Time to Re-Decorate Again

            It’s time to take down the Jack-o-lanterns and witches and put up the turkeys and pilgrims.  But, I am looking at the storage boxes, the same ones that I’ve lugged up the stairs from the basement for the last ten years (or more) and they seem bigger and heavier this year.  I’m not feeling very much energy for the project.  In fact I was tempted leave these turkeys in their box this year.  It’s not quite as electrifying a project as it was then my children were little and would enthusiastically embrace each new season’s décor with wonder and awe and glee at the prospect of anticipating what was ahead.  

            They will still help find a spot for the pilgrim family and they will help with the welcome turkey we always put by the front door.  But it will take a little coaxing and cheer leading to get it done.  The thing is, I really believe it’s a tradition they will remember long into the future and so I think it’s important that I dive in and get the project rolling, even if it feels a little like a chore. 

            Who knew it took actual work to keep these traditions alive and well.  I never saw it coming.  The traditions I grew up with were simple and straightforward, but traditions I still to this day hold near and dear to my heart.  Among the countless things I have to be thankful for every year is that I have those childhood memories of Halloween trick or treating, Thanksgiving meals together and Christmas anticipation of stockings and presents.

            What I don’t remember is how it all got done.  Of course I know now that’s because I wasn’t doing any of the work back then.  But I still know right where we hung the reindeer and where we put up the tree. That’s the gift my parents gave me and, of course, the same one I’m trying to give my own boys: the gift of happy traditions that travel seamlessly and effortlessly from pumpkin carving to turkey carving and to tree cutting.

            But behind the smoke and mirrors that create the illusion of ease and perfection is hard work and nerves of steel.  It would be easy to say I just decided not to decorate for Thanksgiving this year. It would be easier to let someone else cook the meal for the extended families.  It would be easier to house the holiday chaos anywhere else but here.  It would be easier to let someone else find ways to entertain a crowd that includes moody teenagers, dementia, special diets, and fragile off-balance walkers poised for a fall at every step.  It would be easier to let someone else clean up the spilled drinks, dripped gravy and inevitable broken dishes.  It would be easier just to let the TV entertain the crowd instead of putting on a bingo tournament or organizing front yard football games.  It’s tempting to say let’s go on vacation instead and forget the whole thing. 

            The only problem is that old adage; hard work is it’s own reward. It really is true.  It’s hard work to make these days of celebration happen but there is an undeniable reward when I fall into bed at night.  I know the truth is, I really don’t want to be anywhere else.  The whole entire day is our family holiday; the repeated menu that every person here can recite from memory, the chance to see how the kids have grown, to be together warm and full, the chance to have some laughs, take some pictures, play some games, build some memories.  And then once it’s all over one of my son’s will say, “That was fun!”  And the other will complain that we don’t get to have that same meal more often.  And I will know in my heart that my mission has been accomplished. 

            While it may be exhausting, and it’s certain not to be perfect, the end result will be good enough and somewhere deep inside these two boys of mine, there will live a warm memory of how our family celebrated the holidays at home. 

            

I Got This! (not)

            I recently interviewed a young first time mom.  Even though our chat was weeks ago, her words have resonated with me ever since.  I asked her how things were going with this new little person in her world for less than two weeks.  She had the typical response, noting how she and her husband were learning to live with less sleep, how they were learning more every day about making baby happy and how they were spending hours gazing at their new bundle of joy marveling at the miracle she is.   Then she said this,  “At first I felt like I didn’t know anything at all, but now that we’ve had her home awhile I am feeling like--we got this.” 

            Three words, we got this.  I felt like those three little words cut right to my heart.  The mom of 16 years in me smiled inwardly at her naïveté.  I, like all moms, know the kind of ride she’s in for.  And I know how many countless times I have allowed myself to think, even for a moment, “We got this!”

            But if there’s one thing parenting has taught me it’s that you can count on feeling exactly the opposite of that most of the time.  It feels a little like walking up one of those huge gravel piles at a quarry.  The footing continuously slips away under your weight, and you find yourself slipping backward, or fighting just to stay in place.

              I suppose there is something about human nature that prompts us to fool ourselves into a sense of confidence that we are on top of the challenge; ahead in the race; full of answers. But my experience time and again has been, just when I think I have things figured out, the rules change and you get a full dose of reality with another lesson in how much you don’t know.

            That new moms words resonate with me because I so desperately want to feel that little confident skip in my step, that inward confidence that I’m on top of things.  But what I really feel many times is inadequately equipped for the answers that life is demanding of me.  I feel unsure that the decisions I’m making are the right ones.  I feel, like I did all those years ago, so robbed that there is no instruction manual that came with these little darlings I share my world with.

            All I have is my gut.  It’s all I’ve ever had to go by at the end of the day.  But trusting that instinct sure isn’t easy.  Especially when it seems so many times like I’m on an island. 

            Lately I’ve been asking myself, am I the only mom who says no? It is not the fun answer.  It is not the popular answer.  It doesn’t make you your child’s friend.  But then, I keep telling myself, it’s not my job to be his friend.  And so I look right into those hopeful, pleading eyes and say it; no, you can’t go, or do, or buy, or whatever. Two letters that feel like the weight of the world sometimes.

            I try to stick to my convictions, even when it means giving up something more fun to remain true to a commitment.  I enforce a bed time even when others have long ago given that up.  I play the tough cop when it would be much more fun not to.  And I keep talking when I know they are begging me in their minds to shut up.

            All of this builds up now that we have entered the teenage years.   I’m proud to say I’ve taught them to be thinking young men, and they are now quite capable of a good debate, which can make that once rock solid stand you were taking actually feel pretty shaky at times.  But, even worse, now they retreat to a familiar silent stare, behind a poker face that gives up nothing when it comes to the meaningful stuff.

            The bottom line is that all of the years I have been a parent, I have almost never felt like, “I got this.” And now days, it feels like a cruel hoax that I ever will.  My spare time, my awake hours, my conversations with other moms, all of the effort I have left at the end of the day is to find a way to feel certain I’m on the right track.  I dream that things could be like a game show and when I get the answer right a bell would ding, ding, ding happily and when I’m getting it wrong there would be a loud buzzer to indicate that too.  Instead, what I feel is humbled by the huge responsibility, and so unqualified for the job at hand, that I am at times paralyzed  by my own fear and uncertainty, yet so determined to do my best not to mess it up that I keep pushing forward toward that allure that I might once again feel like, I got this, no problem. 

            I know why I smiled on the inside when that new mom shared her enthusiasm with me, because there must be some universal primal bond we share, no matter the stage of parenting, for celebrating the little victories, because I already know what is just around the corner, and I can appreciate just how precious that little moment really is.

             

           

           

             

Time For Bed

            The more things change the more they stay the same.  It is a fact I love bedtime.  It is today and has been since my kids were born, my favorite time of day.   And its not just because its when I finally get that desperately needed time to myself, although that’s worth it’s weight in bubble bath too.   And even though my family knows I do enjoy my sleep and could always use more of it, that’s not why I feel such a connection to this time of day either.  It’s bigger than that; too big to ignore and yet so small and simple it’s impossible to completely appreciate, so I’m constantly left wanting more. 

            It feels primal.  I think it’s a magical time of day, when the skies are turning to twilight, and we all know sleep isn’t far away.

            It started when the boys were babies.  Bedtime brought squeaky-clean cherub faces, in pajamas with feet, and special blankets for snuggling.  It was the time when they would finally calm down enough to rock and sing lullabies and stare back into my eyes until they would eventually give in to sleep and lay there snuggly and safe.  And in spite of my own exhaustion, I could still realize there was something about that time of day that I could trust to carry me through; and even though I may have felt empty, and tired and worn out, bedtime could fix it. 

            Later when we started reading books that magic only grew.   I wouldn’t trade crawling into bed or piling onto the couch every night with a stack of favorite books for a million dollars.   I looked forward to it as much as they did, to read and laugh and look at beautiful illustrations and almost always take more minutes than I promised.  I memorized those books.  I know right where we turned each page, and which gentle rhythm was the best just before tucking in, and which ones would get the biggest belly laughs.  And lying there shoulder to shoulder I could feel it rise up in me, warm and full, that feeling: joyful, peaceful, blissful, bedtime.

            It’s not that every single night was pure bliss.  There were the thousand requests to get teeth brushed and baths taken, and arguing about who touched who and who said what.  But tired tears always dried up quickly and it always ended the same way.

            I don’t even know when that changed, but eventually, they got old enough that they started reading their own books, and bedtime became just tucking in.  Even though I could still recite most of their favorite books page by page, it was time to move on.  So I found my own ways to make bedtime work for me. 

            Sometimes we all read our own books quietly to ourselves but snuggled in my bed.  Sometimes they read in their own beds.  But we still had tucking in time. That’s when we would drag out our good nights with long rituals of hugs, and kisses, and I would run back and forth from room to room, each time I’d leave one room the other would shout, “Just one more hug!”  I couldn’t stop hugging them! That’s when we invented the “air-hug”, because eventually the game had to come to an end. So when it came time for the last hug I would stand in their door, hold my arms out to the side and end the night with the words, “Air-Hug, I love you!” And they would throw their arms out wide and reply, “Air-hug back, I love you.” And it worked for all of us, that bedtime magic was still alive, and I would walk down their hall when we finally turned off the last light, with a huge sense of accomplishment and relief and peace.

            But time marches on.  This summer they have enjoyed staying up later than me, and I frequently find myself heading to bed while they are still lounging and eating popcorn and watching a movie.  Or, when I do say goodnight in their rooms, it is sometimes just a quick hug and kiss and I love you and that’s it. 

            I don’t know if I can have my magical bedtime for very much longer.  But I do know I won’t let go without a fight.  So, when I go to bed before them, I bring bedtime to me.  I have them come to my room and tuck me in with a hug and kiss.              And on the night’s I am in their dark rooms at bedtime, I’ve discovered that occasionally, if you look for it, the magic is still hiding in there.  It’s quiet and hard to find and it happens at the most unexpected times.  But if you’re not in a hurry, and you wait for it, every so often, just as I’m about to walk out the door, it happens.

“Hey Mom….”

            And just like that I’m sucked right back in, to sit on the side of their bed, looking into those same eyes I rocked and read to so many times, and listening to any sort of random observation, or telling jokes, or sharing more grown up thoughts. Sometimes we laugh, sometimes we figure out one of life’s challenges, sometimes we talk about our day or the next day and sometimes we just sit quietly and linger.  But always, in that little moment, I am thankful beyond words to say we still feel it.  It’s alive, that special magic is there, holding us suspended in time, until we’re finally ready for the very last air-hug.

Hats Off to the Hats in my Life

I wear a lot of hats around here.  Mother’s day seems a popular time to reflect on all those hats we wear, mom, wife, daughter, sister, aunt, cousin, friend, neighbor, but also, taxi driver, doctor, carpenter, chef, counselor, banker, janitor, philosopher, teacher, preacher, judge, jury and soon to be back seat driver. I like wearing all that headgear and to be honest, sometimes life might be a little more fun if there were an actual hat to wear when I had to be the bad cop. 

In reality, I don’t like to wear many hats outside of keeping my ears warm.  But I sure have had some great hats in my life, literally.  They may have been on someone else’s head, but they remain inside mine.  These are the hats that became so familiar that I still get a catch in my throat, a warm spot in my heart, or just a happy feeling when I spot one like them in a crowd because, in my mind, the head under those hats is crystal clear and that hat is like a time machine that takes me back.

   I can see Grandpa mowing the lawn, back and forth, past my cousins and me on an ordinary summer day.  But the hat on his head sits at a jaunty angle and is cocked just a little to one side, his signature look.   When he really wanted to show off he’d push it way up his forehead so it barely hung on, so we could have a better view of whatever little show he was putting on.  He never went anywhere without a hat that I can remember.  It was just a part of his act.  It was a part of him.  When I see that jaunty cap in a crowd…I see him.

Then along came my first son and low and behold the year he turned two, he discovered ball caps.  That kid wore a hat from sun up to sun down; from the moment he woke up, inside or out, for meals, naps and car rides, even to see Santa, for an entire year.  He had a couple of favorites that got a pretty good test in the summer months when they would be wet from his sweaty head.  But he refused to take them off no matter how we reasoned with him.  I can’t remember the first time he wanted to wear one, but I’m guessing it had to do with the players.

They were the giants down the street.  To him I’m sure it seemed they just magically showed up on that diamond we could see from our front yard, just a house down the block and across the street.  We didn’t even notice it when we moved in, but it turned out to be my son’s field of dreams.  Every day as soon as the weather turned warm from the time he was two to about four years old, he would repeat the mantra, “Let’s go see the players.”  It was like he was the tide being pulled by the moon; he just had to get over to see those players.

So, almost daily we would load up his baby brother in the wagon and make the journey to watch from high atop a hill as game after game unfolded on the field below.  Always, the constant in our trips was that ball cap marching ahead of me eagerly leading the way.  Or if I sat with his sleeping brother, I could watch that cap making it’s way along the fences, bobbing past the spectators to get a closer look. 

 And now I’m standing here on this familiar hill looking for another hat.   This time it belongs to one of the players, not a giant, but he’s taller than me.  He has that same march in his step and the same blue eyes and has returned to the scene of so many dreams dreamed.  From up here I can spot his hat as he steps onto the field over on that side of the fence for the first time, one of the players, and I know the moment is lost on him.  But it’s a big one for me.  And in that instant, I can almost see a little cap moving around the fences to sneak a little closer look.  Just for a moment it feels surreal. And it’s in that little snippet of time that I know for sure no matter how many hats I wear, none will ever compare to the other hats in my life.

Dotting The I's And Crossing The T's

I’m going to admit this right up front. I use punctuation in my texts. I know, I know, texting is a minimalist effort, less is more, words stripped to just a single letter, the fewer vowels the better. But I can’t do it. I’ve tried, but just can’t resist the urge. It’s like I crave that comma. My mind just can’t let my body hit send without that final period. It’s like a song ending on the note just before the final note. It leaves me feeling unsettled.
Since I have kids with phones, and a husband to travels frequently, I really do try to stay ahead of the curve and keep up with the latest technology. I actually love texting and the instant connection it offers at times when, in the “olden days”, we would just have been lost, or lonely, or bored or separated from life back home. It is worth gold to me to get a surprise midnight text from a sleepover that says, “luv u” or “gnite”.
I suspect that part of my affinity for marking up my texts may stem from my English Major college days, but it goes beyond that. It’s primal. I think those little insignificant twists, turns, lines and dashes along the pathways of our writing are such a metaphor for the same things along the pathways of life. A stretch? Maybe, but I really think it’s part of my addiction.
Here’s why. I firmly believe in finding small reminders in our hectic everyday lives to remember that the little things really are the big things in the end.
One of my favorite little things is to jump for joy. I force everyone in my family to do it now and then. And I mean we really do jump around the living room, fling our arms in the air and have a good hoot once in a while to celebrate. Now, sometimes my celebration is far more enthusiastic than others in my house, but I don’t care, because I know they need this! “C’mon, jump!” I urge them. “Who cares how we look--It feels so good!”
I just firmly believe some things shouldn’t slip past without the wild celebration they deserve, life’s too short. We have too many reasons not to jump around. I say, when you get one, grab a hold and jump. We need exclamation points in our lives! That’s why I really can’t hit send on an “I luv u!” text without the proper ending.
Like every family we are challenged to get everything done. We struggle to keep every plate spinning, and sometimes we crash. But life on high speed burns you out unless you can find a place to pause along the way.
Last week I was running behind, as I do many mornings, when I realized with a quick glance out the window, that I was missing something stunning. An amazing show that would last just a few minutes as the sun was coming up just perfectly. It was like a magic show, to see the morning frost reflect off of otherwise invisible spider webs. I actually pulled to the side of the road, to soak it in just for a minute, to marvel at the miraculous engineering work of those tiny dreaded spiders and the
diamond crystals shining so beautifully in a quiet, secret roadside garden. I felt so lucky that I had a chance to notice the comma in my life, to pause, if just for a few seconds or risk missing one of life’s ordinary miracles.
And of course sometimes we just need to stop. Period. This year the Christmas ads started before Halloween. And Thanksgiving really didn’t get much attention. We decided early in November we needed to find a way to make the season feel the way we want it to feel. We realized we needed to stop the noise around us. We needed to focus on a lot more than what to buy. We needed to not
just slow down, because sometimes that’s not enough. We needed ways to stop.
Everything. Period. That is a gift.
So, that’s why I am ruined when it comes to texting, at least the short and
sweet way. My life, it seems, is just incomplete without a nod to those little signs
marking our way.

Good Enough

It’s a character-building day for my youngest son. It’s not something that’s 

easy to watch as a parent, and my heart breaks just a little for him. But my brain 

knows that my tougher-than-nails boy will be even stronger for this later.

It’s really not a bad thing. We’re attending a tryout for a sports team in 

another city. We are far outside his normal comfort zone. And, we are not here 

because he asked to come. We are here because we let him know it wasn’t a choice 

to attend. It’s not because we are dead set on him making some team, although that 

may be a choice he gets to make down the road. It’s about much more than that.

Here’s the problem. Our son is a social, outgoing, friend-centered middle 

schooler. No kid in middle school wants to do anything different than the rest of the 

gang, to strike out on your own can be social suicide. So of course his first question 

about this try out is, “Will any of my friends be there?”

Our answer, “We don’t know. This isn’t about your friends, it’s about you.” 

He is a talented athlete and student, who relies on natural ability for a majority of 

what he does in life. But as talented as we know he is, he just doesn’t see it. He 

sorely lacks self-confidence. And while he has had a few experiences to test his 

mettle, there haven’t been many like this.

So, here we stand in a lobby full of people milling about. I can feel the 

nervous energy sparking throughout the room. I see my boy standing silently 

beside me, scanning the room. There are no familiar faces to cut the tension. He 

is completely on his own. Not a friend in sight. I know he’s feeling a lot of things 

but among them is not happiness. He’s far outside his safe zone and mad at me for 

placing him here.

I start to feel my resolve slipping, and for just a minute I give in to that look I 

see in his eyes. 

But, we’re forging ahead, because here’s the deal. In life, there are many 

uncertainties. You will face many challenges for which you need to be armed with 

knowledge. You need the knowledge you gain from attending math and science 

classes and reading about history. But you also need self-knowledge. Who are you 

as a person? How do you respond to personal challenges? What’s inside you that 

you can reach in deep for at times of doubt?

Self-discovery of this nature isn’t easy to come by. And the best way I know 

to learn is to have as many experiences as you possibly can, to navigate as many 

situations as you can when you have no one else to rely on but yourself. Then, when 

you come out on the other side you may find that along with relief that it’s over, you 

feel something else too. You may find that you’ve discovered something about 

yourself that you didn’t know before. Something you can draw on, and build on, in 

the future.

Am I naïve to think a sports tryout can do all that? I don’t think so. I 

recognize now, as an adult, that so many challenges I’ve faced in my life could have 

been handled much differently if I had faced my own fear a time or two in a safe and 

controlled way, with a challenge like this.

When he finally walks out, sweaty, happy to be done, and ready to go home 

and I ask, “How’d it go?”

I already know the answer. Because regardless of whether he lands on a 

team or not, I know he’s already won.

I say to my son, “You don’t know this now, but you are going to be in many, 

many situations in life where you’re going to have that feeling you had today again, 

and going through this now may come in handy later.” 

The fact is we all need this. To be self-confident, self-assured, and able to 

represent yourself in uncomfortable situations takes practice. It doesn’t happen by 

accident alone. There will be moments when mental fortitude will pay off and the 

strongest guy will have the edge.

This is training for that, something we can’t manufacture at home, or in a 

practice, or at school. This is the most valuable training money can buy when it 

comes to living through a situation you just aren’t sure you can survive, and then 

you do. That is personal growth you can’t measure on any chart. It’s much more than 

making a team or not making a team.

This is building a foundation. This is building from the inside out, the bottom 

up. This is preparing at it’s most basic, because if you don’t know who you are 

than no one will. So, my little pal, today is just for you, as painful as it may feel. All 

those other people around me don’t matter. All I see is you. And I know we’ve laid 

another brick in a pretty solid foundation!

Bustin' Onto The Scene

          We are celebrating small victories. It’s the most basic things in our lives that have come into full focus the last three weeks since we have brought home the new baby. I forgot how the entire universe shifts a bit for that tiny little being. No, this time it’s not a human baby.   

              This time it’s of the four legged variety. He came in a 12 pound, tail wagging, floppy eared, explosion of fluff, blond, clumsy body. He captured our hearts from the moment we laid eyes on him, but life as we knew it before that moment came to a screeching halt.

       He is Buster. When he rolled out of his kennel the first day we met him he had the roundest balloon belly we could imagine, a playful excited greeting, and a snuggly disposition that we thought was just about the perfect combination for a family pet. So our decision really wasn’t a decision at all. We all agreed in that first instant we laid eyes on him, that he would be the perfect fit to fill the gaping hole in our family left from the passing of our dog Bucky last spring.

           But I must say I completely forgot what it was like to baby proof the house. That sure didn’t take long to come rushing back though. I instantly remembered when the kids were first learning to move around the house, little accidents waiting to happen, every thing in their path, first deposited directly into their mouthes with lightening speed. I remember then too, like now, how inventive we all became in order to get anything done around here. All the small little daily tasks seemed monumental. Suddenly, just brushing your teeth, or taking a shower, or changing out of your bath robe was a tiny little victory. I remember thinking I would never again be able to accomplish a wardrobe change, complete with hair and make up all in one day. I also remember thinking surely I was the only one unable to function normally with this small new little person sucking away my attention.

               But of course you learn to adapt. And we are once again doing just that with this new baby in the house. It seems many of those old coping skills are coming back to me in a pretty handy way. Just as I did with my boys when they were babies, I am forced to be inventive, see the world around me through new eyes. I’ve re-discovered how many incidental items around the house become make-shift entertainment gems when you really need to get the dishes done, or dinner made or laundry folded. I remember how the cabinet with all the pots and pans was gold when I needed just 15 or 20 minutes to myself, wooden spoons as mallets, pie tins as cymbals, pots as drums and joyful music as entertainment to sing our way through chores. 

                 Today, I discovered an old Disney coffee mug and a plastic water bottle waiting for recycling, as the perfect toys for a puppy to chase about the kitchen for just enough time to accomplish cleaning up breakfast and loading the dishwasher. Mission accomplished.
Of course the babies wore diapers, and this one doesn’t, which presents it’s own set of challenges. 

                     But in spite of the demands that now stretch the family to new limits, that send us racing about the house after this crazy bundle of energy, that test our patience, nerves, and will on a daily basis, the rewards, we all know, will be worth it in the end. They already are.
       
                 Just as I remember gazing at our peaceful sleeping bundles of joy all those years ago as babies, it’s pretty similar now, when Buster finally does surrender to the inevitable nap, huge paws limp, ears flipped and belly exposed. That familiar feeling of love mixed with exhausted pride and accomplishment come rushing back. The little daily victories, lost without a baby in the house to remind you how much you can do as a multi-tasker. Yep, he’s a keeper. But it’s nap time. Either I should be napping too, or I need to stop admiring his cuteness, and work at warp speed to get everything checked off the list today that needs to be checked.

Sounds of Silence

There is music on the walk with my dog today.  Finally, after this eternally long winter, the birds are singing.  What an amazing sound it is.  It feels busy and alive. I actually have a physical reaction -- a direct shot of endorphins to my body. Our puppy stops to listen too.  It sounds different, fresh and new and joyful.  All the things winter was not. It gives me hope.  It fills me with the reassurance that nature hasn’t let me down, and spring renewal is coming.  That’s something worth breathing in for more than a second.

For the quiet months of winter, the dog and I had mostly silent walks.  The woodpeckers were even quiet.  We have had so much snow, that mostly we listened to the sound of my boots crunching along, every step a battle against a bitter harsh world.    

There was one thing that broke the monotony of it. Some nights under clear skies and a bright moon, we got a treat. We have a couple of owls in the neighborhood.  I’m sure they watched from their silent perch, every time we braved the cold for an evening walk.  But on occasion they spoke, deep and low and slow.  Back and forth they called, Whooooo. Whoooo. 

If your not paying attention you’ll miss it altogether.  It’s very subtle, much too quiet to echo.  But it does, inside me.  Each time I hear them I feel unbelievably lucky to be present in that moment.  But there is something else.  Something about their tone, and the notes they sing .  It’s truly like they are speaking directly to me.  Only I can’t understand.  I long to know what they’re feeling.  Are they happy or sad, are they lonely or content?  It calms and haunts at the same time somehow.

Maybe it touches my heart so deeply because of the similarity to something else in my world today.  Our life blessed with a sometimes moody but mostly sweet, thoughtful, and by all accounts typical teenager is a little like living with a soulful hoot owl; emerging from time to time to speak, but most times, staring silently at the world around him.  As hard as I try to understand, much of what happens in his quiet world lies just beyond my reach.  Our conversations usually touch on the surface things, “How was your day?”

“How was your test?”

“What was for lunch?”

We don’t get much deeper than that, even though I know there’s a lot more going on in that head.  It’s nothing different than what any other parent of a teenager goes through I suppose, but that doesn’t make it any easier to encounter those big round eyes I’ve been gazing into since he was an infant, looking back at me with a curious unfamiliar stare that covers up so much.  And I wonder, are you happy or sad, content or lonely?  You can ask, but what you get back will be pretty similar to what I’m hearing from somewhere high and lost in the trees of my neighborhood.  You have to pay attention, or miss your chances at understanding any of it.

It leaves me with no choice but to trust in nature, and trust in the groundwork we’ve laid in all our years of parenting to date.  Trust the village we’ve surrounded him with, the positive influences he has available to reach out to if he needs to.  It leaves me calm and haunted at the same time, somehow trusting that he will find his way, but realizing that watching from my distance is so much harder than it was to walk it myself as a teenager.  Trust that all this snow will eventually melt and the birds will sing and spring will once again let us know that we’ve made it through a long journey safe and sound on the other side.