Making the Best of it

We said goodbye to my “little” Grandma Irene in January.  She would have turned 99 in March. I was bigger than her by 5^th grade, and as an adult always felt twice her size.  She was one of those kinds of people who, from my perspective, were nothing short of perfect.  She was beautiful inside and out.  She was smart.  She liked to learn a new word every day. She was gentle, kind and patient. And, if I was smart enough to pay attention, she showed us all one of the most perfect examples of how to live a good life that I know of.

Almost every evening around 5, she and Grandpa “Flip” would enjoy a Southern Comfort and lemonade.  They ate small healthy meals. They enjoyed simple pleasures. And they knew how to have good laughs.  They lived through the Great Depression and two World Wars.  They knew how to face adversity.  They knew how to save for a rainy day.  They were prepared for the worst but expected the best.  They knew how to make the best of it.

And even as I was learning the news of Grandma Irene’s passing I was also about to learn one of the great lessons of life first hand.

I found out the news moments after our plane touched down in Orlando as we stood in line for a bus to our Disney wonderland vacation. I would miss her services back home. It was the start of an ironic chain of events that no one could have ever predicted.  It set a tone for our trip that I thought we would not be able to shake.  The whole mess was simply a disaster that couldn’t be avoided. 

The details are not relevant, so I will strip our story to its bare essentials.  As we wiped tears and walked to our bus, we realized the weather was freezing.  Florida was experiencing a rare cold snap.  Jake was, we thought, recovering from a stomach virus which he came down with the day before we left.  Sadly, that was not to be.  Our little guy was sick the entire trip, every single night.  He lost six pounds and did not eat one full meal.  He was weak and without energy, too queasy for many rides. Once the weather warmed up a bit we experienced a day of pelting 4 inch rains.  

I spent the first full day of our dream vacation, bitter, angry, and tearful.  I was jealous of all the happiness that surrounded us everywhere we looked.   Then that sweet boy of mine burst into tears and said, “Mommy, I’m sorry I’m ruining our vacation!”

It was then that I knew, I physically felt the presence of Grandma, and I knew what she would do and what I needed to do too.  We needed to make the best of what we had.  We were facing a moment of great adversity for our family and how we responded would set an example that we would all need to learn from.  Would this defeat us or would we do what Grandma would do and look for the ray of sunshine in all those clouds.

And so, our trip turned out much different than we had anticipated.  But we each dug deep and found ways to not just survive but to lift each other up, to enjoy close company, to appreciate feelings of empathy for each other we likely wouldn’t have looked for otherwise, and had genuine moments of joy amidst many other moments of difficult challenges.

One day I hope we will look back on this as “that vacation” and smile and think of good memories and how we did the best we could.

Our generation has experienced privileges we cannot fully appreciate, but we can learn, if we open our eyes, a lesson from those who make up the Greatest Generation. We can teach our children that they can sink or swim.  We can show them how to be bitter and angry or we can smile and help them find the bright side.  We can be defeated and give up or we can face our challenges and make the best of it. I know what Grandma would do.   

Just enough time

Why is it that most chaos, damage and destruction happen at my house when I am in the bathroom?  It’s impossible to avoid of course. And it’s not like it’s a leisurely vacation in there.  It’s just a few seconds ticking off the clock.  But usually that’s just enough time.

When Jake was about 2 that was the time the older boys in the neighborhood decided he could sit by himself on a tricycle. I was just about to walk out the door when John came running in yelling, “Jake’s blooding!”  It was just enough time.

So tonight, I am hearing from outside my private perch, “Come on, come on just do it!”  Followed by scuffling sounds and then loud crying and the inevitable, “Ohhh, are you ok??” 

I come running out to see what trauma is unfolding but in my haste I jam my hand into the door and send my glass flying on the tile floor, shattering the thing to a jillion jagged shards.

By the time the mess is cleaned up, it’s time to get the little darlings in bed, and what had started as an evening of relaxation is instead a big frustrating confusion of politicking on who said what and who started it and who is mad at whom all ending with good nights that are more terse than usual and feelings that are most certainly hurt. None of the three of us are without blame, but that doesn’t make anyone feel any better.

While I know I will be picking up tiny bits of glass for days to come, that’s not what I’m really bothered by at all.  I know accidents happen and the whole thing isn’t even a blip on the radar screen of events to be remembered in life. So why is my mood so glum I ask myself in the quiet of an evening when I’m alone in a house with everyone asleep but me?  And I know the answer as sure as I know the sounds of their steady even breathing in their rooms down the hall.  The real problem of the night is that even one happy bedtime stolen away is too many. 

I know the reality is the happy bedtime routine I love is slipping away from me, and one day won’t be a part of my evenings at all. From the very beginning it was the routine that grounded us all through dark days of sleep deprivation, long nights of fever and croup, troubles at work and school, they all seem a little more bearable once you reach the familiar routine of winding down and getting ready for bed.  Back then it was books and baths and nightlights the very same motions step by step every night so that we all knew every bit by heart. And even though the steps are much more independent now all the motions still spell out the ultimate peaceful end to another day. 

Always, always the last step leads me into their darkened rooms to lean over each of their beds to hug, to feel their arms around my neck, to put my cheek against theirs and whisper I love you in each other’s ears.  

What started out as a way to give the kids quiet confidence at bedtime has instead turned out to be a gift to the whole family. And I don’t want to hurry that moment even one time since I‘ll have plenty of time later to clean up life’s spilled milk and maybe even spend a few extra moments in the bathroom if I want to. 

So Long Friend

On a little patch of dirt in our front yard an acorn put down one tiny root that started a journey more than 100 years ago.  I know this because an arborist told me it may have been growing here for as many as 120 years. News that came as a sad irony on the day we were cutting it down.  Its loss left more than an empty spot in my front yard. 

It stood right at the end of the path I walk down every day to get my mail.  From the moment we moved into this house it was one of my favorite trees.  Its circumference was way too big to put your arms all the way around.  It was indeed a superstar, but in a low-key sort of way not too proud to share the spotlight.  The kind of tree that, alone, would have turned heads on a busy road, but on our little street, surrounded by all sorts of other species growing in its shadows,  it could be a commanding center of attention or you could have passed by it every day without even noticing.  But I did.

It was the kind of tree that had character.  It had gnarled old branches that jutted around ancient bumps and bruises that may have slowed it down at one time but didn’t stop it from branching out in another direction.  It had the kind of bark that artists try to copy, and photographers want for its dark shadows, and teenagers want to lean against for their high school photos. It was the kind of tree that had secret hiding places where the squirrels hid nuts and woodpeckers found breakfast and who knows what found a spot to stay warm during long cold winters.  It was the kind of tree that gave dark cool shade on a hot day. It was the kind of tree that could hide a whole body in a summer night game of capture the flag.

To me, it seemed to hold up the rest of the yard there in that patch of dirt.  It was so strong it hardly ever lost a branch.  In winter snow, if you craned your neck you could see it un-phased, holding up its heavy load.  It hardly moved in the wind.  It seemed invincible.

But, it wasn’t.  In the end it was that big wind storm that yanked half the trunk from its foundation, leaving the other half too weak to hold its own weight.  So even though I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing it go, I could see nature had spoken.  The tree that seemed like my strong silent friend would have to go.

We kept some cross cuttings of its huge trunk to use as stepping stones.  But I won’t need those to remember. It’s the perfect metaphor. I know life is changing before my eyes every day, and I am usually too busy to notice.  Now, each day when I get the mail, as I walk past that big flat tree stump I know something amazing happened there.  I have reason to slow down, and pay attention and make sure my own roots are grounded and my branches are all stretching in the right direction, and whatever wind blows my way I’ll squeeze tight to what I believe in and never let go standing here on that patch of dirt in my front yard.   

Christmas Spirit Nov. 2009

Each week my 5th grader brings home a hand written report detailing events of the past days at school. His accounts are brief and chock full of misspellings. But what they lack in flourish and perfection, they often make up for in thought and spirit. “What I Did This Week” generally involves a list of the sports he played at recess. Followed by the “What I’m Proud of This Week” which is frequently tied to some success at the sports at recess. It’s all rounded out with the “What I’ll Work on Next Week” section which almost always involves a variation on the theme, “I will try not to talk while the teacher is talking.”


But these little reports also contain tiny little glimpses into my 10 year olds’ psyche. Like the day he wrote that he was proud he tried a new food at lunch—but didn’t like it. The day he wrote that he was proud he finished a book and followed that with the enthusiastic report that it was the best book he’d ever read. But occasionally there is a little gem of a story, scrawled in heavy hand that I tuck away as a little Christmas Present no matter what time of year it is. Like the day he wrote, “I’m proud I worked with the new kid at school today.”

When I asked for details, he shrugged and said, “Oh, yea, no one wanted to be his partner so I said I wanted to be his partner.”

“Wow, John, that was really cool of you,” I said.

“Yea, and mom, he is really nice and funny and I want to have him come over and play sometime.”

With Christmas just weeks away our conversations frequently turn to buying gifts and writing wish lists and getting it all done by the big day. But we also chat about generosity, and giving, and the real meaning of Christmas. The thing is, I believe it’s a year round lesson and that growing a generous spirit can’t be cultivated in just a few weeks before Christmas.

Among the dozens of collections contained in my youngest son’s room is an ever expanding rock collection. At bedtime he will frequently tell me he’s given away his favorite rock or fossil because a friend didn’t have one. Most times his action is completely without thought of what he is giving up and that is occasionally followed by second thoughts at bedtime. But, in the end, we usually agree, it feels pretty good to give someone a special thing that has meaning to us and he falls asleep happy.

Each night I search these blue eyes that stare back at me at bedtime, for the little daily Christmas Presents of a spontaneous kind heart, and generous nature. I squeeze my eyes shut tight when they wrap their arms around my neck. I think how much I love their kind little souls and feel proud that this week we nurtured their generosity beyond the Christmas spirit--the best Christmas gifts they could ever give me.

Planet John Aug. 2010

From the moment his feet touched down on this planet, our youngest son Jake has been drawn by one gravitational pull only. His entire world spins on the axis of one taller older mirror image of himself, his older brother.

It is exactly what I had dreamed of 10 years ago when we decided to see if a second child would become a part of our future. I remember the exact moment I knew for sure I wanted to try for a second baby. I was watching out the kitchen window as our first born sat alone in the sandbox in the back yard digging in the sand quietly. He was a happy contented child, but I knew the moment his brother appeared in the hospital room and, just a few hours old, turned his head toward the first sound of John’s voice, that my wish had been granted. John would never again be alone. No matter what happened to me and his dad, he would always have this little blond headed spitfire dashing about his world to be his friend, his team mate, his confidant, his brother.

This fall Jake is finally able to join John in the time honored tradition of wearing shoulder pads and a helmet and for the first time, playing the sport he seems born to play alongside his older more seasoned brother. He’s watched from the sidelines for the last two years, eagerly longing to strut about, padded from head to toe, but mostly just longing to be with John.

But now for the first time in 9 years something else is happening this fall. John is going off on his own adventure to experience a new phase of his life. He’s become a Middle Schooler. For every way he’s been building up to this new change, his brother has watched and anticipated by his side as he checked out his new locker, the new hallways, the new school.

What Jake didn’t anticipate is how his world would start spinning a little differently. For the first time he is just Jake, not Jake and John. At church when it came time last week for the kids to go to Sunday school, the Middle School students sat tight. They have their own time and space now away from the younger kids. Jake, who normally bounces off without even a glance back at me, turns his head in a steady even stare and says, “I’m not going.”

What he means is, “I’m not going without John.”

He would not be convinced. That’s when I realized, the world as he knows it is stopping on a dime, and no one could have prepared him for it. The walk to and from school is without the pal to tell stories to and confide secrets to along the way. Lunch time won’t include the traditional bump or high five from the cool 5th grade friends of his older brother.

In fact, the very way he looks at himself is changing. As much as he wants to fight it, Jake is learning to be Jake without John. A completely foreign and uncomfortable adventure he would rather not be on. And as patient and tolerant as his brother has been all these years of having this little shadow tag along through life, now, Jake is neither.

It isn’t easy to see him struggle through these days, but in the end I know he must become his own man and that only comes from times like these. I know that not every family has siblings that are this tuned-in to one another with so many similar interests and a real mutual desire to be together. I am certain that the planets must have been in line the day Jake was born and I remain grateful that the gravitational pull of his brother is no less strong today than it was the day Jake searched the room for that familiar voice that would become the center of his universe.

Middle School Maze

There is something about taking a walk in crunchy leaves that is nostalgic. Each crackling step conjures up a thought or memory like a flash of sunlight through golden branches.

In a blink, there you are as a child romping in the leaves raking with your grandpa and giggling cause he uses swear words your parents won’t use; a second later you’re playing hide and seek with your own tow-headed toddlers delighting in the piles for diving and rolling about; and just as fast you’re on a romantic Door County walk, fingers entwined, in a life less complicated long ago.

I have time most days to treasure these walks in the last warm days before the cold chases me in too fast to enjoy a daydream. I always share my trips about the neighborhood with my furry pal, Bucky, the family golden retriever.  Today I noticed he has licked a sore spot on his back leg. Craig says it’s because the last few days I’ve been called away to other appointments and have missed our daily walks and, in fact, quite a bit of the day altogether. “He misses you,” Craig says.  “He follows you around all day every day, and when you’re gone he doesn’t know what to do.”

While it’s flattering to be needed, it also brings a sense of responsibility to do something to help, even when you know you can’t.  And Bucky will have to take a number.  I’m already plenty busy with that very same feeling with my oldest and his first weeks in the turbulent waters of middle school.

I would love to know if anyone anywhere would go back to those days, knowing what we all know about it now.  And yet I have all this wisdom, but I am on the outside looking in, watching it all unfold, and wishing I could do something to make all the transitions easier, all the kids friendlier, all the homework simpler, and all the confusing changes just happen, without the risk of failing and without any pain at all.  But I know my boy who I want to protect with every fiber of my being, instead, has to navigate this house of mirrors on his own, like it or not.  And so I spend hours at night thinking of ways to help prepare him, to arm him for disaster, and to give him some sort of defense when I feel so completely defenseless.

And oddly enough, while I am riding this enormous wave of turmoil, I am certain, he has no idea I am a bit worried.  He shares with me, wide-eyed, stories of how different things are, of new teachers and so many new kids.  And even though he’s been slow to accept change ever since he was a baby, and taking risks doesn’t come naturally to him, he’s stretching just a bit, to try all the new things so many others have embraced from the first day of school. 

I am filled with pride and fear all at the same time.  I would like to do it all for him or at least with him.  I would like to be right there all day long, every day, with him following me around the house and taking walks in the leaves.  But instead, he is there, sweet and vulnerable, living through it, learning, sponge-like, the ins and outs of life in middle school.  And I’m here crunching leaves, trusting fate to smile on him kindly and day dreaming big for my precious cargo to sail through it all smoothly.

Movie Night

I have the windows open on a beautiful sunny afternoon and I can hear the sounds of the kids on the school playground drifting in on the breeze.  I wonder if that is universally received as an emotional pick-me-up.  For me, those voices from across the neighborhood infuse me with good feelings and a sense of contentment and always put a smile on my face.  I can’t be alone in that, can I?

I am sometimes surprised when someone mentions to me they’ve read a recent column I’ve written and say it brought tears to their eyes.  I’m not sure I can fully appreciate how my own personal experiences can bring about a reflection of a feeling shared by other parents who remember similar times of struggle or joy.  But I am beginning to understand more.  

This revelation started in the most innocent way, when I saw the third installment of Toy Story with the boys.  We’d seen the first two movies and so I assumed this one would be similar, expecting lots of laughs and probably some sentimental ending.  Little did I know, that part way through the movie, I would be literally choking back sobs and wiping tears from behind my 3-D glasses.  I didn’t even bring Kleenex for Pete sake! Plus, these aren’t even real people—it’s an animated movie!

Yet somehow, it cut straight to my heart.  The little boy in the movie grows up and prepares to move away to college.  His childhood toys are packed away.  When his mother walks into his empty bedroom she puts a hand to her chest and simply says “Oh.” And in that one word moment I got it.  I couldn’t help it.  I was overcome by an instinctual flood of emotion.  

I surprised myself at my reaction, and laughed about it afterward with the boys.  But it wasn’t until later when a friend casually asked if we had seen the movie that I began to understand.  I told her I saw it and had found it very emotional, and she eagerly shared that she had also burst into tears. So it wasn’t just me.

I began asking around, and sure enough, nearly everyone I talked with had struggled to fight back tears or had openly sobbed along with me when the boy shares his treasured childhood toys with another little girl; repeating one last time, the familiar lines and games he played with each of his favorite toys as a toddler.  Is there a parent anywhere who doesn’t instantly recall their own child’s favorites?

I am now beginning to understand. We parents share some universal emotions and feelings no matter what our other differences.  I have experienced an amazing but simple epiphany. I may be one very small dot in the universe of parents, but the world seems much smaller when you realize that a parent in Milwaukee, or Africa or China can have the exact same emotions as me. And on this very afternoon someone else, far away from here, may be smiling at the comforting sound of those little voices drifting through the window from the playground down the street.