Love under scrutiny

     If you want to see yourself in the harshest possible light, have a three year old and a four year old stare at your face from four inches out. “Your hair is kind of two different colors” (thank you Loreal), “what is that red dot?” (thank you, Irish ancestry), and my favorite, “I think some of your hair is silver too” (thank you to all 36 of my birthdays.)

     The thing that always fills me with wonder in this process is that all that scrutiny doesn’t matter to them. Because in the end, they stick their wet thumbs in their mouths and lay those little faces on my chest contentedly. They make it ever so clear that none of the features that make us different, the ones we sometimes try to hide, matter in the slightest. Kids love because they love. Why? Because that’s what love is. As is so popularly repeated, love is blind. But, love is blind not because differences, peculiarities and irregularities aren’t noticed, but because they are overlooked; kids inherently know that surfaces don’t matter.

     A few weeks ago, when the wonderful news story about the record clearing of nine civil rights protesters (the Friendship Nine) came out, I read it to my kids. At the time, my oldest daughter’s class was discussing Ruby Bridges and Rosa Parks and my older son was learning about Harriet Tubman and the Underground Railroad. I thought the modern day news story would connect them to the fallout from slavery and the process our slow redemption has taken us on since the Civil War.  When I got done with the article, one of my daughters asked why, for so long, we thought black people and white people were different. Being born in 1978, and to parents who  raised me to be color blind,  when I am faced with this question, I always have a hard time answering. I talked about the European worldview at the time of colonization as well as differences in culture and economy in a long and meandering way.

     After my diatribe, I was met with blank stares. I realized that no matter how I tried to phrase my answer, it wouldn’t matter. These children were born in the 21^st century and have absolutely no idea how it is possible to hate someone because of anything they can see, nor what it feels like to feel better than someone else by virtue of ancestry. What a blessing this is; what a debt of gratitude we, as a nation, owe to the many people along the way who have made it possible for our children to be open to the world, to be oblivious to any thinking that implies differences on the surface mean anything more underneath. To children, love is blind, and in the end, isn't that the only true kind?

Snapshot cakes: the beauty of birthday baking

   In the last four weeks, I have baked, frosted and decorated ten cakes. Ten. My sugar taste buds are worn down nubs, my hands are still a reddish hue from food dye and I am currently scouring Amazon for a new hand mixer. You see, January and February are birthday season in our house, with three of our five children celebrating within three weeks of each other. A sane person might ask, “if there are only three birthdays, why so many cakes?” The reason is this: we celebrate birthdays in a big way; we have a cake on the actual day of the birthday, a cake for school, a cake for our family party and a cake for the friends’ party. During fits of self-pity when all the spatulas are dirty and I have four different icing colors in front of me, my very practical husband asks “why don’t you just bake one sheet cake and divide it in three?” His suggestion is very reasonable and sounds good at the time: fewer pans, fewer burnt out mixers and a lot less dish soap, but then I remember why I do this every year…

    A birthday honors more than the day these beautiful people came into our lives; it also acknowledges the moments that have passed along the way and the stage each child is in right at this moment, in this time. When Maeve, on her third birthday, asks for a mermaid princess cake, it is because she spends her time wearing plastic heels, tutus and any kind of outfit with tulle. She is at the stage when I know she is coming by the click-click of heels on the hardwood and the certainty that she has changed, yet again, right before a meal which will inevitably end up on the front of whatever dress is the current choice. Ryan, my six year old, asked for a blessedly simple blue heart cake for our family party. Ryan is all heart; he wears it on his sleeve for the world to see, following every rule and trying his sweet best to make everyone happy. That cake was, to me, who he is and I know I will remember his blue eyes looking up at me in their gentle way every time I look at pictures of him blowing out his candles. Claire, my oldest daughter, wanted a white tiger cake. With fondant, sticky hands and a whole lot of artistic license, I was able to give her an approximation of the animal with one eye who shares her pillow with her every night. She has researched white tigers and has come up with so many ways she thinks might help get them off the endangered list. My girl is on the verge; her heart is coming through and the capacity that she has to do good in the world is emerging. Her tiger cake reminds me that while she might be encountering the world on a grander scale, she also needs to hold something close at night, keeping it, and herself, safe.

    In the end, I make all those cakes because they mean more to me than a symbol of my kids’ latest craze. They are, to me, a snapshot of their lives, marking time as it gains momentum year by year. Looking back on the train cakes, the castle cakes, and the shark cakes, I am reminded of things they have played with, have loved and, in the end, have let go for something new. I am filled with gratitude at knowing these amazing children intimately enough to have a front row seat on their journey, gratitude that another year has passed in which we are all here, all smiling and singing as their wishes blow away off into the world.

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