Last night, Charlie was up 3 times. She woke at 11:30pm, 3:30am, and 5:45am. At 5:45am, she wouldn't do her typical nurse for 10 minutes and go back to bed. She had several discomforts - gas, congestion, and maybe teething gums. We were up for a bit. I went back to bed around 6:30am, and was awakened by Mike leaving for work at 8:15am with a goodbye kiss. At 8:30am, Hazel was calling for me.
I stumbled into her room, where we played with puzzles, my mind still half asleep. I was remembering the dream I was deeply embedded in when I heard her calling. Hoping she wouldn't notice that I couldn't yet form complete sentences and how clumsy and slowly my hands were moving. After a while we went downstairs to get some breakfast. Hazel played and I fixed breakfast and put the much needed coffee on. Even though I make it half-caffeinated because I'm still nursing, it is an important part of my tired morning routine. I'll take whatever small amount of caffeine I can get pumping into my weary bod.
After breakfast, Hazel watched a show while I did some online Christmas shopping and checked my email. I browsed job listings for part-time social work jobs. My mind raced about how nice it has been (mostly) to be home with both kids for these past 6 months. One of the hardest jobs I've ever done, no doubt in my mind. But as much as it stretches me... I love being with the girls. And I thought about how nice it has been to be more available to travel at a moment's notice to be with my family, since Dad's first surgery on October 10th. Since he hasn't been well, and we have been clinging to each other to get through these weeks/days/moments of difficulty and to process the unknowns of the future.
I thought about dance, and how therapeutic it is for me. And how it plays no role in my life at the current moment. And how I miss it so very much. And I rack my brain about how I can get it back.
As I looked at jobs online, my thoughts drifted to our finances. And how we are just not making it on one income. We knew we wouldn't. We planned for this time. And talked about how it would be worth it for me to be home for this temporary period, and then I would look for work eventually. I've been browsing part-time listings for months. And as each month gets financially tighter, we realize it's go time. Every time I think about it my heart does flip flops in my chest. I have such mixed emotions about proceeding back into the working-outside-of-the-home world. I feel both a weighty heaviness and also some nervous excitement. So much complexity wrapped up in this "little" decision.
The struggle for the elusive balance continues.
And then Charlie wakes around 9:30am... so I get her up, change her diaper, feed her, and bring her downstairs. We play on the floor next to Hazel while she watches her show. Charlie's laughter fills my heart until it almost bursts... it shuts down my thoughts, so that my mind is no where else but with her and her happiness. It is a real light in my life... a gift, that brings me out of my swirling thoughts and into the beauty of the present.
It is around then that Hazel's foot knocks over the stool where her bowl of snacks and my beloved coffee sits. Both tumble to the floor, soaking the blanket that Charlie is playing on, the carpet, and me. In slow motion, peanuts and raisins fly through the air, landing everywhere. Momentarily, I lose it. I grumble at Hazel, asking her if she understands what she has just done and tell her to be more careful. Then, after the frustration subsides, I feel bad for not displaying more patience. I start to clean it all up and as I look at the spilled coffee and strewn snacks, I see how disgustingly dirty our floor is. It is REALLY dirty. Like living with two kids and a cat dirty. Like I need to vacuum 4 times a week but I only vacuum once a week - maybe - dirty.
And I think, wow... sometimes I'm just not good at this. I'm not good at staying home with the kids and having endless patience and taking care of the house. I'm so tired and so foggy and so scattered... so sad about my Dad and so worried about our finances and so nervous about going back to work. And I just feel so... lost. And dizzy. And guilty. And inadequate.
The opposite of grounded.
Juggling identities and responsibilities and feelings and oh, the constant stream of these pressing thoughts. What am I doing, where am I going, and how am I going to get there? A lot going on in the old noggin these days.
And then it hits me. The biggest thing I'm not doing well is this: Grace. What gives with all this meanness to myself? All the high expectations?
My family gives me grace, my friends give me grace. My God, my church, and my community give me grace. Why can't I give it to myself? I can extend it to others, but when life gets tough or confusing or sad or tedious or overwhelming and I just can't cope, I turn the blame inward. With no where else to throw my frustrations, I let myself take the bullet. I begin to self-destruct.
Grace.
Life is going to be hard sometimes. And in the hardest moments, God whispers the message that I so need to hear, so very gently in my ear....
Give yourself grace. Give yourself buckets of grace.
I imagine Him saying these words, "It's okay. You're okay. Take some space. Breathe. You are enough. You are good. I love your dirty floors and your messy heart. You will find your way through the darkness. You will find the ground. I will lead you. Be still and cast your arrows away from your gentle exterior, and into my arms. My arms are tough. I will catch them."
And so, a new day dawns and I begin again. Weary, I pray for grace. And I start by reaching my feet toward the ground.
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Flecks and Nuggets: The Dance of Grief and Hope
I read these words yesterday. They're from Anne Lamott's book, Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith. I apparently really needed to hear them.
"The depth of the feeling continued to surprise and threaten me, but each time it hit again and I bore it, like a nicotine craving, I would discover that it hadn't washed me away. After a while, it was like an inside shower, washing off some of the rust and calcification in my pipes. It was like giving a dry garden a good watering. Don't get me wrong: grief sucks; it really does. Unfortunately, though, avoiding it robs us of life, of the now, of a sense of living spirit. Mostly I have tried to avoid it by staying very busy, working too hard, trying to achieve as much as possible. You can often avoid the pain by trying to fix other people; shopping helps in a pinch, as does romantic obsession. Martyrdom can't be beat. While too much exercise works for many people, it doesn't for me, but I have found that a stack of magazines can be numbing and even mood altering. But the bad news is that whatever you use to keep the pain at bay robs you of the flecks and nuggets of gold that feeling grief will give you. A fixation can keep you nicely defined and give you the illusion that your life has not fallen apart. But since your life may have indeed fallen apart, the illusion won't hold up forever, and if you are lucky and brave, you will be willing to bear disillusion. You begin to cry and writhe and yell and then to keep on crying; and then, finally, grief ends up giving you the two best things: softness and illumination."
Today, I am holding on and falling apart. I've been avoiding writing for the past several weeks. I knew that if I wrote, I would write about this. And I'm just so ridiculously good at avoiding. If there was a medal for top avoider in the whole world, I would probably win it. But today, I can't. I can't win OR avoid.
Today, I'm in it. I'm fearful and sad and confused. There is a pit in my stomach, that comes and goes. It has been growing there the past several weeks. I don't feel it constantly... it sneaks up on me and hits me like a wave of salt water, stinging my open wounds, grinding in my gut... and then retreats. I've been trying to figure out what it is. And after reading Anne Lamott yesterday I think I've figured IT out.
It's grief.
I've been holding on to hope for the past several weeks. Since we found out that Dad would have another brain surgery on Sept. 27th. Since the (first) surgery on October 10th. Since all these other things have gone so wrong. And as the days go by, I continue to hope, but this other thing has been visiting. Grief. It comes suddenly and then washes away, as I continue my daily routines. As I continue living.
How strange, to continue living. How difficult, to do this dance between grief and hope.
This morning at 5am, Charlie woke as usual and I got up to feed her. As I was nursing her, half awake, my thoughts drifted to the dream that I was just having when I awakened to her cries. I was dreaming about many different people, who intersected different seasons of my life, all in the same place. We were celebrating something. And as I drifted into the sequence of the dream, I remember my Dad being there. Standing with my family, around a table. Laughing, talking. As I remembered this part of the dream, there it was... that pit in my stomach again. That ache. In the dim light of the nursery, with my babe in my arms at my breast, I let it hang around for a bit. The grief. Then the sting slowly faded enough to move and I put Charlie back to bed.
When I went back to sleep, I dreamt of Dad again. But this time, we were somewhere else. It appeared to be some type of resort. Some type of place where people go to heal. But quite unlike the skilled nursing facility where he is currently, in real life. We traveled for miles to see him, up winding roads and through lush green mountains. When we finally arrived, my whole family was there. Dad's house was beautiful... ornate and decadent, with jeweled tiles and lofty, serene hues of blue. We entered the house and all of the family poured inside, loud and boisterous. Several of us plopped down in the living area, playing games and enjoying each other. But I didn't know where Dad was. I continued searching and journeyed outside, onto a huge, beautiful deck that overlooked the mountainside. I turned a corner, and there was Dad... in a wheelchair looking out, with Mom by his side. I approached, and before I reached them I woke again. This time, to the sleepy morning sounds of a toddler's voice.
The more I think it through, it's as if the first dream represents my grief. Thinking of Dad, the way he used to be. Fully functioning. Even with that brain tumor. He was himself. And the second dream... represents my hope. Or as Lamott puts it, a softness and illumination that comes after the grief. This hope, that Dad will still be with us, and we will still have a beautiful life with him... even if we don't yet know how it looks. Or if it looks different than we have always imagined.
When we got home from preschool, I nursed Charlie with the pit fully present in my gut. I looked into her eyes and tears blurred my vision. Again, I let the ache stick around until Charlie finished eating and smiled her sweet smile at me. She smiled relentlessly, and almost involuntarily, I smiled back. She started to giggle and coo, and I couldn't resist smiling and cooing, too. Pretty soon I found myself feeling moments of joy, amidst the painful sting, and I thanked God. For the blessing of my children and for these moments.
For these moments when I am present, in the pain and the joy and the realness of life.
These flecks and nuggets of gold that feeling the grief will give you.
These moments, when I can figure out how to move back and forth and forward simultaneously, in this dance of grief and hope.
"The depth of the feeling continued to surprise and threaten me, but each time it hit again and I bore it, like a nicotine craving, I would discover that it hadn't washed me away. After a while, it was like an inside shower, washing off some of the rust and calcification in my pipes. It was like giving a dry garden a good watering. Don't get me wrong: grief sucks; it really does. Unfortunately, though, avoiding it robs us of life, of the now, of a sense of living spirit. Mostly I have tried to avoid it by staying very busy, working too hard, trying to achieve as much as possible. You can often avoid the pain by trying to fix other people; shopping helps in a pinch, as does romantic obsession. Martyrdom can't be beat. While too much exercise works for many people, it doesn't for me, but I have found that a stack of magazines can be numbing and even mood altering. But the bad news is that whatever you use to keep the pain at bay robs you of the flecks and nuggets of gold that feeling grief will give you. A fixation can keep you nicely defined and give you the illusion that your life has not fallen apart. But since your life may have indeed fallen apart, the illusion won't hold up forever, and if you are lucky and brave, you will be willing to bear disillusion. You begin to cry and writhe and yell and then to keep on crying; and then, finally, grief ends up giving you the two best things: softness and illumination."
Today, I am holding on and falling apart. I've been avoiding writing for the past several weeks. I knew that if I wrote, I would write about this. And I'm just so ridiculously good at avoiding. If there was a medal for top avoider in the whole world, I would probably win it. But today, I can't. I can't win OR avoid.
Today, I'm in it. I'm fearful and sad and confused. There is a pit in my stomach, that comes and goes. It has been growing there the past several weeks. I don't feel it constantly... it sneaks up on me and hits me like a wave of salt water, stinging my open wounds, grinding in my gut... and then retreats. I've been trying to figure out what it is. And after reading Anne Lamott yesterday I think I've figured IT out.
It's grief.
I've been holding on to hope for the past several weeks. Since we found out that Dad would have another brain surgery on Sept. 27th. Since the (first) surgery on October 10th. Since all these other things have gone so wrong. And as the days go by, I continue to hope, but this other thing has been visiting. Grief. It comes suddenly and then washes away, as I continue my daily routines. As I continue living.
How strange, to continue living. How difficult, to do this dance between grief and hope.
This morning, I drove to pick Hazel up from preschool. I talked with my mom on the phone, hearing the latest updates on Dad's condition. He is less responsive now than he was in the week following his four major surgeries. (Yes, four. That's 3 brain surgeries and a bonus emergency spinal surgery to attempt to correct lower body paralysis that came from a complication). Maybe it's due to the effects of the bacterial meningitis he contracted... maybe it's due to the side effects of the sedating anti-biotic he is on for the meningitis... maybe it's because he had three brain surgeries and he needs more time to heal from the trauma of that. But no one can tell us. The doctors can't tell us. The surgeons can't tell us. The physical therapists and speech therapists can't tell us. No one knows. All we know is that he has "significant neurological impairment." Those three words, that keep pinging around in my head and my heart, leaving bruises along the way.
The science of the brain is still so unfounded. Still such a mystery.
I pulled into the preschool, swallowed mom's tears, and shoved that pit in my stomach down hard. I strapped on my baby and my armor and I went inside. I smiled at the other parents in Hazel's class, as I passed and said hello.
I have gotten quite used to avoiding the grief and stomping it out and shoving it down over the past many weeks. It's been over a month since my father walked (walked!) into the hospital at UVA for surgery to remove his growing brain tumor. Now he has a feeding tube, rarely speaks, cannot stand, only sometimes gives us signs of recognition, and sleeps most of the time.
He is still physically with us, but we feel the loss of him. And we continue to pray for his return to us.
How can we grieve, while simultaneously fighting for our hope?
This morning at 5am, Charlie woke as usual and I got up to feed her. As I was nursing her, half awake, my thoughts drifted to the dream that I was just having when I awakened to her cries. I was dreaming about many different people, who intersected different seasons of my life, all in the same place. We were celebrating something. And as I drifted into the sequence of the dream, I remember my Dad being there. Standing with my family, around a table. Laughing, talking. As I remembered this part of the dream, there it was... that pit in my stomach again. That ache. In the dim light of the nursery, with my babe in my arms at my breast, I let it hang around for a bit. The grief. Then the sting slowly faded enough to move and I put Charlie back to bed.
When I went back to sleep, I dreamt of Dad again. But this time, we were somewhere else. It appeared to be some type of resort. Some type of place where people go to heal. But quite unlike the skilled nursing facility where he is currently, in real life. We traveled for miles to see him, up winding roads and through lush green mountains. When we finally arrived, my whole family was there. Dad's house was beautiful... ornate and decadent, with jeweled tiles and lofty, serene hues of blue. We entered the house and all of the family poured inside, loud and boisterous. Several of us plopped down in the living area, playing games and enjoying each other. But I didn't know where Dad was. I continued searching and journeyed outside, onto a huge, beautiful deck that overlooked the mountainside. I turned a corner, and there was Dad... in a wheelchair looking out, with Mom by his side. I approached, and before I reached them I woke again. This time, to the sleepy morning sounds of a toddler's voice.
The more I think it through, it's as if the first dream represents my grief. Thinking of Dad, the way he used to be. Fully functioning. Even with that brain tumor. He was himself. And the second dream... represents my hope. Or as Lamott puts it, a softness and illumination that comes after the grief. This hope, that Dad will still be with us, and we will still have a beautiful life with him... even if we don't yet know how it looks. Or if it looks different than we have always imagined.
When we got home from preschool, I nursed Charlie with the pit fully present in my gut. I looked into her eyes and tears blurred my vision. Again, I let the ache stick around until Charlie finished eating and smiled her sweet smile at me. She smiled relentlessly, and almost involuntarily, I smiled back. She started to giggle and coo, and I couldn't resist smiling and cooing, too. Pretty soon I found myself feeling moments of joy, amidst the painful sting, and I thanked God. For the blessing of my children and for these moments.
For these moments when I am present, in the pain and the joy and the realness of life.
These flecks and nuggets of gold that feeling the grief will give you.
These moments, when I can figure out how to move back and forth and forward simultaneously, in this dance of grief and hope.
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Letting go - Part 4
This is another post in my series on parenting/letting go. It is in two sections. Section I, I wrote after spending some quality time with my family in the beginning of September. It was not complete/finished. And after some recent developments, I wrote Section II today.
Section I
As I write this post, I'm covered in spit up, bubbles, tears, and some unidentifiable food item from lunch. Pretty much like any other day. But it's not really any other day.
In my heart, it's a very different day.
Earlier today, Grandma and Papa (my parents) left to go back home after spending a week together. 5 days in Lynchburg with my whole family, and two days back here in DC with my parents. I was so grateful to have the time with my family, and the extra hands this whole past week. What a gift.
As Grandma and Papa were leaving, Hazel started to get fussy and became difficult to manage. I wasn't sure what was wrong, but wondered if she just didn't want them to go. She got used to them being around, and to having the extra attention. This shift into sharing her parents with her new sibling has been hard on her. Hazel cried when they left, and said to Grandma several times, "I want to go with you." It fills my heart that she has such a connection to them. But it hurt at the same time. She was so sad to see them go. And frankly, so was I.
When I put Hazel down for her quiet time today, she didn't want me to leave the room. And Charlie didn't want to be put down either. So I rocked a crying baby in one arm, and a crying toddler in the other. My arm muscles burned and my heart ached, as I knew I'd eventually have to put one of them down. To let one of them go, so I could tend to the other.
My father has a brain tumor. A benign meningioma, which he was first diagnosed with in 2008. He had invasive brain surgery in May of 2008, and most of the tumor was removed. I wrote some about it here. We got word this past December after a routine MRI that the remaining part of the tumor is growing again. And it's too large to do anything but another invasive surgery. My parents decided to wait until this month to do another MRI to check the status of the tumor and plan for when the surgery should take place. Yesterday was the MRI and since December, the tumor has grown upward and sideways, dangerously close to the brain stem. My mom told me that she has been praying for a definitive answer... that after this MRI, things would be clear about what direction we needed to go in. About whether another surgery would be a risk we absolutely needed to take.
Clarity was found. Thank God for that.
Surgery is scheduled for October 10th at UVA.
My Dad is 73 years old. I know that the tumor and impending surgery is on everyone's mind in my family. But we don't talk about it much.
Since December, I've been slipping back into my normal coping strategies to deal with this whole tumor regrowth. I've been avoiding. I've been pushing it aside. I've also been (conveniently) distracted by my pregnancy and having another baby. Now that surgery is imminent, I am really trying to be more present with my feelings about it all. It's not easy. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared.
After his first surgery in 2008, the road was hard, but eventually he recovered incredibly well. He recovered probably 95% of his functioning. So there is no reason to believe that he won't also do just as well this time. The seeds of doubt threaten to creep into my thoughts... but the fact that we've been through this before and he has done so well, comforts me. Also - my father is an angel, and his positive attitude and peaceful resolve about this surgery gives me hope. It calms my heart. He is a peaceful warrior, displaying major courage in the midst of having to go through this all again.
Each time we are together, it's there, in the back of my mind. And each time he leaves, it feels harder and harder to let him go.
I can't help but think about the similarities, generation after generation... how children, of all ages, need their parents. My children need me, and I need my mom and dad. And it's always been that way. We go through these phases in life of separating and coming back together. I don't need them the same way I did when I was a child, but I still need them. And there have been many moments in the past several months that remind me how hard it is sometimes, to do the separating. It's hard to let go.
Hard for my children to let go of me. Hard for me to let go of them. Hard for me to let go of my parents. Hard for my children to let go of their grandparents. And I can reasonably assume, that it's hard for my parents to let go of their children and grandchildren, too.
Our human hearts can be so fragile, so vulnerable. Oh, how we need each other.
It's times like these that bring all things back into perspective. It's times like these that I remember to cherish every moment with those I love. It's times like these that bring me closer to God in a big way.
This time, I am coming face to face with my vulnerabilities. This time, I am choosing not to run from that which I am afraid. And thus, in the presence of my honest, scared, shaking heart, I find my strength.
I find it in my faith. I find it in my family. I find it in myself.
In clarity, we will proceed. Together, because we need each other. And no matter what, all will be well.
Section I
As I write this post, I'm covered in spit up, bubbles, tears, and some unidentifiable food item from lunch. Pretty much like any other day. But it's not really any other day.
In my heart, it's a very different day.
Earlier today, Grandma and Papa (my parents) left to go back home after spending a week together. 5 days in Lynchburg with my whole family, and two days back here in DC with my parents. I was so grateful to have the time with my family, and the extra hands this whole past week. What a gift.
As Grandma and Papa were leaving, Hazel started to get fussy and became difficult to manage. I wasn't sure what was wrong, but wondered if she just didn't want them to go. She got used to them being around, and to having the extra attention. This shift into sharing her parents with her new sibling has been hard on her. Hazel cried when they left, and said to Grandma several times, "I want to go with you." It fills my heart that she has such a connection to them. But it hurt at the same time. She was so sad to see them go. And frankly, so was I.
When I put Hazel down for her quiet time today, she didn't want me to leave the room. And Charlie didn't want to be put down either. So I rocked a crying baby in one arm, and a crying toddler in the other. My arm muscles burned and my heart ached, as I knew I'd eventually have to put one of them down. To let one of them go, so I could tend to the other.
How wonderfully amazing and how wonderfully terrifying, to be needed so desperately.
Children need their parents. And I was sad to see my parents go today. For many reasons.
Section II
Children need their parents. And I was sad to see my parents go today. For many reasons.
Section II
My father has a brain tumor. A benign meningioma, which he was first diagnosed with in 2008. He had invasive brain surgery in May of 2008, and most of the tumor was removed. I wrote some about it here. We got word this past December after a routine MRI that the remaining part of the tumor is growing again. And it's too large to do anything but another invasive surgery. My parents decided to wait until this month to do another MRI to check the status of the tumor and plan for when the surgery should take place. Yesterday was the MRI and since December, the tumor has grown upward and sideways, dangerously close to the brain stem. My mom told me that she has been praying for a definitive answer... that after this MRI, things would be clear about what direction we needed to go in. About whether another surgery would be a risk we absolutely needed to take.
Clarity was found. Thank God for that.
Surgery is scheduled for October 10th at UVA.
My Dad is 73 years old. I know that the tumor and impending surgery is on everyone's mind in my family. But we don't talk about it much.
Since December, I've been slipping back into my normal coping strategies to deal with this whole tumor regrowth. I've been avoiding. I've been pushing it aside. I've also been (conveniently) distracted by my pregnancy and having another baby. Now that surgery is imminent, I am really trying to be more present with my feelings about it all. It's not easy. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared.
After his first surgery in 2008, the road was hard, but eventually he recovered incredibly well. He recovered probably 95% of his functioning. So there is no reason to believe that he won't also do just as well this time. The seeds of doubt threaten to creep into my thoughts... but the fact that we've been through this before and he has done so well, comforts me. Also - my father is an angel, and his positive attitude and peaceful resolve about this surgery gives me hope. It calms my heart. He is a peaceful warrior, displaying major courage in the midst of having to go through this all again.
Each time we are together, it's there, in the back of my mind. And each time he leaves, it feels harder and harder to let him go.
I can't help but think about the similarities, generation after generation... how children, of all ages, need their parents. My children need me, and I need my mom and dad. And it's always been that way. We go through these phases in life of separating and coming back together. I don't need them the same way I did when I was a child, but I still need them. And there have been many moments in the past several months that remind me how hard it is sometimes, to do the separating. It's hard to let go.
Hard for my children to let go of me. Hard for me to let go of them. Hard for me to let go of my parents. Hard for my children to let go of their grandparents. And I can reasonably assume, that it's hard for my parents to let go of their children and grandchildren, too.
Our human hearts can be so fragile, so vulnerable. Oh, how we need each other.
It's times like these that bring all things back into perspective. It's times like these that I remember to cherish every moment with those I love. It's times like these that bring me closer to God in a big way.
This time, I am coming face to face with my vulnerabilities. This time, I am choosing not to run from that which I am afraid. And thus, in the presence of my honest, scared, shaking heart, I find my strength.
I find it in my faith. I find it in my family. I find it in myself.
In clarity, we will proceed. Together, because we need each other. And no matter what, all will be well.
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Lay it down
There are so many struggles in the lives and hearts of people I love today. So many things on my mind. About parenting, about loss, about responsibility. About friendship, about work, about identity, and who I want to be in this life. Life continues to get more complex, more deep, more involved with each new day that I experience. Sometimes, I feel so overwhelmed in my thoughts, that I'm not sure what to do with them. And in my life these days, there isn't a lot of time to figure out what to do with them. Sometimes I write. Sometimes I pray. Sometimes I talk. Sometimes I dance. Sometimes I cry. Most of the time, I distract myself with something else, which is the least successful strategy. But each day, I'm learning as I go. Learning more about about how to cope. How I cope. And how others cope. I'm a person of faith. I believe in God. And I believe, as they say, that He won't give us more than we can handle. More weight, more burden, more heartache.
That being said, some people are carrying huge friggin' loads. And it sure can't be good for their backs.
Today this thought came to me. If we want some relief from those burdens... if we want help to make it through... no matter what we believe... we've got to lay them down first.
Before we drown under the sea of confusion, get crushed under the weight of sorrow, or get burned by the heat of exhaustion... we have to lay it all down. Before God, before a therapist, before your best friend, on your yoga mat. Before your mom, before your neighbor, before your husband, on a hike in the gracious company of the natural world.
As long as you are safe in the process, it doesn't matter much where you put it. But don't hold on. You have to lay it down.
When you're lost in life, and don't know what to do next. When you're not sure who you are or where you're going: Lay it down.
When you're suffering under an immobilizing, black cloud of guilt or shame for choices you've made in the past: Lay it down.
When your beloved family member or friend is sick, facing surgery/treatment, or fading away: Lay it down.
When you're devastated by loss and can't get your heart to stop reeling from the pain: Lay it down.
When you're missing your best friend so much that you are sick from the separation - tell him/her. Lay it down.
When the fear of making a million mistakes in parenting strangles you, and you don't know if you'll ever breathe deeply again: Lay it down.
When depression creeps in and holds you underwater while the waves keep crashing overhead: Lay it down.
When major disappointment strikes, and you don't know if you'll be able to recover: Lay it down.
When you've been abused or treated as anything less than you are: Lay it down.
When you look in the mirror, and don't like what you see there... When you feel like you're not worthy of happiness or good things or that you have nothing to contribute to this world - this is a lie. Lay it down.
Anything that you NEED to pick up again at some point, will still be there. Give yourself a break... don't hold on. Be gentle with your heart. Set aside your fears and your pride. Ask for help.
Lay it down, and let someone/something else carry it for a while.
That being said, some people are carrying huge friggin' loads. And it sure can't be good for their backs.
Today this thought came to me. If we want some relief from those burdens... if we want help to make it through... no matter what we believe... we've got to lay them down first.
Before we drown under the sea of confusion, get crushed under the weight of sorrow, or get burned by the heat of exhaustion... we have to lay it all down. Before God, before a therapist, before your best friend, on your yoga mat. Before your mom, before your neighbor, before your husband, on a hike in the gracious company of the natural world.
As long as you are safe in the process, it doesn't matter much where you put it. But don't hold on. You have to lay it down.
When you're lost in life, and don't know what to do next. When you're not sure who you are or where you're going: Lay it down.
When you're suffering under an immobilizing, black cloud of guilt or shame for choices you've made in the past: Lay it down.
When your beloved family member or friend is sick, facing surgery/treatment, or fading away: Lay it down.
When you're devastated by loss and can't get your heart to stop reeling from the pain: Lay it down.
When you're missing your best friend so much that you are sick from the separation - tell him/her. Lay it down.
When the fear of making a million mistakes in parenting strangles you, and you don't know if you'll ever breathe deeply again: Lay it down.
When depression creeps in and holds you underwater while the waves keep crashing overhead: Lay it down.
When major disappointment strikes, and you don't know if you'll be able to recover: Lay it down.
When you've been abused or treated as anything less than you are: Lay it down.
When you look in the mirror, and don't like what you see there... When you feel like you're not worthy of happiness or good things or that you have nothing to contribute to this world - this is a lie. Lay it down.
Anything that you NEED to pick up again at some point, will still be there. Give yourself a break... don't hold on. Be gentle with your heart. Set aside your fears and your pride. Ask for help.
Lay it down, and let someone/something else carry it for a while.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Welcome, Charlie
Dear Charlie,
You have been here with us for six weeks now, here on the outside. Outside the walls of the cozy container in which you grew. Inside this container is where you were when we came to know about you - in my body, which had already begun making room for you. We then prepared our hearts, our lives, and our home, so that there would be room and we could contain you in those places, too. Our smallish 3 bedroom townhouse has been reconfigured. We have sorted and cleaned and purged things we no longer needed, in preparation for your arrival. So we too, have been reconfigured and transformed by the idea of you, and now by your actual presence. Now that you are here on the outside.
I thought it would be more challenging to make the space that you would require... but it's not hard to make space for something you love so much.
You've only just arrived, but it somehow feels like you've been here all along.
We are all still adjusting, in many ways, to the newness of you. To how small you are, and how we have to learn all over again how to care for one so fragile. To your round-the-clock schedule, because you still need us so close. To the tiny cries and sweet sounds that you make; they dance on the strings of our hearts and communicate so much. To caring for you in addition to your big sister, and how to balance the intensity of it all. But you are adjusting to us, as well. Figuring out who we are, and why the three of us keep appearing in your blurry, farsighted, newborn view. To our sounds, our smells, and the feel of our touch. Figuring out that in our care, your needs are being met. We are here for you. You are safe, you are fed, you are nurtured, you are loved. (I cannot stop kissing your squishy little cheeks and your perfect mouth, your sweet belly, your adorable toes. With me - a Quinones - as your mom, you will not suffer lack of physical affection. I apologize in advance for your teenage years).
Your big sister, Hazel, is still working on all her feelings about your arrival. She probably will for some time. She has these moments of kindness and sweetness towards you, which make my heart do flips in my chest. But sometimes she gets upset... especially when we have to take care of your immediate need before her not-so-immediate need. Like stopping a game that we are playing in order to feed you. She is still too young to comprehend the changes. Change is hard, especially when it means that she will have to share our time and attention. Things are different for her now.
The first time Hazel met you, your Dad wanted it to be a special introduction, with only the four of us present. So Hazel came into the hospital room, at first a bit scared and unsure of the environment. We consoled her, and told her that everything was okay. We told her that her baby sister was no longer in Mommy's tummy - that she had arrived. Then she sat tentatively on the bed with us, looked at you with a mixture of emotions, and said, "Hi, baby Charlie," as she patted your head. She handed you a stuffed green frog - her welcome gift for you. This made your Dad cry. Then your Mom cried, too. Then Hazel cried, because she didn't really know what was going on, and why everyone was acting so weird. She'll understand one day, as we retell the story in the future. I hope we can capture the beauty, depth, sweetness, and vulnerability of that moment when you met your big sister for the first time.
I am so grateful that you are here. I am so grateful for your good health. All ten fingers and toes, and a gorgeous head of full, black hair. And I am overwhelmed by your beauty - it is endless. Words cannot describe what I feel, when I look into your deep blue eyes. Sometimes I feel like you are communicating with your expression... your eyes seem to say "I need you." I need you, too, baby girl. You have made me a mother once again. I don't know if there is any experience in life that is more beautiful, more humbling, more intensely unique.
All things considered, we are still adjusting to our new lives, with you here on the outside. But we are thrilled to have become a family of four, because of you. We know that we are insanely lucky to have you here with us... and are so very, very blessed by you already.
Thank you, baby Charlotte. And welcome to our world.
You have been here with us for six weeks now, here on the outside. Outside the walls of the cozy container in which you grew. Inside this container is where you were when we came to know about you - in my body, which had already begun making room for you. We then prepared our hearts, our lives, and our home, so that there would be room and we could contain you in those places, too. Our smallish 3 bedroom townhouse has been reconfigured. We have sorted and cleaned and purged things we no longer needed, in preparation for your arrival. So we too, have been reconfigured and transformed by the idea of you, and now by your actual presence. Now that you are here on the outside.
I thought it would be more challenging to make the space that you would require... but it's not hard to make space for something you love so much.
You've only just arrived, but it somehow feels like you've been here all along.
We are all still adjusting, in many ways, to the newness of you. To how small you are, and how we have to learn all over again how to care for one so fragile. To your round-the-clock schedule, because you still need us so close. To the tiny cries and sweet sounds that you make; they dance on the strings of our hearts and communicate so much. To caring for you in addition to your big sister, and how to balance the intensity of it all. But you are adjusting to us, as well. Figuring out who we are, and why the three of us keep appearing in your blurry, farsighted, newborn view. To our sounds, our smells, and the feel of our touch. Figuring out that in our care, your needs are being met. We are here for you. You are safe, you are fed, you are nurtured, you are loved. (I cannot stop kissing your squishy little cheeks and your perfect mouth, your sweet belly, your adorable toes. With me - a Quinones - as your mom, you will not suffer lack of physical affection. I apologize in advance for your teenage years).
Your big sister, Hazel, is still working on all her feelings about your arrival. She probably will for some time. She has these moments of kindness and sweetness towards you, which make my heart do flips in my chest. But sometimes she gets upset... especially when we have to take care of your immediate need before her not-so-immediate need. Like stopping a game that we are playing in order to feed you. She is still too young to comprehend the changes. Change is hard, especially when it means that she will have to share our time and attention. Things are different for her now.
The first time Hazel met you, your Dad wanted it to be a special introduction, with only the four of us present. So Hazel came into the hospital room, at first a bit scared and unsure of the environment. We consoled her, and told her that everything was okay. We told her that her baby sister was no longer in Mommy's tummy - that she had arrived. Then she sat tentatively on the bed with us, looked at you with a mixture of emotions, and said, "Hi, baby Charlie," as she patted your head. She handed you a stuffed green frog - her welcome gift for you. This made your Dad cry. Then your Mom cried, too. Then Hazel cried, because she didn't really know what was going on, and why everyone was acting so weird. She'll understand one day, as we retell the story in the future. I hope we can capture the beauty, depth, sweetness, and vulnerability of that moment when you met your big sister for the first time.
I am so grateful that you are here. I am so grateful for your good health. All ten fingers and toes, and a gorgeous head of full, black hair. And I am overwhelmed by your beauty - it is endless. Words cannot describe what I feel, when I look into your deep blue eyes. Sometimes I feel like you are communicating with your expression... your eyes seem to say "I need you." I need you, too, baby girl. You have made me a mother once again. I don't know if there is any experience in life that is more beautiful, more humbling, more intensely unique.
All things considered, we are still adjusting to our new lives, with you here on the outside. But we are thrilled to have become a family of four, because of you. We know that we are insanely lucky to have you here with us... and are so very, very blessed by you already.
Thank you, baby Charlotte. And welcome to our world.
Friday, May 24, 2013
Letting go - Part 3 (A moment of surrender)
After 35 years of getting to know myself, I would consider myself someone with a type B personality. Fairly laid back, go with the flow... not someone who pushes time or schedules or (subsequently) arrives on time to most places. There is something about becoming a parent that has turned me into more of a time-keeper. There is this inherent focus on schedules, as we move into the role of caring for babies and children. The importance of routine. And there is something else, too, which I think can be categorized as this need to be in control as a parent, to accomplish the demands and responsibilities that this role requires. You always hear how consistent discipline and structure are good for kids... which for the most part, I think is true. And as parents, we become the discipline-rs and the structure keepers. It is our JOB, to create a sturdy frame within which children can grow and develop and flourish.
And it can be challenging, because children rarely want to keep a schedule or a routine. They've got THINGS to do, and their OWN time frame that they want to do them in.
Hazel and I took a walk around the neighborhood recently, on a warm sunny day. If you've ever taken a walk with a two-year old, you know how not relaxing/stress-inducing this can be. Mostly it involves lots of stopping to inspect rocks and tree branches and bugs, and constantly intervening when said two-year old tries to run into the street or pick the neighbor's flowers or run up to knock on other people's doors or hang out on their front stoop. We were already behind schedule on this particular day, as we typically are. But Hazel really wanted to go outside, so we went for a quick stroll (ha) so she could enjoy the nice weather and we could avoid a tantrum.
As the "quick stroll" turned into a long-winded full blown nature adventure, I found myself getting more and more frustrated. Rushing her along more and more. "We still have to fix and eat lunch, and then change her diaper, and then read books, and then put her down for a late nap, which will mess things up at bedtime...." These were the thoughts running through my head. I felt like I was pushing and pushing, and it was quite ineffective. Like trying to squish a giant ball of slime into a tiny box. The more I pushed, the more Hazel wanted to wander along. And eventually, she just sat in the grass and started picking dandelions, one of her new favorite things to do.
We've been in this situation many many times before. And sometimes, after I've given her the 5 minute/3 minute/1 minute warnings and she still refuses to come willingly, I pick her up and carry her inside. Sometimes screaming and crying... sometimes not. Being super pregnant, my feet hurt and my back ached. I was physically tired from all the standing and walking and redirecting, and I was mentally tired from trying to coax and push and rush Hazel to get back home. And I really didn't feel like picking her up and carrying a screaming 28-pound girl all that way back.
So I dropped the fight, mostly from sheer exhaustion, and I plopped myself down in that grass with her. And what I felt in that moment was remarkable.
I felt immediate relief. I felt almost weightless, like a huge burden had been lifted. I felt a swelling of peace. Hazel beamed, and said "Mommy sit down!" She picked dandelions and then handed them to me so I could blow away all the quills into the warm, spring breeze. I noticed, for the first time, how full and green the grass looked and how comforting the rays of sun felt on my arm. I watched Hazel, and I really saw her. I saw the delight and the contentment on her face. I saw how her hair moved, across her sweet sturdy shoulders as she reached for another flower to pick. We didn't say much... and that was okay. I had instantly moved from the spinning, pushing thoughts in my head, to a sensory awareness of all that surrounded me. We sat there for some time. I'm not sure how long. And it didn't really matter.
I was more relaxed than I had been in a long time. Because I decided, in that moment, to let go.
I've been thinking a lot, in the last several years of my life, how important it is to let go from time to time. We live in a society that thrives on busy - thrives on the constant push of life. We love, and sometimes even NEED, to be in control - to accomplish and achieve and organize and produce. To check off our to do lists, and multitask and juggle. But in spite of all this striving... in spite of all that we achieve in a day, do we really feel at peace?
I think real peace comes in these moments of surrender.
These moments, when we move out of our minds and into our bodies. Into our senses. Into what is happening around us, as it is happening. When we let go of our attachment to how we think things ought to be, or to an outcome we think we have to achieve. When we surrender our own will, to the will of the present. There is so much beauty to be felt and to be seen in it... so much that we often miss, when we grasp the reigns too tightly and fight to manage it all.
All things considered, I know this isn't always easy. But it was a memorable day for me, as my two-year old guided me and taught me about the art and the importance of surrender. Of letting go of our schedule and our routine and all that I thought we needed... to experience something so much greater.
I hope to always carry this moment with me as a reminder, to let go when something greater calls.
And it can be challenging, because children rarely want to keep a schedule or a routine. They've got THINGS to do, and their OWN time frame that they want to do them in.
Hazel and I took a walk around the neighborhood recently, on a warm sunny day. If you've ever taken a walk with a two-year old, you know how not relaxing/stress-inducing this can be. Mostly it involves lots of stopping to inspect rocks and tree branches and bugs, and constantly intervening when said two-year old tries to run into the street or pick the neighbor's flowers or run up to knock on other people's doors or hang out on their front stoop. We were already behind schedule on this particular day, as we typically are. But Hazel really wanted to go outside, so we went for a quick stroll (ha) so she could enjoy the nice weather and we could avoid a tantrum.
As the "quick stroll" turned into a long-winded full blown nature adventure, I found myself getting more and more frustrated. Rushing her along more and more. "We still have to fix and eat lunch, and then change her diaper, and then read books, and then put her down for a late nap, which will mess things up at bedtime...." These were the thoughts running through my head. I felt like I was pushing and pushing, and it was quite ineffective. Like trying to squish a giant ball of slime into a tiny box. The more I pushed, the more Hazel wanted to wander along. And eventually, she just sat in the grass and started picking dandelions, one of her new favorite things to do.
We've been in this situation many many times before. And sometimes, after I've given her the 5 minute/3 minute/1 minute warnings and she still refuses to come willingly, I pick her up and carry her inside. Sometimes screaming and crying... sometimes not. Being super pregnant, my feet hurt and my back ached. I was physically tired from all the standing and walking and redirecting, and I was mentally tired from trying to coax and push and rush Hazel to get back home. And I really didn't feel like picking her up and carrying a screaming 28-pound girl all that way back.
So I dropped the fight, mostly from sheer exhaustion, and I plopped myself down in that grass with her. And what I felt in that moment was remarkable.
I felt immediate relief. I felt almost weightless, like a huge burden had been lifted. I felt a swelling of peace. Hazel beamed, and said "Mommy sit down!" She picked dandelions and then handed them to me so I could blow away all the quills into the warm, spring breeze. I noticed, for the first time, how full and green the grass looked and how comforting the rays of sun felt on my arm. I watched Hazel, and I really saw her. I saw the delight and the contentment on her face. I saw how her hair moved, across her sweet sturdy shoulders as she reached for another flower to pick. We didn't say much... and that was okay. I had instantly moved from the spinning, pushing thoughts in my head, to a sensory awareness of all that surrounded me. We sat there for some time. I'm not sure how long. And it didn't really matter.
I was more relaxed than I had been in a long time. Because I decided, in that moment, to let go.
I've been thinking a lot, in the last several years of my life, how important it is to let go from time to time. We live in a society that thrives on busy - thrives on the constant push of life. We love, and sometimes even NEED, to be in control - to accomplish and achieve and organize and produce. To check off our to do lists, and multitask and juggle. But in spite of all this striving... in spite of all that we achieve in a day, do we really feel at peace?
I think real peace comes in these moments of surrender.
These moments, when we move out of our minds and into our bodies. Into our senses. Into what is happening around us, as it is happening. When we let go of our attachment to how we think things ought to be, or to an outcome we think we have to achieve. When we surrender our own will, to the will of the present. There is so much beauty to be felt and to be seen in it... so much that we often miss, when we grasp the reigns too tightly and fight to manage it all.
All things considered, I know this isn't always easy. But it was a memorable day for me, as my two-year old guided me and taught me about the art and the importance of surrender. Of letting go of our schedule and our routine and all that I thought we needed... to experience something so much greater.
I hope to always carry this moment with me as a reminder, to let go when something greater calls.
"The greatness of a man's power is the measure of his surrender." ~William Booth
Saturday, May 4, 2013
Why Pinterest and I aren't friends
So we strive for perfection in the areas in which we can control, and that isn't necessarily what provides contentment and joy for ourselves, and more importantly, for our children.
~Sarah Jessica Parker
I woke up on Sunday, March 17th this year, and logged onto Facebook. It was a sea of green. The overwhelming majority of posts I were seeing had to do with St. Patrick's Day (which I had totally forgotten about. Oops.). St. Patty's Day clothes and decorations and parties and holiday-inspired foods for kids... links to Pinterest all over. I was pretty sure that I had failed miserably at being a mom-type person because I forgot that the holiday even existed. I literally said to my husband, "Are we bad parents because we didn't make green eggs and shamrock-shaped pancakes and hide a pot of gold for Hazel today?"
Valentine's Day is pretty much the same for me. So much hype. So much consumerism. I just don't get into it. And there is a real pressure that I feel from society today, that I should really be getting into it. Everyone is doing it! You are not a good mom or wife or sister or daughter or friend, if you don't do it all. If you don't buy cards for everyone and decorate everything and make your own holiday-themed treats. Blahhhh. Bah hum bug. Somewhere in my mind, I seem to associate the plethora of holidays and the celebrations of said holidays with Pinterest, as they seem to reinforce each other or feed off of each other or give each other reasons to exist.
I've been an avid Pinterest avoider, basically since it came on the scene. I've never really been good at crafty-type things, or decorating, or cute, stylish home improvements. I took an art therapy course in grad school. I felt like I was having a major crisis, because I realized that I can't draw, and I am basically horrible at creating visual art. "Why didn't they do a better job of teaching us to draw in elementary school!! I can't communicate/express anything through this medium!!" These were the thoughts running through my head. It was very frustrating and NON-therapeutic for me. I digress.
The only thing that I think I could get into with Pinterest are the recipes. I DO like food. I like making food. And I like getting access to new ideas on making food and good recipes for food-making/creating. I do not really care to make food that looks like cars, or trains, or animals, or people. I like food that tastes good, and looks like food.
Don't get me wrong - I have no problem with people out there who love Pinterest, or are inclined in this way. Or who love to make cute, fun, crafty-type things. I secretly admire people with these talents and skills, because I don't possess them at all. But there is SOMEthing about the whole Pinterest thing (or maybe what it represents) that really bugs me. And after thinking it through, I think it might have something to do with these two ideas:
1) Real life is not cute, or tidy, or neatly color coordinated. Life is so often messy, imperfect, and doesn't fit into pretty gold boxes. Life hangs out over the side of that pretty box, and paint gets smeared/smudged, and the icing on that delightful bunny cake melts. The cute bunny tail ends up looking more like poop. Whether we like it or not. (Pinterest fail boards? There are many). Something about Pinterest feels like pretending. It takes me back to the ideas/image-conscious culture of the 1950s, where women had to be all, do all, look amazing at all times, and never complain. ICKY. This may be a stretch, but something in my brain draws this link... from that era (which we have come so far from), to a whole different culture today in a technology-centric world, and a website where everything is perfect and amazing and shows you how to organize your life in neat color-coded boxes. Where you can get ideas to throw the BEST, most perfect birthday party for your child, with the cutest party favors and matching decor ideas and matching food. It's nice, but it's just not real life to me.
2) There is too much pressure to do too much, that doesn't really MEAN enough.
This idea is not directly linked to Pinterest itself, but is related. For me, I want to focus on being emotionally present and available for my children. I want to make sure that their basic needs of food, shelter, affection and love are provided for, to the best of my ability. I want to teach them and guide them, discipline them, and also learn how to let them go... as they grow away from me into independence, little by little every day. These things fill my mind and my heart to the brim. And most of the time, I am overwhelmed by these tasks. These joys and weights of being a parent. And I just don't think we need the expectation to do more - like throwing the perfect birthday party or holiday party or creating the best Easter basket - in order to feel like good parents. It's all just too much. And what does it really mean? Sometimes we can get caught up in/distracted by the hoopla... and it's possible that we neglect other things in the process. Things that I think are more important in the grand scheme of it all.
I'm all about reveling in the imperfect, in this phase of my life. About embracing my messes and flaws and learning to accept myself for who I am. About trying to release this unnecessary pressure to be more than I am. Some days, I strive to keep my head above water... to keep myself and my family well and functioning. Some days are hard. Some days are beautiful. Some days are relaxed. Some days are mind-numbingly tedious. And most days are a mixture of it all. But this is the life that I seek - to live in the nitty gritty, authentic moment. To take it all in... to feel truly alive and awakened to all that is real.
Not to seek perfection in anything, but to seek acceptance and love in everything.
All things considered, this is why Pinterest and I aren't friends. For now. I realize that I haven't really given her a chance. Maybe someday I will change my tune. But this is my take for the time being.
The fact of storytelling hints at fundamental human unease, hints at human imperfection. Where there is perfection, there is no story to tell. ~Ben Okri
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Vulnerability: finding our communities of healing
The topic of vulnerability has been on my mind and heart in recent weeks and months, as it seems to be popping up everywhere around me lately. (A message, God?) My friend from college, Trinity, who writes a wonderful, heart-wrenchingly open, inspiring blog, has been recently discussing how to start a vulnerability revolution. We've all been dealt very different lots in life, but all of us are broken in some way. We are human beings, imperfect by nature. And most of us work so hard to hide our imperfections and our struggles, rather than letting our brokenness be revealed.
Which is kind of a catastrophe for all of us. Because real beauty can be found in brokenness.
In a church we have been visiting for the past several months, the pastor spoke a few weeks back on vulnerability. He said to love at all, is to be vulnerable; to be broken. The pastor said that for most of us, one of our greatest fears is the fear of being vulnerable...
He said, if only we had the courage to show up and let ourselves be seen, that maybe we would develop communities of healing instead of communities that fight in fear.
Communities of healing. To really heal, we must first have the courage to allow ourselves to be broken.
Brene Brown, in her TED talk on the Power of Vulnerability, also talks about the importance of letting ourselves be seen. (If you have never seen this, I beg you to watch. She has done some life-changing research in this area, and presents some of it here).
As the topic surrounds me, I have been inspired to cultivate my own thoughts more deeply and meditate on this concept of vulnerability, reflecting on my own experiences.... and I think I've come to four theoretical points that are applicable, at least for me.
Somewhere along the line during my childhood/adolescence/growing up, I developed the perception that there was little time, space for, or validity to, my feelings. I started to focus instead on the feelings of others, and deemed them more important than my own. I remember occasionally having these ridiculous outbursts of emotion, when I couldn't contain my feelings any longer in a particular situation. I lacked a healthy way of expressing them, and didn't have much guidance in navigating the great sea of feelings that were washing over me. I still struggle sometimes with the notion that my feelings are not as valid or worthy or important as those of others. Or that I can contain/manage them on my own. Or that if I open myself a little, the flood gates will come crashing down and that no one will want to deal with that. These things often keep me from sharing my more difficult emotions, and as a result, from experiencing real vulnerability and intimacy/connection. All things that I should probably address in therapy. Which means, I should probably start going to therapy.
2) Being vulnerable is hard. And so is figuring out just how vulnerable we're supposed to be.
Most of us run like wild hyenas at the thought of being vulnerable with someone else. The thought of being exposed. Of not being in control. Of ourselves and our emotions. It can be terrifying. Many of us fill our lives with all kinds of things that distract us or help us to avoid our feelings: working too much; drinking too much; prescription pills and other drugs; eating too much or eating too little; extremely busy schedules with activities/events/so many things to do, etc. But we all have problems and pain... and we need to allow ourselves, somehow, to be present with this instead of denying or running or distracting or pushing the pain away. That being said, I'm not sure that living in a CONSTANT state of vulnerability is supposed to be maintained. I believe that there are times to be wide open and to feel what we feel, and there are times to power through and to keep moving (with acceptance, not denial). Both of these things take courage - in different ways. Finding the right balance is hard. I think that remaining in a state of constant vulnerability could be debilitating for some people. And remaining in a state of constant stoicism is not healthy, either. It is necessary to admit our feelings, to acknowledge them... to accept them, in order to resolve them. And it is necessary to move on from them. To move forward, somehow, out of our pain. Different people will accomplish this in different ways, and in different times. And some of us need to go back and deal with unresolved pain, or it can unconsciously affect how we live our lives.
4) Not everyone or every place is meant to be a safe space.
We have to know and understand which people and which situations are going to be supportive and healthy for us to open ourselves to. Otherwise, if we let our guard down and someone (whether intentional or unintentional) doesn't handle it well, it can be very damaging. We may close off and have a very hard time opening up again. For some of us, ever. So it is important to know ourselves, and to know which people and places are "safe spaces" for our hearts. For being vulnerable/practicing vulnerability. For some, it's a therapist. For some, it's a pastor/priest/rabbi/religious person. For some, it's a close friend or family member or partner. For some people, it's not a person, but a place or a community - like church, or yoga, or AA, or performing on a stage, or writing. And for some, it's a spiritual/religious figure - like God - that they feel comfortable letting themselves be completely vulnerable with. For me, two safe spaces that immediately come to mind are my husband (who I allow to see some, but not all), and when I'm alone, on my knees before God.
For these four reasons and probably others, I often struggle with allowing myself to be truly vulnerable. I had a conversation with one of my best friends recently, who told me that sometimes she is not sure how to love me, or care for me well. It took a lot of courage for her to share these feelings, and it really had an impact on me. I'm so grateful for her. We had a wonderful conversation about vulnerability and how we both struggle with it. And how sometimes it's the hardest thing in the world to say, "Hey, I'm not really okay. I'm hurting." Or "I'm struggling. And I need help." Even to our best friends. Such simple words, yet so complex to get around our own brains and pride and fears to get them out.
I am realizing that writing is helping me to be more openly expressive with my feelings. It is giving me the space and liberty to explore different parts of my life and topics that are important to me. I am finding it to be a helpful medium, to practice being more candid, more real, and more free discussing some of the things that I wrestle with or that lay on my heart. And, it is still terrifying.
I have felt more vulnerable in the past year of writing in this blog, than I have in a long time. This blog is helping me to pursue vulnerability; to learn about the crooked path that leads me to myself, and to work through some things in the process.
Why do that in a public forum, rather than a personal journal? You might ask.
All things considered, this post is both a meditation on the topic of vulnerability, and an exercise in vulnerability for me (as most of them are). One year later, I am so grateful for this writing/blogging journey. This chipping down and stripping away, little by little, of the things that I have built up around myself in order to avoid being vulnerable. And I want to say thank you to those who take the time to read these words. Thank you for supporting me with your presence, and participating in my community.
Which is kind of a catastrophe for all of us. Because real beauty can be found in brokenness.
In a church we have been visiting for the past several months, the pastor spoke a few weeks back on vulnerability. He said to love at all, is to be vulnerable; to be broken. The pastor said that for most of us, one of our greatest fears is the fear of being vulnerable...
He said, if only we had the courage to show up and let ourselves be seen, that maybe we would develop communities of healing instead of communities that fight in fear.
Communities of healing. To really heal, we must first have the courage to allow ourselves to be broken.
Brene Brown, in her TED talk on the Power of Vulnerability, also talks about the importance of letting ourselves be seen. (If you have never seen this, I beg you to watch. She has done some life-changing research in this area, and presents some of it here).
As the topic surrounds me, I have been inspired to cultivate my own thoughts more deeply and meditate on this concept of vulnerability, reflecting on my own experiences.... and I think I've come to four theoretical points that are applicable, at least for me.
1) You have to believe that your feelings are valid and worthy of sharing.
Brene Brown says that "people who have a strong sense of love and belonging, BELIEVE that they are worthy of love and belonging." And, "The one thing that keeps us out of connection is our fear that we are not worthy of connection."
2) Being vulnerable is hard. And so is figuring out just how vulnerable we're supposed to be.
Most of us run like wild hyenas at the thought of being vulnerable with someone else. The thought of being exposed. Of not being in control. Of ourselves and our emotions. It can be terrifying. Many of us fill our lives with all kinds of things that distract us or help us to avoid our feelings: working too much; drinking too much; prescription pills and other drugs; eating too much or eating too little; extremely busy schedules with activities/events/so many things to do, etc. But we all have problems and pain... and we need to allow ourselves, somehow, to be present with this instead of denying or running or distracting or pushing the pain away. That being said, I'm not sure that living in a CONSTANT state of vulnerability is supposed to be maintained. I believe that there are times to be wide open and to feel what we feel, and there are times to power through and to keep moving (with acceptance, not denial). Both of these things take courage - in different ways. Finding the right balance is hard. I think that remaining in a state of constant vulnerability could be debilitating for some people. And remaining in a state of constant stoicism is not healthy, either. It is necessary to admit our feelings, to acknowledge them... to accept them, in order to resolve them. And it is necessary to move on from them. To move forward, somehow, out of our pain. Different people will accomplish this in different ways, and in different times. And some of us need to go back and deal with unresolved pain, or it can unconsciously affect how we live our lives.
3) There is a real fear of overburdening others (who have their own sets of problems and pain).
My best friends and I call this phase of life that we are in the "dirty thirties." Huge shifts in identity taking place (which always involves loss), and many difficult situations that we couldn't have imagined when we were in our (much more carefree) twenties. The stress of raising young children, the huge weight of expanding responsibilities, the devastation of unexpected traumas, painful losses through divorce and death and infertility, facing the mortality of our parents as they age and suffer illness, medical problems, financial concerns, career struggles, etc. Tough stuff... and everyone is going through something. Or multiple things. So I worry a lot about sharing my heart with those who are already hurting, as I don't want to give them more burden. More weight. This is another thing that keeps me from being vulnerable with people who I care about.
4) Not everyone or every place is meant to be a safe space.
We have to know and understand which people and which situations are going to be supportive and healthy for us to open ourselves to. Otherwise, if we let our guard down and someone (whether intentional or unintentional) doesn't handle it well, it can be very damaging. We may close off and have a very hard time opening up again. For some of us, ever. So it is important to know ourselves, and to know which people and places are "safe spaces" for our hearts. For being vulnerable/practicing vulnerability. For some, it's a therapist. For some, it's a pastor/priest/rabbi/religious person. For some, it's a close friend or family member or partner. For some people, it's not a person, but a place or a community - like church, or yoga, or AA, or performing on a stage, or writing. And for some, it's a spiritual/religious figure - like God - that they feel comfortable letting themselves be completely vulnerable with. For me, two safe spaces that immediately come to mind are my husband (who I allow to see some, but not all), and when I'm alone, on my knees before God.
For these four reasons and probably others, I often struggle with allowing myself to be truly vulnerable. I had a conversation with one of my best friends recently, who told me that sometimes she is not sure how to love me, or care for me well. It took a lot of courage for her to share these feelings, and it really had an impact on me. I'm so grateful for her. We had a wonderful conversation about vulnerability and how we both struggle with it. And how sometimes it's the hardest thing in the world to say, "Hey, I'm not really okay. I'm hurting." Or "I'm struggling. And I need help." Even to our best friends. Such simple words, yet so complex to get around our own brains and pride and fears to get them out.
I am realizing that writing is helping me to be more openly expressive with my feelings. It is giving me the space and liberty to explore different parts of my life and topics that are important to me. I am finding it to be a helpful medium, to practice being more candid, more real, and more free discussing some of the things that I wrestle with or that lay on my heart. And, it is still terrifying.
I have felt more vulnerable in the past year of writing in this blog, than I have in a long time. This blog is helping me to pursue vulnerability; to learn about the crooked path that leads me to myself, and to work through some things in the process.
Why do that in a public forum, rather than a personal journal? You might ask.
Because... I am trying to have the courage to show up, and to let myself be seen. And because I am hoping, that in doing so, I might connect with others in some way and contribute to a community of healing.
A community of brokenness, and of beautifully broken people.
A community of honesty.
A community of hope.
A community of brokenness, and of beautifully broken people.
A community of honesty.
A community of hope.
All things considered, this post is both a meditation on the topic of vulnerability, and an exercise in vulnerability for me (as most of them are). One year later, I am so grateful for this writing/blogging journey. This chipping down and stripping away, little by little, of the things that I have built up around myself in order to avoid being vulnerable. And I want to say thank you to those who take the time to read these words. Thank you for supporting me with your presence, and participating in my community.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Living with our 2 year-old/Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
A child is a curly, dimpled, lunatic. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson
Today was a hard day. At this current moment, I stay home with my daughter two days per week (and I work the other three days). I cherish my time with her always, and typically we have a good time together. Of course there are always challenges, but the ebb and flow is usually quite manageable. But the last 4 months or so, things have been getting much more interesting (aka, tantrum central). This morning began with a fight to brush teeth, a fight to change a diaper, a fight to get dressed, and then a fight to eat breakfast. And that was just the beginning. I was so hopeful for a good day, as yesterday's report from the grandparents was that Hazel was very pleasant all day. She ate well, she took a 3 hour-nap, and was overall in a happy mood. No reported difficulty or wild tantrum-like behavior.
She apparently saves all of her Mr. Hyde-ness for me and our days at home together. Which is my preference, but still. Phew.
The day before yesterday, Easter Sunday, began with perhaps one of the biggest tantrums to date (of course, on a day when we have somewhere to be - church - with the whole family). And sometimes it's the smallest things that trigger the tantrum. Like cutting a bagel to the appropriate size for a two-year old to eat. "BACK ON!!! BACK ON!!!!" She screamed. (Which means, put the bagel parts back together. Seal it back up with imaginary glue so I can hold the giant bagel and drop it on the floor several times). From that point on, it just went downhill. The screaming, the crying, the refusing to eat anything else. Then the refusing to let us change her diaper. Refusing to get dressed for church. And so on. We try to distract her with other things and then do what needs to be done. Sometimes this works. Sometimes it doesn't, and things evolve into a full-on tantrum and then us physically forcing her to change her diaper/get dressed/brush teeth, what have you. It's not pretty.
Fighting and forcing are not words that previously existed in my vocabulary before parenthood. At all. I do not love doing it. (This is an understatement). It is exhausting. Both physically and emotionally.
Most of today involved fighting and forcing. But then, there were these moments of loveliness smooshed in between the struggle. Dr. Jekyll came back and made a few appearances. We went out to lunch, and when we walked in the door Hazel said "Hi!" very sweetly to the hostesses. They beamed at her, and Hazel followed enthusiastically to our table. She even ordered her own meal. The server came over and Hazel said confidentially and seriously, "Grilled cheese, please." It was hilarious and adorable. So grown up. 2 going on 12.
And then after lunch, she proceeded to run wildly through a busy parking lot, refusing to hold my hand. And when I told her, sternly, that she needed to hold my hand or I would carry her, she just wriggled away and ran off. I swooped her up and carried her to the car, screaming. A tantrum ensued, and I had to physically lay on top of her to get her into her car seat and buckled up. It took quite some time, and is no easy task for a lady who is 7 months pregnant (this is another understatement). I kept looking around, wondering if someone might be trying to call Child Protective Services. I was prepared to defend myself. "I promise she is my child! I'm not hurting her! She is a toddler!" That should explain it.
2 going on 12, going on 2.
We get home, and things don't get much better. Nap time: fight. Dinnertime: fight. And according to the book on discipline that I am currently reading, it is important for parents to not get emotional. To stay neutral and firm. So I do that. But I tell you, not reacting to an emotional child emotionally, is HARD. I completely understand now why moms or dads who stay home with young children are so eager for happy hour to arrive. "Is it five o'clock yet??? How about four?!?" Because their nerves are frayed completely and need a little something to relax. Even on a good day, I love a glass of wine. I unfortunately (currently) cannot partake in happy hour as a coping tool on these hard days. Or for a while to come, because I plan on breastfeeding this baby, too. Maybe I should rethink that, with a 2 year-old to take care of at the same time... nah. I jest. But life without wine these days can be brutal.
There is no happy ending to this post, or way to tie up the message with a pretty bow. Sometimes, parenting young kids is just hard. The day ended with forcing a screaming child into bed. And then crying in my hot shower. I know this is a temporary phase, and things will get better. I know all parents must go through it. I know every child is different, each child's temperament is different, and each age group is different. And these challenging behaviors are developmentally normal. (Terrible twos, anyone?) And I'm trying not to feel like a failure as a mom because we had a rough day. Discipline is tough for me, and sometimes being consistent is the hardest thing to do when I'm worn down on all sides. But I know it's what we have to do; what we have to strive for. We sometimes have to fight and force and do the difficult dance. Pick our battles? Absolutely. Assessing and negotiating what we must be firm on and what we can let slide, is a demanding, constant facet of parenting. And some days, I am better at it than others.
It's just the way it goes. And I still have so much to learn. So much. For now, I'm doing my best.
All things considered, knowing that we are not alone in the universal world of parenting, makes days like these a bit easier to swallow.
So here's to all the moms and dads, crying in the shower, doing the dance, and fighting to raise the best tiny humans that you can.
I'm with you.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
30 reasons why my husband is a lovely human
This post is not meant to be overly sappy or to make anyone gag while reading. (If you must, you must. I apologize in advance). It is a pure, heart-felt sentiment that I'd like to express, because I know deep down that I don't say thank you enough to this man that I married. I know that in the day to day routines, comings and goings, ups and downs, and all that we experience, I don't express my appreciation enough. My appreciation for the person he is, and all that he does for me/Hazel/others in our life together. In general, we often spend too much time thinking about all the things we wish were different about the people we love, instead of focusing on the beautiful things that make them who they are. It is human nature, to sometimes take the people we care about for granted.
So, I'd like to take some time and publicly outline a few of the reasons why I love and appreciate this man so.
1) He is incredibly patient when he needs to be (except for in traffic or at stoplights).
2) He has a knack for details - very observant in his surroundings, which is good because I am NOT at all good at this. He is the yin to my yang.
3) He is a wealth of knowledge about television and the entertainment industry. Can't remember the name of that actor that was in 500 Days of Summer or your favorite TV show? Ask Mike - he always knows.
4) He has beautiful, strong hands.
5) He always smells amazing.
6) He is sensitive to others, and cares deeply when people are hurting.
7) He is a peacemaker and a mediator.
8) He is gentle, sweet, and so loving with our daughter. And he was the best birth coach I could have ever imagined.
9) He gives me endless back massages, foot massages, etc when I request them (and yes, I request them a lot).
10) He scrubs our showers and toilets.
11) HE SCRUBS OUR SHOWERS AND TOILETS. Like, way more often than I do.
12) his soft hair, the sound of his voice
13) He is incredibly responsive when I need him.
14) He is one of the most genuine people I've ever known.
15) He loves his family very much.
16) He is a funny man - an entertainer - loves to make people laugh.
17) He has a creative mind.
18) He does the laundry.
19) He loves music more than most things - there is always a song running through his head.
20) his hazel-colored eyes, which slope downward at the outer corners and are framed by long, gorgeous eyelashes (okay, I kind of also hate him for this)
21) He feeds the cat, takes out the trash, does the dishes, changes the cat litter, and vacuums. He generally cleans more than I do. And I love him for that.
22) He is silly and weird sometimes, like me.
23) He is smart.
24) He grounds me in a way no one else can. I am a dreamer, he is a realist. Again, the yin to my yang.
25) He loves to dance (more than he will admit).
26) He loves to tell stories (those of you who know him, know this well).
27) He is endlessly responsible.
28) He is endlessly loyal.
29) He is generous.
and last but not least,
30) He is the person that I feel the most comfortable with in this world. The person that I feel comfortable letting my guard down with, and letting the ugly, painful, raw, dark parts of me seep out from time to time. He is my safe space. He is my home. He is love.
All things considered, I realize that I'm a very lucky lady. I don't deserve him, but somehow he is here. Life and marriage is not ever perfect... but I am so grateful to be on the journey with this man. This partner.
This lovely human.
p.s. Did I mention that he scrubs our showers and toilets? Amazing.
So, I'd like to take some time and publicly outline a few of the reasons why I love and appreciate this man so.
1) He is incredibly patient when he needs to be (except for in traffic or at stoplights).
2) He has a knack for details - very observant in his surroundings, which is good because I am NOT at all good at this. He is the yin to my yang.
3) He is a wealth of knowledge about television and the entertainment industry. Can't remember the name of that actor that was in 500 Days of Summer or your favorite TV show? Ask Mike - he always knows.
4) He has beautiful, strong hands.
5) He always smells amazing.
6) He is sensitive to others, and cares deeply when people are hurting.
7) He is a peacemaker and a mediator.
8) He is gentle, sweet, and so loving with our daughter. And he was the best birth coach I could have ever imagined.
9) He gives me endless back massages, foot massages, etc when I request them (and yes, I request them a lot).
10) He scrubs our showers and toilets.
11) HE SCRUBS OUR SHOWERS AND TOILETS. Like, way more often than I do.
12) his soft hair, the sound of his voice
13) He is incredibly responsive when I need him.
14) He is one of the most genuine people I've ever known.
15) He loves his family very much.
16) He is a funny man - an entertainer - loves to make people laugh.
17) He has a creative mind.
18) He does the laundry.
19) He loves music more than most things - there is always a song running through his head.
20) his hazel-colored eyes, which slope downward at the outer corners and are framed by long, gorgeous eyelashes (okay, I kind of also hate him for this)
21) He feeds the cat, takes out the trash, does the dishes, changes the cat litter, and vacuums. He generally cleans more than I do. And I love him for that.
22) He is silly and weird sometimes, like me.
23) He is smart.
24) He grounds me in a way no one else can. I am a dreamer, he is a realist. Again, the yin to my yang.
25) He loves to dance (more than he will admit).
26) He loves to tell stories (those of you who know him, know this well).
27) He is endlessly responsible.
28) He is endlessly loyal.
29) He is generous.
and last but not least,
30) He is the person that I feel the most comfortable with in this world. The person that I feel comfortable letting my guard down with, and letting the ugly, painful, raw, dark parts of me seep out from time to time. He is my safe space. He is my home. He is love.
All things considered, I realize that I'm a very lucky lady. I don't deserve him, but somehow he is here. Life and marriage is not ever perfect... but I am so grateful to be on the journey with this man. This partner.
This lovely human.
p.s. Did I mention that he scrubs our showers and toilets? Amazing.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
The way you do the things you do - Part 2
Dearest Hazel,
You are 2 years old. Well, more specifically, 2 years and almost 1 month. I am going to try and capture, here in this space, some details about the Hazel of today so that both you and I can return here to remember you just as you are in this phase. During this era of you. Because it is all so fleeting, and as much as I'd like to, I cannot freeze time. Perhaps when you read this, our scientists will have figured out how to do that. But for now, all we have is the beautiful, full, present moment.
Today we had your 2 year check up at the doctor's office. You are very healthy, in the 45th percentile for weight and extremely tall in the 97th percentile for height! You still have anxiety at the doctor's office; you cried when we pulled up, as you knew where we were. You clung to me, wanting me to "rock you"... but this time at the doctor, things were different. Although there were moments of struggle, there were many moments of bravery, which I hadn't seen like this before. You seemed to understand that this was something we had to do, although difficult for you. You were comforted by toys, books, and by the song we've sung to you every day since before you were born. Although wary of him, you looked the doctor in the eyes when he asked you questions. You cried, held me tight, and didn't move your arm when the nurse quickly gave you your shot.
I am very proud of you and your bravery.
Your language development has taken off, and you now talk almost constantly. You speak in full sentences - not all the time, but when you do it is a delightful shock! You say things like, "Daddy, get the water please?" and "Maddy, come here!" and "Good job, Mommy." You make cute comments after eating food you like (fruit and bread, primarily), such as "Mmm - delicious." Makes me laugh every time.
You can say and sing your ABCs; you can count from 1 to 15 in English and from 1 to 10 in Spanish (which amazes the pants off me); and every day you want to take off your diaper and sit on the potty and sing the potty song (but you still haven't gone IN the potty yet... in your own time). You love to sing songs and lately, to do something called the "silly dance." For the silly dance, your Daddy and I must be standing up (not ever sitting, or kneeling, or anything but standing), clapping our hands, and singing any upbeat song while you turn, kick your legs, twist and swing your arms while we keep you from running into doors, corners or any sharp edges of furniture. It's pretty awesome.
I am very proud of your smarts and your expressive nature.
Today, after we got home from the doctor, your favorite play gym/music class, and lunch, we sat on the couch together and watched Mickey Mouse. With you cradled under my arm, you watched with wonder as you always do, and I dozed off into a light sleep. It was comfortable and sweet, in the aftermath of our morning. I couldn't help falling asleep (no offense, Mickey) ... your little sister is taking much of my energy these days, and sometimes being physically present with you is all I can accomplish. I am afraid that this is only the beginning of this new divide in my energy, as all parents with more than one child can likely attest. I think about this, about how your life is going to change so much in just four short months. I think about how you will feel, and I'm sure you will feel so many things. Things that you're not developmentally able to verbalize. I think about how you will feel about your baby sister, and I know it will be a complex thing. If how you care for your stuffed animal friends is any indication (hugging, kissing, rocking, feeding), I am so excited to see how you will grow to love and care for your baby sister, too.
Last week, we were at your favorite play gym when a little girl about your age climbed to the top of a pyramid of mats in the corner. She stood there for a moment, not moving and quietly looking down at the few people below her. Her father was sitting outside the play area, reading a book. You stood at the bottom of the pyramid, watching the girl intently, assessing her need. Then, most gently and sincerely, you said, "Help you? Help you down?" You repeated yourself, and the little girl didn't respond. My heart broke and soared at the same time.
I am so very, very proud of your precious heart.
You are two years old, and these are a few glimpses of you today. I am trying so very hard, to be present with you as I know I will long for you at this age when you are older, and miss these days when they are gone. You teach me about love and about my own strengths and limitations every day. You reveal more about your character as you continue to grow and develop...and you delight and inspire me with both the breadth of what you can do and the depth of who you are.
I am so proud and so blessed, and so honored to be your mom.
All things considered, you are Hazel. You are beautifully, wonderfully you. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
You are 2 years old. Well, more specifically, 2 years and almost 1 month. I am going to try and capture, here in this space, some details about the Hazel of today so that both you and I can return here to remember you just as you are in this phase. During this era of you. Because it is all so fleeting, and as much as I'd like to, I cannot freeze time. Perhaps when you read this, our scientists will have figured out how to do that. But for now, all we have is the beautiful, full, present moment.
Today we had your 2 year check up at the doctor's office. You are very healthy, in the 45th percentile for weight and extremely tall in the 97th percentile for height! You still have anxiety at the doctor's office; you cried when we pulled up, as you knew where we were. You clung to me, wanting me to "rock you"... but this time at the doctor, things were different. Although there were moments of struggle, there were many moments of bravery, which I hadn't seen like this before. You seemed to understand that this was something we had to do, although difficult for you. You were comforted by toys, books, and by the song we've sung to you every day since before you were born. Although wary of him, you looked the doctor in the eyes when he asked you questions. You cried, held me tight, and didn't move your arm when the nurse quickly gave you your shot.
I am very proud of you and your bravery.
Your language development has taken off, and you now talk almost constantly. You speak in full sentences - not all the time, but when you do it is a delightful shock! You say things like, "Daddy, get the water please?" and "Maddy, come here!" and "Good job, Mommy." You make cute comments after eating food you like (fruit and bread, primarily), such as "Mmm - delicious." Makes me laugh every time.
You can say and sing your ABCs; you can count from 1 to 15 in English and from 1 to 10 in Spanish (which amazes the pants off me); and every day you want to take off your diaper and sit on the potty and sing the potty song (but you still haven't gone IN the potty yet... in your own time). You love to sing songs and lately, to do something called the "silly dance." For the silly dance, your Daddy and I must be standing up (not ever sitting, or kneeling, or anything but standing), clapping our hands, and singing any upbeat song while you turn, kick your legs, twist and swing your arms while we keep you from running into doors, corners or any sharp edges of furniture. It's pretty awesome.
I am very proud of your smarts and your expressive nature.
Today, after we got home from the doctor, your favorite play gym/music class, and lunch, we sat on the couch together and watched Mickey Mouse. With you cradled under my arm, you watched with wonder as you always do, and I dozed off into a light sleep. It was comfortable and sweet, in the aftermath of our morning. I couldn't help falling asleep (no offense, Mickey) ... your little sister is taking much of my energy these days, and sometimes being physically present with you is all I can accomplish. I am afraid that this is only the beginning of this new divide in my energy, as all parents with more than one child can likely attest. I think about this, about how your life is going to change so much in just four short months. I think about how you will feel, and I'm sure you will feel so many things. Things that you're not developmentally able to verbalize. I think about how you will feel about your baby sister, and I know it will be a complex thing. If how you care for your stuffed animal friends is any indication (hugging, kissing, rocking, feeding), I am so excited to see how you will grow to love and care for your baby sister, too.
Last week, we were at your favorite play gym when a little girl about your age climbed to the top of a pyramid of mats in the corner. She stood there for a moment, not moving and quietly looking down at the few people below her. Her father was sitting outside the play area, reading a book. You stood at the bottom of the pyramid, watching the girl intently, assessing her need. Then, most gently and sincerely, you said, "Help you? Help you down?" You repeated yourself, and the little girl didn't respond. My heart broke and soared at the same time.
I am so very, very proud of your precious heart.
You are two years old, and these are a few glimpses of you today. I am trying so very hard, to be present with you as I know I will long for you at this age when you are older, and miss these days when they are gone. You teach me about love and about my own strengths and limitations every day. You reveal more about your character as you continue to grow and develop...and you delight and inspire me with both the breadth of what you can do and the depth of who you are.
I am so proud and so blessed, and so honored to be your mom.
All things considered, you are Hazel. You are beautifully, wonderfully you. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Glamor shots of parenthood - a true love story
It is midnight, and on your way to bed you decide to check in on your two-year old sleeping girl. You open the door, and immediately something is off. Something strikes you and you know in an instant that it's going to be a long night. All indicators point to one thing... your senses are heightened, your adrenaline starts pumping, and you get ready. The moment is here. It's go time. It could be nothing else.
Diarrhea.
The smell wafts over and offends your nose like your nose did something offensive first. The nurse at the pediatrician's office predicted it. "We've been seeing a lot of this. 3 days of fever and vomiting, then the diarrhea starts. It could last for up to 5 days..." You chuckle at that last part. 5 DAYS?!?! No one can have diarrhea for 5 days, you think. Especially not after the 24 hour constant bout of fun with it you've just encountered yourself. That would be crazy. She must be mistaken or joking. Both of which would be highly unprofessional. (Yes, she must be super unprofessional.)
You've already been through the 3 days of fever and cleaning up vomit, most of which ended up on you. So you and your husband enter the room stealthily like ninjas in the night, to get to work with cleaning, sanitizing, and laundering again (clothing, sheets, stuffed animals - poor, poor Minnie Mouse - there is just no coming back from that). You do all this before you wake the child and get to work cleaning, sanitizing, and laundering her. But this time it's a new and equally horrible villain. You start to picture vomit and diarrhea going head to head in a battle of vileness, wondering how that would go down. FOCUS. Lots of work still left to do.
After all is cleaned and scrubbed and your husband has Lysol-ed the @$)% out of everything you own, AGAIN, you hold your sweet sick girl, and wish you could make it all go away. You try and get her to drink some fluids to prevent possible dehydration, and she eats a few cheerios. The poor little love's tummy. So empty, and so unhappy. Your heart breaks to see her so weak and so miserable. So you squeeze her a little tighter, rock her so gently, and pray that she feels better soon.
Then you set your alarm for 4am so you can get up and check her room for the possible return attack of the terrible diarrhea monster. (5 DAYS?!?) So you can repeat the whole process over again.
And you would, in a heartbeat... because that is true love. A parent's love. (And also, you really like those sheets).
It is a glamorous life. All things considered, you wouldn't trade it for anything.
Diarrhea.
The smell wafts over and offends your nose like your nose did something offensive first. The nurse at the pediatrician's office predicted it. "We've been seeing a lot of this. 3 days of fever and vomiting, then the diarrhea starts. It could last for up to 5 days..." You chuckle at that last part. 5 DAYS?!?! No one can have diarrhea for 5 days, you think. Especially not after the 24 hour constant bout of fun with it you've just encountered yourself. That would be crazy. She must be mistaken or joking. Both of which would be highly unprofessional. (Yes, she must be super unprofessional.)
You've already been through the 3 days of fever and cleaning up vomit, most of which ended up on you. So you and your husband enter the room stealthily like ninjas in the night, to get to work with cleaning, sanitizing, and laundering again (clothing, sheets, stuffed animals - poor, poor Minnie Mouse - there is just no coming back from that). You do all this before you wake the child and get to work cleaning, sanitizing, and laundering her. But this time it's a new and equally horrible villain. You start to picture vomit and diarrhea going head to head in a battle of vileness, wondering how that would go down. FOCUS. Lots of work still left to do.
After all is cleaned and scrubbed and your husband has Lysol-ed the @$)% out of everything you own, AGAIN, you hold your sweet sick girl, and wish you could make it all go away. You try and get her to drink some fluids to prevent possible dehydration, and she eats a few cheerios. The poor little love's tummy. So empty, and so unhappy. Your heart breaks to see her so weak and so miserable. So you squeeze her a little tighter, rock her so gently, and pray that she feels better soon.
Then you set your alarm for 4am so you can get up and check her room for the possible return attack of the terrible diarrhea monster. (5 DAYS?!?) So you can repeat the whole process over again.
And you would, in a heartbeat... because that is true love. A parent's love. (And also, you really like those sheets).
It is a glamorous life. All things considered, you wouldn't trade it for anything.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
The Christmas Gift
It was Friday, December 21st, and I had a long day ahead of me at work. I had 6 home visits and a 10 hour work day scheduled, and all I wanted to do was be on vacation. To begin the holiday celebrations with my family and to get my Christmas shopping done. I was also giving myself pep talks, as I had been so darn tired lately from the pregnancy, that I wasn't sure how I would get through the busy day. I had clients to see, presents to deliver, so many things to get done, before I was away from work for a week.
As I was leaving the office for one of my afternoon home visits, I was loading my car with gifts for one of my families and noticed a man walking towards me. As he got close, he said, "Excuse me, ma'am?" Of course, I'm thinking, what is this guy selling/pushing? And how quickly and gently can I get away? I looked up from my things and said, "Yes?" With warmth in his voice, he said "This is for you. Merry Christmas." He handed me an unmarked unsealed white envelope, and then walked away. Inside was a $50 dollar bill. I stood there, shocked, touched, and feeling ashamed that I had made such an initial assumption about his character and purpose. I finally looked up, and saw him smiling at me and waving, before he ducked into his car and drove away. I waved back, and mouthed a still stunned "Thank you." Ironically, he really did resemble Santa Claus. White beard and everything. And overalls. I was surprised his car didn't turn into a sleigh and vanish into the air, leaving a trail of magical dust behind him.
My initial feeling, once I got over the surprise/stunned feeling, was one of guilt. My thoughts raced, thinking, "But I don't really NEED this money. I don't deserve this. There are so so many people who need this... I don't need this. I have to pay it forward immediately. When should I do it? Should I stand on the corner, or outside of the CVS and give it to someone who looks needy?" I then felt another shudder of guilt thinking, that maybe he picked my social services office to wait outside of, because he knew that clients in need came there for food and other emergency help. "Maybe he meant to give it to someone who comes to the office for services! Oh no- he's given it to the wrong person. How do I remedy this situation?"
I went in and out of thinking about the gift, as I traveled through the rest of my day. It struck me, that I did not really receive the gift well. I was initially so stunned and felt so unworthy, that I did a poor job of showing my appreciation for this man's kind and beautiful gift. It felt so strange to be on the receiving end of such a gift, especially as I was so wrapped up in getting to see my clients and delivering gifts to them. This was a role reversal that I was not prepared for in that moment. "But I am the helper! I'm the one who gives... I give to those who are in need... I......"
The more these thoughts circled, I began to break down and cry. And it became blatantly obvious to me, that something was really wrong with this picture. That this man gave of his heart, a courageous anonymous gift, that was not qualified by socioeconomic status, merit, need, or worth, and I did not know how to receive it.
I often don't know how to receive. This has become more and more apparent to me the older I get, and the busier I get pouring myself into the many aspects of my life and trying to balance it all.
This man's gift, for me, was not about the $50. His gift was so much more valuable than this. It was a lesson that I'll never forget.
Because it exposed a character flaw within myself... one that I'm trying to learn more about and to work on. It's about vulnerability. Because as much as I'd like to believe that I'm strong and centered; that I'm the one who helps; that I don't need help from others; that others always need the help way more than me; these things are just not true. They are myths. Things that I've believed for a long time. And I'm not sure why I started believing them in the first place.
I'm working on it.
After years and years of pouring myself and my heart so passionately into the things I do and the people I care about, I'm finding myself in a different state of self-preservation. So different. Sometimes it hurts, because it's so different. I'm pulling back, as my life gets more complex with more responsibilities, more care-taking to do than ever, and less energy to do it with. And I'm trying to figure out who I am, in this new place. And what my priorities are. And what I really need, and how to balance what I need with the needs of others. And what is important for me to do to replenish and re-fill my cup when it is empty. And how to ask for help when I need it. Because I will most certainly need it. And I need to start with admitting that I need it.
I'm worthy of a receiving a beautiful, anonymous gift. We all are. Just as it is important to know how to give, it is important to know how to receive.
Perhaps he was Santa. Perhaps he was a manifestation of Jesus, reminding me that I need to learn how to accept a gift that I did nothing to earn. Perhaps he was just a generous soul who gave me the energy to keep on giving that day. To feel selected. And, to ultimately feel blessed.
All things considered, I'm still not sure what to do with the $50. It should be something great. Suggestions welcome.
As I was leaving the office for one of my afternoon home visits, I was loading my car with gifts for one of my families and noticed a man walking towards me. As he got close, he said, "Excuse me, ma'am?" Of course, I'm thinking, what is this guy selling/pushing? And how quickly and gently can I get away? I looked up from my things and said, "Yes?" With warmth in his voice, he said "This is for you. Merry Christmas." He handed me an unmarked unsealed white envelope, and then walked away. Inside was a $50 dollar bill. I stood there, shocked, touched, and feeling ashamed that I had made such an initial assumption about his character and purpose. I finally looked up, and saw him smiling at me and waving, before he ducked into his car and drove away. I waved back, and mouthed a still stunned "Thank you." Ironically, he really did resemble Santa Claus. White beard and everything. And overalls. I was surprised his car didn't turn into a sleigh and vanish into the air, leaving a trail of magical dust behind him.
My initial feeling, once I got over the surprise/stunned feeling, was one of guilt. My thoughts raced, thinking, "But I don't really NEED this money. I don't deserve this. There are so so many people who need this... I don't need this. I have to pay it forward immediately. When should I do it? Should I stand on the corner, or outside of the CVS and give it to someone who looks needy?" I then felt another shudder of guilt thinking, that maybe he picked my social services office to wait outside of, because he knew that clients in need came there for food and other emergency help. "Maybe he meant to give it to someone who comes to the office for services! Oh no- he's given it to the wrong person. How do I remedy this situation?"
I went in and out of thinking about the gift, as I traveled through the rest of my day. It struck me, that I did not really receive the gift well. I was initially so stunned and felt so unworthy, that I did a poor job of showing my appreciation for this man's kind and beautiful gift. It felt so strange to be on the receiving end of such a gift, especially as I was so wrapped up in getting to see my clients and delivering gifts to them. This was a role reversal that I was not prepared for in that moment. "But I am the helper! I'm the one who gives... I give to those who are in need... I......"
The more these thoughts circled, I began to break down and cry. And it became blatantly obvious to me, that something was really wrong with this picture. That this man gave of his heart, a courageous anonymous gift, that was not qualified by socioeconomic status, merit, need, or worth, and I did not know how to receive it.
I often don't know how to receive. This has become more and more apparent to me the older I get, and the busier I get pouring myself into the many aspects of my life and trying to balance it all.
This man's gift, for me, was not about the $50. His gift was so much more valuable than this. It was a lesson that I'll never forget.
Because it exposed a character flaw within myself... one that I'm trying to learn more about and to work on. It's about vulnerability. Because as much as I'd like to believe that I'm strong and centered; that I'm the one who helps; that I don't need help from others; that others always need the help way more than me; these things are just not true. They are myths. Things that I've believed for a long time. And I'm not sure why I started believing them in the first place.
I'm working on it.
After years and years of pouring myself and my heart so passionately into the things I do and the people I care about, I'm finding myself in a different state of self-preservation. So different. Sometimes it hurts, because it's so different. I'm pulling back, as my life gets more complex with more responsibilities, more care-taking to do than ever, and less energy to do it with. And I'm trying to figure out who I am, in this new place. And what my priorities are. And what I really need, and how to balance what I need with the needs of others. And what is important for me to do to replenish and re-fill my cup when it is empty. And how to ask for help when I need it. Because I will most certainly need it. And I need to start with admitting that I need it.
I'm worthy of a receiving a beautiful, anonymous gift. We all are. Just as it is important to know how to give, it is important to know how to receive.
Perhaps he was Santa. Perhaps he was a manifestation of Jesus, reminding me that I need to learn how to accept a gift that I did nothing to earn. Perhaps he was just a generous soul who gave me the energy to keep on giving that day. To feel selected. And, to ultimately feel blessed.
All things considered, I'm still not sure what to do with the $50. It should be something great. Suggestions welcome.
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