tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75168724883466309992023-11-16T10:40:35.271-08:00Finding FruitWriting to write....
for myself and my boys Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00643910888274969005noreply@blogger.comBlogger440125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7516872488346630999.post-57535215960253621622016-11-11T05:52:00.001-08:002016-11-11T06:00:50.099-08:00We Are America<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRte2Tf-0MQol5BgMubqyhMSQHEl7EtyoDird0qxrrxd4BXXd6w5XYArzFo9zBKMvHQzzezr13ShjJyn7j5WO61Ep4SZ-wv6-gMHWNhUP91K2LB20dvWksOl5Dlil9ARj6AUUtr3mJDyo/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="356" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRte2Tf-0MQol5BgMubqyhMSQHEl7EtyoDird0qxrrxd4BXXd6w5XYArzFo9zBKMvHQzzezr13ShjJyn7j5WO61Ep4SZ-wv6-gMHWNhUP91K2LB20dvWksOl5Dlil9ARj6AUUtr3mJDyo/s400/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
This week has been hard. I am not sure I have yet processed the election results and what that will mean for our country. I am still stunned. I am confused.<br />
<br />
But I shouldn't be.<br />
<br />
I have lived in blue states - hello California and Oregon friends!<br />
<br />
I have lived in countries that speak Spanish and spent a college semester in a beautiful little hamlet in Germany.<br />
<br />
I live in a red state, and an even redder county of Wisconsin.<br />
<br />
I have collected friends along the way. My Facebook timeline is evidence of the diversity of thought and experience which is why I love Facebook. Except during this election season. During this election season Facebook went from a place where I saw pictures of my friends' kids growing up way to fast and reading stories of faith and struggle and discovery to the place where I discovered that my friends who I love were seeing the election that looked so black and white, right and wrong, as not grey but the exact opposite of me.<br />
<br />
Where I saw hate mongering, they saw policies that mattered to them. Where they saw duplicity, I saw a willingness to address the issues of race and gender and identity. Where I saw inadequacy, they saw willingness to buck the system and speak truth. Where they saw pandering, I saw growth and a willingness to listen and learn and change.<br />
<br />
I have friends who voted for Secretary Clinton. They voted their conscience. They voted for issues that are important to them. They voted for pay equity and a breaking of the glass ceiling. They voted for a President who would talk about implicit bias, fight for healthcare for all, fund college education and protect women's rights to their bodies. They voted for experience. They voted for a person they trusted.<br />
<br />
I have friends who voted for President Elect Trump. They voted their conscience. They voted for gun rights, law and order, immigration enforcement. They voted for a President who would say the hard things, fight for the little man, support the military and protect unborn children. They voted for a Washington outsider. They voted for a person they trusted.<br />
<br />
I respect my friends on both sides.<br />
<br />
But, and this is the big but, I expect all of us to hold our leaders to America's ideals. To protect the few from the many when they want to cause harm. To think big and wide and create a world of hope and exploration and creativity and chance taking. To protect free speech, free worship, free assembly, free press, and the right to petition our government when we have things we want changed. To remember that we are the country of equality for all.<br />
<br />
The Constitution is bigger than this election. The American ideals are bigger than this election. They are not a platform. They are not exclusive to one party, one candidate.<br />
<br />
We don't have to stop fighting for our issues, for our beliefs, for our dreams for America.<br />
<br />
We continue to move forward, as Americans, always working toward making things better.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00643910888274969005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7516872488346630999.post-76071428064652481062016-05-12T03:00:00.000-07:002016-05-12T03:00:15.054-07:00The Goat in the Bathroom<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisc7y5WxwK3asavoU81UebC8biP4XWDs_Mm4Br0F1CN9MdhaNgEamneDJLYEP5vIb-uZ_BhSkNAZjdTpRFfMxq82owqWwQh6kG3NpB5hZdyAdhd2TGpumk4en_zwWWmgeGhYrztVL22KQ/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisc7y5WxwK3asavoU81UebC8biP4XWDs_Mm4Br0F1CN9MdhaNgEamneDJLYEP5vIb-uZ_BhSkNAZjdTpRFfMxq82owqWwQh6kG3NpB5hZdyAdhd2TGpumk4en_zwWWmgeGhYrztVL22KQ/s320/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="296" /></a></div>
<br />
This goat hangs on my wall. My kitchen wall because the goat is not allowed in our bedroom.<br />
<br />
But for you, the important thing is not the goat painting because let's be honest, that goat doesn't mean anything to you. The important thing is how I got the goat painting. And that my friends is a longer story.<br />
<br />
It begins twelve years ago, when I receive an email from the family asking about joining our small group Bible study. The weird part was that family had just moved into the house they had bought from us as we moved into another house in town.<br />
<br />
And that family became our friends. Middle Man found a kindred spirit in their oldest daughter. We were pregnant at the same time with our third and their second.<br />
<br />
We moved away and they moved away. We moved again. And again. And eventually we ended up living about 4 1/2 hours apart. Thankfully.<br />
<br />
She has four daughters. I have three sons.<br />
<br />
So we meet in the middle. Just the two of us.<br />
<br />
For almost three years now, we have set aside a weekend here and there to meet up in the middle between our two homes. Dubuque, Iowa has become our home together.<br />
<br />
And in Dubuque there is a restaurant that we love. And in the restroom at the restaurant there is a goat painting that I love.<br />
<br />
I cannot explain my love for this goat. It makes no sense and yet every time we eat there I see that goat and tell my friend how much I want that goat painting. Every single time. For the last couple of years.<br />
<br />
And then this weekend, I found my own copy of the goat painting. Well actually, I found a cow painting that I liked. That I was thinking I might need to take home. But I wasn't sure. I liked it. A lot. But it wasn't the goat. It was similar. It was all the things I loved about the goat painting, except it wasn't the goat. I was trying to decide if I should settle for the cow painting I liked. And then I saw it - my goat canvas.<br />
<br />
I hadn't seen it the first time I had walked through the store. I had taken a different route around the furniture, eyes drawn toward a lamp and then a shelf that turned my body away from where my goat hung. When I walked back by that area my eyes were drawn down, looking at a chair my friend had pointed out. I never saw the goat the first time through the store.<br />
<br />
After texting back and forth with my husband about the cow painting, I walked back in to take one more look at the cow. To contemplate whether the cow painting that I liked was right. Or should I hold out for the goat, or one I loved as much as the goat/<br />
<br />
And as my eyes looked across the room, I saw for the first time the goat canvas. Right where it had been hanging the whole time.<br />
<br />
My goat painting.<br />
<br />
My goat.<br />
<br />
He hangs on my wall now. And he makes me so happy every time I walk by.<br />
<br />
Not only because I love the painting. But also because I love the memories of the weekends I spend in Dubuque with my friend. And of the years I looked at that goat in the restaurant and was in love.<br />
<br />
When we moved into this home almost three years ago, we made an agreement that we would only bring things into this house that we loved. We are slowly collecting pieces. Each with a story to tell. And if you ever visit, I would love to tell you the story behind the three monkeys or the day we bought the BE bookends or the photos that we hang of our adventures.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00643910888274969005noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7516872488346630999.post-72965797084904074432016-05-08T18:27:00.000-07:002016-05-08T18:27:36.562-07:00It's Not a Job. It's a Relationship. Almost a year ago, I wrote a<a href="http://findingfruit.blogspot.com/2014/05/job-description-motherhood.html" target="_blank"> blog post about motherhood</a>. It was in response to a video that was making the rounds about motherhood being the toughest job. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My response was simple but still holds true today. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJa-IA17h7blfPA_5hJdSVadP2d8h-EuLB7JoXdgod1-PpHZknyoM0EKReDuGpL919G4v9YPmtxc0Yy5uylVha4N5CfH1pDnVr6Z9ToMJx8yqtiEUkGygLpEFLLIwYSoSvFUfdAMRAhXY/s1600/IMG_6161.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJa-IA17h7blfPA_5hJdSVadP2d8h-EuLB7JoXdgod1-PpHZknyoM0EKReDuGpL919G4v9YPmtxc0Yy5uylVha4N5CfH1pDnVr6Z9ToMJx8yqtiEUkGygLpEFLLIwYSoSvFUfdAMRAhXY/s640/IMG_6161.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Motherhood is not a job. It is a relationship."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Motherhood is simply the definition of my relationship to my sons. A very unique relationship as I am the only mom they will ever have, even as they add and take away friends and try out a few partners before finding the one. </div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What has changed is my work status. I have a job now. A real out in the world, paycheck and contracts and having to show up at work job. And it is this job, this moving from not working to working full time, that has made it even more clear to me that motherhood was never my job. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
If it was my job, did I quit on them, my precious boys? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
See that's part of the problem with seeing motherhood as a job, the toughest job. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
If I go back to work, the implication is that I am leaving them, that I am choosing my new job over them, my old job. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But I am not. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am still their mom. I still tuck them in at night and make sure they say their prayers. (For the younger two at least. The oldest has decided he's old enough to put himself to bed.) </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I still make sure to ask how their day was and when I find out they had a fight with a friend, I talk it through with them. I teach them the importance of apologizing when you are in the wrong, and then I make sure we set up a play date soon with the friend to let them both know that forgiveness is possible and that friends fight and make up. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I still say no sometimes and have even been known to take away screens for a week at a time when one of my son's has not made good choices with his devices. Because I care more about him as a person than the convenience of having him distracted by a screen when I am tired after a long day at work. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And I still love seeing my kids be who they are. Not a reflection of my parenting but the people they were made to be. I am so enamored with my boys, with who they are themselves. I love being their mom. Because being their mom means I get to spend time with them. I get to hear their secrets. I get to help them through the tough times. I get to help them make good choices. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Those last two are what they wrote in my Mother's Day card this year. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My youngest also wrote about my love of beer, coffee, and my bed, so I am not sure how much credit I want to give the words they wrote. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Motherhood is not the toughest job in the world.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It is not a job. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It is a relationship. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And I am lucky that I get to have that relationship with three amazing boys. (I can still call them boys because as of this writing, I am still taller than them. But not for long.) </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00643910888274969005noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7516872488346630999.post-83884434343116187132016-05-05T05:35:00.002-07:002016-05-05T11:02:21.803-07:00Equilibrium<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRh0blMkqISV5TqRZqB65YLW1xMGoKRnEY4eKfgIZGQg-6cYZ9imhVPVpY4i0KImzdUxX2zqeRiPPIZt2ewt7TVmDf5ffc3qmNz04Cl902Yziob0b1MLN2lAcxVfnhYaF8tIcCurUTIcQ/s1600/equilibrium.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRh0blMkqISV5TqRZqB65YLW1xMGoKRnEY4eKfgIZGQg-6cYZ9imhVPVpY4i0KImzdUxX2zqeRiPPIZt2ewt7TVmDf5ffc3qmNz04Cl902Yziob0b1MLN2lAcxVfnhYaF8tIcCurUTIcQ/s320/equilibrium.jpg" width="240" /></a>Remember that post I wrote about being back to writing?<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And then nothing.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yeah, about that. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When I wrote that post, work had been going well for a couple of weeks. I wasn't falling asleep as soon as I sat down at the end of the day. My brain wasn't turning off as I left work because I was mentally exhausted from battling all day long. The sun was shining. And I had taken a couple of long naps that weekend. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I had found my equilibrium. My life felt balanced. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And then Monday happened. New students. Old students. New conflicts. Old conflicts. My equilibrium had been lost out to the war of opposing forces. And by Wednesday the day ended with me wanting to put my head down on my desk and cry (I didn't). </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I don't like that feeling. Of being out of balance. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But a wise man reminded me that it is the newness of each day that makes the job fun. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Fun? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In the moment, it didn't feel like fun. As I was dealing with a student saying vulgar things about me, it didn't feel like fun. As I listened to the grumblings of not wanting to do the work and the "You're forcin' it, Miss Jen," it didn't feel like fun. As I redirected the same students for the tenth time in five minutes to quiet down and get back to silent reading, it didn't feel like fun. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Fun? No. It was hard and overwhelming and exhausting and just too much. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And so I had nothing to write. Nor any energy to write it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But as I let all the frustration process and I tried a new tactic with my chatty class and I stayed consistent with my classroom management plan and I "faked it" until I "made it" I found something. It's not much, but it is something.<br />
<br />
Equilibrium is nice. Balance is nice. But after a while it gets too comfortable. Too nice.<br />
<br />
Growth comes not in the equilibrium itself but in finding that balance. In doing the hard work. In being uncomfortable and then working toward a new equilibrium.<br />
<br />
So I will find my way. Slowly, step by step. I will find a new balance, a new equilibrium. And when I do I will rest up and enjoy the moment. I will laugh and celebrate the simple victories.<br />
<br />
And then I will get ready for the next challenge.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00643910888274969005noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7516872488346630999.post-18344551520376097822016-04-17T18:11:00.000-07:002016-04-17T18:18:21.732-07:00Coming BackI thought it had been longer since I last wrote. I thought I was done with this space. I thought I was done being a writer.<br />
<br />
But I am wondering if maybe I am not. If maybe, I still have words to share.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipW3dreEKceOPJrWUN0ZS1DiqXaSsk9E9YSBL1VMRZPjo8Mpj6JtuCjcBKHtDnnqhyphenhyphenLoLAq4fjTikHtH9VPlW-ERORGeVzjvxvO8SO8bAriAI2-9epIGN4KAnb5kM2ySG0gGNl39eQYgI/s1600/maybe.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipW3dreEKceOPJrWUN0ZS1DiqXaSsk9E9YSBL1VMRZPjo8Mpj6JtuCjcBKHtDnnqhyphenhyphenLoLAq4fjTikHtH9VPlW-ERORGeVzjvxvO8SO8bAriAI2-9epIGN4KAnb5kM2ySG0gGNl39eQYgI/s400/maybe.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I went back to work full time this winter. I am a teacher again. Not at a traditional school. My students often say it is not a real school, but I disagree. We do real learning there even if it is a therapeutic residential treatment facility and most of the students have experienced some form of trauma that has informed their lives and decision making. We do real learning even as we struggle to read the words because we are years below grade level. We do real learning as we learn to use school appropriate language and talk through our frustrations instead of running or fighting or shutting down.<br />
<br />
It has been an exhausting transition back to working full time, and yet, I feel more energized each and every day. I keep misplacing my credit card and falling asleep on the couch as soon as I sit down but I feel more fulfilled, more purpose filled. I have given my kids more responsibility and they have happily risen to the challenge, most of the time. And my husband has proven once again that he is my partner, taking on more of the household chores without batting an eye. (I am now the one getting in trouble for putting things in the cart at Costco because "it wasn't on the list".)<br />
<br />
I didn't think I would have time to write. I didn't think I would want to write.<br />
<br />
But here I am.<br />
<br />
I know this blog will be changing as my life has changed.<br />
<br />
I am still figuring out this motherhood thing. I am still working out my faith, oh there are so many stories there from the last year that I may tell someday. And I am still living authentically because I know no other way to be.<br />
<br />
But my world has grown with my new job. I am seeing things that break my heart and make me angry. I am wondering if I can make a difference, if I am doing enough, if there is hope. And then I see that look in a student's eyes when he his real and honest and right there with me and I wonder if maybe, just maybe there is hope that the world can be better than it is right now.<br />
<br />
So I don't know what I will be writing about except to know that I will keep writing my truth, my questions, my struggles - all in hope.<br />
<br />
Because it is hope that keeps me going.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00643910888274969005noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7516872488346630999.post-56374493240129443302015-06-15T09:03:00.001-07:002015-06-15T09:06:19.047-07:007 of 642... Stolen Moments<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf2wJulkalKxkD7YM-v15CffCSfW_zTrVCbRhDDSvTesJILI-bxugBEpiwGB9LFVkv8rFpOrbIcsMhvQaDrs7IW4IQCFruSiME8sKrYJ3V-_080dD0UmaA9wmm6O4jpvoH4tShpxEczy4/s1600/stolen+moments.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf2wJulkalKxkD7YM-v15CffCSfW_zTrVCbRhDDSvTesJILI-bxugBEpiwGB9LFVkv8rFpOrbIcsMhvQaDrs7IW4IQCFruSiME8sKrYJ3V-_080dD0UmaA9wmm6O4jpvoH4tShpxEczy4/s400/stolen+moments.jpg" width="400" /></a>Last spring, we were in Duluth, Minnesota for a hockey tournament. A family of five all crammed into one hotel room. One very happy child because he is getting to play the game he loves, one moderately happy because he gets to watch the game he loves, and one not so happy child though the hotel’s indoor water park does help assuage his annoyance at being dragged along. All was going well that particular weekend. The team was playing well. We were having fun with the new hockey families, sharing stories over patio lunches and while waiting for the games to begin.<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
I was going to write about the time our car was broken into in Duluth. Though really they didn’t break in so much as open the unlocked door and then take everything out of the glove boxes, backpacks, etc., looking for anything of value. When we got in the car the next morning, at first I thought the kids had just made a mess looking for something. It took my mind a minute to process that someone had been in our car, going through all of our stuff, and then just dropping the unwanted junk (most of it). Thankfully we had most of our valuables with us. I think they took a couple of gas gift cards and an old, old iPhone that was being used by the kids as an iPod for games.<br />
<br />
That was the story I was going to tell, before my twelve year old walked in needing me. At first he just wanted my laptop, then he needed my help figuring out a forgotten password, and that led me down the rabbit hole that included calling my husband since he originally set up the account. Not reaching him we started a new account with my son’s email address but when we went to check for the registration email, discovered that his email was not set up on the new to him smart phone that we have given him to use. Not that he wanted a phone. He isn’t really interested in texting with his friends or going on social media. He’s weird like that.<br />
<br />
So while this blog started as story of stolen things, it quickly turned into a moment stolen. Focus lost. Distraction making me want to close up this file and move on to solving my son’s problem. And it won’t be the only problem today. It is summer which means it will be difficult to maintain focus. But it will also be a time of those stolen moments that make summer wonderful. Evenings spent at the ball park watching the kids play baseball with the farm fields behind them. Afternoons engrossed in a good book, getting lost in a far away world. Trips to the ice cream shop and bike rides that always end with a treat.<br />
<br />
<br />
I want to enjoy those stolen moments.<br />
<br />
I want to laugh more this summer. Laugh about the time our car was trashed in Duluth and about my twelve year old being the only kid in America that has to be forced into having his own phone. Laugh at the adorable antics of third grade boys trying to imitate their favorite MLB player and at our attempts at learning to cook this summer.<br />
<br />
So much of our lives are focused. Structured and goal oriented.<br />
<br />
Summer is for the stolen moments.<br />
<br />
Summer is for laughing. And breathing.<br />
<br />
It can be disconcerting. My eleven year old said it best a few hours after school was out for the summer, "Now that school is over it doesn't feel like I have a purpose."<br />
<br />
Eleven is a little early for an existential crisis. And for forgetting that your purpose is not only what you do. But who you are in the stolen moments.<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00643910888274969005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7516872488346630999.post-32756565001208376292015-06-11T02:00:00.000-07:002015-06-11T02:00:07.907-07:00I am sorry...<div class="p1">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGc9zRXQCy_DqgsQjWVa2bTFqXamWIJ2OiBl5hfHE0dxFy4Gzx8kz95B7pcTx-8DW7mpH2Rrd9IEh4W1k2dEGQo2V95XCAcT6KnnIgbvEB84aGFfGGQVfkDYOYGm9jlwWqdBOgNkZxwcc/s1600/I+am+sorry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGc9zRXQCy_DqgsQjWVa2bTFqXamWIJ2OiBl5hfHE0dxFy4Gzx8kz95B7pcTx-8DW7mpH2Rrd9IEh4W1k2dEGQo2V95XCAcT6KnnIgbvEB84aGFfGGQVfkDYOYGm9jlwWqdBOgNkZxwcc/s400/I+am+sorry.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
My dear boys,<br />
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I’m sorry. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I have made mistakes. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I have hurt you. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I have been angry, misguided, selfish. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I stayed up too late and woke up grumpy and tired. I lost my patience because of this. I didn’t manage my stress well, letting it build up. I got angry too quickly. Resorted to yelling and punishing when a few extras moments of talking with you was the better choice. I was tired, overwhelmed which is understandable when you have three small boys that keep growing and changing. But I knew the right healthy choices to make to help me be in the best physical, emotional, and spiritual state of mind and yet did the opposite. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I listened to the wrong people. I didn’t trust my instincts or you. I forgot that I know you, that I am your advocate, your last line of defense. I listened to the voices of disapproval and trying to be the mom I thought I was supposed to be instead of being the mom God made me to be to the children He gave me. I tried to help you become who I thought you should be, even when I knew I had no clue what the best for you really was. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Too often, I just wanted you to be quiet and leave me alone. I wanted to read my book in peace, watch my tv show, or talk with a friend on the phone without interruption. Oh how I hated it when you interrupted “my time”. I wanted to go out to restaurants and on trips like I did before I had kids. I wanted to do what I wanted even as I was tasked with taking care of you. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
And there are so many more things I am sure you can tell your friends or therapist about where I failed you. Because I did. I messed up, sometimes unintentionally, sometimes knowing full well the choice I was making. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
But here’s the thing I hope you remember too…</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I love you fiercely. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I want the absolute best for you, each of you as individuals apart from me and our family. I want your best whatever that is. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I am sorry. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I wish I never hurt you. I wish I made the right choices in all those places of my life that affected you. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I pray that God is bigger than my sin, than my mistakes, than my parenting. And I know that He is. I know that He loves you so much more than I ever could, which is hard to fathom - since my love is to infinity plus 1. But He does. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
And I pray that you can see past your disappointments in me as you become an adult and even possibly a parent yourself and let them be the funny stories you tell each other about that time mom…. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I love you!</div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
Mom</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00643910888274969005noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7516872488346630999.post-21312041730589157192015-06-08T12:12:00.000-07:002015-06-08T12:12:20.615-07:006 of 642<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrNccA4_sidR33zJGd-ySC_LVeLkHsa8MUsoQivA1Y5QjkhFx265_BTlVq1DwbqcYW5h9m_NNTXgaMaGTszah-lhdShx_dLIDdDU9tTn2FxsjaRqHrY34r22zTSQG51U5PrVmLUHK8ms4/s1600/Ransom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrNccA4_sidR33zJGd-ySC_LVeLkHsa8MUsoQivA1Y5QjkhFx265_BTlVq1DwbqcYW5h9m_NNTXgaMaGTszah-lhdShx_dLIDdDU9tTn2FxsjaRqHrY34r22zTSQG51U5PrVmLUHK8ms4/s320/Ransom.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
It has been a tough year. One where I felt not whole a lot of the time. Or more like I had been taken captive by something, a darkness, a sense of foreboding mixed with apathy. I’m not really sure. But I felt like I had been kidnapped, forced to live my life but not really as myself. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
I kept waiting for a ransom note. One that told me the clue to getting my life back. The one with the cut out letters and clear directions that told me exactly what to do to get me back. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
But the note never came. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
Instead, I have spent the last year, slowly finding my way out of the darkness. One decision, one step, one new adventure at a time. I made the appointment I needed to make. I finished the work I needed to do. I started a new job which brought all new levels of fulfillment and exhaustion. I rediscovered old loves and I stepped into unknown worlds. I started to feel more and more like myself. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
Except I stopped writing. I decided it was too hard. It wasn’t really what I was meant to do. I convinced myself that no one needed to read my words. It was just a hobby that I had gotten tired of, like scrapbooking and mosaic tiling. And so I let it go. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
But I wonder if maybe that ransom note never came because I did not write it. Maybe if I had, I would have realized that writing is part of who I am. It makes me feel whole. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
This weekend I was driving to Iowa to meet a friend for a girls’ weekend. The same friend that met me in my darkest place last fall. It was a long drive so I was listening to the This Creative Life Podcast to pass the time. Not because I considered myself a creative any longer, but because it was still on my phone and I still like to hear what my favorite authors have to share about the writing process. But as they were talking about their insecurities as writers, as they talked about the ten years it took to finally get it right, when they mentioned the 10,000 hours it takes to get good at anything that Malcolm Gladwell writes about in Outliers: The Story of Success, and as they reminded each other they write because the writing itself is satisfying and makes them who they are, something inside me shifted. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
This may be the last piece that has been held captive by me. Writing is scary and discouraging and exhilarating and gratifying. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
I still struggle with the fact that I am not sure if there is any value to my writing. I wonder if I have anything worth saying and I worry that I am just adding noise to an already crowded world. But I also know that if it is going to take 10,000 hours, I have a lot of hours and blog posts and scenes and chapters left to write before I can really decide if I am any good at it. At least in a professional sense. For now, I can remember that sitting down and writing words that appear on my computer screen makes me happy. And that is enough. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
Not everything we do has to have an outcome. In our project based, outcome driven world, it seems that even our hobbies have to be monetized. But as my boys remind me daily, there is joy in the doing. The doing of that thing that you were meant to do, whether that is playing hockey, learning to pitch, practicing guitar, building Minecraft worlds, or writing stories. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00643910888274969005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7516872488346630999.post-61109139746853686592014-10-27T11:47:00.000-07:002014-10-27T11:47:06.124-07:005 of 642...I spend a lot of time dreaming… of the grass on the other side.<br />
<br />
I'm an optimist by nature. I try to always see the bright side of things. To make the best of any situation. And I am glad that I am able to do that. I can't imagine how sad and dark life must be for the truly pessimistic, those people that always seem to find fault and are never satisfied.<br />
<br />
But I do find myself dreaming of a better life more than I like which is sad really because I have a pretty wonderful life.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigfQ0WzCcA3jOUimbZwTxZwoKCteA5oFvdUxg3Lvo-Vc-gEqHQWHmDbh_K38ffDYf3vWd8MUQ8MjQRsB01MWrxm18E6Bei22bbh9qdHDb3MNC00GASdt2JA5Qs-ba6H7-AohNwhAHEodo/s1600/oneperfectday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigfQ0WzCcA3jOUimbZwTxZwoKCteA5oFvdUxg3Lvo-Vc-gEqHQWHmDbh_K38ffDYf3vWd8MUQ8MjQRsB01MWrxm18E6Bei22bbh9qdHDb3MNC00GASdt2JA5Qs-ba6H7-AohNwhAHEodo/s1600/oneperfectday.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
When I think though of the perfect day, it is never an ordinary day in my life. It is full of the unfulfilled dreams, the adventures I have not taken. The perfect day involves me wandering New York or sitting in a cafe in London. I dream of sleeping in and waking to an empty house and a pile of my favorite movies to watch or spending the day laughing with friends while soaking up the sun while sipping coffee outside.<br />
<br />
Not because these are truly the perfect days but because these are the unattainable. These are the grass is greener. The things I cannot do right now at this point in my life, but oh how I miss these possibilities.<br />
<br />
And then there are the dreams I wish I had for my perfect day. The person I wish I was that wanted to hike deep into a forest and spend the night or who was training with my friends for a marathon. The mom whose perfect day involved carving pumpkins and creating elaborate holiday memories for my boys. The risk taker who changes the lives of those in need around them. But I am not that person.<br />
<br />
The truth is I cannot describe the perfect day. Not one perfect day.<br />
<br />
I can tell you how I love to spend a bright fall Saturday morning watching College Gameday while drinking coffee in my flannel pajamas. I can write about the joy I get watching my boys do something they love, especially when they are doing it so well that day and you know they will be proud of themselves. The conversation that happens at Bible study that makes me feel alive or the walk amongst the changing fall leaves with a friend that centers me in the here and now. Smelling the salt air and hearing the crashing waves. The dinner out with my husband, slow courses, a good glass of wine, a delicious meal, and time standing still. The day when all of my boys come off the school bus with smiles and funny stories to tell. The day spent reading a good book that you can’t put down. The adventure of taking my kids on a subway ride into the city and wandering around drinking warm hot chocolates on the cold day.<br />
<br />
For me, there is no one perfect day. At least not one that can be encased in twenty four hours of time.<br />
<br />
And maybe that is a good thing.<br />
<br />
Maybe I have found a way to make the little things, the glimpses of joy in my days, into my own green grass.<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00643910888274969005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7516872488346630999.post-73595229353779927412014-10-23T03:30:00.000-07:002014-10-23T03:30:02.213-07:00Dear Boys,I don’t know if you remember your very first ice skating lesson. You each did take that first step on the ice at some point, a helmet atop your head and knit gloves covering your fingers. You were each so cute. And so determined.<br />
<br />
Interesting fact about ice skating - the very first thing you learn is how to fall down. Because no matter how good of a skater you become, falling down is part of learning to skate. That’s why we put those helmets on your heads.<br />
<br />
When the skating instructor gathered her beginners, before you ever stepped on the ice, she took you off to the side and taught you how to fall down. She made sure you knew to let it happen. To not fight. To lean into the fear of falling.<br />
<br />
Failure is inevitable. Falling will happen no matter how much you try to avoid it.<br />
So before you learn to skate, you learn to fall. But the instructor didn’t leave you there. She taught you how to get up the right way. How to protect your fingers from the skate blades and to step up with confidence one foot at a time. She taught you to get back up and try again.<br />
<br />
Then she had you practice falling a few more times.<br />
<br />
And each time you got back up.<br />
<br />
She may have taught you the most important lesson you ever needed to learn.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY4FkDtL2tzqDuPIs7a7jKiFW81U88yrxHbJ2IHYEwuOYKDuYKO_yXgDo9dwoU7bsax8rPPWfcZ3WrUHTgmdCoGwmkSFsZQjUFRpiJpI88pPFS8EnELsM4e5EvJQ1VSF0DI43coFlZdCM/s1600/learntofall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY4FkDtL2tzqDuPIs7a7jKiFW81U88yrxHbJ2IHYEwuOYKDuYKO_yXgDo9dwoU7bsax8rPPWfcZ3WrUHTgmdCoGwmkSFsZQjUFRpiJpI88pPFS8EnELsM4e5EvJQ1VSF0DI43coFlZdCM/s1600/learntofall.jpg" height="476" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
You cannot skate without falling down. Nor can you build a video game that delights you without making a few mistakes along the way. That is just part of the process of getting good at something. It is a scary, scary thing. I know this all too well. I wish I had taken more chances in my life, risked more, and even failed more because at least that meant I was trying something new, something challenging. I wonder how many great moments I missed in life because I was too scared to make a mistake.<br />
<br />
I recently heard Sarah Lewis, a cultural historian and Du Bois Fellow at Harvard University, speak about the importance of failure. She said, “There are blame worthy failures and praise worthy failures.” Can you imagine? Sure, sometimes you will mess up but was it while trying to do something great? Or was it while avoiding the good, the better, the scary, the risky?<br />
<br />
I’m sure you’ve seen the inspirational photos with the saying, “Life is a journey, not a destination.” I’ve always liked the idea of this, except I am beginning to realize that the destination informs the journey and creates the path you will travel. The destination matters. Shoot for the moon. Seek the destination that leads you on the most amazing journey you can imagine and then see where it leads. Take chances. Make mistakes. Fail. Because you cannot get where you want to go, without falling.<br />
<br />
You cannot dream without closing your eyes.<br />
<br />
You cannot find love without opening yourself up to pain.<br />
<br />
You cannot succeed without first learning how to fall down.<br />
<br />
And then getting back up. One step at a time.<br />
<br />
Honestly, maybe this letter is really more for me than for you. I have watched each you take risks and I have seen the smile on your face, the pride in your accomplishment, when you moved past the possibility of failure and succeeded at something that was hard at first. I have witnessed your perseverance as you stumbled, made mistakes, brushed yourself off, and then took another step.<br />
<br />
So maybe it wasn’t the ice skating instructor that taught us this lesson as much as it was watching each of you.<br />
<br />
Thank you for inspiring me with your dreams.<br />
<br />
Mom<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00643910888274969005noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7516872488346630999.post-52188817735134149382014-10-16T03:30:00.000-07:002014-10-16T10:51:00.395-07:00To My White BoysThis is an awkward letter to write. And one I hope is totally out of date and unnecessary by the time you read it. But it needs to be said. You are white. You are male. And that makes life easier for you.<br />
<br />
Many want to say we live in a post racial world. But we don’t. You may not see color. I hope you don’t. We have tried to encourage an appreciation of different cultures in our family. We have tried to expose you to a diverse world. But the truth is you don’t have to see color in others because of your whiteness. That is the privilege you enjoy.<br />
<br />
I do not worry when I send you out into the world that you might not come home. When I talk to you about what to do if you are stopped by a police officer or even arrested, I have told you to be respectful but I don’t worry that any move you make, any word you speak might create enough fear in the officer to cause them to feel a need to protect themselves and shoot you.<br />
<br />
I watch you walk out the door in your hoodies and baggy clothes, I tell you to speak up. Advocate for yourself. Be you. This is my privilege as a white mother. But it is not the case for black moms across America.<br />
<br />
<a class="noexit lightbox" href="http://mediad.publicbroadcasting.net/p/kwmu/files/201409/MotherMother.jpg" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; clear: left; color: #0c4ca2; float: left; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;" title=""><img src="http://mediad.publicbroadcasting.net/p/kwmu/files/styles/card_280/public/201409/MotherMother.jpg" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; max-width: 280px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" /></a><br />
<a href="http://news.stlpublicradio.org/post/black-moms-teach-white-moms-about-having-talk-their-sons" target="_blank">Read this - listen to these moms tell their stories.</a> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"></span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“The Rev. Traci Blackmon is pastor of Christ the King United Church of Christ in Florissant. She has a daughter and two sons…. ‘Every policeman is not bad,” she added. “But if it is your child, you can’t take that risk. You have to have ‘the talk,’ because they have to stay alive.’”</blockquote>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #bfbfbf; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; font-style: italic; line-height: 16px;">Credit Provided by Missouri History Museum</span><br />
<br />
<br />
I also wish that we lived in a post misogyny world, a world where what I can do is not determined by my vagina. Where I didn’t have to worry about what time my train will arrive back at the station and is that too late to walk by myself across a parking lot. Where I didn’t have to wait to see whether my gender interfered with someone wanting to hear what I had to say.<br />
<br />
But we don’t.<br />
<br />
You know me. You know I’m strong. I am smart and thoughtful and well informed. I speak my mind. I have gifts to share with the world and yet there are places, even within the church, where I am disqualified simply because of my being a woman.<br />
<br />
You my sons, my white boys, will walk into a room and belong there simply because you want to be there. You will speak and people will give your words more weight at first because of your white privilege. Unless of course you say something stupid. Or unkind. Or demeaning of others. But that would be based on your actions, your actual words, and not on your ethnicity or gender.<br />
<br />
There are programs in place to encourage diversity, both racial and gender, in schools, careers, etc. And you may lose a spot, not be given an opportunity, because of this. Some will say it’s not fair. But the truth is every day life isn’t fair.<br />
<br />
You are white boys.<br />
<br />
And that opens doors, gains respect, and protects you in ways you will never understand.<br />
<br />
Listen to those not like you. Hear their stories. Take in the mistreatment, the disrespect, the limitations, the otherness.<br />
<br />
And then use that white privilege to change things. Even if, and most likely it will mean, you have to give up your privilege.<br />
<br />
Lay down your rights and raise up those whose voices should be heard but are not yet.<br />
<br />
Because the world you could create will be so much better.<br />
<br />
I love you.<br />
<br />
Your White Mother<br />
<br />
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00643910888274969005noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7516872488346630999.post-87557506632410190982014-10-13T03:00:00.000-07:002014-10-13T03:00:06.103-07:004 of 642<div>
I am a planner, to the extreme, though I am not necessarily a detail person. I like to know what is happening next, and in an hour, next week, and next year. I like to dream about the possibilities, all of them, or at least all of the good ones. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I also de-stress by planning for possible bad outcomes. Husband traveling overseas has me figuring out what I would do if he died or was seriously hurt? How would I get him home? Who could I call to watch the kids? Or what if he dies here in Wisconsin? Where would the funeral be? Buried or cremated (this is actually an ongoing debate in our home)? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw1gVDSpYfWt8QsoheJbB_FN3IZ_8xR1ACdwWjd6WYOCVIzOpd7Ad9AkmKF60nmUTUVMFf8JByarOQkAEdGRSxxcELRwX2UXWaNGCw_rcpUWrlCnoisr4q99W-uDzhXSHIbbhPHhrPAJA/s1600/facebook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw1gVDSpYfWt8QsoheJbB_FN3IZ_8xR1ACdwWjd6WYOCVIzOpd7Ad9AkmKF60nmUTUVMFf8JByarOQkAEdGRSxxcELRwX2UXWaNGCw_rcpUWrlCnoisr4q99W-uDzhXSHIbbhPHhrPAJA/s1600/facebook.jpg" height="400" width="225" /></a>So when asked to write a Facebook update for 2017, that’s easy. I imagine that my life will look pretty similar to today. It is only three more years. I’m sure my updates then will look a lot like now. Hockey, sick kids, holiday pictures, Middle Man’s latest adventure. Though there will be some changes that year. My oldest will be in high school, though at this moment I cannot imagine that ever happening. And Little One, he’ll be a sixth grader, the age his biggest brother is now. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But when I look backwards, I see how much can really change in three years. It was just over three years ago that we left Oregon, the place where each of my boys was born and the house that was perfect because it was two blocks from the high school. It was just over two years ago that we bought a condo in California because it was all we could afford and we knew it was time to put down roots there. It was just over a year ago that we boarded a plane to move to Wisconsin, a place a first saw on our house hunting trip the month before we moved. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A lot can change in three years. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And yet, our lives today look very similar to the lives we had before we ever left Oregon. My husband goes to work. The kids go to school. They come home and do homework, bicker, and head off to sports and music lessons. And I spend my days doing the things that have to happen around our house all while trying to figure out how to have purpose and value beyond the day to day stay at home mother role I fill. On the weekends, we go to church, we go to hockey, baseball or swim meets, we watch sports on tv and monitor video game time. We try to create family memories and include some adventures along the way. We spend time with friends, we build relationships with those around us. We connect. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Our surroundings have changed. The faces have changed. But the key part of me is still my family and so far, we move together. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Someday, those little boys are going to become big and head off to college or the great big world. I can picture their lives, or at least possible versions of their future. I can see their dreams coming true. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But for my life, I see the every day. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We will go to work, go to church, try to find purpose in our lives. We will connect with those around us. We will go on adventures and create memories. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And I will continue to post random updates from my life on Facebook and Twitter. </div>
<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00643910888274969005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7516872488346630999.post-39281848609031206222014-10-09T03:30:00.000-07:002014-10-09T09:24:18.259-07:00To My Boys, Each of You<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBX8_SgEJJ5CF6wi98ny9CZUMNk4Tu0ud0PStVyoNHS1G-3jGLUU_E5p37XkF5dYDw3_tKcFoNUbk_tl9Cs_c2bW5ulzPmbYiAaxHEl8UHpKaqWux2ZEU0KKCYZfGVitjuNFUp3IGYydw/s1600/HeMadeMeMom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBX8_SgEJJ5CF6wi98ny9CZUMNk4Tu0ud0PStVyoNHS1G-3jGLUU_E5p37XkF5dYDw3_tKcFoNUbk_tl9Cs_c2bW5ulzPmbYiAaxHEl8UHpKaqWux2ZEU0KKCYZfGVitjuNFUp3IGYydw/s1600/HeMadeMeMom.jpg" height="400" width="301" /></a>I love you.<br />
<br />
Each of you.<br />
<br />
Differently and yet all the same.<br />
<br />
I learned what love is because of you. First with you, my eldest. You opened my heart up in ways I did not know were possible. I could never have imagined being happy to be woken up in the middle of the night be a crying baby, but there was something truly amazing about being able to fix things simply by being there, oh and feeding you. It was you that gave me the confidence to be a mom, to trust that we knew what we were doing together. It was you that smiled at me like I was the sun which in turn filled me with the joy the size of a harvest moon, all big and bright and surprising.<br />
<br />
I learned to love you each separately when you, our middle son arrived, actually even before that when I was put on bedrest and we had to figure out how to best care of each of our two boys. It wasn’t day 1 but it was pretty quickly that we learned how different two boys can be. Middle Man, I learned how to love not just my child but how to love each of my children from you. You, who were so very much your own, taught me to love you. Not my son, but you.<br />
<br />
Ahh and then Little One came along. I had no idea when I first started writing about my youngest as Little One how very wrong that name would be. You may be our youngest but there is nothing little about you. You live big. You love big. You were the final piece of the puzzle we didn’t even know we were missing.<br />
<br />
I love each of you. First, because you are my sons and I am your mother. There is something amazingly safe about loving each of you because I am your mommy. At least for now. Someday you will each walk away and not come back. You will visit. You will call, or more likely text. You better. But you will move away, move on, and while that is sad, there will still be a part of you that will call me home. And there is a part of my heart that you will take with you wherever you go.<br />
<br />
But I also love each of you because of who you are - the pieces of you that make you different from your brothers, the threads that are your own color added to our family tapestry.<br />
<br />
That is the lesson. You love your children first because they are your children but over time, you learn to love them for the people they are. Unique and all their own. And part of loving each of you, is protecting your right to be your own person, nurturing those parts of you that are yours alone, and standing with you in those that run through our family’s DNA.<br />
<br />
There it is my sons. Lesson number 2.<br />
<br />
I love you.<br />
<br />
All of you.<br />
<br />
And each of you. <br />
<br />
Love,<br />
<br />
Your MomAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00643910888274969005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7516872488346630999.post-20386240544344224072014-10-02T07:21:00.004-07:002014-10-02T07:24:21.036-07:00Dear Sons,<div>
I have never wanted to write a parenting book because as we all know that’s the kiss of death. Once you claim to be the expert on something, anything, you end up eating your own words. Not to mention, there are so many privacy issues involved. There was a time when you could write about your kids in a book and they would never find out. Their friends wouldn’t read the story of the little boy that wouldn’t potty train until they were all well into adulthood and only if they picked up the parenting book themselves to help them as they parent their own kids. But in today’s world, every word published ends up in a google matrix of some kind and with just a simple click, your entire childhood could be read by your classmates while sitting next to you in class as you are working on your laptops. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And you, my boys, are way to precious to me to expose to that kind of ridicule. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I have written about you. I told cute stories of missing shoes and harder stories of school struggles. I felt okay with it because you didn’t have internet access and I used cute nicknames. But today, you all use laptops in your classrooms and you have access to the internet at home. I can’t imagine you are reading what I write on this blog of mine. I worry that you might find this one day soon. But then I realize that you might want to know me better than I have let you. You may someday want to know who your mom is besides your mom. You might not, and that is okay. But if you do, feel free to read this blog. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
With that in mind, I thought it might be good to write down the words I will want to share with you when you have your own kids. If you are anything like your dad and I, you will want to pave your own way. And we really, really do want you to be your own type of parent. If we have learned anything along this parenting journey it is simply this - you are each your own. But I thought someday, you might google what to do when _______. You might want to ask your mom how I handled something without worrying about judgment or my getting upset if you completely disregard my advice. So I am going to write down what I want to share with you. And I am going to post it here on my blog for you to find when you need my words. I could print up letters like they do in the movies or make a video but then I would have to remember where I put them and you would have to find them and most likely they would be lost until the estate sales people clean out all our old papers after your dad and I have both died. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So here is the essence of letter number 1. The very first lesson I want to share with you. I am here for you. However you need me to be. And I am happy to share what I have learned along the way, if you want me to, but I know also that you have to travel your own path, that each of you will manage things your own way. And I am okay with that. All I ask is that you be honest with yourself and be your honest self. You are each your own. You are each so uniquely you. And that is a good thing. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Be you! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Love, </div>
<div>
Mommy</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00643910888274969005noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7516872488346630999.post-3335898928694670282014-09-30T10:35:00.001-07:002014-09-30T10:35:20.591-07:00Thing 3...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
You know that scene in Bull Durham, the one where they all meet up at the pitcher's mound? If not, here it is… though be careful when viewing because the language is not for the faint of heart or small children. </div>
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/lptsSTTWLVQ" width="420"></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />
The best of intentions, I had them. I was going to write every day. Not necessarily post every day but the plan was to sit at my desk and work when my kids headed off to school at the start of September.<br />
<br />
But then life happened. Some of it good - spending a day celebrating a friend's birthday. Some of it out of my control, as in the toilet doesn't stop filling the bowl one night and while I hear the faint sounds of water dripping, I assume it is the water softener which makes a similar noise from our basement whenever my husband is out of town. I used to panic and check every faucet and water source but learned soon enough that it is just the water softener. Until the time that it isn't and the next thing I hear is my son asking, "Why am I standing in water?" (Yes, I know that assuming makes an ass out of u and me. I grew up with brothers.)<br />
<br />
And after many, many soaking wet towels and a call to the water mitigation company and days of loud, loud blowers and dryers, we were dry but now begins the process of repair. Thankfully there was only a minimal amount of damage but it still involves estimates and insurance agents and contractors.<br />
<br />
So in the words of Crash Davis (Kevin Costner for the Bull Durham uninitiated), we have been dealing with a lot of shit around here lately.<br />
<br />
And that is on top of the usual back to school adjustment period that has kids coming home exhausted and cranky and then having to get snack and homework done before rushing off to practice for one of the three if not all of the three boys.<br />
<br />
I have a lot of distractions both necessary and some that could be rescheduled but why when having coffee with a friend is salve for my soul.<br />
<br />
But the game must go on and thing 3 needs to be written, even if I have no words of encouragement for the houseplant dying in the corner. Seriously plant, die or don't die. That is up to you. Heck, I'm surprised you lived this long in my house because I have no interest in house plants. I do not need another thing that needs me to take care of it on any consistent basis in my life right now.<br />
<br />
This blog post may not make any sense but it is done. And I have addressed Thing 3 from the book 642 Things to Write About.<br />
<br />
Fine, little houseplant, I'll give it a go. You need to live. You like growing and being green and releasing blooms sporadically. You bring beauty and life to the room. You remind me of nature and the things outside that I should go see. You staying alive means I am doing something right.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And that my friends is me getting back into the game. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As weird as it is. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00643910888274969005noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7516872488346630999.post-88661226105904492242014-09-17T02:30:00.000-07:002014-09-17T12:08:51.909-07:002 of 642 Things… <div>
When you are young, you only know life in your own family. Everything your family does you assume, as a kid, every other family does as well. Which is actually pretty true when it comes to babies. </div>
<div>
<br />
All babies need basically the same care. Clean diapers, food on demand, lots of sleep. For longer than we as parents like, our lives revolve around the basic care and feeding of this child that uses various tones and volumes to their cries to communicate their needs. As toddlers, most parents agree they need to learn to use the toilet and feed themselves. We all try to read to our kids and take them outside to play. We try our best to keep the scary world at bay just a little longer. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But there comes a point on the playground or in the hallways at the school, that both the child and the parents realize that their family might be doing things just a little bit differently from the person next to them. It might be video game rules or word acceptability, it might be watching the news with the kids or letting them drink soda, or it could be whether your family has a Christmas tree or not in December. Somewhere in the raising of our children, we stopped focusing on the bottom of Maslow’s Hierarchy of needs and started thinking about what kind of adults we want our children to become. What values, traditions, life lessons we wanted to pass on to our kids while we could. And this is where many of our parenting decisions start to diverge. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It’s hard to see at times. Mostly because it is hard to believe that someone would think there was a better way to raise their kids than the way we are. We are so often blinded by trying to figure out what works for our family that we cannot begin to imagine there is even another way, or lots of different ways to raise kids. But beyond that there is the belief that our family is great, our traditions the best, and that we need to protect our home and way of life. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Remember those discussions about where to spend the holidays when you first got married. His family, her family? Both/or? You wanted to support your spouse but you also wanted to enjoy your holidays eating your families seven layer salad which is made with swiss cheese and mayonnaise and not the hideous combination his family puts together with miracle whip and cheddar. One tastes like home, like Thanksgiving and Christmas all rolled into one. And the other is an abomination and a direct assault on you, your childhood, and your family. Doesn’t he understand that? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Family and all that it means is so personal, at the base of all that we are… or at least all that we were. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And when someone does things differently, it feels like a personal attack. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When maybe it is just them doing what works for them and you doing what works for you.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But I still prefer mayonnaise and swiss cheese. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And don't even get me started on jello salads. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6mtm51BYplCIwSt3-DLWBO-bkFL6Q90Ep5h6uJuL0AgNfmFlG_jnSbaWqVcsBuNziDV17caEwxUWzIla7EU4_rMQ1sUtZX0mW0T7MccJAR__ed6LU2b9GpdwvOiGFt9eIQqlKQvFrul4/s1600/jello.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6mtm51BYplCIwSt3-DLWBO-bkFL6Q90Ep5h6uJuL0AgNfmFlG_jnSbaWqVcsBuNziDV17caEwxUWzIla7EU4_rMQ1sUtZX0mW0T7MccJAR__ed6LU2b9GpdwvOiGFt9eIQqlKQvFrul4/s1600/jello.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00643910888274969005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7516872488346630999.post-298356763613173712014-09-15T02:00:00.000-07:002014-09-15T02:00:08.984-07:001 of 642 ThingsAs I mentioned in <a href="http://www.findingfruit.blogspot.com/2014/09/writing-verb-and-noun.html" target="_blank">my post last week</a>, I have been struggling with being disciplined in my writing. A friend showed me the book <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Things-Journal-Francisco-Writers-Grotto/dp/1452105448" target="_blank">642 Things to Write About by the San Francisco Writer's Grotto</a> and in a last ditch attempt to keep going, I bought the book.<br />
<br />
The list is an eclectic selection of writing prompts from "Something you've always regretted saying" to "The Thoughts of the first man to eat an oyster." Out of respect for their work and copyright, I won't be including the actual prompts each time. But if you like to write or think outside the box, I would recommend the book. Also, who knows where the prompt might lead my mind and the two may not seem to be connected by the time I am ready to hit publish.<br />
<br />
Today though, I start with Thing 1 - "What can happen in a second"<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-BGRCZ41BXQHevaGGFBm3OOoNit5T0uR4HY0a-fmkQ-x1K0eCdi0NIJPWkgbvojy9fgFyKjr3BFO_jPaROjb-8smy0HE6W3deSVgGVb_GvgDTtY7GF-2Mkj05z_xHh41GYizwS-srZMo/s1600/onesecond.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-BGRCZ41BXQHevaGGFBm3OOoNit5T0uR4HY0a-fmkQ-x1K0eCdi0NIJPWkgbvojy9fgFyKjr3BFO_jPaROjb-8smy0HE6W3deSVgGVb_GvgDTtY7GF-2Mkj05z_xHh41GYizwS-srZMo/s1600/onesecond.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a>I was killing it on Thursday. Seriously. My butt was in my chair a la Anne Lamott. I was actually writing and feeling good about both the words on the page and the time spent working. And then the email arrived. It wasn't anything big or important or life changing. Just one of those awkward emails you occasionally get that make you unsure of what happened or where you stand with the writer. One second…<br />
<br />
I was sitting at home, watching tv while my kids napped when I received a telephone from a pastor at our church. My friend had been in a life changing car accident while on her way to the library with her kids. Her daughter was instantaneously with Jesus in heaven and my friend was fighting for her life. One second…<br />
<br />
I was laying in bed one evening, overwhelmed by nothing and everything. Tired of listening to my kids whine about dinner and exhausted after a long week of taxiing and monitoring and feeding and clothing and grey days. Little One came in to say goodnight. His eyes, his smile, his kisses changed it all. One second…<br />
<br />
I was standing before my groom. Dressed in white, our friends and family surrounding us, though all I could see was his side, my friends behind me. The pastor, a friend of mine from work, asked a simple question. There I stood, single on one side and forever tied on the other side of the words I do. One second…<br />
<br />
The last second goal that changes the outcome of a game. The first snow flake you see knowing the rest are coming. The last text you send before putting your phone in airplane mode. The moment the characters in the story shift and your perspective is forever altered. The forgotten lunch. The quick stop to fill up the gas tank. The smile given across the grocery store aisle.<br />
<br />
Life changes in one second.<br />
<br />
One second we often don't see coming.<br />
<br />
And yet so much of my life has felt like biding time. At least since I had kids, or maybe more accurately when we started trying for kids. Or was it earlier than that, when we were working toward the next move, the next job. Or even earlier still when we were waiting to get married or waiting to get engaged or waiting to be in the same time zone. Or did the biding start when I was waiting to meet the man I would marry. Or waiting to graduate and get a grown up job. Or waiting to get into college and start my own life.<br />
<br />
When did the biding my time start?<br />
<br />
One second.<br />
<br />
Added together.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00643910888274969005noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7516872488346630999.post-49035521245966815832014-09-12T07:00:00.000-07:002014-09-12T07:00:01.568-07:00Letter to a Friend - To My CheerleadersThe ones that read this blog. The ones that call me a writer. The ones that cheer me on. The ones that check on me when I haven't posted anything in a while.<br />
<br />
I want to say thank you.<br />
<br />
I want to thank you for believing in me even when I didn't, when I don't. It is your belief in me that often keeps me going.<br />
<br />
I want to thank you for inspiring me, for talking with me over coffee, for sharing your stories and listening to mine, for wanting more of my characters and wanting more from me.<br />
<br />
You have been my cheerleaders. (And as a former cheerleader myself, I know that role well.)<br />
<br />
You encourage me with comments, with likes, with emails.<br />
<br />
You push me to work harder, to go deeper.<br />
<br />
You challenge me to make my dreams a priority and a reality.<br />
<br />
You keep me honest.<br />
<br />
I write for me. But I also write knowing that you are reading my words. Thank you for that!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00643910888274969005noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7516872488346630999.post-8449503345390428802014-09-11T09:31:00.004-07:002014-09-11T10:01:03.396-07:00Writing - a verb and a nounWriting can be a dark, dark place. At least for me lately it has been.<br />
<br />
I know the word writing is technically a verb but for those of us that call ourselves writers, it is so much more. It is a noun - a place where we go to do our work or where we avoid going because we have nothing to say. It is an action word, something I am engaged in right now. It can be a measure of mood - a canary in the coal mines of sorts.<br />
<br />
Two school starts ago, I sat down to finish the novel I had started in bits and pieces while my youngest was in kindergarten. That August, with all three boys finally in full day school, I was going to write the story I had been dreaming about for over a year. I was committed to sitting at my desk each day and writing. And it felt great!<br />
<br />
And the feeling of finishing a whole novel was amazing. Mostly because, it wasn't easy. Not only putting the words on the page but actually sitting myself down at my desk on those days when that was the last place I wanted to be. But I did it. I was disciplined. I followed through and I accomplished my goal.<br />
<br />
Last fall when school started, I had plans to write again. My husband and I had torn down old wallpaper in my new office. We designed and painted and had contractors in to make the office exactly what I envisioned when I saw the space in our new home in Wisconsin. I had the space. I had the time with my kids off to school again. But suddenly writing was a dark place for me. A place where I was a failure. Where I had nothing worth saying. Where my self-confidence had run away and left me with insecurities. I procrastinated. I watched way too much Gilmore Girls. I felt guilty and I wrote blog posts about how I was procrastinating.<br />
<br />
I blamed the move. And I stand by that blame to a point. It is hard to leave your support system. It is hard to keep writing when the people who used to shoo you out of the coffee shop to go home and write aren't here. It is hard to write when your mind is lost at sea, when the waves of depression and failure wash over you to the point that you hold on to the only life jacket you can find, even if it is using television as a mood alterer as I once heard Anne Lamott say.<br />
<br />
I lost any sense that this is what I am meant to do. Still as I write this, as I sit down and make a plan to write every day, I feel the darkness rising up in my bright green and white office. How arrogant to think you have something to say. No one will read this. And don't even get me started on what a crap novelist I am.<br />
<br />
But then my friends remind me of the joy they saw in me when I would walk into the coffee shop and tell them about a scene I had just written.<br />
<br />
And my husband says, "I want to read the next book."<br />
<br />
And as we wander the cute shops on our girls weekend, my girlfriend shows me a book - <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/15720499-642-things-to-write-about" target="_blank">642 Things to Write About</a> by The San Francisco Writers' Grotto.<br />
<br />
And I remember that when I write, I am my most real self. The one that isn't avoiding thinking about things that hurt but pushes into them. The one that writes because it feels good when I am done.<br />
<br />
Sitting at the desk each day is hard. According to all the writer tweets I have read, I think this is universally true.<br />
<br />
But it makes me…. Me.<br />
<br />
I bought that book 642 Things to Write About.<br />
<br />
And I am sitting at my desk.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpFbBGt5qjRhF9rKrEaZ_mjvqiP1ccs9qdUmGSvRonzsxyFYRdZGjuLfa5uWohgEblwvrqRmJGAVMzEEQFwCSzsi7LwmbyZuNDI49kRYfPuDxJX06rYpNF_bjaOkZZAg54NeIuTXG7MIo/s1600/642things.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpFbBGt5qjRhF9rKrEaZ_mjvqiP1ccs9qdUmGSvRonzsxyFYRdZGjuLfa5uWohgEblwvrqRmJGAVMzEEQFwCSzsi7LwmbyZuNDI49kRYfPuDxJX06rYpNF_bjaOkZZAg54NeIuTXG7MIo/s1600/642things.jpg" height="242" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00643910888274969005noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7516872488346630999.post-32873078140708618222014-07-24T12:35:00.002-07:002014-07-24T12:35:32.391-07:00Summer VacationMaybe it's the teacher in me. Or having the kids home. Or just my lack of thoughts.<br />
<br />
But I am declaring myself on vacation for the summer.<br />
<br />
I realize this is a late announcement. Summer has been going on for six weeks. But better late than never?<br />
<br />
I had the best of intentions to write this summer.<br />
<br />
And then summer happened.<br />
<br />
I will be back after Labor Day.<br />
<br />
I promise.<br />
<br />
I am not ready to give up on this writing thing, even if the only writing work I have been doing is Twitter.<br />
<br />
See you in September!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00643910888274969005noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7516872488346630999.post-73491580356709883072014-06-10T09:04:00.000-07:002014-06-10T09:17:05.097-07:00End of the Year GauntletLife got incredibly busy here in the last couple of weeks. Between hockey tournaments, swim meets, lacrosse games, end of the year school events, end of the year school meetings, end of the year…fill in the blank, life has gotten crazy. It feels like this every year, and every year I forget the gauntlet that the last couple of weeks becomes full of extra events and extra obstacles.<br />
<br />
Goodbyes to families moving away, summer plans needing to be organized, all the papers and pencils and random school supplies coming home and piling on every counter available, library books missing, end of the year reviews letting you know you need to be concerned about your kid's future - all of it individually is taxing but together in one or two weeks is overwhelming.<br />
<br />
I feel like I am treading water in the deep end and I am not that good a swimmer.<br />
<br />
And the worst part is the resentment than can build. All of this activity centered on my kids takes me away from me. And while most of the time I love being home for them, at this time of year, it feels leechy. (That's not a word I know but that is what happens to my brain when I have to keep all these plates spinning.) I just want my time back. My empty days. My margin.<br />
<br />
And yet, summer is coming. Days of no plans and no structure that we all dream of now, will soon be exhausting in their time without end quality. When the exploring and adventure taking becomes trying not to scream at the kids whining about having to have fun. When the kids boredom mimics your own because days can be long and it's really hot outside and we've been creative and done all those things on the picture shared over and over again on Facebook. When the screen time rules go out the door in exchange for some sanity and some peace and quiet.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSIM73Q9bYheOhLz8ITyDZAMg8K47LbmXnfkLQPG3h3UM-ihRsIvcU_w73-skzhXrtPGqT9V2HkAVHYI4sziDQM0OarDHPDDFf2U4cip6py-1RpAqI4ckNGpA1RhNGCadlEAi9ao7jg-o/s1600/IMG_2380.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSIM73Q9bYheOhLz8ITyDZAMg8K47LbmXnfkLQPG3h3UM-ihRsIvcU_w73-skzhXrtPGqT9V2HkAVHYI4sziDQM0OarDHPDDFf2U4cip6py-1RpAqI4ckNGpA1RhNGCadlEAi9ao7jg-o/s1600/IMG_2380.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
But maybe, just maybe in the midst of it all, there will be one perfect night of firefly catching and s'more making. One afternoon at the beach with friends, running in the waves and digging the world's biggest hole. One morning with a couch full of boys in pajamas reading books side by side. One night watching the fireworks over the lake at the grandparents house that makes the drive and the mosquito bites worth it.<br />
<br />
Maybe, just maybe my kids will actually get to rest and rejuvenate after a long year of new schools, new friends, new sports, new challenges.<br />
<br />
<br />
Maybe, just maybe…<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00643910888274969005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7516872488346630999.post-1904395667867984192014-05-21T03:00:00.000-07:002014-05-22T08:48:44.093-07:00Swimming in the deep side of the poolRecently my middle son has joined a beginner swim team. He loves the pool, always has.<br />
<br />
I on the other hand have not always been a fan of the pool, at least not since becoming a parent. One of the first homes we rented when we moved to California had a pool, and I had three small children under five. We tested the extra tall gate, we gave the pool safety talk, we locked the backdoor, we did everything we could to keep our tiny ones safe and even then we knew that bad things happen in the world.<br />
<br />
When the baby was sleeping, I would take the older two boys for a swim. Our pool was deep, so I put life jackets on them and held onto the younger one the entire time we were in the pool. I was always right there, watching them, experiencing the water with them.<br />
<br />
As the boys grew, I signed them up for swim lessons. I hated swim lessons. I hated getting ready for the pool, I hated how hot and sticky the room felt as we sat off to the side, and I really, really hated helping the kids get dressed after they had finished their lessons. Three tired boys, needing showers and dry clothes which somehow always ended up just a little damp.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQA2UgGGH-dobpJzdUL6l_gBF85cS9b_RpPe1PDnOIZizTg8TZ3a9r-eVmcnJ4GVH_WXUX8xTZJMGtuAgO9hFzQPOS5lfpk_lxNQt7A8Tgv8UHY4Oq89yM2KozQr7vFDF1EWv8dvPumuk/s1600/IMG_1935.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQA2UgGGH-dobpJzdUL6l_gBF85cS9b_RpPe1PDnOIZizTg8TZ3a9r-eVmcnJ4GVH_WXUX8xTZJMGtuAgO9hFzQPOS5lfpk_lxNQt7A8Tgv8UHY4Oq89yM2KozQr7vFDF1EWv8dvPumuk/s1600/IMG_1935.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
Once the boys could swim, I was able to sit farther away from them in the community pool. No longer arms reach, they were venturing further and further from me. When we went to a friend's house with a pool, I could sit in a chair nearby, talking with friends while keeping a casual eye on the pool - mostly to keep them from too much rough housing.<br />
<br />
And now I have a boy who I can drop off at swim team practices. A boy who goes in by himself when I have to rush off to get another boy to hockey. A boy who packs his own bag, works hard at his practice, and then heads off to the locker room all by himself.<br />
<br />
Isn't this so like parenting. The constant care and worry and precaution taking, slowly replaced by baby steps and feeding themselves, to heading off on their own to school or practice or the real world. My son no longer needs me to be there.<br />
<br />
He does still need a ride.<br />
<br />
So I'm not done parenting yet.<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00643910888274969005noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7516872488346630999.post-53469584020854214142014-05-14T03:00:00.000-07:002014-05-14T03:00:04.007-07:00Job Description: MotherhoodRemember that video that went viral last month. The one with the job applicants being interviewed for the hardest job in the world. The one where the candidate is bewildered by the insane expectations of the job. And then at the end the applicant is told that someone already does that job.<br />
<br />
Motherhood is the hardest job in the world, they say.<br />
<br />
I hate that description and I supposedly have that job.<br />
<br />
Except that motherhood is not a job. Motherhood is a relationship. Yet we keep hearing that motherhood is the hardest job, the best job, the most important job. The penultimate of all jobs.<br />
<br />
Do you want to know what happens when you tell a generation of women who left their professions to stay home with their kids that motherhood is a job? We treat it as a job. We take all of our job skills, our training, our professionalism, our goal setting, our hopes for advancement and approval, our need to be productive and contributing members of society and we put all of that on our children. We turn our role as mother into the title CEO of our homes. We turn our birthday parties into corporate event planning. We take our kids' homework as a group assignment that needs to be done right. We become professional volunteers at our kid's school unless of course we are becoming full time teachers at our home school.<br />
<br />
These are not bad things in and of themselves.<br />
<br />
But when we treat motherhood as a job, we treat our kids as our product, our client, our boss, our subordinate.<br />
<br />
Motherhood is not a job.<br />
<br />
It is a relationship.<br />
<br />
Where did we get the idea that motherhood is a job?<br />
<br />
Child care is a job. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, party planning, teaching, bill paying, gardening, chauffeuring, tutoring... These are all jobs. These are things we can do ourselves or hire out. These are jobs. So is being a coal miner or a fire fighter, an emergency room nurse or a combat troop, except I would argue that those are actually harder jobs because let's be honest, no one is sacrificing to be a stay at home coal miner.<br />
<br />
Motherhood is a relationship.<br />
<br />
It is why I get up with my little guy in the middle of the night when he's had a nightmare.<br />
<br />
It is why I may spend hours looking for the right Pokemon character to put on the top of my son's birthday cake.<br />
<br />
It is why I say no sometimes and why I made my kids learn how to make their own breakfast and lunch.<br />
<br />
It is why I ask about my kid's day when we are driving to hockey practice or before bed.<br />
<br />
It is why I pray with my kids at the end of the day before I tuck them in for the night.<br />
<br />
It is why my heart breaks when my kids fail or get hurt.<br />
<br />
It is why we care so very, very much about these little people in our lives.<br />
<br />
Motherhood is not a job.<br />
<br />
Motherhood is a relationship.<br />
<br />
We do hard things for people we love. We stay up too late, get up too early, give up vacations for summer camp fees, and new purses for new school backpacks. Love is why we do whatever we can to help our kids become the best they can be, not a job description.<br />
<br />
And maybe if we stop seeing it as a job, we can let go of our performance driven parenting. We can stop seeing our children as our performance review and go back to loving our kids for who they are and helping them be awesome.<br />
<br />
And then maybe we can also remember that we are not just mothers. We are also friends, sisters, daughters, wives, and we are ourselves. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00643910888274969005noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7516872488346630999.post-86913706630155110622014-05-08T09:34:00.000-07:002014-05-12T07:24:48.687-07:00To The Sunday School Teachers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Dear Mrs. Wybenga,</div>
<br />
It was third grade. That was a tough year for me. That was the year my mom spent time in a mental hospital after attempting suicide. I was 8.<br />
<br />
That was alto the year that you were my Sunday School teacher. I honestly don’t remember much about the actual class. It was a Baptist church so I am imagining we heard Bible stories and did little crafts while our parents sat in big church. I can’t remember the particulars but the love I felt, that struck deep.<br />
<br />
And you showed up week after week. Do you know how much that meant to a girl whose own mother left unexpectedly one morning in an ambulance and then stayed away for more than a month? You showed up week after week. <br />
<br />
I remember going to your house once or twice for a special activity with the other girls in our class. It was a small group of third graders. Again, I don’t remember the activity, it didn’t matter really. You had invited us into your home. You made time outside of the Sunday morning commitment you had made. You had time, for me.<br />
<br />
I remember your home was quiet. So unlike the chaos of my house filled to the brim with my two brothers and the six teenage foster girls that lived with us. At any moment, my house could erupt with a shouting match, name calling, swearing that would make a sailor blush. I heard stories that an eight year old should never hear, stories of sex and abuse. Your house felt calm and peaceful, which is how I felt whenever I was with you.<br />
<br />
Oh how I needed that respite, that quiet space. It often felt like my whole childhood was defined by the drama. Everyone knew our family, if not for the group home kids that lived with us, than for my mom’s mental health issues. You though saw me, little me. And you told me that Jesus loved me, little me.<br />
<br />
People, after hearing my story, often ask how I turned out so normal. My answer always points back to God and the people that showed me God’s love.<br />
<br />
Many, many years ago, you gave up your Sunday mornings to sit with a group of third and fourth grade girls. You told us stories about God’s love, His protection, His provision. You listened to us and made our silly ideas and random prayer requests seem like the most important thing in the world. Because they were. Because I was important to you, I believed I was important to God. And that belief was deeply planted, the roots holding me tight when I sometimes forgot myself.<br />
<br />
So thank you. Thank you for all those Sundays. Thank you for the prayers I now know as an adult that you prayed for me. Thank you for sharing your life, your home, your time, your Jesus with me. You made a difference in my life.<br />
<br />
For all the girls,<br />
MeAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00643910888274969005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7516872488346630999.post-21704014251042712482014-05-05T08:38:00.001-07:002014-05-05T08:46:39.808-07:00A Nice Game of ChessI spend a lot of time thinking. It is just what my brain does. It thinks, it processes, it turns over information and tries to see other options. It obsesses and replays and cycles back around again. The brain is made to process information and it is good at its job.<br />
<br />
We are all processing, thinking, planning, plotting, examining, reviewing, decision making, second guessing, changing our minds, regretting our choices... all day long and often in the middle of the night.<br />
<br />
For some of us our brain works for us, but for others, me, my brain can turn on me if I allow it to run itself.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpYzr9fyrbRyZjhygiK8_KuW-s0QRqGb1KhDpjHG_8ml5OROTIJVnchyphenhyphenXHkMwx6OQVzRN5SP0CyeiBnZupTUGOhitkp0GaBjXUQP88tfm2qHooHTspH2C0bNrglp4TzbtP-f_Faan6vMg/s1600/chess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpYzr9fyrbRyZjhygiK8_KuW-s0QRqGb1KhDpjHG_8ml5OROTIJVnchyphenhyphenXHkMwx6OQVzRN5SP0CyeiBnZupTUGOhitkp0GaBjXUQP88tfm2qHooHTspH2C0bNrglp4TzbtP-f_Faan6vMg/s1600/chess.jpg" height="207" width="320" /></a></div>
I don't know if you ever saw the movie War Games with Matthew Broderick. It's the story of a high school computer hacker (back before there was even the term hacker) who broke into a government computer and started playing a game that simulated World War 3 between Russia and the US. Except it turns out it wasn't a game and somehow this super computer began to play for real. (Spoiler alert) Part of the plot has the computer searching through all the possible outcomes until the computer comes to the realization that the only way to win that game is to not play.<br />
<br />
I am coming to find that may be true with my brain as well.<br />
<br />
I love to think about ideas and to ponder the possible. I like to read and discover new things and I love that my mind turns things over and over rubbing off the sharp edges until I have a beautifully polished nugget. But I don't like the obsessing, the time spent rethinking, the second guessing a decision made or something that has already happened.<br />
<br />
I think about the time wasted thinking over and over and over and over about something that really did not need that much analysis. I think about the insecurity that creeps in when I live in past conversations and past deeds that have been resolved or at least that we have moved past. I think about the stress I cause by letting simple decisions become a three ring circus of information gathering and listening to so many voices that my own is lost.<br />
<br />
My brain is going to process. It is going to do its job and I want that. But I am tired of getting bogged down with obsessive thoughts, with holding onto a topic long past its expiration date. I am tired of feeling like every decision is life or death. And I am tired of being driven by thoughts and intrigues that are not even where I want to spend my time but I do.<br />
<br />
I am going to try to retrain my mind. There are things I do want to think about. Books I do want to read. Words I do want to write. But these are all pushed out when I spend my days thinking about the trivial, the unchangeable, the out of my control, or the already well thought through.<br />
<br />
It is time to think on something and then move on.<br />
<br />
It is time to choose to ponder the better for me.<br />
<br />
It is time to for my brain to learn that sometimes it is better to play a different game.<br />
<br />
How about a nice game of chess? - Joshua, the computer, from War GamesAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00643910888274969005noreply@blogger.com0