The Herd

I was going to post a closing message about how I hope everyone does the right thing tomorrow.   

It was going to be poetic and meaningful and thoughtful.

I mean one person reached out to me last Presidential cycle and asked me to justify a vote for Clinton.  I'm pretty sure I won her over.

But the truth is that I.... like many of you... am exhausted.

I'm exhausted by the politics and the rhetoric and the pandemic and the meals to cook and the emotions to regulate and the Seesaw, ST Math, Epic, Google Classroom, Typing Club, CodeSmart, ChessKids web of brain and Montessori fry.

I'm exhausted knowing that we are in for at least three more months of trying to keep up this tempo and fearing we're going to round up to 18 months before we even look a little normal.

I'm exhausted by the not knowing.  Not knowing how these months will change our kids.  Not knowing what imprint it is having in their lives.

I'm exhausted that a five year old knows you back up when someone gets too close.  "Social distancing, you know, mama".

I'm exhausted washing those tiny masks that have a big old gross saliva ring in the middle from being breathed in and out in playground and soccer romps.

I'm exhausted by picking up your colored pencils and paper pieces and craft sticks and draft paragraphs. AND SOCKS WHY WITH THE SOCKS SERIOUSLY??

I'm exhausted by being one of only two physical, mental and emotional touchpoints for tiny pure souls.

And I'm just talking about the parenting side of this job.

What am I missing?

I realized it the other day when we stopped by to help weed the school garden and the gardening teacher was there.

Our kids lit up.

They bubbled over with words and kindness and helpfulness and gratitude.  And she bubbled back.  It was the happiest I have seen them in months. And everyone left feeling affirmed.

It happened again... our quaranteammate jumped in, Dad style, and learned how to double dutch last weekend. And told our kids how amazing they are that they stepped in, tried something new, and conquered it.

And again with "reverse trick or treating" drop offs on Saturday.  Every adult took the time to look at Annie.  Speak to her.  Really speak to her.  Asking real questions.  Affirming her.  Seeing her.  Hearing her.  Listening to her.  Lots of listening.

Zoom visits to the school social worker to play Uno.

Getting encouraged to lead trivia during Wednesday lunch.

Planning a Girl Scouts food drive.

Petting a llama at the living nativity.

Reading to our kids every single night over Zoom.  Every night.

Indulging in useless riddles and Clemson trivia.

Drawing pictures once a week following YouTube videos.

You guys.  I know what our kids miss and crave most.

The herd and its shepherds.

I was raised by one.  You know, the village.  The Allegas and Nolins and Smyres and Turzas and McDonalds and Whittenburgs and Davis and Eskridge families moved us all around as their own.

And while the kid friends were an added benefit for bike riding and basket shooting and roller skating, I think I underestimated the imprint those adults left on my childhood self.

They named and affirmed us kids.  They got us out of bad trouble and encouraged our good trouble. They saw our gifts.

Our kids are craving the herd.  Craving those shepherds. 

They know the power of gentle kindness from a caring adult.  We picked them up at school on March 13th, and since that time, can you imagine the tiny moments they haven't had?

The Head of School who gave them a place to calm down.  The Guide six classrooms down who answered their 15th survey of the day.  

The Sunday school teacher who always knew the right flavor of applesauce pouch. The choir friend who brought their own knitting bag too, or the one who foisted her up on a chair so everyone could see her sing.  

The neighbor who called one over for dinner because she knew just how much Annie loved her homemade fried fish.  

The adults they vacillate between calling "Mr/Ms" and "Uncle/Aunt" because they understand they are framily.

Or the scout leader who saw that amazing aerodynamic car design.

When we all lean into choosing positivity and hope and  goodness and kindness amazing things happen.

It imprints on our kids.

They notice more than you realize.  

They understand the difference positive adult figures are making in their life.  They know it is a choice and an action, not a given.

It feels too simple.

Can you imagine the imprint it could have on our country?

The Next Right Thing

Welp, the last 105 days has been a decade long.

And with a pandemic, many opportunities to change the world.

I'm not ready to tackle a world changed with school going all online or only two days a week so come at me with that one later.

I'm not ready to tackle a world changed where Zoom is a good enough way to be connected, and we get lazy with the care and feeding of friendships... so come at me with that one later.

105 days ago, life got REALLY BIG AND HARD AND COMPLICATED AND UNCOMFORTABLE and there's no way to plan the next day or step or campaign or vacation or weekend.

So, when else is a better time to for all of us to change the world?  Or at least, change ourselves?

It's not like we're going to be late to brunch.

I always saw myself as a bit of a world changer.  Or someone comfortable with big changes and here to do what's right.

A bit of a goodie two shoes, virtuous complex.

I come by it honestly.

I mean don't I buy all the right books and make space for all the right conversations and say the right things and show up in the right spaces?

But, I'm not here to sit around, waiting for others to do what's right.

It's not ok to just dwell in the right spaces. To sit.

They aren't taking attendance here, counting the sitters.

A dear friend asked me a couple weeks ago, how do you know how to react, act, say, and be a meaningful and powerful ally in the Black Lives Matter?  How do you know what to do or say?  The spaces to go in and stay out of?

Well, first, I know we should all follow my Mom, who lives in the buckle of the Bible Belt, who has leaned in hard to some uncomfortable conversations with a bunch of small town Methodist church ladies, and has been a justice fighter her whole life.

She's always been a better human than the rest of us.

What I said to my friend, though, is I'm just trying to do the next right thing.

It seems simple and probably meaningless, but it is all that I can do when the world is swirling and changing in some wonderful ways and other really difficult ones.

And the next right thing isn't just to sit there in the comfortable spaces.

It's not okay to say the next right thing, if you don't do the next right thing.

Do I know what those next right things are? Some of then. I've done some of them. Some my whole life. Some in the last month. Some just this week. Some on a work call that made a few colleagues feel real uncomfortable.

There are more I don't know.

I'll make mistakes.

Mistakes are a thing I'm familiar with.  Being a parent, after all.

One of those next right things was to accept an invitation to march with Jioni and Ashli and Middleton and Caldwell.  They have been marching daily in our neighborhood, and opened an invitation to stand by their family

Photo Credit:  Amanda Andrade-Rhoades 
https://www.instagram.com/moxie_manda/

It felt... small.  Not enough.  But it felt like the next right thing.

Where else would I stand than with a family who has walked parenting with us from day one?

A family who pushed through those hills on stroller walks in the Arboretum on that lovely maternity leave fall of 2011 in fierce booties.

To joke with Middleton who is as deliberate at tying his shoe mid-Black-Lives-Matter-march as he is in the middle of a soccer game and can teach Robbie how to burp with the best of a soccer carpool.

To feel Caldwell lean into one side of me while James leans into the other as both stand in the middle of the median on Rhode Island Avenue practicing chants about justice.

To know those tiny souls already know the next right thing.

The family has challenged us to all to educate our kids, and they've done it in meaningful and tangible ways. https://www.today.com/video/how-to-educate-your-kids-about-racial-activism-and-social-justice-85904965524

Palmers: we are here to run this relay race with you.

That feels powerfully like the next right thing.

What about you, friends?  What's your next right thing?

(Barometric) Pressure

It's no secret to anyone that emotions aren't really my thing.

My high school nickname was the Ice Queen.

They weren't wrong.

I have a crying meltdown about twice a year, it is like a summer storm, in and out, where all the stress and sadness and madness and pressure comes out.

And then it is gone.

The slate is wiped clean.

I'm still pretty there.

Powering through crisis is my jam (well, if global pandemic has a jam).  I can do this each day.  It's hard.  It's impossible.  I viscerally hate even moment of it. But I can do it.

Because what's the choice.

Ya'll, the barometric pressure is rising.

And it is hitting us right in the tiny guy's feels.

James' love language is.... love.  He loves physical touch.  He crushes giving and receiving words of affirmation.  He exudes joy.  His first sentence was "I so joyful, Mama".

His armor is cracking.

He's letting it out in the most heart wrenching ways.

As you can expect a tiny four year old preschooler with a gentle heart to do.

Like not straying two feet from my side throughout the entire school and work day...

Waking at four in the morning and crawling in our bed...

Joining in the daily remote control control screaming matches...

Singing, on my bed, two feet away, for the whole hour of a work webinar...

If I'm cooking, he's cooking.

If I'm hiking, he's holding my hand.

If I'm sitting on the couch, he's in my lap.

Then came the school's daily social-emotional prompts...which I ask him and write what he says verbatim.



What makes your friends so great?  -- "I can't see my friends so I don't remember."

What does a hug feel like?  -- "Hugs feel like love and nothing else."

What's a memory that makes you happy?  -- "Nothing makes me happy anymore because of no school and no friends."

How do you show people you care? -- "I really don't know. I don't want my family to die."

What makes you feel brave? -- "I don't know. Mommy makes me feel brave because you always protect me."


The crusher today, while I was trying to listen through online church today, he was clearly struggling.

I, pulled him up in my lap for a giant hug.  He melted into me and I asked him what was wrong, and he said "I'm having a bad time and I need you to help my heart feel better."

You guys, he's four.  Of course he isn't equipped to deal with this.

We are ten times his age, and don't have the words or coping skills or solutions.

He's four.

And tender.

With a huge, raw and gentle heart.

When the haze lifts for the rest of the world, it'll be summer storm season over here.

Until then, there's a lot of four year old hearts that need help feeling better.

And probably some grown up ones too.

I don't want to be a part of history

Forgive me for saying what we're all thinking.

But this blows.

I didn't sign up for this.

I didn't sign up to have my breath taken away by the sight of toddlers in masks, or my heartbroken when our kids put on theirs.

I didn't sign up to stalk Amazon Prime Now slots, always with a full cart waiting to be ordered (pro-tip, they open up new order slots at around 5pm and midnight regularly).

I didn't sign up to set my alarm to wake up to try to get that midnight next day slot, or at 7am, an hour before my Instacart Costco shopping window opens, to get up in case they have replacement questions (they did).

I didn't sign up to miss my Mom's 70th birthday, and to explain without believing it myself about why we can't quarantine there.

I didn't sign up to learn how my Instapot works for a VERY DELICIOUS HONEY SOY CHICKEN THIGHS. after months of ignoring its existence.

I didn't sign up to navigate childhood grief without anyone but the two of us keeping an eye on his feelings.

I didn't sign up for the gut punch of hearing DC schools are closed for the rest of the year... while on a work call... while juggling feelings of dread and terror and resignation.

I didn't sign up to homeschool, to close out all your beautiful Pintristy suggestions, when the four year old love of my life just needs to unglue himself from my lap for 15 minutes... because, dude, this work call is a video one.

I didn't sign up to be tech support when my hard drive fails, to knowing what angle looks less awful on Zoom calls.

I didn't sign up to be Internet enforcer for a kid who has never had access to the Internet who is doing everything wrong.

I signed up to watch the White House briefings for a couple days.  Pro-tip:  don't sign up for those.

I didn't sign up to schedule virtual slumber parties or Battleship games using the periodic table.

I didn't have enough lounge wear, even after three maternity leaves, to sign up for this.

I didn't sign up for waiting to go anywhere for an hour after a meal because my stomach is a stressed out mess and I can't keep any food down.

I didn't sign up for the uncertainty if I should request $7,000 in summer camp payments as a refund... and prepare Annie that her first sleep away camp likely won't happen.

I didn't sign up for knowing I'm not enough for our Girl Scout troop... that I should organize a virtual meeting but I have nothing left to give.

The chaos and mess and disaster around the house that you would think goes away when you are there all day?  Didn't sign up for that either.

I didn't sign up for this rapid beginning having an ending that isn't in sight.

I didn't sign up for these VERY FIRST WORLD problems.

I don't want to be a part of history.

I didn't sign up to have my breath taken away by a ventilator that might save my life.  I didn't sign up to parent heartbreak and pandemic grief.

I didn't sign up for this.

We didn't sign up for this.

I don't want to be a part of history.

We don't want to be a part of history.

But here we are.  Living history.  How will we be a part of it?

On Truth

We are now rounding the corner on day 25 of what I hope (because it isn't going to get more unsettled than this for them please don't let it) history moment that our small children are a part of...

We've spoken pretty honestly around the Edwards family compound about the coronavirus.  AH is keeping a journal, because of course she is going to sell it one day when she is famous (she said that).  She showed me (ONLY ONE) entry... and it is on coronavirus.  She had the concept of a wet market.  Of a bat.  And I'm not sure I told her any of that.

She and her buddy T have called this time the coronacation.

But I appreciate the truth.

Our kids know that this rarely affects young kids severely.  They are kamikaze scootering down the sidewalk and hoping the neighbors move six feet to the right or left.

They are having lunch (THAT THEY MADE YES I AM THE BEST PARENT) every day in the backyard on a picnic blanket.

They are reliably saying Good Morning/Afternoon/Evening to all that pass by.

They are mourning not being able to escape to the college campus nearby to run and roll and scoot and bike, and understand that right now we just have to make our tiny rowhouse yard work for us.

They are even loving all the no devices restrictions being lifted, and I think Robbie is about to graduate with a PhD from Khan Academy.

Ya'll. They are being troopers.

But I appreciate the truth.

I had to fact check if the tooth fairy was an essential worker (turns out she is and thank goodness we had a stash of dollar coins, but damn if she didn't forget to remove the tooth once again and Shawn still won't let me be a SantaToothFairyEasterBunnyTruther).

Then last week one of Robbie's friends died, along with his Mom, in a tragic accident.

We are parenting in tender times my friends.

It is making me, the Santa truther, think deeply about how we talk to our kids about life, the world, bad things, good people, and tragedy.

But ya'll, I appreciate the truth.

And it turns out he does too.

We spent about 36 hours researching how/what/why/when to say.  And I had in the back of my mind, Robbie is a processor, we'll need to deliver the news and just know that he won't react right away.

You guys, Robbie appreciates the truth.

I hope we did this right.  Because we told him the truth.  And he emoted, deeply.  For hours.

"WHAT A TRAGEDY MAMA"

He's needed more check ins and we are being tender with his soul.

He wanted to read the news articles.

He said "He must have been so scared, Mama", and I'm confirm to you, that is my deepest truth.  About how terrifying that must have been.

Then he moved into action.  "What can we do?  How can we honor him?  How can we remember him from soccer".  He came up with great ideas.

Ya'll. My non-feeler, non-emoting kid needed the truth.

I wasn't sure he did.

But the real truth?  Everything is awful about telling kids the truth about bad things.  There's no right time, way, mode or medium.  And I'll worry for days and weeks and months and years to come if this is one of those life changing kid memories.

Then a couple days ago, he asked for a Zoom with his soccer team so they could talk together.  Today they did.  Being eight, they also talked about poops and farts and hating homework and missing soccer... and about being a soccer family.

So you mix coronavirus and tragedy, throw in some massive working parent stress, and we'll  hope that once again, didn't damage our children forever.

Until that eight year old who seems so old and wise, and yet so tiny and dimpled and vulnerable whispers to you when he goes to bed "Thank you for telling me the truth."

We will battle on, and face each day and new truth as they happen.  And we will do the best we can.

And you will too.

Labyrinth

Labyrinth: a complicated irregular network of passages or paths in which it is difficult to find one's way; a maze.

This is one of "big works" happening in Edwards home school this week.

It couldn't be more accurate.

What had started as a fellow parent (hi Emily!) inspired race track on the floor has turned into a three day and counting tape experiment.,

We're going to need another roll.

But here's the thing about kids, they are ok with all their mazes not having endings.

Mostly.

They've jumped into this new era willingly. It's probably 99.9% on account of us not being a screen/laptop family, but there's digital learning going on, community meetings with each of their classroom environments, even freaking read aloud times in very precious ways.

I'd invite you to tiny 3-5 year olds singing in circle time via Google Hangouts, but your heart would explode.

But I'd also invite you to put yourself into the labryinth this has created for people everywhere.

Children are genetically resilient.

Their parents not so much.

Today, we had four simultaneous web meetings to hold at 10am: Two for the kids, two for the adults, trying to pay the bills.

We started them the best we could. I took my call in the stairwell.

This is a time we all need to offer grace as we navigate this complicated irregular network of passages.

Our village has showed up. And we are doing out best to show up for our village.

We can do this.

Stitched on the Heart

Several years ago, I wrote a blog that I can't find to dig up about a conversation I had with a Mom (hi Marta!) about the biggest gift I could give my children. 

At that time it was probably only one kid and I was thinking about worrying about sleep or potty training, or waking the baby or not waking the baby or feeding vegetables every three days before fruit every three days and about that rash...

... but I believe then what I will blog preach now-- and the gift is that of resilience.

++++++

So here we are.

That's basically the statement that we all are thinking daily.

And, frankly, pre-crisis, thought daily.

Here we are and were.  

Life right now is so very difficult to unpack because we are in a VERY CORONAVIRUS crisis, without the crisis bearing down on us in tangible ways... yet.

Friends: you and I have lived and functioned through the snipers in DC, where we didn't know if we were most vulnerable at a gas station or in a Home Depot parking lot.  

We (or me), also were in DC on September 11th, very raw, living three blocks from the Capitol, watching the sky, and listening to the quiet, and wondering what was coming at us next.

We lived through burnt mail on the Hill, and holiday cards that arrived three months later when anthrax showed up.

Hell, we had a house fire, and lived in a hotel for a few months, while we are talking about resilience.

We worked to feed and support our neighbors when the government shut longer than our safety net could handle without community support.

Those memories are the things that those of us in DC have seared in our memory and on our hearts. And those are the BIG things.  The ones that made the news. The ones that our big adult brains could at least try to rationalize through. 

The things that may not have made the news are the food insecurities when the housing market dipped, when Medicaid funding didn't make it through to the states in time, when the rules changes on indigent care... when we (hold your breath, because this word makes everyone uncomfortable... when our privilege and life circumstances covered our gaps...)

And you guys, we were adults through all this. With big adult brains.

And here we are with lives that we are in charge of molding.

No pressure, ya'll.

But THESE TODAY DAYS are the days that could be stitched on the hearts of our kids, and I am so unready for it.

I tell to others the stories of my personal resilience... that came at the intersection of having moved a lot in my childhood and having to blaze through and show up in new situations, along with having the gift of parents who gave me a good core foundation of confidence.  It could have been the "Free To Be You And Me" minivan tapes (we were so hip), but it was also being parented by resilient parents who always showed up when it was hard and when it was easy.  They gave me a good model of what it means to be in a community.

We've been honest with our kids about what the next couple weeks to months might entail.

We went to a National Park today that was completely empty, and we likely were the adults overcorrecting our kids to ensure they were six feet away... social distance.

They know what a social quarantine now means.  And the different between social quarantine and social distancing.

They have their personal favorite verses to sing for 20 seconds when they wash their hands.

But they also saw me, and heard me, asking and pleading them to back up, stay away, elbow their coughs.

Their hands are bleeding from the washing.

We are on the precipice of stitched on the heart moments as parents, and I'm not sure I'm ready to rise to the occasion.  

We've had a family meeting about what social distancing means: 

1. What we all need to do to stick together. How we need to be a team
2. How teams don't race to finish first, how real teams finish together.

But best laid plans led to lots of time outs at the national park today.

We've worked together to create a "morning work period" so our Montessori kids can feel comfortable, and hopefully, Mom and Dad can telework as required.  

We've had to shift around financial resources to find the space to buy a Chromebook for the kids, something we've previously resisted.  

These moments are going to be stitched on their hearts. 

I'm not confident I'm the seamstress for it.

See me in a few weeks, and until then, we are each other's virtual village.

My friends at Webster think stitch is also a verb: "to make, mend, or join (something) with stitches.

Let's stitch together and be models of resilience for our kids.

Real team.don't race to finish first. We finish together.