real" tooth fairy, but the magical feeling of waking up and finding a coin under my pillow WAS. Granted, I was much older than [her daughter], but I was able to understand that IF my parents were truly the money-leavers, they did it because they loved me, and took pleasure in my delight.
Now, I cannot tell you if you should lie or tell the truth. The one thing I can tell you is the obvious - some children still believe, and some don't (like the boy who told Ryan there was no Santa last year). When Ryan asked me, I turned around the question and asked him to tell me what he thought. He still had faith in a real Santa. As he wrote his note and left out cookies and carrots for Rudolph (as I was thinking, for perhaps the last year??), I could see that he was deliberate and thoughtful. I knew questions were in his head, but he was forging ahead and choosing to believe. I can only hope when he does stop believing in a physical Santa, that he will be left with the anticipation, wonder and magic of those childhood memories in his heart. Because, after all, memories are real!
Love,
J***********************************************************************************
PS - Just a little update - Ryan still puts out cookies and milk for Ol' Saint Nick, and carrots for the reindeer. Although he has never verbalized his thoughts to me about a 'real' Santa, he takes great delight in sharing his little brothers' excitement and enchantment on Christmas Eve. Does he actually still believe? I don't know. But, I DO know he fully believes in the spirit of Christmas and celebrating it to the fullest. And that is magical enough for both of us.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Boredom Stew
I miss the days when Sesame Street came on at four o'clock on channel 13, and if you missed it, it was too damn bad. You had to wait until the next day to see the next one. No Tivo, no fast forward, no Netflix streaming an entire series at a time. No dvds, no blu-ray, no You Tube. No iTunes, no downloads, no Wii. No DS's, no X-Boxes, no Nintendo. No smartphones, no Droids, no iPhones - just one big white dumb phone with a 17 foot long stretched out cord in the kitchen. No caller ID, no call waiting, no voicemail. Just a droning busy signal that meant exactly that - we're busy. Have some Patience and Wait. Then if you really want to talk to me, try dialing again. If you're lucky, my mom will let me talk to you for three minutes before she picks up the extension to tell me my phone time's done.
No texting, no sexting, no forwards, no email. Just notes scrawled on looseleaf and painstakingly folded into origami-like structures, only to be passed between desks and in halls, to be stashed away safely to savor in private, read again and again. Saved in a shoebox and treasured. Letters written by hand on blue airmail paper with tiny foreign stamps that looked like paintings for a dollhouse.
No TVs in restaurants, bars, lobbies. No screens on buses, subways, trains, on each seat on airplanes. No commercials in stores, malls, movie theaters, while waiting on line at the bank, for crying out loud! Have we really become so incapable of handling a few moments of waiting, of nothing to do? My fear is that yes, we have, and we are training our children to completely lose touch with their ability to be still, silent, patient and - GASP - dare I even say it? - BORED.
I am sitting here writing about the evils of technology on my cherished laptop to publish on my electronic blog. I totally get the irony. Nor am I some uber-vigilante mom living in the woods without electricity, making my kids whittle their nightly dinner forks out of the nearest tree branches. We own a Wii, an iTouch, cellphones, TVs, and two computers. My husband will be the first to tell you that I am passionately in love with my iTouch. There are days he regrets giving it to me. (I think he is just jealous - he lost his). Those of you who know me know full well the struggles I face daily with my children because of these items. The Wii was banned for months after it became such an obsession for my youngest (who at the time was 4, by the way). I showed my firstborn hour upon hour of Baby Einstein videos - he even ate in front of the TV many a night. Believe me, I am not here to judge.
I am here, however, to sound a call.
The challenges we face as parents are unlike any of those who came before us. We truly are pioneers in this age of Electronic Overload. Our children are bombarded daily with messages, both emotional and social, based on the devices they do/don't/should/might soon get. Their very self-worth at times is at stake, as I am learning, as my ten year old goes to sleepovers surrounded by kids who bring cellphones and iTouches and lie in their sleeping bags until 2am, staring at their screens and listening to their music, lying next to each other, yet alone - plugged in, tuned out. My son, who doesn't yet own a phone or iTouch, lay quietly, listening to the hum of headphones and watching the flashes of light on the ceiling until he finally fell asleep. No giggles, no whispering, no ghost stories.
This is to say nothing of the destruction that can occur when a text, email, Facebook message or picture is used to hurt or bully a child. It spreads like wildfire and leaves deep ugly scars.
I am here because I want to strengthen my resistance to the siren song of the screen. At least, on behalf of the children. I am scared for them.
I have seen 18 month olds in grocery carts with iPhones. Two four year olds I know just received iTouches for their birthdays. I have seen a mother with her very young son out for lunch, texting away on her Blackberry while her son played on his with not one word passing between them, even after the food came.
I have actually heard my children and their friends say the following:
"If we play Legos for three minutes, then can we play Wii?"
"I just don't like playing if there are no electronics."
"We already did human things - now can we play Wii?"
I have been cajoled, yelled at, cried to, and yes, even bribed with real coins from a 5 year old's pocket, to allow them to play video games. I get it. It's a truly frustrating and exhausting battle.
But you know what? So is parenting. And like most things in life, doing it right often times means doing it the hard way. Drawing a line, setting a standard, having a backbone. I have found through my own slipshod experience, it is easier to hold the reins tight and slacken as needed. Yes, my sons get mad at me. Yes, there are arguments and tears and I get SO freaking sick of saying 'No - it's a school day, you can have some Wii time on the weekend', or 'No - you know our rules, no Wii on playdates at our house, ever. PLAY. That is what you are supposed to be doing. You are ten/seven/five years old.'
Here's the deal. If we don't carve out spaces for our children to hear silence and to be still, they will not exist. The daily inundation of noise and internet and stimulation and interruption is constant with no end in sight. When you say no to an electronic device, instead of looking at it as depriving them of something, let's look at it as giving them a chance to breathe. For in actuality what you are doing is creating a haven, a safe place to retreat from the hubbub. Don't worry - they will have the rest of their lives to sail the grand seas of Electronicdom. It will all come in good time. They will be exposed to more than you ever dreamed of, more than you ever wanted them to be. I promise you, they won't miss out. If only they could. But for now, I have a little bit of control and influence over their tiny lives, and I am choosing to exercise it before they are taller than I am.
So, what can they do, you ask? Well, what did WE do? How did we ever survive childhood without Angry Birds or Bloons Tower Defense 4? Hmm...let's remember...
Hopscotch, kickball, hide-and-seek, tag.
Riding bikes, rollerskates, skateboards, scooters.
Friendship bracelets, friendship pins, making mixtapes.
Checkers, Monopoly (still a great game, by the way), Tic Tac Toe, Scrabble, Hangman.
Drawing, painting, Shrinky Dinks, Colorforms.
Imaginative play (!!! You know, like playing house or firemen or doctor)
Reading, writing, playing an instrument, writing a song
Pen pals, selling lemonade (or my memory of making painted rocks to sell out of my red wagon, pulling it down the dead end street I grew up on).
Listening to music, but together in our rooms, reading liner notes and laughing.
Any number of cool board games/puzzles/Madlibs.
Legos, blocks, train sets, Barbies, dollhouses.
Truth or Dare, Mother May I, Simon Says, Red Light Green Light.
Making a haunted house in the basement.
Starting a band.
Exploring the woods/going on a hike/to a park/playground.
Making homemade playdough/cookies/ice cream.
Sprinklers or just a garden hose.
If you can't think of anything else, sometimes it's just not so bad to lie on the couch and Do Nothing.
(A quilt in the backyard works quite nicely for this activity, too).
Ideas bubble forth from boredom - it is really the broth of creativity.
Personally, I am looking forward to tasting my children's creative stew.
I wanna see what they add to the pot.
No texting, no sexting, no forwards, no email. Just notes scrawled on looseleaf and painstakingly folded into origami-like structures, only to be passed between desks and in halls, to be stashed away safely to savor in private, read again and again. Saved in a shoebox and treasured. Letters written by hand on blue airmail paper with tiny foreign stamps that looked like paintings for a dollhouse.
No TVs in restaurants, bars, lobbies. No screens on buses, subways, trains, on each seat on airplanes. No commercials in stores, malls, movie theaters, while waiting on line at the bank, for crying out loud! Have we really become so incapable of handling a few moments of waiting, of nothing to do? My fear is that yes, we have, and we are training our children to completely lose touch with their ability to be still, silent, patient and - GASP - dare I even say it? - BORED.
I am sitting here writing about the evils of technology on my cherished laptop to publish on my electronic blog. I totally get the irony. Nor am I some uber-vigilante mom living in the woods without electricity, making my kids whittle their nightly dinner forks out of the nearest tree branches. We own a Wii, an iTouch, cellphones, TVs, and two computers. My husband will be the first to tell you that I am passionately in love with my iTouch. There are days he regrets giving it to me. (I think he is just jealous - he lost his). Those of you who know me know full well the struggles I face daily with my children because of these items. The Wii was banned for months after it became such an obsession for my youngest (who at the time was 4, by the way). I showed my firstborn hour upon hour of Baby Einstein videos - he even ate in front of the TV many a night. Believe me, I am not here to judge.
I am here, however, to sound a call.
The challenges we face as parents are unlike any of those who came before us. We truly are pioneers in this age of Electronic Overload. Our children are bombarded daily with messages, both emotional and social, based on the devices they do/don't/should/might soon get. Their very self-worth at times is at stake, as I am learning, as my ten year old goes to sleepovers surrounded by kids who bring cellphones and iTouches and lie in their sleeping bags until 2am, staring at their screens and listening to their music, lying next to each other, yet alone - plugged in, tuned out. My son, who doesn't yet own a phone or iTouch, lay quietly, listening to the hum of headphones and watching the flashes of light on the ceiling until he finally fell asleep. No giggles, no whispering, no ghost stories.
This is to say nothing of the destruction that can occur when a text, email, Facebook message or picture is used to hurt or bully a child. It spreads like wildfire and leaves deep ugly scars.
I am here because I want to strengthen my resistance to the siren song of the screen. At least, on behalf of the children. I am scared for them.
I have seen 18 month olds in grocery carts with iPhones. Two four year olds I know just received iTouches for their birthdays. I have seen a mother with her very young son out for lunch, texting away on her Blackberry while her son played on his with not one word passing between them, even after the food came.
I have actually heard my children and their friends say the following:
"If we play Legos for three minutes, then can we play Wii?"
"I just don't like playing if there are no electronics."
"We already did human things - now can we play Wii?"
I have been cajoled, yelled at, cried to, and yes, even bribed with real coins from a 5 year old's pocket, to allow them to play video games. I get it. It's a truly frustrating and exhausting battle.
But you know what? So is parenting. And like most things in life, doing it right often times means doing it the hard way. Drawing a line, setting a standard, having a backbone. I have found through my own slipshod experience, it is easier to hold the reins tight and slacken as needed. Yes, my sons get mad at me. Yes, there are arguments and tears and I get SO freaking sick of saying 'No - it's a school day, you can have some Wii time on the weekend', or 'No - you know our rules, no Wii on playdates at our house, ever. PLAY. That is what you are supposed to be doing. You are ten/seven/five years old.'
Here's the deal. If we don't carve out spaces for our children to hear silence and to be still, they will not exist. The daily inundation of noise and internet and stimulation and interruption is constant with no end in sight. When you say no to an electronic device, instead of looking at it as depriving them of something, let's look at it as giving them a chance to breathe. For in actuality what you are doing is creating a haven, a safe place to retreat from the hubbub. Don't worry - they will have the rest of their lives to sail the grand seas of Electronicdom. It will all come in good time. They will be exposed to more than you ever dreamed of, more than you ever wanted them to be. I promise you, they won't miss out. If only they could. But for now, I have a little bit of control and influence over their tiny lives, and I am choosing to exercise it before they are taller than I am.
So, what can they do, you ask? Well, what did WE do? How did we ever survive childhood without Angry Birds or Bloons Tower Defense 4? Hmm...let's remember...
Hopscotch, kickball, hide-and-seek, tag.
Riding bikes, rollerskates, skateboards, scooters.
Friendship bracelets, friendship pins, making mixtapes.
Checkers, Monopoly (still a great game, by the way), Tic Tac Toe, Scrabble, Hangman.
Drawing, painting, Shrinky Dinks, Colorforms.
Imaginative play (!!! You know, like playing house or firemen or doctor)
Reading, writing, playing an instrument, writing a song
Pen pals, selling lemonade (or my memory of making painted rocks to sell out of my red wagon, pulling it down the dead end street I grew up on).
Listening to music, but together in our rooms, reading liner notes and laughing.
Any number of cool board games/puzzles/Madlibs.
Legos, blocks, train sets, Barbies, dollhouses.
Truth or Dare, Mother May I, Simon Says, Red Light Green Light.
Making a haunted house in the basement.
Starting a band.
Exploring the woods/going on a hike/to a park/playground.
Making homemade playdough/cookies/ice cream.
Sprinklers or just a garden hose.
If you can't think of anything else, sometimes it's just not so bad to lie on the couch and Do Nothing.
(A quilt in the backyard works quite nicely for this activity, too).
Ideas bubble forth from boredom - it is really the broth of creativity.
Personally, I am looking forward to tasting my children's creative stew.
I wanna see what they add to the pot.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
A Love Letter - Chapter 2
One thing I experienced immediately after learning I was pregnant is that I felt a sudden urge to Do Something. Like, take a vitamin or go straight to the doctor or lie down or buy a crib. It was a funny sense of urgency, excitement, nervousness and joy. So, after leaving the restaurant with a striped pregnancy test in my purse, we headed straight to the local bookstore to Buy Something Pregnancy Related. Not like I didn't already have a ton of books on the subject, but hey - who could be too prepared, really?
We chose yet another How-To book on having babies (how did all those poor women pre-printing press ever manage to pull it off??) and a couple of baby name guides. Those were fun. I must admit, it did feel cool to make these purchases knowing I was finally preggo and not just acting the part. I will also admit that I felt a crazy urge to buy a pack of those adorable teeny tiny newborn diapers just so I could smell their baby powder yumminess. Didn't follow through on that, though...
Next step was informing the fam. We knew this would be gigantic news, as none of my siblings had yet meandered down the baby trail and this embryo would eventually become Grandchild the 1st (read SPOILED and doted on like no other). Our trip in Maine was coming to a close, so Steve and I decided to drive to Massachusetts on our way home so we could share the news in person with my parents, who were camping at October Mountain in the Berkshires. We'd gotten a few small presents for them in Maine, so I decided to wrap up a couple of the positive PG test sticks we now had and had them to the gift pile. I figured it would be great fun to watch the realization spread across their faces.
We made it to the campsite and after settling in a bit, gave mom and dad their gifts and waited. Steve and I were practically jumping out of our skin with anticipation. Mom, after opening the test, started gasping and tearing up and making little sounds of joy. Dad, with exactly the same amount of enthusiasm and gusto, waved his stick in the air and exclaimed,
"Oh, THANK you!! A travel toothbrush!"
I don't know what was funnier - the fact that he was so excited about receiving a travel toothbrush or watching my mother smack him. Either way, we made their day, and joyfully drove home knowing that all of our lives were already profoundly changed - and I hadn't even gone to my first prenatal appointment yet. Such is the power of pregnancy.
We chose yet another How-To book on having babies (how did all those poor women pre-printing press ever manage to pull it off??) and a couple of baby name guides. Those were fun. I must admit, it did feel cool to make these purchases knowing I was finally preggo and not just acting the part. I will also admit that I felt a crazy urge to buy a pack of those adorable teeny tiny newborn diapers just so I could smell their baby powder yumminess. Didn't follow through on that, though...
Next step was informing the fam. We knew this would be gigantic news, as none of my siblings had yet meandered down the baby trail and this embryo would eventually become Grandchild the 1st (read SPOILED and doted on like no other). Our trip in Maine was coming to a close, so Steve and I decided to drive to Massachusetts on our way home so we could share the news in person with my parents, who were camping at October Mountain in the Berkshires. We'd gotten a few small presents for them in Maine, so I decided to wrap up a couple of the positive PG test sticks we now had and had them to the gift pile. I figured it would be great fun to watch the realization spread across their faces.
We made it to the campsite and after settling in a bit, gave mom and dad their gifts and waited. Steve and I were practically jumping out of our skin with anticipation. Mom, after opening the test, started gasping and tearing up and making little sounds of joy. Dad, with exactly the same amount of enthusiasm and gusto, waved his stick in the air and exclaimed,
"Oh, THANK you!! A travel toothbrush!"
I don't know what was funnier - the fact that he was so excited about receiving a travel toothbrush or watching my mother smack him. Either way, we made their day, and joyfully drove home knowing that all of our lives were already profoundly changed - and I hadn't even gone to my first prenatal appointment yet. Such is the power of pregnancy.
Operation Cheese Puff
March 31, 7:56AM
Me (rifling through Connor's backpack and pulling out two bags of cheese puffs and a clementine):
Connor, why is your snack still in here? This is two days worth of food. Don't you like it?
C: Oh, I do, but I brought it back home.
Me: You haven't been eating snack?
C: No, I have.
Me: Um, then why is this food still in here?
C: Oh, that's easy. I hide it in the back of my cubby. Then Mrs. Durkin thinks I don't have any snack, and she gives me Goldfish.
Me: Connor, if you'd like Goldfish for snack, all you have to do is tell me. I will buy some and send them in with you to school.
C: Yeah, I know, but this way is a lot more sneaky and fun.
Sigh.
Me (rifling through Connor's backpack and pulling out two bags of cheese puffs and a clementine):
Connor, why is your snack still in here? This is two days worth of food. Don't you like it?
C: Oh, I do, but I brought it back home.
Me: You haven't been eating snack?
C: No, I have.
Me: Um, then why is this food still in here?
C: Oh, that's easy. I hide it in the back of my cubby. Then Mrs. Durkin thinks I don't have any snack, and she gives me Goldfish.
Me: Connor, if you'd like Goldfish for snack, all you have to do is tell me. I will buy some and send them in with you to school.
C: Yeah, I know, but this way is a lot more sneaky and fun.
Sigh.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Connor
My son turned seven today. This would not be a particularly extraordinary event if it wasn't for the fact that he was just born.
We just got the amnio results back that he would be healthy - none of the suspected chromosomal abnormalities are an issue and my almost constant bleeding has almost disappeared.
I just called the doctor in because I was ready to push.
He just practically flew off the birthing table - the doctor missed the whole thing. Thank God for good and kind and ever-present nurses!
He just blew bubbles at me in the recovery room.
He just met his big brother for the first time. His eyes widened in awe.
He just came home in his little carseat bucket. Good grief, those things are heavy.
He just slept in our family's heirloom bassinet for the first time. My mom and my 3 1/2 year old Ryan decorated for it him, weaving blue ribbon through the wicker the day before his birth.
He just nursed and slept and nursed some more. Connor was the most placid and cuddly baby ever. I recall using the word "blissful" to describe him to my mom when he was two weeks old.
He just smiled, and laughed, and rolled over.
He just sat up, crawled and cruised.
He just had a train cake and played drums and turned two.
I just blinked, and he went to nursery school. Little did I know that the time warp starts now.
He just made friends he will have for the rest of his life. So did I.
He just watched the class butterflies take wing. He quickly followed suit.
I just registered him for kindergarten. I filled out the paperwork with great care. I mean, how do you adequately "describe your child and their personality traits" in less than two inches of space? I wrote small...
He just got on the bus for the first time.
I just stopped crying.
He just graduated from kindergarten.
He just learned to swim.
He just received his teacher assignment for first grade.
I just bought him four composition notebooks.
He just lost his second tooth.
I just celebrated his seventh birthday in the classroom today.
He just watched family videos with me tonight, and laughed at how little he once was.
Funny, because I cried.
Happy birthday, dearest Connor.
You are an old soul who knows how to laugh and spread joy like no other.
You are a gift, and I am unspeakably grateful.
We just got the amnio results back that he would be healthy - none of the suspected chromosomal abnormalities are an issue and my almost constant bleeding has almost disappeared.
I just called the doctor in because I was ready to push.
He just practically flew off the birthing table - the doctor missed the whole thing. Thank God for good and kind and ever-present nurses!
He just blew bubbles at me in the recovery room.
He just met his big brother for the first time. His eyes widened in awe.
He just came home in his little carseat bucket. Good grief, those things are heavy.
He just slept in our family's heirloom bassinet for the first time. My mom and my 3 1/2 year old Ryan decorated for it him, weaving blue ribbon through the wicker the day before his birth.
He just nursed and slept and nursed some more. Connor was the most placid and cuddly baby ever. I recall using the word "blissful" to describe him to my mom when he was two weeks old.
He just smiled, and laughed, and rolled over.
He just sat up, crawled and cruised.
He just had a train cake and played drums and turned two.
I just blinked, and he went to nursery school. Little did I know that the time warp starts now.
He just made friends he will have for the rest of his life. So did I.
He just watched the class butterflies take wing. He quickly followed suit.
I just registered him for kindergarten. I filled out the paperwork with great care. I mean, how do you adequately "describe your child and their personality traits" in less than two inches of space? I wrote small...
He just got on the bus for the first time.
I just stopped crying.
He just graduated from kindergarten.
He just learned to swim.
He just received his teacher assignment for first grade.
I just bought him four composition notebooks.
He just lost his second tooth.
I just celebrated his seventh birthday in the classroom today.
He just watched family videos with me tonight, and laughed at how little he once was.
Funny, because I cried.
Happy birthday, dearest Connor.
You are an old soul who knows how to laugh and spread joy like no other.
You are a gift, and I am unspeakably grateful.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Birthdays
I was tucking my 6 year and 364/365 day old into bed last night and we were talking about his impending birthday. "You know, Mom," he said, looking up at me through the dark, "it's really like you get reborn on your birthday." Whoa, what? I stopped and waited. He went on, "Last year I was reborn as a six year old. On Wednesday, I'll get reborn as a seven year old. Next year I'll be reborn as eight - it's like you become a new person every time."
Leave it to a child to offer such a fresh and uplifting perspective on getting older.
Thanks, Connor. And happy birthday, my love.
Leave it to a child to offer such a fresh and uplifting perspective on getting older.
Thanks, Connor. And happy birthday, my love.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Spring Shadows
The snow is gone. I saw my first robin yesterday. The long icy winter is fading into the distance at last. Yet, despite my undeniable joy at seeing the buds swell and the crocuses emerge from their sleepy beds, a strange sense of dread is prowling about my brain, peering out from the shadows.
For along with spring comes an enormous amount of, well, Stuff.
Like, Stuff To Do.
Science projects, sports schedules, an inordinately huge number of birthday parties, planning (and paying for) summer activities, vacations and camp, thinking about having to wear shorts and (gulp) bathing suits, fundraisers, tag sales, spring cleaning, plays, taxes, musicals, orthodontist/doctor/dentist appointments, concerts, field trips, practices. I feel like I'm on a rollercoaster, inexorably being pulled to the top of the highest hill, sensing the inevitable blinding rush to follow but having no ability to being in control of it (or even enjoy it) whatsoever.
This is an unusual feeling for me. I have a few friends who greet spring annually with a distinct lack of excitement (which has always puzzled me), but I am usually over the moon at the first whiff of fresh dirt. While I am thrilled to finally be done with the layers of snow and ice, spring's reality is staring me in the face. GET BUSY, she says. Get moving, get mulching, get going, get cleaning, get planting, get to practice, get everyone in the car - again, get the dog out, get exercising, get new accessories, get thin, get in touch, get out from under, get together, get winter clothes packed up, get closets cleaned out, get in shape, get back to everybody, get organized, get your hair done, get in control, get involved, get caught up, get with it, get over it, get A LIFE.
Way too much pressure if you ask me.
Perhaps the way to welcome spring is to not GET anything. I already have so much. Think I'll just do my best to be grateful for what is, and take some deep breaths along the way. Before you know it, we'll be yanking on those bathing suits. Funny how mine always shrinks during the winter. I guess they contract in the cold...
For along with spring comes an enormous amount of, well, Stuff.
Like, Stuff To Do.
Science projects, sports schedules, an inordinately huge number of birthday parties, planning (and paying for) summer activities, vacations and camp, thinking about having to wear shorts and (gulp) bathing suits, fundraisers, tag sales, spring cleaning, plays, taxes, musicals, orthodontist/doctor/dentist appointments, concerts, field trips, practices. I feel like I'm on a rollercoaster, inexorably being pulled to the top of the highest hill, sensing the inevitable blinding rush to follow but having no ability to being in control of it (or even enjoy it) whatsoever.
This is an unusual feeling for me. I have a few friends who greet spring annually with a distinct lack of excitement (which has always puzzled me), but I am usually over the moon at the first whiff of fresh dirt. While I am thrilled to finally be done with the layers of snow and ice, spring's reality is staring me in the face. GET BUSY, she says. Get moving, get mulching, get going, get cleaning, get planting, get to practice, get everyone in the car - again, get the dog out, get exercising, get new accessories, get thin, get in touch, get out from under, get together, get winter clothes packed up, get closets cleaned out, get in shape, get back to everybody, get organized, get your hair done, get in control, get involved, get caught up, get with it, get over it, get A LIFE.
Way too much pressure if you ask me.
Perhaps the way to welcome spring is to not GET anything. I already have so much. Think I'll just do my best to be grateful for what is, and take some deep breaths along the way. Before you know it, we'll be yanking on those bathing suits. Funny how mine always shrinks during the winter. I guess they contract in the cold...
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
A Love Letter - Chapter 1
Everyone talks about having a baby, becoming a mom, giving birth. Most women I know have at least considered taking on this project at some point in their lives, and most of the ones who wanted to have achieved it. The thing you cannot possibly realize - that is, until you become a mother - is that you don't give birth to your children. They give birth to you.
Before I had kids, I was a professional French horn player with a Master's from Juilliard who lived and worked in New York City. I freely accepted whatever gigs came my way, which were plentiful and enjoyable. I was a very fortunate musician indeed - surrounded by kind and talented colleagues, traveling with a cherished woodwind quintet who was under professional management (with my clarinetist husband, no less!) and generally making a livable wage doing something I loved more than anything else in the whole wide world. Then at some point while living uptown on Fort Washington Avenue, my clock started ticking. No - gonging, really. I covertly perused the pregnancy section at the Lincoln Center Barnes and Noble, buying armloads of how-to books and baby name guides and carting them home on the A train. It hit me - I wanted a baby. Bad.
Steve, to his credit, was a good sport about the whole thing. I mean, considering the fact that we were freelancing with no regular jobs or assets or even guaranteed health insurance, he took it all in stride. In retrospect, ignorance probably had a lot to do with our nonchalance about this monumental decision. I distinctly remember discussing a possible baby with our (childless) accountant, and her wide-eyed response - "It's a total lifestyle change." Of course, she also knew our pathetic financial situation, so that probably had something to do with her rather candidly concerned reply.
I suspected something was up while playing at Bard with the American Symphony Orchestra during the summer of 1999. My concentration was nil, I was constantly exhausted, and was inhaling chickpeas at the salad bar for every meal (found out later they are chock full of folic acid). We bought a pregnancy test, which felt for some reason like we were doing something wrong or even strangely illegal (Yikes - the high school clerk knows we had sex!!!!!). All three tests I took were negative. We gave it a break, finished our gig, and drove up to Maine. Our honeymoon, three years earlier, was in a lovely little town called Damariscotta, and we had decided to return there for a short vacation before returning to the city.
I still had no answers, so our first stop was the local drugstore. Fortuitously enough, they had the store-brand PG tests on sale for $1.99!!! You ladies out there know what a good deal that is, so we bought 10, and one expensive pee stick, just in case the cheapos were expired or something. I stuffed the goods in my purse and we crossed the street to have lunch.
The service was slow. REALLY slow. We ordered beer, and I told myself that it was ok, since apparently I was not yet pregnant despite my instincts. I quickly realized that I had the tools that would determine the course of my entire life sitting next to me. There was no way I could possibly make it through what might (at this rate) be a three-hour lunch without knowing, at least not without trying to know. Excusing myself without explanation, I headed to the ladies room, which was just a one-toilet deal (for you locals, like Strawberry Place has). I knew I had to work fast. Whipping out a test, I did my thing as fast as I could and put the cap on. That's when I heard someone knock on the door. Cursing under my breath, I shoved the stick into my bag and walked back to our table.
Sat down. Tried not to look Steve in the eye. He was raving about the clam chowder when..."Are you ok?" I assured him in my most casual voice that of course I was, and tried to shovel a spoonful of chowder down my quickly closing throat. Shit, he was on to me. Staring now. "Um, you didn't, you know, open...a...um...didn't do, you know...". He couldn't even spit the words out. I knew by now the test had a result, and all I had to do was look down in my bag next to me to see it. I couldn't speak. "You did, didn't you?"
I looked down. Two lines - one in each window, one blue, one pink. I frantically tried to remember what the little diagram looked like - two was positive, yes?? I mean, why would they have a line appear in both if you weren't pregnant? Yes, two was good. Oh, so very good. I looked across the table through my tears into my husband's coffee brown eyes, wondering if our baby's would match. He leaped out of the booth and threw his arms around me, then suddenly backed off and wrapped me in a tender embrace, as if I had in that moment become something precious and fragile and needing to be protected.
And, of course, I had.
The Jacket
I was making my way around the house tonight, sifting through the remnants of the day, grumbling inside my head. Why does he always leave his shoes in the middle of the living room, the towel on the floor, the binder on the table? As my arms filled with my son’s belongings waiting to be returned to their rightful places, I was suddenly struck by how small they were. Matthew’s jacket was no longer than my shinbone, his sock could fit a doll. Connor’s writing journal was left opened to a fresh page of delightfully childish scrawl. One of his gloves fit inside my palm. I was shocked by just how little my children still really are.
Turning 42 was a joyous occasion, actually, but one which involved looking at what is to come (my oldest going to middle school, my youngest going to kindergarten, career possibilities, etc) and what would never be again (pregnancy, childbirth, nursing, having a small child home with me all day, etc).The clarity that slammed into me as I stared at my son’s tiny blue and yellow Carter’s jacket was stunning. Look at what IS, it said. This IS. LIVE it NOW and be present with every fiber of your being, for THIS is the gift. Yes, time is fleeting and the determined years flow by, but we are here now and here now is all that really matters.
I hugged the jacket close and cried with gratitude for that reminder.
Sometimes, the most mundane, mindless tasks offer up unexpected gifts, so be ready…just in case.
Turning 42 was a joyous occasion, actually, but one which involved looking at what is to come (my oldest going to middle school, my youngest going to kindergarten, career possibilities, etc) and what would never be again (pregnancy, childbirth, nursing, having a small child home with me all day, etc).The clarity that slammed into me as I stared at my son’s tiny blue and yellow Carter’s jacket was stunning. Look at what IS, it said. This IS. LIVE it NOW and be present with every fiber of your being, for THIS is the gift. Yes, time is fleeting and the determined years flow by, but we are here now and here now is all that really matters.
I hugged the jacket close and cried with gratitude for that reminder.
Sometimes, the most mundane, mindless tasks offer up unexpected gifts, so be ready…just in case.
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