Monday, September 9, 2013

Lessons


While grocery shopping with Grace last weekend, a well-meaning older gentleman stopped me and jovially mentioned “Ma’am, I hope your husband has a shot gun”. As I prepared to answer with a quick “He’ll probably need one” (I’ve learned it is simpler for everyone to allow people of a certain generation to believe that I’m married), Grace proudly announced, “My Mama doesn’t need a husband”.

A response that, if I’m being completely honest, shocked both of us.

My initial reaction was pride. I was impressed that my girl realized that we were doing just fine “on our own”. I was pleased that, despite loving princesses and fairy tales and babies, Grace understood that these things were not the ultimate fulfillment. That her life should be a kaleidoscope of imperfect parts and that no one element could truly anchor all the others.

As proud as I was, I couldn’t shake a nagging feeling of worry. Worry that my own life experiences were bleeding cynicism into Grace’s life.  Love is messy and fairy tales don’t always have the happy ending we expected. But the idea of her not wanting love, not seeking a partner to support her, to take out her garbage and rub her back because she “didn’t need one” or worse, because she was afraid of being let down…it tugged at my heart in an unexpected way.

I’d never want my girl to be afraid to get out there and “play the game” (why are relationships always described in sporting analogies?) I want her to get her heart broken 100 times, if it means she is putting herself out there.

This is the constant battle when raising a daughter. Wanting her to be tough, yet soft, strong but delicate.

I’m a far better person for all the love I have given and the mistakes I have made. I’ve had my heart broken enough times to recognize the symptoms but the physical pain of it never fails to take my breath away. But there is some truth in the belief you can’t recognize the beauty in your life without a little bit of the ugly.

You don’t need someone by your side to make your life an amazing journey. But there is no shame or weakness in yearning for the comfort of a shadow next to yours.

The guy who was never going to love me back reminded me what a selfless and illogical act love is. The guy who I desperately wanted to save showed me that letting go isn’t the same as giving up. There have been men who have unearthed parts of me I buried long ago, with small acts of kindness.  Sometimes there is a lesson in the wanting.


A friend recently said to me that she wasn’t sure what the opposite of feeling things deeply was but that it was something close to apathy and that it “just wasn’t her”.   She wasn’t talking about romantic feelings, but that sentiment has stuck with me over the last few days.  Whenever I have made mistakes when my heart is involved, it has been in situations where I’ve tried to remain unfeeling or ignored my own thoughts, negating my emotions as being “crazy”.  I’ve spent so long trying not to feel things deeply that now when I do, it scares me.

I want better for my daughter.

Grace knows that people can have babies without being married. She knows that boys can get married to other boys and girls can marry girls and that it doesn’t really matter who you marry, as long as there is love and kindness there. But what I’m afraid I’ve forgotten to teach her is that love is always worth the risk.

Nothing lasts forever and there are certain to be moments in her life where someone unexpected will hurt her. But even in those moments of pain (which will be worse for me, I’m sure), she is growing. She will come out on the other side changed, but infinitely better.

I didn’t expect to be teaching my daughter about love when I was still trying to figure it out for myself.

Grace is beautiful, but more importantly she is smart, funny and kind. I am confident that she will grow up being certain of all these things.  I hope I am patient enough to foster her fierce independence. I hope she is so certain of how awesome she is that she will believe that everyone else must see it too.


One day, I hope she meets someone who is even more certain of these things. Who will remind her when she falters.  When that day comes, I hope she has no fear in sharing her life with them.  Not needing to. But wanting to. 

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Embracing Innocence (Happy Fourth Birthday)







Dearest Gracie,

Something very bad happened in the world today.  In a city that I love very much, close to our home, someone committed a senseless, violent act. Lots of people were hurt and many more were frightened. They will spend the foreseeable future glancing over their shoulders, feeling uncertain of their place in the world, unsure of their safety.

I’m sorry to have to bring this up in your birthday letter. A letter that before this afternoon was filled with sweetness and pride, all things I still very much feel.  I wish that I could bottle your innocence, tuck you away from the world.

But I can’t protect you forever.

You are like me in many ways. When tragedies happen, you will want to make sense of it. You will want to dissect it. But that’s the thing about tragedy, my love. There are no answers. There is only the gnawing insistence that you hold on a little bit tighter to those who matter, that you pause for a deep breath of appreciation and marvel for a few minutes longer as sun warms your skin.  Your grandpa often reminds me not to try and apply logic to illogical situations. It’s a lesson I am still working on learning; maybe we can learn it together.

I want you to know that for every “bad” person in the world, there are hundreds, maybe even thousands of genuine people, people who dedicate their lives to rushing in and helping where instinct says to run in the opposite direction. There is lightness to be found everywhere and hope in the darkest situations.

You can be a part of that hope. You can create more lightness.  I have found, in my limited experience, that we are often strongest when the world seems harsh and insurmountable. Give the world the best you’ve got and you might just surprise yourself.

You cannot control what happens in your life or what goes on in the world around you. But you can face it with the same courage, the same open and kind heart that you already approach everything else.

This weekend we celebrated every single piece of you.  And when this horrible thing happened, I couldn’t wait to rush home and celebrate you all over again, to bury my head in your curls and eat a cupcake and laugh until our bellies ached.



When I was pregnant, I spent hours imagining who you might become. I wondered if you would love reading as much as I did, hoped you wouldn’t be as clumsy.

Then, in the midst of this imagining, amid the business of every day life you did something rather shocking. You grew up.  Without even asking my opinion or feelings on the matter.

You transformed from my baby, my tiny little munchkin into a very real and very independent person. With so many thoughts and imaginings of your very own.



You are intuitive and bright. You challenge me with your questions, asking me how my car was built and what happens to our bones when we die.  You’ve perfected your father’s comedic timing and share our love for being outdoors. Strangers frequently compliment you on your politeness and empathy.

By your very existence, you shook me from wanting to doing, from dreaming to living.


Anything that I am proud of in my life, I owe to you.


The past few nights, I’ve been letting you sleep in bed with me.  I know it’s not a great habit to be getting into, but when you asked last night if you could sleep with me, I answered “yes” a little quicker than I normally do.  I needed to feel the stirring of your lanky limbs beside me and feel comforted by your steady breathing in and out.  You laid down and placed your hand on my arm. When I asked what you were doing you said, “I just want to hold on to you, Mama”. And just like that, you knew what I needed most in that moment. 

I promise to do my very best to always give you what you need. I also promise to fiercely protect and embrace your innocence for as long as I can, but I'm starting to believe that I won't be able to keep the world out for very much longer. 

I may not always have the right answers. Sometimes, probably a lot of times, I am going to be scared too. And sad, the kind of sadness that sneaks into your bones and makes putting one foot in front of the other heavy work. 

But you have proven to me, in the last year of your life, that together, kid- you and I can do anything. 




Happy Birthday to my sweet, strong, smart girl. 

Four is going to be even better than either of us can imagine, I just know it. 

Love you to the moon and back, 


Mama


Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Heavy legs


My legs feel heavy and I am acutely aware of every inch of my body. The bruise that is lingering, yellow and sullen on my right shoulder, just below my collarbone. The rivulet of sweat creeping its way down the nape of my neck. The wisp of hair that won’t be contained. Music is blaring through my headphones, trying to drown out the whine of the old treadmill and the weighty thuds of each step.

My internal dialogue reminds me to keep moving. To will my feet to keep stride, not break the pace that is too fast for my first run in months.

I know you will wake soon. You will call for me, gentle and lilting at first- with your tone becoming increasingly irritated at my inaction. I will urge my body to move up the stairs and I will pick you up from your bed. Sweaty and sweet. I will pause at your door, watching the way your limbs cast shadows in the morning light and savoring the last few moments of quiet. And then our day will begin. Rushing to dress and to eat and to get in the car and to make it to work and to school and to get home and to make dinner and to read books and to get into bed and…


(Recently, crouched on my kitchen floor, I spoke with a friend about his desire to simply do everything. Ringing in his birthday at midnight with popcorn and whiskey, he described all of the things he was certain he needed to achieve. These things appeared insurmountable to me. At least I am reasonable, I mused. Realistic. I wonder now who I was trying to convince)

In the literal sense, I am moving,

My days are full.

But I feel stuck.


Before bed, you become suddenly inconsolable. You ask me in a voice sweeter than I have heard in a while if we could rock for a few minutes. I gather you in my arms and into my lap. My mind meanders back to the hundreds of hours I have spent in that very chair, in motion but unmoving. 

Moments when you were swaddled on my chest, where I was both exhausted and breathless at the beauty of you.  When I read “Llama Llama Red Pajama” for the thirtieth time. It was in this chair we rocked when your body was scorched with fever, when your mind was clouded with nightmares and some nights, when I just needed to be near to you as my own tears fell, hot and shameful.

You have almost outgrown my lap. I quietly begin to sing our lullaby and you sing along, knowing every single word. You reach upwards, almost absent mindedly, to stroke my hair, one arm thrown lazily around my neck. When our song is over, you launch into a dialogue about our life, our friends, how you used to rock in this chair every night when you were a little baby.

Blurring the edges of this soft, subtle moment are my doubts about the choices I have made. A mistake or regret lingers in every corner of my mind. Some are dusty, rusted. Others are shiny and bright and painfully new. I’ve grown tired of learning experiences, tired of keeping tally of the things that could and have and should go wrong.

But if I had to do it all again, to lead me to this moment with you- it is unquestionable that I would.  I make (and have made) so many mistakes. I hurt myself, over and over again, often just to remind myself to feel.It's often I find myself thinking that I spend many of my days moving back and forth, but not forward.

But you. You remind me to savor the seconds I have that are just pure. You are a living, dancing, epic tantrum-throwing reminder that I have been blessed to be a part of something so much bigger. A vastness I can’t truly begin to appreciate, but that I get to glance at through your fearless brilliant blue eyes.

And my face buried into your neck, trying to pour my gratitude onto your skin, I whisper thank you.