"...Put up the tree before my spirit falls again..."
Never before do I remember a Christmas song speaking to my condition so perfectly. Friends, it was a miserable Advent.
During the first week, right after Thanksgiving, two families in town lost their eldest daughters, lovely young women, both, within days of each other, both passings unexpected and tragic. The families involved were well-known around town. The entire community mourned.
The sorrow had a personal edge to me because one set of parents had been our neighbors back before we had kids. Their daughter was only about a year older than Amelia. I can remember their joy at being new parents, and it was right around the time that I was introduced to their baby that I discovered that I was going to be a parent myself.
It definitely cast a pall.
Then, on a more personal front, a close family member started losing his battle with mental illness. Actually, to use the word "losing" would seem to imply that he is fighting it. Actually, he's being overwhelmed by it. And part of it, of course, is a complete lack of insight into the fact that he might have a problem. It's vexing, concerning, and heart-breaking, and there is really nothing anyone can do about it.
I tried to liken this constant low-level anxiety and sorrow as going through Advent while wearing a heavy backpack or having a stone in your shoe. The analogy didn't work, however, because a backpack can be set down and a stone removed. This situation doesn't have such an ending, and the situation could get worse before it gets better.
What can a person do but let go and let God. And worry. And pray. A lot.
My answer was what I called Christmas Therapy. I would set-aside time to immerse myself in what makes me happy during the season. It is a time for light and love and I gave myself permission to create a little joy.
I'm not a big fan of shopping. Just ask my daughters. (Unless it's for food. I can go a little nuts at a farmer's market!) I'm not a recreational shopper unless it's at a thrift store, and even then I lose interest if there isn't anything I feel I need. But then I discovered shopping for others.
I love our town's Helping Hands program that anonymously matches low-income families with people willing to buy presents. Now there is shopping I can get into! How can I feel bad spending money and participating in the mass retail-hysteria when I may be providing the only Christmas presents these kids may be getting? I love the challenge of maximizing the bang for my buck - finding stuff that is useful AND fun. Even if the family only asks for clothes or coats for the little ones, there has to be at least one book or toy included. This year Miriam and I shopped for a teen-aged and a tween-aged girl. Miriam was AWESOME at finding fashionable, affordable stuff at stores I would never have considered. And we've also made it a tradition to include a stocking that includes nice soaps, shampoos, toothbrushes and toothpaste, lotions...stuff that can't be bought with foodstamps and are usually a lower-level financial priority.
One afternoon I closed the curtains against the December rain, turned on the Christmas lights, lit a few candles, put on some quality seasonal music, and wrapped the presents for the family. I prayed as I worked that the gifts would bring joy. In my mind I heard delighted squeals from the girls as they discovered their treasures, and I felt their grandmother's relief that they were able to have presents. And in the very unlikely event that they were NOT appreciative, I would never find out, which relieves a lot of the pressure of gift giving. It was a nice moment.
There were other, more minor, setbacks threatening to destroy my Christmas spirits. The horrible head cold/sinus infection I had over the Thanksgiving holiday didn't help. Nor did the unexpected demise of my upright freezer on the same day I had returned from Costco with Christmas supplies. That was a bad moment.
But I worked to focus on the joy. The joy of having both my daughters home. Indulging my love of baking, even to excess. (Five kinds of cookies baked, four more doughs in the refrigerator!) Reveling in the glow of the Christmas tree. Setting my creative forces free designing my cards and newsletter. (I now have a keen sympathy for clergy folks who have to write sermons on the same themes year after year - it ain't easy coming up with fresh approaches!)
The beauty of joy, of course, is that it begets more joy. Social science research has shown that people are more likely to be altruistic after a positive event such as being given a cookie. Happy people are more likely to do nice things, which spreads the happiness to others.
So I guess my Christmas message to all of you is to find that metaphorical cookie, and share it with others. I read a great newspaper article about people who were anonymously paying off Christmas lay-aways for families. But no action is too small. I find it gratifying to treat retail workers this time of year as people who deserve patience and gratitude, and I was rewarded with genuine wishes for a good rest of my day. And there were days I needed that!
Luckily, I live in a liturgical calendar in which Christmas is a season and not a singular event. So I can still say "Oh yes I need a little Christmas, right this very minute...I need a little Christmas now!"
Monday, December 26, 2011
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
No Man is an Island...He's a Peninsula
I stole that from The Jefferson Airplane, "A Small Package of Value Will Come to You, Shortly," track 2 on After Bathing at Baxter's.
This is a sequel to "I am a Rock." (Hint: Reading it will make the following make a lot more sense!) I'm here to attest that there are such things as happy endings.
I wrote "Rock" because I was obsessing over that fact that a friend had owned up to keeping distance between us. And now, as they say, for the rest of the story.
What happened next was that we e-mailed. And we talked. And we e-mailed some more. She told me how she honestly felt and I did some much-needed soul searching. We both did some apologizing, and I can truly say that I understand why she felt the need to pull away and have no problem with that.
And it felt like old times, in a way, because we are so comfortable with each other. We can still laugh and chatter. Our friendship is not broken. It's better.
I'm not a rock. I'm not an island!
This is a sequel to "I am a Rock." (Hint: Reading it will make the following make a lot more sense!) I'm here to attest that there are such things as happy endings.
I wrote "Rock" because I was obsessing over that fact that a friend had owned up to keeping distance between us. And now, as they say, for the rest of the story.
What happened next was that we e-mailed. And we talked. And we e-mailed some more. She told me how she honestly felt and I did some much-needed soul searching. We both did some apologizing, and I can truly say that I understand why she felt the need to pull away and have no problem with that.
And it felt like old times, in a way, because we are so comfortable with each other. We can still laugh and chatter. Our friendship is not broken. It's better.
I'm not a rock. I'm not an island!
Saturday, November 12, 2011
I Am a Rock
Recently a friend broke-up with me.
I guess I shouldn't be surprised. We really hadn't hung out together for quite awhile. But back in the day we were tight. I've always believed God sends you the people you need when you need them, and this was no exception. I was leaving the world of full-time employment and beginning my adventures in domesticity. She was new to town, also at home, and our daughters were in preschool together. We shared coffee, wine, and good conversation.
I should have seen the warning signs. We had some philosophical differences, but we were pretty open about discussing them. Our daughters started out as good friends, but they were pretty different from each other. I also was not particularly close with her other dear friends.
Our lives diverged as lives do. She was homeschooling, which kept her busy, and our paths crossed less often. I didn't think too much of it. We still chatted when we encountered each other but didn't carve out time to get together.
Not long ago we ran into each other at a yard sale and started catching up with each other. We've always had a certain cosmic similarity, and it turns out that we were both interested in the same graduate school program. We could be school buddies!
Turns out she had started working at the same place Brandon, my current charge and life project, attends preschool. One day I was picking him up and encountered my old friend. I told her I really wanted to get together. I pictured one of our traditional gabfests, catching up on what we'd been doing for the past few years, making plans to get through school together. Maybe this was just the boost I needed to get out of my current rut and get my life in gear. As we were making a plan and preparing to part, she mentioned that she also felt the need to explain why she had felt the need to put some space between us.
Wait. What?
Our estrangement had been purposeful on her part. I was blind-sided.
Most of our communication on this topic has been via the gift of e-mail, which from my point of view has been something of a blessing. It gives me time to measure my responses and edit my words, which apparently is what got me in trouble in the first place. As mentioned before, we did have some sizable philosophical differences, and at some point I apparently was disrespectful enough to hurt her. Enough that she felt the need to back away from me.
This is doing a bit of a number on my head. Oddly enough, I generally consider myself to be pathologically nice. I do, however, have strong opinions, and, when pushed, will be brutally honest about how I feel about something. My favored strategy is cutting humor. I guess I cut too deep.
This is not happening at a good time. One problem with childcare as a life calling is that it is pretty isolating. Working from home means no co-workers or general public to interact with. My social circle, such as it is, largely consists of other parents with small children and if you've ever tried to socialize with toddlers in the room you'd know it's not easy. Plus, I'm no longer the parent of a toddler. At the end of the day I'd like the chance to mingle with people of my own age who are also preparing to embark on the next phase of life once the children are grown.
So far I seem to be 2 for 2 in wrecking such relationships. (See "Looking Up to Reach Down" for the other unhappy saga.)
I've apologized. I've offered my olive branch. I've proposed getting together again to hash this all out but a plan hasn't come together for that and I think I'm done trying. I may have been insensitive and/or intolerant, but I didn't cut anyone out of my life for disagreeing with me.
The situation is made worse by living in a small town. As I already said, I have to go to her place of work to pick Brandon up from school. I find myself scanning the crowd and hanging my head when I walk in to avoid possible encounters. I was at the high school play last night, which her daughter was in, and again felt in defensive mode in case she was there. She wasn't. But to rub salt in the wound there were two other people there I used to hang out with and I COULDN'T GET OUT FAST ENOUGH.
Really? Am I that hard to get along with? Now I feel a little paranoid about everyone I've fallen out of touch with. Did I offend you? Am I more trouble than I'm worth?
I once suggested that Hallmark make a card for this. A little something that simply says "I valued our time together, I'm sorry it didn't work out."
Meantime I think I'll take a page from Simon and Garfunkel. I am a rock. I am an island.
I guess I shouldn't be surprised. We really hadn't hung out together for quite awhile. But back in the day we were tight. I've always believed God sends you the people you need when you need them, and this was no exception. I was leaving the world of full-time employment and beginning my adventures in domesticity. She was new to town, also at home, and our daughters were in preschool together. We shared coffee, wine, and good conversation.
I should have seen the warning signs. We had some philosophical differences, but we were pretty open about discussing them. Our daughters started out as good friends, but they were pretty different from each other. I also was not particularly close with her other dear friends.
Our lives diverged as lives do. She was homeschooling, which kept her busy, and our paths crossed less often. I didn't think too much of it. We still chatted when we encountered each other but didn't carve out time to get together.
Not long ago we ran into each other at a yard sale and started catching up with each other. We've always had a certain cosmic similarity, and it turns out that we were both interested in the same graduate school program. We could be school buddies!
Turns out she had started working at the same place Brandon, my current charge and life project, attends preschool. One day I was picking him up and encountered my old friend. I told her I really wanted to get together. I pictured one of our traditional gabfests, catching up on what we'd been doing for the past few years, making plans to get through school together. Maybe this was just the boost I needed to get out of my current rut and get my life in gear. As we were making a plan and preparing to part, she mentioned that she also felt the need to explain why she had felt the need to put some space between us.
Wait. What?
Our estrangement had been purposeful on her part. I was blind-sided.
Most of our communication on this topic has been via the gift of e-mail, which from my point of view has been something of a blessing. It gives me time to measure my responses and edit my words, which apparently is what got me in trouble in the first place. As mentioned before, we did have some sizable philosophical differences, and at some point I apparently was disrespectful enough to hurt her. Enough that she felt the need to back away from me.
This is doing a bit of a number on my head. Oddly enough, I generally consider myself to be pathologically nice. I do, however, have strong opinions, and, when pushed, will be brutally honest about how I feel about something. My favored strategy is cutting humor. I guess I cut too deep.
This is not happening at a good time. One problem with childcare as a life calling is that it is pretty isolating. Working from home means no co-workers or general public to interact with. My social circle, such as it is, largely consists of other parents with small children and if you've ever tried to socialize with toddlers in the room you'd know it's not easy. Plus, I'm no longer the parent of a toddler. At the end of the day I'd like the chance to mingle with people of my own age who are also preparing to embark on the next phase of life once the children are grown.
So far I seem to be 2 for 2 in wrecking such relationships. (See "Looking Up to Reach Down" for the other unhappy saga.)
I've apologized. I've offered my olive branch. I've proposed getting together again to hash this all out but a plan hasn't come together for that and I think I'm done trying. I may have been insensitive and/or intolerant, but I didn't cut anyone out of my life for disagreeing with me.
The situation is made worse by living in a small town. As I already said, I have to go to her place of work to pick Brandon up from school. I find myself scanning the crowd and hanging my head when I walk in to avoid possible encounters. I was at the high school play last night, which her daughter was in, and again felt in defensive mode in case she was there. She wasn't. But to rub salt in the wound there were two other people there I used to hang out with and I COULDN'T GET OUT FAST ENOUGH.
Really? Am I that hard to get along with? Now I feel a little paranoid about everyone I've fallen out of touch with. Did I offend you? Am I more trouble than I'm worth?
I once suggested that Hallmark make a card for this. A little something that simply says "I valued our time together, I'm sorry it didn't work out."
Meantime I think I'll take a page from Simon and Garfunkel. I am a rock. I am an island.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Guardian Angel, A Story for Veteran's Day
This story begins, as most of them do, with the phone call that no one wants to get. Tom's father was sick, it was serious, and he had to drive out there right away. I ended up flying out a few days later with our daughters for the funeral. Sudden, sad, and surreal.
The girls and I left after school, and our evening flight had a sizable lay-over at the Philadelphia airport. We were tired, dazed, and had an hour to while away. We noticed the dogs as we were wandering to our gate.
They were puppies, really; big paws and ears and fluffy coats. Australian Shepherds as I recall. They were also playful and friendly. Good medicine for our bruised souls. Their names were Sadie and Levi.
I know this because we started chatting with the nice young couple traveling with the dogs. Turned out they were flying to the same small regional airport we were headed to. Their story unfolded as we talked.
They were from Colorado and on their way to her hometown in Pennsylvania to pick-up her horses and car. They had brought the puppies along because they had just adopted them and didn't want to leave them alone. Then they were going to hitch the horse trailer to her car and drive the 1000+ miles home, puppies and all. They only had a few days to complete this feat because the day after they were scheduled to return he had to report for deployment to Iraq.
He was a Marine. They were newlyweds. Just married. They had returned from their honeymoon trip and found the call-up order in the mail when they returned home. They were taking this crazy cross-country trip and then he would be gone for a year.
They were the sweetest young couple. He was all-American, clean-cut handsome. She reminded me of a little bird. Tiny, fair, with sharp features and lots of wavy yellow hair with seemed to hum with her nervous energy. They were happy to share the puppies with me and my tween-aged girls.
Our flight was announced and they stowed the puppies in their little mesh-sided carriers and brought them onto the plane. It was a small commuter plane that only holds a few dozen people. They sat across the aisle from us and I couldn't help watching them during the flight.
It was nighttime, and the lighting in the cabin was dim to allow us to nap during the short flight, I guess. She was resting on him, her head on his chest and her hands on his shoulder and side, like she was trying to absorb him through her skin, filling-up with his very essence before sending him off. His arm was wrapped protectively around her. It made a very touching tableaux.
Tom's Dad, Bill Reid (he eschewed titles), was a World War II vet. Actually, he was a conscientious objector, to me an unbelievably brave stance to take in those days, which also in those days meant he still served but in a non-combat role. He was a medic. He was captured by the Germans and spent about a year, I think, as a prisoner of war. When he was released he learned that his identical twin brother had died in the conflict.
My father-in-law was truly one of the greats of The Greatest Generation. His military service interrupted his college career. He and his brother attended the same college. Dave, apparently, was the outgoing brother. Bill was studying botany, as he had a life-long attraction to the natural world. When they were sent overseas they had each met the woman they intended to marry. Bill returned, a thin shadow of his former self, married, and finished college. He joined the track team to rebuild his physical body, and followed a call to enter into ministry, eventually graduating from Yale Divinity School and serving with distinction in the Methodist Church.
SIDE NOTE: My mother-in-law is no less impressive, enduring the sorrow and anxiety of the separation, finishing her own degree and also entering the ministry.
My heart ached for this young couple on the airplane. They were so sweet, so in love. I prayed for his safe return, but felt a renewed ache when I realized he would not come home the same person. He was being sent far away to an exotic locale where he would experience and see things that no person should see and experience. I prayed. I prayed for his safety, but I also prayed for his soul. That he should come home and still be able to enjoy his wife, and play with their dogs and horses, and still be the confident, happy, loving young man that he was then.
I entreated my father-in-law. Please be with him, you who understand his situation. Be with him in battle. Stay with him and guard his heart. Please help him to keep his humanity intact. Bless this couple and help them have the happy life they deserve. Be their guardian angel.
It was not a long flight. We were walking to the lobby when I found the courage to turn and ask his name. I do not have the best memory in the world, but I know that the first name was Sam. The last name is a little fuzzier, either Wineguard or Winegardner, probably spelled Weingart or something like that. Anyway, I shook his hand, wished them well on his deployment, and said I would pray for him. They were genuinely grateful.
God, please let him return safely. Grampsy, please guard his soul.
The girls and I left after school, and our evening flight had a sizable lay-over at the Philadelphia airport. We were tired, dazed, and had an hour to while away. We noticed the dogs as we were wandering to our gate.
They were puppies, really; big paws and ears and fluffy coats. Australian Shepherds as I recall. They were also playful and friendly. Good medicine for our bruised souls. Their names were Sadie and Levi.
I know this because we started chatting with the nice young couple traveling with the dogs. Turned out they were flying to the same small regional airport we were headed to. Their story unfolded as we talked.
They were from Colorado and on their way to her hometown in Pennsylvania to pick-up her horses and car. They had brought the puppies along because they had just adopted them and didn't want to leave them alone. Then they were going to hitch the horse trailer to her car and drive the 1000+ miles home, puppies and all. They only had a few days to complete this feat because the day after they were scheduled to return he had to report for deployment to Iraq.
He was a Marine. They were newlyweds. Just married. They had returned from their honeymoon trip and found the call-up order in the mail when they returned home. They were taking this crazy cross-country trip and then he would be gone for a year.
They were the sweetest young couple. He was all-American, clean-cut handsome. She reminded me of a little bird. Tiny, fair, with sharp features and lots of wavy yellow hair with seemed to hum with her nervous energy. They were happy to share the puppies with me and my tween-aged girls.
Our flight was announced and they stowed the puppies in their little mesh-sided carriers and brought them onto the plane. It was a small commuter plane that only holds a few dozen people. They sat across the aisle from us and I couldn't help watching them during the flight.
It was nighttime, and the lighting in the cabin was dim to allow us to nap during the short flight, I guess. She was resting on him, her head on his chest and her hands on his shoulder and side, like she was trying to absorb him through her skin, filling-up with his very essence before sending him off. His arm was wrapped protectively around her. It made a very touching tableaux.
Tom's Dad, Bill Reid (he eschewed titles), was a World War II vet. Actually, he was a conscientious objector, to me an unbelievably brave stance to take in those days, which also in those days meant he still served but in a non-combat role. He was a medic. He was captured by the Germans and spent about a year, I think, as a prisoner of war. When he was released he learned that his identical twin brother had died in the conflict.
My father-in-law was truly one of the greats of The Greatest Generation. His military service interrupted his college career. He and his brother attended the same college. Dave, apparently, was the outgoing brother. Bill was studying botany, as he had a life-long attraction to the natural world. When they were sent overseas they had each met the woman they intended to marry. Bill returned, a thin shadow of his former self, married, and finished college. He joined the track team to rebuild his physical body, and followed a call to enter into ministry, eventually graduating from Yale Divinity School and serving with distinction in the Methodist Church.
SIDE NOTE: My mother-in-law is no less impressive, enduring the sorrow and anxiety of the separation, finishing her own degree and also entering the ministry.
My heart ached for this young couple on the airplane. They were so sweet, so in love. I prayed for his safe return, but felt a renewed ache when I realized he would not come home the same person. He was being sent far away to an exotic locale where he would experience and see things that no person should see and experience. I prayed. I prayed for his safety, but I also prayed for his soul. That he should come home and still be able to enjoy his wife, and play with their dogs and horses, and still be the confident, happy, loving young man that he was then.
I entreated my father-in-law. Please be with him, you who understand his situation. Be with him in battle. Stay with him and guard his heart. Please help him to keep his humanity intact. Bless this couple and help them have the happy life they deserve. Be their guardian angel.
It was not a long flight. We were walking to the lobby when I found the courage to turn and ask his name. I do not have the best memory in the world, but I know that the first name was Sam. The last name is a little fuzzier, either Wineguard or Winegardner, probably spelled Weingart or something like that. Anyway, I shook his hand, wished them well on his deployment, and said I would pray for him. They were genuinely grateful.
God, please let him return safely. Grampsy, please guard his soul.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Life is Change...How it Differs From the Rocks...
("Crown of Creation" by The Jefferson Airplane.)
I hate change.
Actually, it would be more true to say that I hate times of transition more than the actual change. Once I'm used to it, different is good. It's the getting there that I don't like.
But, as The Airplane so smartly pointed out, life is but a series of transitions and changes. Some are so incremental they take years to notice. Some happen at precise moments and life is never the same again. There are a few I would consider pretty earth-shifting: graduating high school/leaving home, getting married, losing a parent (thanks be to God I haven't personally faced that one yet), AND (drum roll, please) your CHILD graduating high school/leaving home.
As most of you know we just sent our firstborn off to college, to the big city of Chicago no less. Lots of people ask how I'm doing. The short answer is quite well, actually, but there is a complicated tangle of feelings that goes along with that.
Am I sad? Sort of. It's not an acute mourning, but more of a dull ache in the general thoracic region. I'm really pretty OK with the fact that my baby has grown up. Right before she left we watched some home movies of her toddler years and not once did I wish to be back there. I've always loved her just the way she is. And I'm looking forward to getting to know the person she will become.
Am I anxious? YES! Those who knew me during my college years know that I was pretty much a big ball of stupid prone to making really bad life decisions. My daughter, however, inherited her father's good sense and natural caution. She will be fine. Seeing the wonderful opportunities ahead of her makes me wish for a do-over.
Mostly, though, I'm incredibly proud and excited for her. I'm proud that she struck out on her own. She faced one of her biggest fears and went for it. And the school and neighborhood and all the people we met all seemed like a perfect fit for her. I believe that she will be happy. And even if, for some reason, it doesn't work out and she lands closer to home, she tried, and she can always feel good about that. But I think she's going to thrive.
I'm also acutely aware of the fact that once I left for college I never came home, in a way. Oh there were holidays and breaks, but the BEST thing that happened in college was meeting Tom my senior year. I had a job right out of college and I stayed and got married. Who knows what the future will hold?
Meanwhile, I'm still wandering the shifting sands of transition. To add to the poignancy, Brandon started pre-school the same week Amelia left. I need to develop a whole new routine.
Which always leads me back to the "What am I going to do when I grow up" question. {sigh}
I only feel an ache, at this point, during moments that normally include the whole family. But it's a good ache.
It would be far more depressing if she opted to live in my basement the rest of her life.
And how are you?
I hate change.
Actually, it would be more true to say that I hate times of transition more than the actual change. Once I'm used to it, different is good. It's the getting there that I don't like.
But, as The Airplane so smartly pointed out, life is but a series of transitions and changes. Some are so incremental they take years to notice. Some happen at precise moments and life is never the same again. There are a few I would consider pretty earth-shifting: graduating high school/leaving home, getting married, losing a parent (thanks be to God I haven't personally faced that one yet), AND (drum roll, please) your CHILD graduating high school/leaving home.
As most of you know we just sent our firstborn off to college, to the big city of Chicago no less. Lots of people ask how I'm doing. The short answer is quite well, actually, but there is a complicated tangle of feelings that goes along with that.
Am I sad? Sort of. It's not an acute mourning, but more of a dull ache in the general thoracic region. I'm really pretty OK with the fact that my baby has grown up. Right before she left we watched some home movies of her toddler years and not once did I wish to be back there. I've always loved her just the way she is. And I'm looking forward to getting to know the person she will become.
Am I anxious? YES! Those who knew me during my college years know that I was pretty much a big ball of stupid prone to making really bad life decisions. My daughter, however, inherited her father's good sense and natural caution. She will be fine. Seeing the wonderful opportunities ahead of her makes me wish for a do-over.
Mostly, though, I'm incredibly proud and excited for her. I'm proud that she struck out on her own. She faced one of her biggest fears and went for it. And the school and neighborhood and all the people we met all seemed like a perfect fit for her. I believe that she will be happy. And even if, for some reason, it doesn't work out and she lands closer to home, she tried, and she can always feel good about that. But I think she's going to thrive.
I'm also acutely aware of the fact that once I left for college I never came home, in a way. Oh there were holidays and breaks, but the BEST thing that happened in college was meeting Tom my senior year. I had a job right out of college and I stayed and got married. Who knows what the future will hold?
Meanwhile, I'm still wandering the shifting sands of transition. To add to the poignancy, Brandon started pre-school the same week Amelia left. I need to develop a whole new routine.
Which always leads me back to the "What am I going to do when I grow up" question. {sigh}
I only feel an ache, at this point, during moments that normally include the whole family. But it's a good ache.
It would be far more depressing if she opted to live in my basement the rest of her life.
And how are you?
Friday, July 29, 2011
Sweet Surrender (Or Why I Haven't Been Writing Much Lately)
Hello, dear friends! Long time no talk at.
There is a perfectly reasonable explanation for this, and he is currently 2 1/2 years old.
Let me state AGAIN that I did not have an oops, nor am I prematurely a grandmother. Brandon is my little charge that I care for, 8 - 10 hours per day, 5 days a week. I've written about him before.
Oh, the agony and the ecstasy. Like childbirth, I think we largely forget what spending all day with a full-on toddler is like. And a boy at that. I don't really want open the whole "nature/nurture" gender debate, but as someone who raised two girls and is now caring for a boy, I can tell you that they are completely different animals. I was never able to distract my girls away from a potential meltdown by pointing out a dump truck. At least not successfully.
And the energy level! Buttons exist to be pushed, levers pulled, containers and doors opened, and sticks - they MUST be banged against any available surface.
And Brandon has never been a kid who was content sit back and observe life. Even as an infant, before he could crawl or flip, he would do what we called "baby crunches." When lying on his back he would raise his head and shoulders to see what was going on. He was not even 1 year old when he peeled my hand open and slapped a book into it for me to read. If I'm not paying sufficient attention when he's talking to me he will grab my face between his hands and turn me to look at him.
The saving grace is that he's not much for temper tantrums. I do not, however, appreciate the person who introduced him to the Power Rangers, since his general reaction is to assume a fighting stance. (He's the orange one, he tells me, because "orange my favorite color." Note to the people who've been lucky enough to avoid the Power Rangers: there is no orange one.) I can oftentimes talk him down by saying "No ninjas!"
The craziest thing about daily life these days is trying to accomplish, well, anything. I liken it to trying to row a boat across a lake in a powerful crosswind. You never really know where you're going to land! I think I've tried to go to the library for about a week now. But to get to his shoes we may need to walk through the kitchen, which reminds him that he needs some juice, which leads to climbing the step stool by the counter to play with the toaster until I get him down at which point he finds his orange bouncy ball and it's off to play with that.
There's a natural ADD that goes with early childhood. One morning I was recounting to my daughter how we had already played with the boys across the street, gone to Depot park, and had some sandbox time when I realized it was only about 9am. If something holds his attention for a full 5 minutes it's a successful activity.
We've also entered the pretend-play stage, usually by taking on different personas. For awhile he was Kyle and I was Tyler. I think these are children he met at his grandmother's house in Virginia. (He'll walk up to me and ask "Do you remember my friend Kyle [or Tyler, or Conner, or Little Dave, or whoever the person du jour is.]?" I've never met any of these people. I think he's trying to ask me if I know them.) Anyway, he'll be Kyle, and I'll be Tyler. The game goes something like this:
"Hi, Tyler!"
"Hi, Kyle."
"Hi!"
"Hi!"
(scene)
Sometimes we're firefighters, or pirates, or he's the daddy and I'm the baby. I like to whine a LOT during that game.
I'm fully aware that I could probably get stuff done if I really wanted to. I am the grown-up, after all, and I can put my foot down and make things happen. But I rather like the path of least resistance. It's somewhat easier, and certainly more fascinating, to follow his lead, to experience what is going on in that little mind of his.
And it definitely has it's rewards. Sometimes he will just look at me, and, out of the blue, say "I love you, too!" Of course, he also likes to tell me I look like a beach angel. One day we had been playing pirate at a playground and we were taking a break in the shade of a picnic shelter. I was lying on one picnic bench and he was on the other one across from me. He looked across and simply said "I love you, Katy Pirate." I melted like warm candle wax.
Another advantage? During medical check-ups if I'm asked if I exercise regularly I can just answer "I spend all day with a two-year-old." 'Nuff said.
And how are you?
(P.S. I'm able to write this because Brandon is on vacation!)
There is a perfectly reasonable explanation for this, and he is currently 2 1/2 years old.
Let me state AGAIN that I did not have an oops, nor am I prematurely a grandmother. Brandon is my little charge that I care for, 8 - 10 hours per day, 5 days a week. I've written about him before.
Oh, the agony and the ecstasy. Like childbirth, I think we largely forget what spending all day with a full-on toddler is like. And a boy at that. I don't really want open the whole "nature/nurture" gender debate, but as someone who raised two girls and is now caring for a boy, I can tell you that they are completely different animals. I was never able to distract my girls away from a potential meltdown by pointing out a dump truck. At least not successfully.
And the energy level! Buttons exist to be pushed, levers pulled, containers and doors opened, and sticks - they MUST be banged against any available surface.
And Brandon has never been a kid who was content sit back and observe life. Even as an infant, before he could crawl or flip, he would do what we called "baby crunches." When lying on his back he would raise his head and shoulders to see what was going on. He was not even 1 year old when he peeled my hand open and slapped a book into it for me to read. If I'm not paying sufficient attention when he's talking to me he will grab my face between his hands and turn me to look at him.
The saving grace is that he's not much for temper tantrums. I do not, however, appreciate the person who introduced him to the Power Rangers, since his general reaction is to assume a fighting stance. (He's the orange one, he tells me, because "orange my favorite color." Note to the people who've been lucky enough to avoid the Power Rangers: there is no orange one.) I can oftentimes talk him down by saying "No ninjas!"
The craziest thing about daily life these days is trying to accomplish, well, anything. I liken it to trying to row a boat across a lake in a powerful crosswind. You never really know where you're going to land! I think I've tried to go to the library for about a week now. But to get to his shoes we may need to walk through the kitchen, which reminds him that he needs some juice, which leads to climbing the step stool by the counter to play with the toaster until I get him down at which point he finds his orange bouncy ball and it's off to play with that.
There's a natural ADD that goes with early childhood. One morning I was recounting to my daughter how we had already played with the boys across the street, gone to Depot park, and had some sandbox time when I realized it was only about 9am. If something holds his attention for a full 5 minutes it's a successful activity.
We've also entered the pretend-play stage, usually by taking on different personas. For awhile he was Kyle and I was Tyler. I think these are children he met at his grandmother's house in Virginia. (He'll walk up to me and ask "Do you remember my friend Kyle [or Tyler, or Conner, or Little Dave, or whoever the person du jour is.]?" I've never met any of these people. I think he's trying to ask me if I know them.) Anyway, he'll be Kyle, and I'll be Tyler. The game goes something like this:
"Hi, Tyler!"
"Hi, Kyle."
"Hi!"
"Hi!"
(scene)
Sometimes we're firefighters, or pirates, or he's the daddy and I'm the baby. I like to whine a LOT during that game.
I'm fully aware that I could probably get stuff done if I really wanted to. I am the grown-up, after all, and I can put my foot down and make things happen. But I rather like the path of least resistance. It's somewhat easier, and certainly more fascinating, to follow his lead, to experience what is going on in that little mind of his.
And it definitely has it's rewards. Sometimes he will just look at me, and, out of the blue, say "I love you, too!" Of course, he also likes to tell me I look like a beach angel. One day we had been playing pirate at a playground and we were taking a break in the shade of a picnic shelter. I was lying on one picnic bench and he was on the other one across from me. He looked across and simply said "I love you, Katy Pirate." I melted like warm candle wax.
Another advantage? During medical check-ups if I'm asked if I exercise regularly I can just answer "I spend all day with a two-year-old." 'Nuff said.
And how are you?
(P.S. I'm able to write this because Brandon is on vacation!)
Monday, May 2, 2011
Jump
It never ceases to amaze me how two people, born of the same parents and raised in the same household, can be so completely different.
Previously I have written about a daughter (Tick...Tick...Tick), but that was my younger one. My eldest worries me in a completely different way.
My first-born is the child I've never had to worry about. As a toddler she would never wander away from me (unlike her sister who walked out of the play area at a Cleveland Indian's baseball game because she wanted to go back to the seats...thank God a security got spotted her before she got very far - she was going the wrong direction!).
Anyway.
She's also the rare teenager who has her license but still asks for rides. She doesn't go out a lot with her friends. She's really a homebody.
I remember a parent/teacher conference during middle school. Hers were never stressful, just lots of comments about what a great kid she is. One teacher, however, said he wished she would take more risks, that sometimes she seemed to hold herself back.
You were right, Mr. Sheldon.
I'm in that wonderous, anxiety-provoking life transition during which the first child leaves the nest. She graduates high school this year, and there have been a lot of decisions to make. It's reminding me what a scary time of life that is - the first time your life is handed over to you. I watched her struggle with this and worried (it's what moms do) over whether she was ready, whether she would launch or need a push.
She had no idea what she wanted to study, so I suggested she pick an area of the country she wanted to see. She wanted to be near a city, especially one with major league baseball teams. It came down to 2 choices: Loyola University in Chicago or Baldwin-Wallace in suburban Cleveland. She fell in love with the Loyola campus, especially the glass study building right on Lake Michigan. But B-W had the advantage of being less than an hour away from home in the same town where her favorite teacher/mentor lives.
Besides being a homebody, my eldest would say she's shy. Change was tough when she was little, like going to kindergarten. Only one girl from her preschool was in her class. To ease the transition I would sometimes volunteer in her classroom. (Which totally didn't work, by the way. She would get way too upset when I had to leave, and she did NOT like sharing her mother!)
Anyway.
One day I was there during recess. The playground moniters were twirling a jumprope and kids were taking turns jumping in. I saw her watching them. She wanted to join in, but she had never done it before and there were a lot of people standing around watching. I stood in line with her and, when the timing was right, encouraged her to jump in.
She did.
Friends, I wish I could share the mental picture I have of the smile on her face. She has this beautific special smile that only comes out when she's especially proud or happy. Her dimples just pop out. That was the smile she had that day.
She chose Loyola, and for all the right reasons. She knows that it will be scary, but good to get away. It will be away, but not too far, and in a neighborhood we know since my brother lives a few blocks away. She'll be in a big city, but in a controlled environment. And I think she will love it.
I'm so proud. She is launching. Not being pushed.
She jumped.
Previously I have written about a daughter (Tick...Tick...Tick), but that was my younger one. My eldest worries me in a completely different way.
My first-born is the child I've never had to worry about. As a toddler she would never wander away from me (unlike her sister who walked out of the play area at a Cleveland Indian's baseball game because she wanted to go back to the seats...thank God a security got spotted her before she got very far - she was going the wrong direction!).
Anyway.
She's also the rare teenager who has her license but still asks for rides. She doesn't go out a lot with her friends. She's really a homebody.
I remember a parent/teacher conference during middle school. Hers were never stressful, just lots of comments about what a great kid she is. One teacher, however, said he wished she would take more risks, that sometimes she seemed to hold herself back.
You were right, Mr. Sheldon.
I'm in that wonderous, anxiety-provoking life transition during which the first child leaves the nest. She graduates high school this year, and there have been a lot of decisions to make. It's reminding me what a scary time of life that is - the first time your life is handed over to you. I watched her struggle with this and worried (it's what moms do) over whether she was ready, whether she would launch or need a push.
She had no idea what she wanted to study, so I suggested she pick an area of the country she wanted to see. She wanted to be near a city, especially one with major league baseball teams. It came down to 2 choices: Loyola University in Chicago or Baldwin-Wallace in suburban Cleveland. She fell in love with the Loyola campus, especially the glass study building right on Lake Michigan. But B-W had the advantage of being less than an hour away from home in the same town where her favorite teacher/mentor lives.
Besides being a homebody, my eldest would say she's shy. Change was tough when she was little, like going to kindergarten. Only one girl from her preschool was in her class. To ease the transition I would sometimes volunteer in her classroom. (Which totally didn't work, by the way. She would get way too upset when I had to leave, and she did NOT like sharing her mother!)
Anyway.
One day I was there during recess. The playground moniters were twirling a jumprope and kids were taking turns jumping in. I saw her watching them. She wanted to join in, but she had never done it before and there were a lot of people standing around watching. I stood in line with her and, when the timing was right, encouraged her to jump in.
She did.
Friends, I wish I could share the mental picture I have of the smile on her face. She has this beautific special smile that only comes out when she's especially proud or happy. Her dimples just pop out. That was the smile she had that day.
She chose Loyola, and for all the right reasons. She knows that it will be scary, but good to get away. It will be away, but not too far, and in a neighborhood we know since my brother lives a few blocks away. She'll be in a big city, but in a controlled environment. And I think she will love it.
I'm so proud. She is launching. Not being pushed.
She jumped.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
The Long, Dark Tea-Time of the Soul (An actual book title by Douglas Adams. Credit where credit is due!)
Welcome back to my world, friends, it's been awhile.
I have not been in a good space. It started with a bad case of what I was calling "The Februaries." Snow in December is pretty and exciting. The whole month is spent preparing for "The Holidays" and all the lights, tinsel, and general hoo-ha that goes along with it.
We start sobering up a bit in January, but we're still in the thrall of beginning a new year and all the possibility that holds. Snow days, especially if they happen to extend the Christmas vacation, are still celebrated by kids. The holiday withdrawal is pretty rough, but we soften it by creating a new cultural event - The Super Bowl.
By February the charm is gone. Enough already. It's dark, cold, and snow is a heavy, icy burden. The kids are tiring of their video games and various electronic media, and the fun of sledding and snowballs wore off back in December. Stuck inside, I fret about what I consider my non-abilities in home decor. I'm dissatisfied with my nest. I'm also frequently caught inside with an energetic 2 year old and I'm even tired of our usual indoor haunts. I believe that we celebrate Valentine's Day because otherwise February would be unbearable. I looked it up this year and was shocked at how thin the mythological underpinnings for the holiday are. I think we had to set aside a date to focus on love and chocolate this time of year to keep us from general despair.
Maybe I have Seasonal Affective Disorder, and even if I don't I certainly understand it. Even though it theoretically starts growing lighter after the solstice, I find that a darkness descends. My space feels too small, too cluttered, too ugly. The daily routine starts feeling mind-numbingly routine. I'm drained of creativity and mental energy.
Not a good place to write from.
Oh, I tried. The results were really not worth sharing.
I'm working on scratching and clawing my way back out, but this spring, which has been a brutal mix of cold, flood, and dark, really isn't helping anything. Nor is the fact that the whole world feels especially topsy-turvy, both geologically and politically.
But the sun will come out again, it always does. And those precious moments of closing your eyes, throwing your head back, and basking in the warmth and light of the sun almost makes all those days of misery worthwhile. Almost.
But excuse me, I should probably end this so I can check the weather radar to gauge the likelihood of another flash flood this afternoon.
And how are you?
I have not been in a good space. It started with a bad case of what I was calling "The Februaries." Snow in December is pretty and exciting. The whole month is spent preparing for "The Holidays" and all the lights, tinsel, and general hoo-ha that goes along with it.
We start sobering up a bit in January, but we're still in the thrall of beginning a new year and all the possibility that holds. Snow days, especially if they happen to extend the Christmas vacation, are still celebrated by kids. The holiday withdrawal is pretty rough, but we soften it by creating a new cultural event - The Super Bowl.
By February the charm is gone. Enough already. It's dark, cold, and snow is a heavy, icy burden. The kids are tiring of their video games and various electronic media, and the fun of sledding and snowballs wore off back in December. Stuck inside, I fret about what I consider my non-abilities in home decor. I'm dissatisfied with my nest. I'm also frequently caught inside with an energetic 2 year old and I'm even tired of our usual indoor haunts. I believe that we celebrate Valentine's Day because otherwise February would be unbearable. I looked it up this year and was shocked at how thin the mythological underpinnings for the holiday are. I think we had to set aside a date to focus on love and chocolate this time of year to keep us from general despair.
Maybe I have Seasonal Affective Disorder, and even if I don't I certainly understand it. Even though it theoretically starts growing lighter after the solstice, I find that a darkness descends. My space feels too small, too cluttered, too ugly. The daily routine starts feeling mind-numbingly routine. I'm drained of creativity and mental energy.
Not a good place to write from.
Oh, I tried. The results were really not worth sharing.
I'm working on scratching and clawing my way back out, but this spring, which has been a brutal mix of cold, flood, and dark, really isn't helping anything. Nor is the fact that the whole world feels especially topsy-turvy, both geologically and politically.
But the sun will come out again, it always does. And those precious moments of closing your eyes, throwing your head back, and basking in the warmth and light of the sun almost makes all those days of misery worthwhile. Almost.
But excuse me, I should probably end this so I can check the weather radar to gauge the likelihood of another flash flood this afternoon.
And how are you?
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