Halloween 2016

Aidan, Leo, and Pax had an absolutely *wonderful* Halloween night.  My mom was in charge of their costumes, and the kids enjoyed working with her on them.  Aidan dressed as Legolas, from Lord of the Rings - this is the 3rd or 4th year he's chosen a literary character, which I positively adore.  Leo dressed as Hans Solo, and proclaimed to me upon seeing himself in costume, "Mom!  I have the PERFECT hair for Hans Solo!" And Pax dressed as a white ninja warrior "who fights for peace."

It was a good night.  Jeff came over to have pizza with us and see the kids in their costumes, then we met up with good friends.  The moonless night, the bright stars, and the chill in the air made for a perfect evening.  My dad walked the neighborhood with us and helped carry the impressive loot of candy, and my mom stayed at our home to pass out candy.

This past weekend, I enjoyed an adult-only costume party at the home of my good friends Kyle and Jeanne.  Such a good time, so many laughs, and so many clever costumes all around.

My buddy happens to be a cop.  He is dressed as a breathalyzer, which seems fitting that he found
 a flapper (or two) at the party.

Indeed, what a difference a year makes.  In all these months of my silence on this blog, there have been stories too painful and too heartbreaking to share.  And yet there have also been stories that are so poignant and tender and lovely that, in time, perhaps I will be able to make space for them here.  I was reminded of one such memory earlier this week.... In hindsight, it is a story of success, of sweetness, of the power of do-overs.

A year ago, due to myriad reasons, my kids didn't end up getting to trick or treat for very long, and came home with a meager handful of candy.  Their sadness and disappointment over Halloween was too much for my heart to bear, since Halloween is among my favorite holidays.  And so, on November 1, a Sunday last year, I went out and bought several big bags of candy that I knew my kids loved.  I put our trunk of dress up clothes on the porch, handed bags to each kid, and gave them their instructions:  they were to get dressed outside in whatever costume they chose from the trunk, and ring the doorbell.  Meanwhile, inside, I had my own stash of wardrobe changes and a large bowl of candy to distribute.

The first time, the kids rang the doorbell and said "Trick or Treat!" in rather reluctant and skeptical voices.  I answered the door, pretended they were strangers, admired their costumes, gave them candy, and shut the door.  Costume and wardrobe changes ensued; the doorbell rang again; again, I answered them as strangers, oohed and aahed over their new personas, passed out the treats, and closed the door.

This continued for many rounds.  Each round got more entertaining, as the kids added story lines to their characters.  As they neared the bottom of the dress up trunk, the stories became more elaborate as their costumes became more weird.  As I shut the door on the final round, all I heard was laughter on both sides of the door.  A few minutes later, they came into the house, and I greeted them as their Mom, delighted to see them.  I reveled in hearing their tales of trick or treating, and how they had dressed.

This year was a good year - made sweeter by that powerful memory from our bitter past.

...and they flew...

I've long admired Maria Montessori for her work as an educator and a progressive pioneer in empowering children.  She observed,

"The essence of independence is to be able to do something for one's self. Adults work to finish a task, but the child works in order to grow, and is working to create the adult, the person that is to be. Such experience is not just play... it is work he must do in order to grow up."

Indeed, such an opportunity for independence and growth came along this weekend, quite unexpectedly and with equal parts thrill and terror.  

Aidan and I were preparing a double batch of lasagna when I discovered, to my dismay, that I had completely forgotten an essential ingredient - mozzarella cheese.  "What are we going to DO?" I exclaimed, my head in my hands.

"Mom!  I'll go to the store!" Aidan suggested, his whole face lit up with the possibility. 

"How will you get there?" I asked.

"My bike!" he said with a laugh.  And I stared at him, as Montessori's words echoed in my head.  (Not so eloquently, of course.  More like independence.  Adventure.  Resourcefulness.)

And so with just a little more convincing on Aidan's part, plus the additional help of his brother Leo, I agreed to let them go.  I packed a backpack with the grocery list, cash, and a cell phone; I reminded them to be smart and safe; we briefly reviewed the route and the rules of the road.... and they were off.

55 minutes later, just as I had started wringing my hands, they returned. Triumphant, sweaty, glowing with pride and accomplishment and independence.  I felt so proud of them in that moment, and of US.  This was measureable, real, triumphant growth for each of us...

"Come to the edge," she said.

"We are afraid," they said.

"Come to the edge," she said.

They came.  

She pushed them...

...and they flew.

-Guillaume Apollinaire

Magic

Tonight, there was magic.

It began at the dinner table, where so many sacred and sustaining moments occur... and it carried through the night.  Our dinner was late on the table, due in part because of after-school plans and a new recipe I'd been eager to try but took longer to make than anticipated.  Hungry but happy, we gathered around Anne(tte)'s enchilladas, cornbread, chips and salsa, and pineapple.  Everyone devoured dinner and exclaimed how good it was; that, in and of itself, felt satisfying and rewarding, given it was a brand new recipe with components that often get nose snubs.  (What the hell is offensive about shredded chicken, may I dare ask?)

As we filled our bellies, we filled each other in on our days.  Pax had a marvelous field trip to the Frontier Culture Museum; Aidan loves his science class and teacher; Leo had an awesome time at Fun Fridays; and I enjoyed a good haircut and a great run.  And then.

Out of the seemingly clear blue, Leo said, "I think that some girls are like magnets, and some boys are like metal."  "What do you mean by that, like they attract each other?" I asked.

"No," he clarified, "Like some boys want all the girls to stick to them."

Again I asked, "What do you mean by that?"

"Well, there's this boy, Carter.  He likes all the girls.  He talks to them, and says stuff to them.  And today at recess, he was saying stuff to a girl, and then he ran away.  The girl came and sat next to me, and I think she felt uncomfortable because of what Carter said to her."

I rehearsed those words a hundred times so that I committed them to memory.  My 9 year old son observed "I think she felt uncomfortable because of what Carter said to her." 

If ever there was a teachable moment, wrapped up in a shining gold ribbon and sitting on my plate, begging to be unwrapped, it was This Moment.

I praised Leo for observing that the girl felt uncomfortable.  I validated how important it is for girls to feel comfortable with boys, and that boys may not say or do anything to make a girl feel uncomfortable.  I shared with them my experience as I was walking on the Downtown Mall.

"Just yesterday, I was walking to the gym, and a man that I passed said to me, 'Hey sexy.' "(brief interruption to explain that "hey sexy" essentially meant "I like your body.")

 I told my sons how it made me feel, like I was only being seen for what I look like on the outside, not for who I am on the inside.  And that each of us are so much more than what we see on the outside.  And I said that it wasn't a compliment, because it didn't make me feel good at all.

"I'm smart," I began.
"VERY smart," Aidan added.

"You're strong, Mama!  You can see it, like, in your arms," Pax observed.

"Yes.  I am smart, and I am strong.  I am also kind," I stated.  "And that's what I want people to notice about me, and so it hurt my feelings when that man said 'Hey, Sexy,' because he didn't see me for who I am."

"Like Brian sees you?" Leo asked.
"Yes," I replied.  "Like Brian sees me."

Pax said, "But Mama, you're still cute.  You are always cute."

(Honestly, how many arguments can one have with a six year old in a day?)

I reiterated again how powerful it was that Leo paid attention to how uncomfortable a boy made a girl feel, and that we must be very careful to give compliments to people - using words to express what we admire about another person - and that our words our powerful.

Abruptly, as these moments tend to be, we moved on to another topic, and eventually found our way on to the deck, where we'd gathered materials in advance for the first fire pit of the season, plus s'mores to go with.  As we coaxed fire out of kindling and a match, and waited patiently to add logs, just to wait more patiently for the fire to burn down to s'more temperature, we told stories.

Most of them featured three little boys who were just sittin' and thinkin', sittin' and thinkin'.  A few included a Mama, or a Mama and Daddy who loved them fiercely.  Most of them made sense, some of them were poignant in the face of our moment in time, and all of them were magical.

I sat back and gazed upon my three sons, drinking in redemption, and reveling....

It is my great hope that I will take my sons to Disney World to experience all of the Magic of the Mouse.  But tonight, all I could think was, the magic is here.  For free.  At our table.  On my deck. With my sons.

Start Where You Are.

I'm reading two books that are powerful and healing, each in their own right.  One phrase from one of the books has latched into my brain, and it's what I tell myself now when I am overwhelmed by what is ahead of me, what I'm wanting to do or trying to do or afraid to do:  start where you are.

I've wanted to try to start writing again in this space for months and months and months.  I kept putting it off.  The expectations I place on myself can be crushing, and I resisted getting started because what if I can't find the time to write?  What if I can't make sense of the lags in entries, because some moments are too painful, some struggles are too big?  What if my voice becomes inauthentic?  What if I over edit?  What if I under edit?  (And what if I stop right now, doing both, since I also told myself I'd post as is, without the edits?)

Today was a horrible, worrisome day at the school where I work.  It was the perfect storm of awful, and it left me feeling defeated and shaken.  As I reflected on my day and why it affected me so much, I realized one beautiful truth:  I, along with many of my colleagues, left today feeling the same way - utterly defeated and distraught - because of the depth of our concern for and devotion to these kids whom we teach and care for and guide, as best we can, each day at school.  And so the weight of today meant something important to me - it is the weight of caring deeply for young human beings, the burden of that weight shared with my smart, kind, and compassionate colleagues.

I came home.  I headed straight for the gym, and was able to shed much of my yuck.  I greeted my children with honesty, telling them that I had had a really awful day.  But I also cared for them, showed them grace and kindness and patience and guided them through the afternoon hours, drying tears and holding small heaving shoulders as two boys cried out their frustrations and upsets.  Dinner, as it is most nights, was the great equalizer.  It was a simple enough meal, but it was a particularly victorious moment when Aidan exclaimed, "This is the best broccoli you have EVER made!" followed by Pax asking for leftover broccoli in his lunch tomorrow.

We chatted about our days, taking turns, and at the end Pax shared a homemade book titled "my love" that he had created in the minutes before dinner.  It was filled with pictures and simple sentences about the people he loves.

And so I held fast to each of these small victories.  Calmed and settled hearts; a nourishing meal with good connection to one another; a settling in for the evening.  Pax wasn't feeling well and went to sleep early, but not before a long snuggle in his bed.  Leo and I curled up on my bed for a long snuggle and a thoughtful reading of this book, which led to many questions and comments about powerful leaders and beautiful ideas.

When I returned from tucking Leo into his bed, I found Aidan sprawled out on my bed, flipping through the pages of "Of Thee I Sing."  After a long snuggle, Aidan told me how he thought Nelson Mandela and Sitting Bull were a lot a like, and that if Hillary Clinton wins the presidency, we'll refer to Bill as First Gentleman President.  All of these observations and realizations in the span of just a few minutes, sparked by a quick flip through of the book on the bed.  And suddenly I'm marveling at this 12 year old boy before me in a whole new way.  Seventh grade is the "sweet spot" of school aged people, the grade in which you are not ready to give up being a child, yet you are not quite ready to be a young person yet.  And so you dabble between the two, blurring the lines with your wisdom and perspective, balancing them with the desire to be tucked in, to be sung to before falling asleep.  Sweet spot, indeed.

And in that moment, in hearing my 12 year old describe the similarities between inspirational leaders from two very different times and places, to jumping into dialogue on what to call our first male spouse of the White House, I realized it was a moment I wished to never forget.  I wrestled the goodness out of the day, and there it was, curled up next to me for a long snuggle, three times over, with new knowledge and ideas and perspective to go with.

So I start where I am.

Heart of a Lion

There are moments in living in this world that are so astoundingly beautiful, you cannot believe they are happening.  The moment becomes a part of your personal narrative, one that alters and shapes your perceptions, even in the tiniest of ways.  You know yourself to be lucky beyond measure to have born witness to the moment.
*****
On Thursday, Pax lost a tooth.  This is still a relatively new occurrence for him, and he was so excited for the Tooth Fairy to arrive.  But the poor Tooth Fairy was beyond exhausted that night, spent and weary and beat.  She may have fallen asleep seconds after the last child was tucked into bed and kissed goodnight.

Friday morning, I was in the shower when Pax came into the bathroom.  "Mom," he said to me in a wavering voice.  "The Tooth Fairy did not come.  She did not take my tooth or leave me any money."  Instantly, my heart sank to my feet.  "Oh, honey, I am so sorry!" I said in my best unconcerned voice.  "You know, I have heard that this happens sometimes with the Tooth Fairy, that she gets so busy with collecting teeth that sometimes she doesn't make it to all the teeth in one night.  Let's talk about it when I am out of the shower."  Pax left, and I could see through the steamed glass that his little shoulders were slumped over. 

As I was putting on my robe, Pax came back into the bathroom.  "Mom!" he said in a voice that was part joyful, part wondering.  "The Tooth Fairy got confused!  Guess what?  She DID come, but she got confused and left two dollars for me under Leo's pillow instead of mine!"  My voice caught in my throat, in disbelief.  "I'll be right in to your room, Pax."

Leo was sitting up in his bed when I walked in the room behind Pax.  I caught his eye, and immediately saw the twinkle there.  "Mom," Leo began.  "I don't know how this happened, but the Tooth Fairy left money for Pax underneath MY pillow instead of his! Maybe it's because he sleeps in my bed so much!  My wallet is waaaay over there, but there was money under my pillow for Pax!" 

I gazed at my son, feeling the weight of his love and heft of his kindness, absorbing this moment in time that is indelible, defining for us both...

Unconditional: Defined.

I will return to this space, fully and weekly, in time.  

Until then--

I thought I knew unconditional love.  I've always known God's unconditional love for me, the way God shows up for me, speaks to me, shines light on me.  God shows up in sunrises that catch me by surprise, in moonlight that bursts through clouds, in light that fights through the darkness.   Admittedly, my relationship with God right now is complicated, and my time with God is awfully quiet these days.  But never do I doubt God's presence, God's love for me.  Wholly and completely, unconditional.  But unconditional goes far beyond God's love...

Unconditional, defined:  It begins with two important men in my life.

The relationship I have with my father is different - and better - now than it has ever been in my life. That is to say, I have never felt closer or more loved or more supported by him than I do today.  It is in the little ways he cares for me:  delivering fresh flowers to me every week; getting my car inspected; fixing broken sinks and scouring my bathroom tubs and installing new appliances.  Sharing breakfast with each of my sons, individually, on a three week rotation.  Washing dinner dishes after putting my kids to bed, while I am tutoring.  Buying me beer, pouring me a drink. The list goes on and on... and yet the simplest thing he said to me, recently, is the moment I keep coming back to, again and again.  In a moment of angst and stress over my financial mess, my father shared with me, "When we moved to Virginia, we were really 240 hours from being bankrupt.  My dad said 'Paul, it is only paper.'  The next day we got a cash sale on the house and closed with 48 hours to spare.  But my dad was right either way - it was only paper."  

For years, my father has counseled me with those same words - "Money is just paper."  But I used to scoff and blow him off, because let's face it - he always has more paper than I do.  Everything changed with that text from him to me.  I understood, in new light, what was being shared.  The wisdom of his words were being passed down through generations.  Knowing that his father had counseled him in the same way made me understand the value of the words.  Suddenly, I was connected not only to my father, but to my grandfather as well - a man I loved dearly, and admired deeply.  He was well-read, an accomplished organist, a fine chef, and a good, good man who demonstrated unconditional love in real and significant ways, particularly for the time period in which he lived.  He raised up an even better son, who reads occasionally, is tone-deaf, and whose culinary skills (outside of the grill) are decent at best.  But the values my grand/father instilled, the man (men) he helped/is helping to shape, the wisdom each imparted, the actions that support the words spoken define unconditional love.

My brother Adam spent the better part of a week here this summer, and among many other chores he did, he mowed and weed whacked the lawn.  It has never looked better - and I know that I'm not the only one with this opinion, because my neighbor admired the lawn, then asked, "Is he your hired help?"  I guffawed (hired help?  Really?) before responding, "No.  He's my brother."  Unconditional.

Adam is among the most emotionally literate men I know, and I dream of raising sons who are as emotionally connected, affirming, and tender as Adam is to me.  Adam's ability to connect to what I am feeling and validate me, again and again is breathtaking.  He takes what I say to him without judgement, contextualizes it, normalizes it, then reflects it back to me.  Each phone call ends the same way: first a pause, then "I love, you, Annie."  Unconditional.

Yet there is nothing that defines unconditional more completely than the love of my mother.  Mine has demonstrated her love to me, timelessly and tirelessly.  My mother is my cheerleader, my coach, my rally-er, my sympathetic ear.  For many months now, she does the kids' laundry, cleans out closets, organizes massive heaps of stuff, tidies rooms, loves on my kids, takes me out for dinner and treats me to new clothes, invites us over for dinner, plants my garden, runs my errands.  That's a small handful of what she does for me. Recently, a song popped into my head that was a choir anthem many years ago.  Aidan was about 4 years old, and was captivated by it; he requested it many nights in a row after he heard it for the first time that Sunday morning.  "When I fall down you pick me up, when I am dry you fill my cup..."  That was the part that Aidan liked best.  Finally, I asked him what made that song so special to him.  "Because, Mommy, when I fall down, you always pick me up."  And when that song popped into my head again for the first time in many years, I instantly knew why.  Because I have been falling down.  Again and again and again.  And my mom, she's been picking me up.  Again and again and again.... 

Unconditional: defined.

A(nother) reader in da house!

So this is happening:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ibq43hl9X20

!!!!!!!!!!!!!  So, so exciting!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There is something uniquely awesome about watching a child discovering the joy of reading something all by himself.  I am smitten with this newest reader and his amazing capabilities!  Look out, Library, you're soon to be DEVOURED!