I Wonder: On Treading Water

I wonder if all us infertile baby bloggers did a check in... one of those no shit, everything is ^&*ing real check-ins. Would we shed the parenting guilt that we are so grateful to be here and talk about the difficulty of the seasons?

Whatever that season is we are in.

For me, we are the, if lucky, new high schooler parents. But, woooooo boyyyyy, we will get to that.

We are also the throes of parenting a pandemic while in critical years.

We are aging parents and changing jobs

We are world is burning, and black lives matter, and who is our President now really fighting for?

We are, what is truth and reality when YouTube and podcasts and AI are blurring the line between information and manipulation.

We are, who are we without those we parent, and how close they are until they fly/fall out of/ flee the nest?

And when people say, how are you, REALLY? Do they want to know?  

How are you really?

Really, we are.... treading.

I guess there is a reason that treading water is an important part of the swimming test. There are going to be times when you are making progress and lapping lanes, but I am feeling more and more life is sometimes just about rotating, maintaining your buoyance keeping your head above water, and churning for what is next.

what is it about a new year. Interrupted

I lost my Dad last week.
And then my Grandma.
But my Dad?  He's my Dad ya'll.

He wasn't finished.
Here's the thing.
I had started a New Years poem back on actual New Years Eve.
I finished it for you.

And for him.

And probably for me too.

what is it about a New Year
when the last one just keeps passing
a pandemic, an election, candles, cake

celebrations, mourning, unfinished 
a new one keeps arriving
uninvited, unrequited, not as planned
bubbles, streamers, kisses.  Silly hats.
 

++++++++
[January 15th]
And then it is interrupted.
passing means more than time
Mourning and unfinished. 
These words hit different. More. heavier.

And you wonder why you started then abandoned a free form poem
Three weeks ago
When the form was freer.

Now you know probate. 
Embalming. Urns. 
There are rules for urns.  Did you know there are urn rules?
Not very free form.

Paperwork is overwhelming.
Teamwork abounds. Mostly.
Find the passwords.
Tax implications.

When did grief become a logistic?

Hymns, readings.  
Is a mass a celebration of life?
Do you know him like I do?

How do you put the right words
Ones that fit nicely in the columns.
Is there a budget for telling your story?
Is my final jpeg hi res enough?

No one taught me how to do this part of life.

So I look for the silly hats. 
Found them in the back closet.
With the mice droppings.
Also the fancy china.

The confetti and streamers?
Those are in the places you don’t expect.

The stories of the sister who ran away.  But only to the corner.
Too young to cross the street without her brother.
 
The hikers, the dreamers, the planners.
The careful details of every single day.
Not the feelings. Just the details.
Every pamphlet that exists.

The receipts that should have been tossed.
Circa 2006.
Glad you saved money on that CVS trip, Dad.

The failing college grades (I’ll never tell).
Sixteen years of engineering magazines.
The bike license from 1975.

The letter to your Dad about the three girls you are dating in fall of 1972.
You married one seven months later.
The tall, intelligent brunette you knew he’d like.
You met her on the bus.
Sounds like she’s a good cook.

And the bookmark in your childhood Bible.
I’ll keep the verse to myself.

The hiking routes… carefully planned. 
The tissues and bandanas and funeral programs in those Marmot pockets.
Gotta keep them dry and warm.

And always a buckeye.
Do you know how lucky you were?

You really could have thrown some things away.

Did you need seventeen pairs of eyeglasses to see
How loved you are?

I’ll take that tomato pie recipe.
If you tackle the garage.

What a reminder 
that we only have each other for a time
sometimes that time is yours,
sometimes it is mine.

Who do we belong to, really?

Funny I asked what it is about a new year
Now that we are in these new places
You and me.

Sounds like it will always be unfinished.
Life certainly seems to be.

So until the next time with the streamers and confetti
Let’s not let the next unfinished celebration pass.
Until I have the receipts.
Already got the hat.

"You Look Happy Today Mama"!

I wasn't ready for that tiny voice after these last ten days.

And let's not be wrong, she's the loudest voice.

I picked them up early, soccer dinners in tow, drove around to the other carpool line so she could run inside to change for soccer.

While one boy declared soccer dinner of maple soy salmon his very favorite meal ever and the other was happy to see I had secretly packed him a sunbutter sandwich after he made the earnest go of the salmon.

She ran in.  

And came back out dressed.

And declared "You look happy today Mama!"

Me: OIFFFFFFFFFFFF

First thought:  "How do I look all the other days?!?!"

Second:  "Not today.  Seriously"

Last week, a seriously traumatic medical issue with a client while with them.  Long term implications.  Heavy emotional load.

Nights of anxious sleeping and worrying about that.

Awful weekend for myriad reasons.

Busy season at work, and always feeling like I'm not giving enough and worrying about that.

Family norovirus over the weekend and worrying about that.

Not feeling quite right since yesterday morning, realizing its dehydration but diagnosing myself with having a heart attack for 36 hours straight (and counting) and worrying about that.

Googling all the things, locking myself into the office medical suite with the blood pressure cuff and worrying about that.

Waking this morning and pushing through, as you do with a couple days of planned leave on the table, after an unexpected one with sick kids earlier in the week and worrying about that.

Dropping them off at school. It's Palentines Day and one left all their cards in the car, and do we sort natural consequences and save and worrying about that.

Still not feeling great and getting to work, and realizing you are everything the pandemic didn't teach about being in person when sick, and deciding to deliver the damn Valentines, work from home and and worrying about that.

Getting home to see that ugh was a real fever, but deadlines season is COMING AT YOU FAST and worrying about that.

Plowing through the Zooms, congratulating yourself on the decision to work from home, but worrying that your next 5-7 days of planned not in person isn't going to be great and worrying about that.

Cooking said healthy dinner (with the secret covert sunbutter sandwich) whilst on said Zoom that you had to move to your phone because of course your home internet went out and worrying about that.

And you pick them up "early", give some extra time to get where you need to be and her first observation is "you look so happy Mom!"

HOT TIP: NOT SO HAPPY.

LIKE "HOLY ^%&T HOW ARE YOU READING HAPPY???"

I can't even imagine what that look was.  Because it felt like exhausted-dejected-notenough-fullplate- opentabsinbrainbrowser abject resignation exhaustion.

I MEAN HOW DO I LOOK ALL THE OK WEEKS?!?!? Also, I have a FEVER AND A STRESS AND A WTF UNIVERSE.

But hey. Ya'll. Let's remember all the tiny, open, vulnerable hearts with non formed pre-frontal cortexes.  [TBH, still gonna worry about that]

But they see that.  They see things.

And frankly, she lifted me with her TOTALLY WRONG happy assessment and I leaned into it.

I sat in the rain and the fresh air and the friendship on the soccer sideline this evening and some joyful ridiculous text chains from my friends and reminded my resilient self that it is always another day. For them, and for us.  

When We Aren't the Best Parent

I just preliminarily titled this "When we aren't the best parent", before I started posting my story.

So that's pretty instructive about where I'm coming from.

I know blogging is antiquated, and we are in a Twitter/Facebook world, but I just had one of those OH.  UGH.  GAH. BLECH moments  I needed to document for... being real as a human.

I'll equivocate with the fact that I'm weary. Work/Life in this season is... unrelenting.

Plus, I'm genetically disposed to insomnia, and my sleep patterns are so screwed up.

I've had crazy dreams lately. Having to clear the pool because my kids soccer team needs to play there. You know, in the water.  

Having to rescue a 6 foot person from drowning in a 3 foot pool.  

And always the missing my final exam that I needed to ace to have enough credits to graduate.  [Did you know I can fly in an empty mall if I have enough running space?]

WITH THAT BACKGROUND OUT OF THE WAY. 

So James.  Tiny, sweet baby James, is 7.  Upon my calculation, from mask on to comfortable enough mask off, he has spent 37% of his life in an unprecedented global pandemic.  THANKS COVID.

But he, and I, also had the gift of riding side-saddle for almost two years.  We had a thing. He literally perched next to me, 18 inches away. He gave me the space for all the Zooms.  I gave him all the circle breathing, letter tracing, stamp gaming, OE and OA and OO phonetic sounding. 

I got to see him building the sounds and words.  I got to see him being guided by his awesome teaching team from letter awareness to reading.  I saw him, 18 inches from me,  learn how to thread a needle, how to make a stitch, how to "share equally' (aka divide).  He can name more state capitols than me, and doesn't always need a snuggle when he falls down.

He knew, from those months of riding side saddle during the pandemic, that I had to do my job and was the sweetest resilient kid there ever was.

Today? 

He wasn't feeling so well. He's not the kind of kid who comes downstairs and is not feeling so good, so that is so real.  I held him home from school [AS YOU SHOULD DO] (and then got a negative covid test and then a flag for a classroom positive), and then.... I wasn't the best parent.

I need to be reminded that he's seven and hasn't been through the sh%t show of a global pandemic when you aren't well you get some parent attention.  

I was the "welp, work at home day parent".  He clearly embraced the unlimited TV access portion of the day, but I need to be shaken.  

I had a mid-day 90 minute zoom and told my tiny (Montessori, so capable, but UGH) kid, to make himself a sandwich when he said he was hungry.

I TOLD HIM TO MAKE HIMSELF A SANDWICH. HE IS SEVEN AND SICK AND I TOLD MY KID TO MAKE HIMSELF LUNCH BECAUSE I HAD TO "WORK."

He's seven.  We aren't at my-memorable-game-shows-on-USA-all-day age. 

Hell I take meals to all the people when they have sickness/babies/death/crisis and I couldn't be bothered to make a sandwich for my SICK KID.

I told him to make himself a sandwich. And he did.  With some carrots and an apple. What kind of weird terrible space between working life and parenting a sick kid life is that????

Forgive me universe. And I'll introduce him to Press Your Luck, Let's Make a Deal, and all those important sick day shows later.

That's our COVID redux for today. 

On Grief

So we've been in it.. haven't we.

We have made it.  We have pieced it together.  Haven't we?  Have we?

TRUTH: IT HAS BEEN SO MESSY

We've laughed and mourned as we look at our Facebook "on this days"

And this day.  It is the same the day 365 days ago with less "HOW AM I GOING TO DO IT"

Because we did it.

But we are in the space where we are afraid to name hope.  See hope.  Choose hope. 

We lost a friend.  A 3rd grader.

But we dug out.  We dig out.

We see omnicrons and BAs and waves and boosters.  We see families get through the virus.   We see friends with what seem to be life long diagnoses and health damage.  We return to school.  Masks go off, they go on.  

We test the sneezes and the pollens and the tummies and the scaries.  We are lucky that everywhere we live a test is available.

We do what is normal.  We do sports and playdates. We do sleepovers and eat in restaurants.  We have birthday parties in and outside, masked and unmasked. 

We have joy.  Joy?  Remember that?

And we have the PCRs and rapid tests still.  Those are so good. Overlapping caution.

And then the world stops.

They were too young last time. Sandy Hook was an adult problem. They were a week old. And sixteen months old.  

The fear was yours.  The fear was mine.  

I was born in Newtown/Danbury.  Likely at the same hospital. 

That grief is yours.  That fear is yours.  It's in the tiny baby old man brow wrinkles.  It's in the deep dimples and the silly smiles.  It's in the sleepless nights and the early mornings.

But now?  You have a nine and ten year old. They were in that classroom.  They could have been.

A old souled six year old.  Sandy Hook aged.

But ones who have lived in the in between. In the time when grief and hope overshadow each other.  They are old enough to know and understand.  

They ask questions about the why and the how?  About evil and mental health?  About how we didn't protect the kids.  

They named their preferred hiding spaces and how R's classroom is probably the safest.

They ask about death.

Overlapping caution.

And still it's dulled and resigned and unexpected and maybe that's what grief is.

Grief isn't sharp.  It's rounded and dull and resigned and... unexpected.  

They know that grief is as hard to own as reality with it's understandable corners and sharpness.  

They know that grief and resiliency wrestle each other every day.

And please, universe, did we equip them and do we continue to do so every minute and hour and day with the right tools.

Grief is a season, a wave, and a reality.  It is joy and resilience and overwhelming sadness.  

Please let us be enough.  

Please let us all do better.

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.

About That Decade

Hi there.  Ten years later, the decade where things got real.

Like real real.

On Facebook I see all of you posting your then and nows, your best ofs, your photos and moments and highs and lows and the how fars you have come.

And I think of ye olde 2009...  the year end post of how much money I saved on store loyalty cards and coupons (It was $1568.84 for those of us counting and looking back in our Facebook on this days).

That decade it saw things.  I think they all will.

We were on New Years Eve a decade ago less than a month ago from a house fire that kicked us out of our home for two months, but at the time was the BIGGEST THING THAT HAPPENED.

And then Snowmaggedon. The one where we lived in a freaking Residence Inn with one working stove burner and approximately four outfits each including no winter gear.

And then OMG WE ARE SO UPSIDE DOWN ON OUR HOUSE.

And let's sprinkle some, (sorry for the overshare, but OMG if we can't get pregnant during a snowmaggedon or the year preceding and following it, we are so infertile, and let's talk about that cost too).

The time we drove back from a South Carolina Thanksgiving on our first fertility round because we didn't get that you had to get stimulating sometimes and after calling all pharmacies in a three hour drive no one had the fertility meds available.

And that was just in the first year of the decade.

You guys, we have ridden the coaster-- not just Shawn and I, but all of us.

We've seen job losses and gains.

We've had unemployment and joyful employment.

We've had haunted houses and upside down and then rightside houses that we sold to others.

We've welcomed one, and then another, and (OMG THOSE FIRST TWO WERE SO MEDICALLY EXPENSIVE), a surprise another.

We've mourned a parent and the end of a marriage of another set.

We've seen first steps and first words and the first thousand diapers.

We've seen their strengths, and we've seen how they amplify our weaknesses.

We've battled.  OH MY HAVE WE BATTLED.

We've fought over forks, spoons, balls, helmets, hoodies, shower temperatures, remote control power, buckling seatbelts, cold vs. toasted toast, wearing shoes, not wearing shoes, throwing mulch, only liking melted cheese and not real cheese, why is my water not cold enough, I don't want to go, why is it my turn, why isn't it my turn, it's my ball not yours, melting down, forgiveness, packing the wrong shoes, pants, shirts, books.  And did I mention the remote control?

OMG with the fighting.

But you know what?

I don't think I'll ever stop thinking we are screwing it up every day.

Wondering if this is the interaction our kid will remember when they go to therapy in their 20s.

Wishing and hoping I had done better on my end.  I'm the adult, you know, I should do better.

I'd do it all over again and I'll continually resolve to do it better.

To control myself and how they react.

To try my best to find the magic (except that Santa lie, #santatruther)

But mostly, we need to keep plowing this beautiful messy field of lives we are planting.   What a privilege.   What a challenge.

So while we are all eating our greens and blackeyed peas and pork and tamales and cornbread and all the things, here's to the 20s.

But oif.  The teen years in the next decade.  Send help.

It Started with the Sausage

You know those moments?

The ones where you are like holy-shit-this-is-my-life-right-now?

Let's be honest, I have them on the regular.

But yesterdays, it started with a spatula.

I knew it was going to be one of those days because it is always one of those days.  The ones where the orchestra has to play together because otherwise it's all going to go to hell.  And to be honest, we're having more of those days lately than not.

And I was going to make breakfast because I was going to make breakfast because the plan was to make breakfast, and where was my damn favorite spatula.

As I posted on Facebook, it made me realize that I was "I have a favorite spatula years old."

I did a tick tock on a day in the life of the family a few years ago, and I always laughed when my colleagues with older kids said YOU HAVE NO IDEA.  But you guys, you have no idea.

Things get complicated and busier, and you just have to get better at what's going on.  Or choose not to and go with the flow.

You guys, I need a little more flow go.

In the span of eight hours, I found the damn spatula, cranked out a real breakfast, dropped the rest of the family at church, realized I still haven't delivered the promised breakfast to the new member small group, rejoiced at 20 found minutes and got gas at Costco, realized that I was in charge of soccer snack and ran into Costco for said snack with R with a goal of making it in and out in 13 minutes (we did), stopped and got some ibprofun at another place because his back was sore from 15 other hours of soccer that week, hit the portapotty, watched the rec baseball game for ten minutes because we were early (we always are), schlepped the team bench a quarter of a mile because I've got this and this is where we parked, called to get the girl a carpool to Scouts, checked in the team, sat in my blue chair for 55 minutes watching but not watching, ,kept some disgruntled soccer fans in check and raged at the bad sportsmanship of our opponents, took the kid to Chilis to introduce him to queso, left him asleep in the car when I dropped by the Girl Scouts meeting I was supposed to co-lead until I had to go back out to the car because I had a kid asleep in it, failed to deliver the news that I wasn't attending the camping trip this week, came home, declare it fishsticks and roasted broccoli night the kids are all getting over their Halloween hangover...

Thank goodness it wasn't a work day.  Don't get me started on travel soccer logistics.

And then Shawn, our designated slowdowner, slowed it down.

There wasn't laundry to fold (that'll be tonight and tomorrow).

There was Crazy Eights and War to be had, and I just couldn't click into it.

I sat with them, but on the sidelines.  We didn't set back the clocks and went with the fact it was almost 8pm and OMG you guys are so late for your bedtime. (ps, it was 645).

And here I was.  Between the spatula and the logistics, and sidelined for the joy.

I've admitted before I'm not the magical parent.  I'm never going to be.  I just don't have that gene.

I saw a Dad at ice skating last week kneel to his kid and look him in the eyes and he really connected.  He looked like he did.  And I was hustling to return the skates to get to a birthday party on time.

Am I losing the joy in the logistics and the finding of the damn spatula and what can I do about it?

For tonight, I rest in R thinking "Chilis is the best restaurant we have ever been to and can we do it again soon please?"

Knowing I've launched Annie into wanting to go on the camping trip alone next weekend to scrap at independence, and checking my guilt about not being there.

Watching James practice him capoeria moves and destroy his siblings in cards war?

Looking at this guy, watching that ten minutes of baseball and saying six hours later "Mama, did you see how the black team crushed that other team that inning, wasn't it awesome?"

My magic is logistics, and it was still awesome, dude.

That one when you are going to write a post

That one where you are going to post a lengthy diatribe, but too lengthy for Facebook, and there aren't enough threads for twitter, and you don't want to just airdrop it so you post a couple photos of your kids to get yourself off the dime.

Also, you now have seen the pirate costume ride for six out of eight years of parenting.  Not bad for $11.99.

Halloween

We have life subtext going on, and some BIG PARENTING THINGS that we are trying to figure out, but, for grandma and I'm going to make this blog into a photo book later, we have pictures.