Bittersweet

Today is my second motherless Mother’s Day. 21 months ago, my mama closed her eyes and breathed her last after a very short, but very fierce battle with a rare digestive cancer. I held her hand that day, and told her that I was so thankful to have had her as my mom. And even though in that moment, her body was shutting down, her eyes fluttered open and she squeezed my hand. That was the last true correspondence we had; several hours later, when everyone had stepped out of the room for a moment, my mom let go of this lifetime and headed toward the next.

Today, I am a changed woman. Watching your mother, your best friend, your mentor, your advisor lose her life to an invisible enemy does that. It changes you, it challenges you, it forces uncomfortable on you. And like every piece of life’s heavy baggage with which we are tossed into the sea of humanity, you either take it and sink or swim. I chose the latter.

Because of the woman who singlehandedly raised me, I am the compassionate, short tempered, patient, impatient, crafty, messy, organized, hands-on-and-off mom I am today. Because I had a role model who loved me with ferocious tenacity, unconditional acceptance, and boundless empathy, I am able to be the best version of me for my kids that I can be. And really, that’s what motherhood is about.

My heart today is torn, both with the grief that comes in remembering a loved one, and with the fullness that comes in knowing my body created, nourished, and birthed 4 children. Although one is no longer with us, I have the joy of knowing I did all I could for her. I look at my kids’ darling faces and feel continually stretched beyond measure by both love and frustration and I feel indescribably blessed by it all.

I am a lucky woman.

Compassion Needed

Today is my sweet daughter’s 3rd birthday, and although I celebrate her life with a smile on my face, I hold back tears for those affected and tormented still in Boston as the hunt for the bombing suspects continues. An entire city in lockdown, more murders, more terror.

A photo was released this morning of the suspects and I sat there for the longest time, looking into the one man’s eyes. Dark eyes, eyes that seemed dead even though he was very much alive in that picture.

Then I looked at my kids.

My son, now nearly 21 months old, looked at me with his big dark eyes. He smiled at me and snuggled close. I choked back a sob as I wondered what it would feel like to be the parent of someone committing a heinous crime against humanity. I wondered how long it had been since the mother of those men looked into their eyes. I wondered what life must have been like for them until this point, about what could have possibly happened to make them so full of hate when we clearly aren’t just born that evil. I felt pity for whatever drove them to this.

When I see people committing terrible acts, I go through the normal outrage, confusion, grief, and the like…but I think it is important also to remember that every person involved – even those causing the problems – are indeed people.  When someone goes from guy-next-door to terror suspect, we automatically disassociate with them as though somehow they’re outside of our species. It’s sad and hard to swallow that someone “like us” could do something so awful. It’s hard to imagine a neighbor or friend or family member taking part.

But today, I remember that we are all always someone’s baby, and I’m thinking of/praying for not only the innocent bystanders affected but for the souls who caused this tragedy to begin with…and for their family as well.

*note: I am in no way condoning acts of terror or saying that what these men did is good.  Quite to the contrary,  what they did is deplorable and unacceptable. I am merely promoting compassion for all involved – because compassion, like tolerance, comes easy when the going is good…but it is needed most in times of trouble.

Be The Change

Some nights, I tip toe to my children’s bedrooms and peek in on them sleeping. They’re all belly sleepers, so their backs are nearly always facing me, steadily rising and falling with each breath. I hear gentle gurgles of raspy baby snores and on certain occasions, they smile. I wonder what they dream of and hope it’s only good. 

On those nights, I whisper quiet messages to them – ones that I say regularly and some that I haven’t the nerve to say to their angelic faces during waking hours. Among the latter are apologies for bringing them into such a fallen world. Tears run down my cheeks and I literally beg for their understanding that life can be so beautiful despite all the bad things that happen. I ache inside on these nights, and hope like crazy that their father and I are raising them to be the best people they can be – because we all deserve to unlock the best of what/who we are. Sadly though, some of us never make it to “the best” and choose to go with “the worst.”

Shortly after the last major tragedy that struck this country, I wrote a post about compassion for humanity, about how it doesn’t matter what age, race, gender, creed, etc you come from…we are all people. Every.Last.One.Of.Us.

“Look, we’re all on the same sinking ship. We can all see the bad – it’s there for us 24/7, 365 days a year. It’s easiest to see because it is what shakes us to the core. And when we hit those icebergs and the hull of this vessel is again damaged, it’s time to sink or swim. We can either make the most of the fleeting moments we have or go down with sniveling dishonor. I’ll take the former.” -The Flannel Gander blog, 12/17/12

Unfortunately, today, in light of the bombings at the Boston Marathon, I find myself having to argue this point repeatedly with people who are already slinging the political mud – and the case isn’t even closed yet. I’ve read all sorts of terrible things – people again accusing all Muslims for any act of violence, people accusing all Middle Eastern people for anything involving a bomb, people attacking me personally because I choose to believe there is more good than bad in any group of humans – and yet my beliefs stand firm.

At the heart of it all, it doesn’t really matter who commits these heinous crimes. In a small, “let’s get justice!” type of way, perhaps, but in the bigger picture, the who is probably the least of the worries. The why and the how are probably first, but people always seem to be caught up in the who as though hating an entire nationality, religious sect, or race would really solve anything. No, what matters is that people have been killed and injured yet again during another act of violence that occurred unnecessarily. What matters is that those who were present and not injured RAN into the belly of the beast to help those in trouble, that runners who had just finished a ridiculously long race kept going past the finish line and into the hospitals to donate blood.

What matters is the reaction at this point because the tragedy has already occurred. So how will you react? With compassion or hatred? The choice is ultimately yours, but I firmly believe that Gandhi was onto something when he said, “Be the change you want to see in the world.”

 

Let’s change it for good.

The screamer no more

I can feel when it’s about to happen. My left eye twitches ever so slightly, my heart rate increases, a lump surfaces in my throat. I’m a tea kettle on the stove, shaking as my innards begin to boil, and ever so quickly the whistling begins. Except it’s more of a scream.

I love my kids. They’re unique individuals with special gifts to offer, but some days I feel like a broken record because of the things they do.

The problem really isn’t that they do overly bad things. No, they’re just little kids, doing little kid things. The issue at hand is that I’m not the world’s most patient person and I’ve been around kids a grand total of maybe two hours in my entire life, besides the time spent with my own.

So my initial reaction to these situations has always been to yell. Why? Because it seems like the quickest and most direct route to getting people to hear you. And that’s probably true here too, they do hear you. But they don’t listen.

I can’t say that surprises me. I’m less inclined to listen to someone yelling orders at me than someone who asks so why should I expect that of my kids? Partially because I’m still working on getting the hang of this parenting thing and partially because it’s how I was raised, I guess it seems like the right thing to do. But it’s not. Not here, at least.

Today, I came across a blog where the woman writing is working toward not yelling at her kids. Her challenge is to go a whole year consecutively without yelling (unless it’s a dire circumstance) and I am jumping on the bandwagon. The rules are simple: If you slip up, you start over.

I’m beginning tomorrow, as the ship has unfortunately already sailed on the yelling sea today. It’ll be interesting to see how creative I can get in disciplining with love instead of the reign of terror that happens when the Dragon Scream comes out.

Anyone want to join me? I have a feeling that support will make it easier, and surely I’m not the only one who feels guilty for losing her cool with little ones day in and day out? Right?

Here goes nothing!

This Too Shall Pass

I’ve been going through some things lately. Some pretty personal, pretty life-changing things. Nothing I’m really willing to divulge yet, but just a bunch of tangled things that make everything a little bit harder.

Last week, the stomach illness that’s been circulating hit our house like a hurricane of vomit. We jokingly nicknamed the sickness “Stomach Death-Bug 2013,” and just when it seemed like we were getting better, 19-month-old Harrison got too dehydrated to regulate his body temperature. I spent 24 hours trying to keep a very sick baby boy comfortable in the hospital while he received intravenous fluids and plenty of R&R. 

After he fell asleep that night, I sat on the edge of the very narrow, very spring-heavy, very vinyl-coated cot that was to be my bed for the evening and cried. Hard, deep sobs that only a mother watching her sick child fight off a disease knows. A cry I’ve cried before when Lucy was born and whisked away to the NICU with lung problems, a cry I’ve cried when Peyton died from complications of Trisomy 18. I cursed the dark and made bargains with supernatural powers that I don’t even believe in, that if somehow he could just magically get better, I’d do whatever was asked. In my sleep deprived state, it all made sense. I fell asleep with tears still fresh on my cheeks.

In the wee hours of the morning, a small voice rang out “Mama, I up.” Harry reached out through the bars of the hospital crib and gently patted me on the head. I looked up to see my boy, his big chocolate eyes wide and glimmering, and I smiled. He was feeling better, I knew, and the dawn rolled in with the promise of better things to come.

That’s the thing about dark times. The dawn always comes and always offers a new promise. A new day is a new opportunity, even in the hardest of situations. Everything will come and go in its time, and we somehow gain perspective and strength through each rainy season – whether they last an hour, a day, a week, or years.

I used to just roll over and play dead, letting these harder seasons bull me over and take control. I can’t afford to do that anymore. Life’s simply too short. Instead, I’m finding my inner strength and using it to pull myself up, hoist myself out, and run for the better things. Each time I slip, and the slipping is frequent, I grasp a little firmer, in a slightly different way, and worm my way up a little more.

This too shall pass.

 

Kindergarten Cometh

Since Norah was born, I’ve been debating with myself over homeschool vs traditional school. I tried my hand at homeschooling, and while it’s fun…I’m just not patient enough to be a teacher – and I’m glad I never wanted that to be my career.

So last night was the official “welcome to the next 13 years of your child’s life” meeting at the elementary school.

I braved it alone, since no children were to attend, and Dave kept the kids busy at home with a movie night. Walking into the building, I was greeted by the unmistakable smell of too much disinfectant and text books, a scent that took me back to my own unsavory public schooling experience and almost had me running for the car before I’d made it to the gathering space.

6 kindergarten teachers greeted me on my way in, most my age or older, speaking to the parents in the same enthusiastic high pitched tones as they use with the students.

Looking around, I saw a nice mix of families, which surprised me pleasantly given our fairly homogenous affluent town. The meeting consisted of an hour and a half of being herded from room to room to hear basically the same presentation 6 times while crammed into tiny chairs at tiny desks. Immunizations. Physicals. Assessments. Tuberculosis tests and clearances for parent volunteers. Packets of information. Things your kid should know by fall…as the minutes added up, so did the anxiety- have I done enough in her short life to prepare her adequately? What if her experience is as dismal as mine was? Am I making the right decision?

In a sea of faces that seemed more frigid than friendly, I felt the burning sting of hot tears welling in my eyes. “I’m scared,” I thought. “Scared of leaving my baby with strangers.”

My negative spiral was abruptly interrupted by a woman sitting next to me, probably ten years my elder. She smiled as she touched my shoulder and complimented my tattoos. “I have a bunch too,”she beamed. “It’s great to see an alternative parent here…..these people all seem far too serious. I have a feeling we will get along great!”

Somehow in that brief interaction, I’d calmed significantly. I hadn’t noticed, but the seriousness of the other parents and the anxiety level of the group was panicking me more than I already was…and this sweet woman had reached me just in the nick of time.

Kindergarten cometh, whether I’m ready or not. It’s the first in a long line of events in the process of letting up on the reigns and letting Miss Norah own her presence in the world. And as much as it terrifies me, I have a feeling we will all be just fine.

Keep Talking

My kids loved going to the mall play area so much the other day that Dave and I ended up taking them there again this afternoon. There was a considerably higher volume of children squealing and carrying on, but everyone was getting along so well and playing together, I commented to Dave about how equal they all viewed each other. Little models of the way the world should be.

Then in popped a kid named Dean* (*not his real name). Dean was a boy of maybe 6, led into the play area by his mother who was very obviously not paying a lick of attention to the child. She ordered him to take off his shoes to which he said, “Nah, I don’t think so,” and instead of making him do it anyway to comply with the rules, she just sighed and let it go. Now, we’ve all had those days, so whatever, it was just shoes. The kid eventually took off his shoes because he realized he was the only one with them on, and things continued. 

Not long after his arrival, I noticed the other children sort of gathering on the opposite side of the playground from wherever he chose to be. Then I listened, and above the bustling mall crowd, was able to pick out what had the other children fleeing from him.

“Bang, bang, bang!” He screamed, laughing manically. “I’m killing you all, I have guns!” and he pointed his fingers in the way that everyone recognizes as a hand gun symbol. Pointing directly at the other kids, one by one, he went down the line and “shot” them each in the head, ordering them to lie down and “just die already!” 

Other parents were beginning to notice by now, and we exchanged uneasy glances. Yes, it’s true, kids play violent games – sticks often become swords, rocks become projectiles – but with the recent outbreak of gun violence particularly among elementary aged children, the majority of the adults present were appalled and frozen with the gut wrenching fear that comes when you realize just how quickly a fun day can become tragic.

His mother remained glued to her iPhone, oblivious to the situation, whether genuinely or by choice, and the “game” Dean was playing got progressively more violent.

It was when he tripped my middle daughter, 2.5 year old Lucy, sat on her legs with his “guns” out and yelled, “You’re mine, little bitch. I own you. I have the guns!” that I started to shake. I didn’t realize it at first but I was doing the zoning out, flashback thing that PTSD flings into my mind when the right trigger comes along. 

A little over ten years ago, when I was 15, I was held by a then-boy-now-man at gunpoint and beaten nearly to death by said gun when it didn’t fire. This 6-year-old’s twisted fantasy game of killing and woman victimizing had sent me to a dark place that most days, I happily forget about. I breathed through the shakes and, in a moment of sheer bravery, did something I’d never have done even a month ago… I confronted his mother.

I sat down next to her and said something to the effect of:

Excuse me. Your kid is pretending to shoot people, whether you’ve noticed or not. It’s making everyone uncomfortable, and it’s seriously inappropriate…especially given the recent outbreaks of gun violence in small children. He just held my daughter down and told her to die, that he owned her, that she had to do what he said because he has a gun. It stops NOW or I go to mall security.

She rolled her eyes at me, mumbled something about boys being boys, and that she had “no idea where he’d hear that type of thing.” I mentioned that perhaps there should be more supervision in what her child is exposed to – because in the future, people may not be nearly as kind as I was about it.

Reluctantly, she dragged Dean into a corner and said, “please stop playing this. Other people don’t like it,” and pointed at me as though I’d asked her to poison him. He told her to “screw off” and continued. That’s when we packed up and shipped out.

This isn’t a matter of parental right and wrong. This isn’t a matter of kids playing games. This is a matter of letting boys get away with violent behaviors (fake or not) against girls (women) simply because they have penises. Boys will be boys is one of the worst phrases ever coined, and I’d love to shake the stuffing out of whoever first said it. My son is one of the most gentle, sweet people I know, and last I checked he’s the same sex as the kid who was pretending to blow people away at the mall. Genitals are not an excuse for poor behavior – End.Of.Story.

Parents. I urge you, please speak with your children about violence at an age appropriate level. No matter what religion, ethnicity, race, sex, lifestyle you come from… gun violence is not something small children should be simulating. It is not okay for your son to pretend to “own” my daughter with his gun – even if it is fake. It isn’t funny, it isn’t cute. It’s terrifying…because sometimes boys pointing finger guns grow up to be men pointing real ones at unsuspecting victims. 

Talk, talk, talk the uncomfortable and scary talks that no one wants to have because those are the talks that matter most. Be clear, be honest. Talk consequences – good and bad. Sex, violence, respect for human life – these are the BIG topics that often mesh in such a horrifying manner…and the only way to prepare our kids for the situations they may encounter is to just keep talking.