A Thank You Letter to 2016

Thank you 2016...

For showing me I’m braver than I ever thought I could be.  It takes a special kind of crazy to move thousands of miles away from everything you’ve ever known, to start over when you thought you were pretty planted, and to have faith that it’s the right thing.

For giving me confidence.  The older I get, the more I feel my confidence building and in this thirty-third year it took on skyscraper status. Between the move, new relationships, and my changed role at work, I feel as confident in myself as I ever have.

For helping me define my spiritual, social, and political beliefs. This also probably has something to do with age (and a lot to do with the election season), but this year I wrestled with and pinned down many things that before I had just accepted or dismissed.

For pushing me to let my words out into the world. 2016 is the birthday of my writing self. It was when I finally gave in to that small but annoying voice that kept urging me to put the keys to the Word file, even when the louder and more forceful voice was telling me I couldn’t do it. 

For giving me more time.  Our life here is laid back and go with the flow. We have little or no commute, eat dinner at 6 every night, and have left behind the stresses of trying to do everything and be everyone. We have more time to be a family and to be ourselves.

Thank you 2016 for being a year of newness, exploration, and discovery.

The Pain In The Feeling

“What if pain—like love—is just a place brave people visit?”

— GLENNON DOYLE MELTON, LOVE WARRIOR: A MEMOIR

The other day I spent the majority of the afternoon in bed. I wasn’t sick or physically tired but emotionally I was exhausted. The week had caught up with me and by the time Sunday was here, my heart and my head had enough. And so I let the pillows, blankets, and hum of traffic wrap me in their protective space, and for the first time all week I let myself feel. I cried out my worries, confusion, and pain. I cried myself to sleep and then cried some more, but by the time I left my bed I felt renewed. Those things that I cried over were no longer such a burden on my heart. 

Read more over at The Village Magazine. 

The Climb

When my son started crawling we lived in a tri-level house with two sets of stairs. There were no easy ways to gate them, so we didn’t. Like most babies, he was magnetically drawn to the steps, his curiosity and drive to climb to the top was pretty unstoppable. We let him explore, taught him how to slide down on his tummy, and made sure we were always behind him in case he faltered.

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We all start at the bottom, looking up at the challenges and achievements of each step. Some of us are unsure of the climb and lack the confidence to make it up the first stair. Our paths to accomplishments are filled with obstacles. A broken step, or a loose railing. Our journey isn’t easy and each success is hard-earned, one stair at a time.

Read more over at The Village Magazine. 

Surrendering the Laundry

The buzzer on the dryer sounds, it's time to make a decision. Do I let the clothes sit until nap time or do I save them from their wrinkled fate? Leaving them makes me twitchy, so I go for it. Right on cue, my little helper runs in to help me “pack”. I feel myself tense up, but take a deep breath and say, "Sure buddy, let's pack!"

I think of myself as a go-with-the-flow kind of mom, but if you start messing with my laundry, the control freak comes out. I always separate clothes by color, I remain aware of certain items that cannot go in the dryer, and wrinkled clothes are not acceptable. I usually don’t have time to fold immediately, but I do lay the clothes flat so by the time I get to them they’re not a crumpled mess. 

Having a two year old who thinks doing laundry is the best thing next to goldfish crackers doesn’t really mesh with my laundry plans. M doesn't have the patience to wait for my lay flat technique or the fine motor skills to accomplish it. For him it’s a win if he gets a piece in the basket.

Read more over at The Village Magazine. 

Rediscovering Imagination

I got a new desk a few weeks ago and besides the desk in the box there were also several pieces of heavy-duty cardboard. These pieces soon became M’s new favorite toys, and unlike some toys that only keep his attention for a day or two he’s still playing with them today.

What is it about a boring, brown chunk of pressed paper that can replace an entire room full of toys?

The answer is simple: the magic of imagination.

The cardboard is a blank canvas that he can make into anything his little mind dreams up. It’s been used as a tunnel for trucks, a climbing wall, a boat, and a trailer to haul his tractor. He’s built towers that get knocked down over and over. Just jumping up and down on a piece is enough to throw him into a fit of giggles.

When was the last time I looked at cardboard as anything other than something that needs to be hauled out to the recycle? When was the last time I really used my imagination?

Imagination and I used to be inseparable. 

Reading was our meeting place and we could burn through a book or two a day, escaping into whatever world the author had created for us. We would be on the prairie with Laura Ingalls one day and on a train with the Boxcar Children the next. She helped me draw, paint and glue together construction paper and Popsicle stick dreams. Imagination took me by the hand as we skipped out to the playhouse and made sand pies and hose-water tea for our guests. Up in my room she was there with the Barbies as they prepared for the pageant.  

Then college, work, and the Internet happened and imagination got buried beneath the unimaginative demands of adult life, but I’m attempting to uncover her. Watching my son discover his imagination makes me want to be back in that place where she and I were best friends. He’s helping me do this every time he sits down to play with play dough and he wants me to make a cat, or when he takes his truck to papa’s farm, or when he transforms that cardboard into a race track.

I’m coaxing out my grown-up imagination by doing this thing called writing, something I had shut down long ago because…I don’t really know why now. I guess it was a lack of confidence and belief in both myself and her. Back in June she was gently nudging me when I signed up for the writing workshop and I think she plans on sticking around. Sometimes she happily comes out to play, other times require a little bribing. I’m trying to read more like I used to and find imagination in other creative outlets. When I’m doing a DIY project, journaling, even baking, I can feel her with me.

Thank you M, and the box full of cardboard, for reminding me that imagination was always there, I just needed to let her back in. 

Bringing in the Boat

Last weekend Ryan and I got a little crazy and instead of our usual Saturday of taking M to the pool or the beach, we dropped him off at the babysitter and went kayaking. We decided to try out the double kayak because what’s more romantic than sharing a tiny plastic boat that you have to self-propel down the river? This was our first go at this kind of adventure and it actually went pretty well. It took a few minutes to get into a rhythm and for the strokes of our paddles to sync up, but pretty soon we were happily moving along with the current.

The part of the river we floated along runs through town and is lined by big houses and fancy boats. I bet we could afford that one, I said, pointing to the one house that was smaller than the yacht out front. (Those people probably live in the yacht and use the house for guests.) We kept an eye out for dolphins and manatees but only saw a few turtles poke their little heads up and then swim away into the dark water as we approached. When we came up on two buoys we pretended we were on an Olympic kayak slalom course. Let’s just say we would not have won the gold.

There is a public dock at the point where we had planned on turning around and we needed to stretch our legs (ok, who are we kidding it had been forty-five minutes and I had to pee) so we made our first attempt at docking. Docking in a kayak is harder than it looks. I mean, you watch someone do it in the movies and you think, that’s no big deal. Well, it is a big deal. We went in at the wrong angle, didn’t coordinate our paddling and steering, and instead of smoothing sliding up next to the dock, it was more of a crash and bang kind of deal.

After our brief stop we head back, against the current this time, which took a bit of effort. (If I had it my way we’d just switch the current back the other way and keep on floatin.) When there was an especially strong section we both had to dig in extra deep to get through. A few times one of us had to rest and the other kept paddling to keep us moving. As we approached the dock this time we planned out our attack and successfully pulled in without even tapping the side.

Later we joked that if we had done something like this earlier in our marriage, one of us would have been in tears and one of us would have been swimming back to the dock. (You can guess who’s who.) We laughed, but the more I thought about it the more I realized it’s probably true.

During the first years of our marriage there wasn’t a lot of teamwork. We were still too self-focused and we both wanted to control the boat at the same time. When the current got too strong we got scared and weak. We didn’t want to pick up the other’s slack and we didn’t care to change for each other. We were crash banging our way into the docks of life.

Our kayak was getting worn out and it was either bail or start working together. Over time and many, many attempts our ride is getting smoother. We’ve learned to share control. Sometimes Ryan needs to take over but now and then I have to take the paddle and keep us moving. Stretches of strong currents only make us stronger as we work through them. Now we can adjust and adapt to each other’s changes instead of fighting them and when we’re approaching a dock we plan ahead to successfully bring the boat in.

Of course some of our trips are still bumpy, but at least no one is being thrown overboard. 

This one thing

I never realized what a judgy place it is out there in mommyland until I was pregnant with my son. Scary mommies, sanctimommies, all-up-in-your-business mommies. I dipped my toes in a few forums and Facebook groups but pulled out pretty quickly. I know there are some safe places out there but most of it is crazy town. I’ve never understood judging someone for the personal decisions they make or basing your decisions on what others might think.

For the most part I’ve made my mom and parent decisions without much angst. I drank coffee while pregnant (sometimes even a little wine, shhh don’t tell). I breast and bottle fed, both in public. I co-slept when I needed too and didn’t hide it. I don’t have a problem sharing the way I raise my son because I just don’t care what you think about it.

Except for this one thing.

When my son was about a month old I dropped him down the stairs. Literally dropped him. I had just given him a bath and was taking him downstairs to say goodnight to Ryan. I was walking down to the lowest level of our tri-level house and my foot slipped off the edge of a stair. When I fell he flew out of my hands, rolled down the last few steps and onto the floor. I thought I had killed him.

Ryan calmly picked up M and comforted him while at the same time tried to calm me down. I was almost hyperventilating and hadn’t moved from the spot where I’d landed. I felt paralyzed, and horrified, and Oh My God, what did I do?

I took M from Ryan, and while still crying and shaking, I examined his little body for the damage I was sure I would find.  Although M seemed fine, I was convinced that I had irreparably injured him. We took him the ER to get checked out and to save my mind. Telling the ER doctor why we were there made me want to throw up. What kind of mother drops her teeny-tiny baby?!

Fifty hours later (why does it take sooo long?). M got the all clear and we went home. I was still sure that something was wrong. That his brain was bleeding or there was a broken bone they just didn’t see. I held him, and cried, told him I was sorry, and barely slept that night.

He was fine, of course. Babies are like little rubber balls apparently and much more immune to falls than grown-ups. He didn’t have a mark on him; my bruise stuck around for a good month. My body wasn’t the only thing bruised though, so was my sense of self-worth as a mom. Telling the ER doc that I dropped my child was bad enough, I couldn't imagine telling my friends or even my own mom. Forget about telling internet strangers. I would surely be ripped apart. “Well if you were wearing him that wouldn’t have happened.” “This is exactly why I don’t have stairs in my house.”

It seems silly now, not telling, because I know accidents happen all the time. Moms fall down stairs. Babies roll off changing tables. Kids get away from you at the mall.

I’ve also come to realize that in the aftermath of an accident like this this is when I actually find my mom-worth. The same goes for when M falls and skins his knee and looks to me for comfort. Or when he is sick and finds some peace in my arms only. In these moments I am completely focused on him and all my motherly instincts kick in.

As mothers, our worth is not defined by when we drop our babies down the stairs, let them roll off the table, or lose track of them for a second at the mall. It’s in after, in how we respond to these situations, that our mom-worth is revealed.  

From now on I will share my accident stories proudly. Those fourm moms need some new stories to clutch their pearls over anyway.