Migraine lessons

     I stood, bleary eyed, leaning against the kitchen doorjamb yesterday evening watching an amazing spectacle unfold before me…My children were making dinner. Now, this was not their idea, nor was it a teaching moment with me hovering over them, gauging their progress in doubling a recipe. Instead, their cooking extravaganza was necessitated by an intense migraine and a mom’s inability to move far without blinding pain. Despite that pain, I couldn’t believe how smoothly everything was going on the far side of our kitchen counter.

     My eight year old daughter was cutting pears and adding them to an ever growing bowl, my five year old son was making salads and crumbling goat cheese on top of each one, and my four and three year old daughters were patiently waiting at the table. That being said, I will admit that my ten  year old son was playing his tablet and only occasionally looking up to offer helpful suggestions like, “Don’t cut yourself,” “that’s enough cheese,” and “whoa, maybe I should take over” (without any intention of actually doing so.) Still, I couldn’t believe these latent abilities. I hadn’t even suggested what to make, only that there was lots of food in the fridge. The cooperation and the skills they were demonstrating would have been amazing enough on their own but then, to top it all off, they all told me to go back to the couch; that they had everything under control.

     As I lay there, I started to wonder how many more amazing things my kids could do if I just stepped back a little. I’ve seen them fly by me on ski slopes, I’ve seen them give away a precious piece of cookie because the dog stole someone else’s and I’ve heard them explain geology in more depth than I could but when it comes to the herculean tasks of making dinner and unloading and loading the dishwasher I’ve clearly never really pulled back on the reins enough for them to show me what they can do. They seemed, for those ten minutes, to work flawlessly as a team with no official leader. It was both a gift and a trifle terrifying to watch them function so beautifully without me.

     This realization that they can function so well shouldn’t be, but is, a surprise to a mom like me. A mom who can’t help but silently mouth the words to songs when my children are in concerts, a mom whose hands continually float up towards the fabric on the sewing machine  while my daughter is making a doll blanket, a mom who stands two feet behind them while they add ingredients to make sure we will have actual pancakes. I think, from now on, I will keep my mouth closed, I will leave the room while my daughter sews or my son cooks and I will return every few minutes to watch and be amazed, a grateful spectator instead of a nervous participant.

Winter exhalation

Right now, it is snowing; the early flakes of the coming blizzard that will blanket the world and slow it down, if only for a few hours or a day. I look forward to this siege, this wrapping up of the world in a tight blanket, one which encapsulates all things cozy. Wet socks on cold feet that need warming up by the fire, hot chocolate with leftover Christmas candy canes stuck in at an angle, pajama pants in the middle of the afternoon after changing from sweaty shoveling clothes. There is nothing like a snowstorm to make your world feel smaller, your to do list inescapably shorter, the outside calmer, the air more still, crisp cold and bright. School is cancelled, children will file in and out all day, asking me to join in another snowball fight, to find a lost glove and to make another round of hot chocolate to warm up their souls. It is such a luxury; this weather, the chance to slow down, breathe the air and watch nature remind us that we are not in charge, we never were and anything else is an illusion, so we might as well wrap up and enjoy the show.

In Support of Mediocrity

 

     There are some things at which I am very good: parenting, growing acorn squash, working out consistently and eating popcorn.  There are also some things at which I am very bad: sprinting, drinking enough water, and staying out of Goodwill. For the most part, I have learned to accept these things. I have been a runner now for 21 years and I have yet to break any land speed record at any distance and I’m okay with that. I also know that it is nearly impossible to pass Goodwill knowing I might score an amazing deal (hello: $2.70 for a Boeri ski helmet.)  

  However, for many years now (seven to be exact) I have berated myself for my subpar performance as a member of the Junior League. I have never gone above and beyond, sold a huge number of tickets or come up with a fantastic new community program. At the beginning of each year, I have huge dreams of ending childhood hunger and obesity in Massachusetts, generating a gigantic media following complete with national coverage and doubling the size of our small membership so we can solve the teen parent problem next year. Oddly enough, none of these things have happened despite their not so firm hold in anything resembling any kind of reality in which I live.

                Last night, at a Junior League meeting, I was looking around the room at my friends’ shoes and also, of course, paying attention to what was being said. My shoes were so dirty, caked in whatever that white stuff is that’s leftover after a snowstorm and there was a hole in one side of them which I hadn’t noticed before. All of my friends’ shoes were lovely. Some wore leather boots, some wore heels and some even wore those super cute heeled booties that I can’t wear because I don’t even know which socks go underneath. I was feeling inferior again because of my awful shoes and drew myself back into the questions at hand for the rest of the meeting.

     I left that meeting making mental lists of all I could do, now, to make up for all my mediocrity throughout the past seven years. As we were walking out, one of my friends sought me out and started chatting about her kids. At once, I felt right at home because I, too, have dealt with kids who won’t wear coats and kids who like to put everything in their mouths right as flu season is in full swing. Whenever one of these parenting conversations comes up, I often have a couple of tricks up my sleeve or can offer the encouragement I know I needed when all of my children were very young. Parenting young children is my wheelhouse; it’s where I shine.

      I walked with my filthy shoes to my car smiling. Why? Because I realized something. We don’t all have to be great at everything, and the truth is, we probably can’t be.  I might never raise the most money or have the most innovative ideas, but I can send a few emails, make a few phone calls and generally lighten the load. I can be the one with the dirty shoes and the funny, poignant story about my four year old. I can be great at mediocrity and that’s just fine with me.

Because a girl can dream

Dear Current homeowners of my future farm,

     When I was little, I dreamed of becoming a farmer. I wrote stories about it, brought home every single animal I could find that would let me catch it and drew pictures of me with sheep, overalls and a pitchfork, much like American Gothic, only not worth any money, unfortunately. When I was about 10, living in suburban New Jersey, my parents brought me to a sheep farm in Maine. They were hoping the smell and the dirty straw and musty barns would end my dreams of farming. However, 26 years later, I am still dreaming and the dream goes something like this…

     I am standing in the hazy light of late afternoon, grass up to my ankles, jeans rolled up to my knees. Small bugs fly lazily through the yellow rays. I reach up for an apple which I have grown from a small wisp of a tree with water, fertilizer and so much hope. The kids are somewhere nearby, chasing the chickens pecking the dirt around us for bugs. Michael is on the tractor, ready to bring back the baskets filled with things we have picked.

   Oh, but it is not always summer on our farm. The first few minutes of a winter morning are filled with discontented sighs when the bed is so warm and outside so cold. I find my muck boots and head out, breath trailing behind me on the air. In a few minutes, I am warm with work and a sense of purpose. The barn smells of animals and dry straw, which wakes me up as the smell of brewing coffee does for some. Morning chores done, I head back to the house to the sounds of my family waking.

     When our five children arrived over the years, our small ranch in Lee seemed a little too cramped and we packed up, left our chickens to the excited new owners and moved to a much bigger house in a neighborhood here. Despite the perfect lawns around us, we built our compost bins, added raised garden beds and planted fruit trees and blueberry bushes on our half acre. We have wonderful neighbors, luckily, who don’t seem to mind our brush piles, rabbit hutch and  gardening tools that are sometimes left out. However, we have lived here for a year and half now and it seems the dream of having land just won’t die. Thus, the daily searching of realtor.com and Zillow, which finally leads me to the point of my letter.

     We love your house. We love the slightly crumbly silo, the wooden beams, the farm sink and the beautiful land that surrounds it all. I love the pictures of the nooks and crannies and dream of myself writing in one of them, hot cup of tea in hand. However, despite being a dreamer, I am also a realist. I do understand economics and realize that people need returns on investments. That being said, if one never reaches for the stars, one never gets there. So, I am sending off this missive much like my children wish on stars at night. We would like to make an offer in good faith and add the assurance that your house will be loved every day.

Dear Gavin, Claire, Ryan, Maggie and Maeve,

Dear Gavin, Claire, Ryan, Maggie and Maeve,

     Lie down in the grass and look up at the sky. That is all. Just that and no more sometimes. Get up and run. Run hard, feel your breath come in and out, each exhalation a blessing of life. Curl up on the couch and read with a blanket and a cup of tea. Make your world smaller by doing this when you need to. Make your world bigger too. When you feel alternately frightened and exhilarated, you might be on to something. Follow it and see where it leads you. Listen to other people, but then take the time to find out the you of you. I can’t even help you with that; you will have to figure that out for yourself. I am going to be wrong, too. I might be deadest against you doing something. Consider what I’ve said and then make your own decision, even if you’re afraid of making me mad. I will be here, no matter what, so don’t listen to me because you know the you of you better than I. Sometimes you will be wrong and regret that you didn’t follow someone’s advice. When that happens, remember that mistakes are absolutely necessary. They’re not even stumbling blocks, but risers on the way to wisdom and self awareness. Learn from them, take the time to own those mistakes, hold them in your hand and feel their weight, consider them from every angle and then drop them and walk away. Please look at people. Smile at them, their wrinkles, their frowns, the beauty each person holds somewhere inside. Don’t forget when you are at your busiest, your most self-absorbed that someone out there needs you, even if you don’t know their name. Don’t be afraid to share yourself. Hold onto the people around which you can be utterly, miserably and joyfully yourself. They are few and far between but hold tight with both hands to them and don’t let go. Try on new personality traits you admire, see if they work for you. They might not. In his infinite wisdom, God made not one of us alike. Find what it is that makes you unique and share that light with the world. Let other people shine too; hold back sometimes and realize it’s their day, their time, their story.  Listen to music, write it, play it, or sing it. You can’t always be the bandleader or the superstar but that’s a good thing. Learn to enjoy being in the audience of greatness as much as being greatness yourself. Remember that true love is not a roller coaster ride. Find someone whom you love so much that you can be at peace with them. Marry someone whom, when you fight, you know even in your anger that it’s pointless because at the end of the day, you will intertwine your feet under the covers. Beware any philosophy or worldview that assumes someone else is inherently wrong and you are inherently right. See the beauty in difference, appreciate Other. Respect diversity, go out and find it in the world and embrace it for yourself. Remember that how we pray, how we communicate, what we eat and how we dress are just trappings. We are all the same underneath, struggling to find ourselves in the world, struggling to find happiness within. Do not accept opinions as facts, or facts as facts. Life is relative and never, ever, under any circumstances black and white. There is always gray. It’s mostly gray; absolute truths are hard to find, but there are some. Find out what yours are. Let love be one.

I love you, my little children of the Light.

Mommy

Hero Worship

     The water running off my older brother’s hands in the sink down the hall from the kitchen was always slightly brown. I watched in awe as the dirt tinged water washed down the drain and wondered how I could color it that way, in what ways I could manipulate my small world to somehow have it coincide with his. I worshipped those hands, that boy, from the small altar of the powder room and that feeling of awe at being in his presence has remained to a lesser degree, even as life has made equals out of us, young families with children, spouses, and mortgages. His laughter at something I’ve said is still a ticket into a world in which I’ve always wanted to live. 

     One of the joys of parenthood, I have found, is seeing things in your children that remind you of yourself. However, when I see my daughter, Claire, adoring at the temple of Gavin, her older brother, it somehow slowly breaks my heart for her. While Christmas shopping, she found a wall hanging of African animal masks for him at Goodwill. She was so excited to give it to him, so sure he would love it, that I almost cringed. I saw myself at her age, handing over a pair of air tube dice covers for my older brother’s BMX bike that I had bought with my own money that I thought would finally make him really think I was cool. He threw them across the driveway after opening them and I can still feel, viscerally, my heart breaking into pieces in front of our house.

     On Christmas day, the present opening extravaganza began. I knew which present Claire had lovingly wrapped for Gavin and mercifully, I didn’t have to wait long for him to open it as she was more excited about the giving than what she had received. She shyly handed it to him and said, “Here, Gav, I got this for you.” I held my breath as he tore open the paper. He smiled and said, “Wow, Claire, I love it.” No gift Santa brought her that day would equal the smile she had when he hung it on the wall next to his bed.

     Sibling love is a unique kind of love, reserved for people we remember before we can actually remember anything. Their voices, their laughs recall a time before memories have hardened into things that can be analyzed, judged as being detrimental or beneficial. Therefore, love of a sibling is never questioned because it existed before that separation of emotion and judgment.

     Older brothers seem to embody this love beautifully; they are usually bigger, stronger, faster versions of our smaller selves. How can we measure up when we are fundamentally always behind? How can we not idolize them when from the first, their lives are presented to us as something to which we can look forward. They seem perfect to us and we never, even as adults, quite take them off of that unrealistic throne. It is true hero worship and it continues in varying degrees, as far as I can tell, for a lifetime.

    I have a younger brother too, to whom I feel very close, despite infrequent phone calls and an even larger geographic distance. I am not slightly afraid of him as I am my older brother. He and I created our own language, sang fifties songs in the back of an old BMW on a horrific family road trip, and secretly adopted animals wild and domestic whenever we could. He was often a partner in crime, always someone fun to be around and someone, to whom, I could be my true self because his acceptance of me was not paramount to my happiness.

 I wonder, now, if the hero worship I felt for my older brother and that which I see Claire feeling for Gavin is somehow detrimental to both the adored and the adorer. I wonder, as an older brother, if it’s hard to live up to such blind devotion; if, ever, resentment builds at never being seen as real, but instead as someone larger than life.  In reality, no life is that large, no hero without flaws and, in the end, seeing someone as they are enables us to love them truthfully.

 Only recently have I begun my journey to honesty with my older brother, to let him see me as I am and not only show what I think he wants to see. Now that I am able to truly see him, flaws and all, I see that he is someone who is worthy of all of the love and affection I have stored in my heart since I first met him. He is no longer a hero on a pedestal, but someone who stands beside me, someone with whom to walk through life. Being a younger sister has been a heartbreakingly beautiful journey and I am grateful for every single step because it has led me to the truth of my brother and it is this: he is, and always has been, one of my best friends.

paradox of parenthood

Driving home today, listening to music, I was reminded again how tenuous are our holds on the people we love. The life force feels so strong and so sure when they are right next to us and we forget how suddenly things can change. As a mom, I am terrified at least once daily about something that could separate my children from me forever, some small act, some wrong turn, a missed stop sign, a tragedy. These things scare me so much and make life seem dark, uncertain, paralyzing. To calm myself down, I remember that literally the only thing we have is the here and now, this second of this day, right now when my 20 month old is sitting on my lap, waiting for my attention, her tiny pigtail sticking straight up and tickling my chin.

   Maybe this weak hold on the strings of life are part of what makes it so beautiful, so rare, so worthy of adoration. The beauty exists because we are here, we are here together, right now.  Nobody knows what will happen tomorrow, next week, next year and that uncertainty is what stops us in our tracks, what makes the tears come when we hear a certain song or a certain story. But then, mercifully, we are thrown right back into the beauty of here, the beauty of a dirty diaper to change, a busy schedule,  the beauty of the strings that hold us to each other, that recognition of an unseen bond. And, really, in the end, the fact that the bond is unseen is what makes it so beautiful. That bond doesn’t exist in this physical world but in the realm of the ethereal, that which we cannot see but know with a certainty is there. The terror comes from not being able to see it, not being able to feel it and hold it to you. When a moment comes to stop and think, it is so crystal clear that love goes on, despite broken strings, despite distance, despite the end of life.

     My sister in law, who held her beautiful infant son as he passed away, sent me an article about a pediatric oncologist who is touching kids lives in more ways than one. He was talking about dealing with the death of a child and how to prepare for it. One of his patients was nearing the end of his life, after years of treatments and medicines, and his mom was in his hospital room. The boy asked her what death would be like and she stood up, closed the curtain and talked to him from behind it. “It will be like this, you won’t be able to see me, but you can still hear my voice and feel that I love you. I am still here.” What a gift to be able to give your child when you are in the throes of the greatest terror a mom has. I’m sure she went home and cried; I’m sure at some point she had railed against the unfairness, the fragility of life. But in that moment, she saw those strings of life and how the thing that holds us here is not physicality but love.

                At the end of my teary solo car rides, I get out and am greeted by smiling faces, a thousand questions, and sticky hands. Life comes clearly through in full force and I am surrounded by its richness, its texture, the glory of it all around me. Mostly, I am thankful that for now, our paths run together, I can see my loved ones on it all around me and it is beautiful. Love in all its terror and its glory is beautiful, and I am eternally grateful for this moment.