Reluctant Grownup

I heard from an old friend this week, someone from college.  He was in our wedding, in quite a few of the pictures of dorm life, is one of those intense connections you make at that time of your life when you are intoxicated with self-examination and the bigness of the world.  For me, that means he and I have had actual conversations about the person I wanted to be (and who he wanted to be.)

And then suddenly, I'm a 45-year-old woman who is a stay at home mom, living in the suburbs, overwhelmed by millions of small tasks I leave undone so I can play at being an artist.  Not quite what I had pictured in 1992.   To be fair, I was never one of those people with a laser clear vision of what they wanted to be when they grew up.  I’ve known a few of those; they find their path and they follow it.  How wonderful.  My path is scribbled in pencil – watercolor pencil – rather than set in stone. 

So here I am, chatting (not even a “real” conversation) with this guy that I met 27 years ago.  Back then I was a bit… brash.  I was kind of a bully with my ideas.  I understood words, but not feelings.  I wrote gobs and gobs of poetry.  I made a few good friends.  I had long-distance boyfriends who were willing to spend hours on the phone (remember long-distance fees?!) but who weren’t actually there. 

Now, I am married.  Two kids.  I clean up messes and drive kids to soccer.  My husband and I talk about schedules, the future, money, our kids’ quirks, and what is going on at work.  There’s little talk of philosophy, unless it is in the form of politics. Someone is around and needs something from me all the time. I write a few poems a year, which no one reads.  We are on auto-pilot, letting the stream take us.  There’s no thought of jumping the banks. 

So, for the duration of our chat, I had to reconcile this gap.  What I discovered is that I’m a) quite boring and b) jealous and c) unsure quite what to do about that.

I won’t go into his life because I don’t have his permission, but I’ll say he’s very successful.  He has the trappings of success.  I’m jealous because he built something.  And though I never even WANTED to have that sort of life, I am jealous that he worked, quit/failed, went back to work, changed things, and worked some more until… he got here.  I’m also jealous that he got that chance.  It seems like since he’s a man, it’s ok for him to fail.  That just makes him a high-stakes risk-taker.  It makes me a flake. 

I feel pressure to be satisfied with the life I have.  After all, it is soooo much better than most people get.  I was privileged from the start and have stability and luxury that quite a few people would envy.  This is a white woman disease (although the white men are the ones who kill themselves over it – or kill other people.)  The trappings of the cushy life we’ve created are actually trapping us in a solitary, sad place where we post how we fill everyone else’s expectations, but we don’t feed what actually makes us good, solid people. 

I talk to my kids (or I used to – time for that talk again) about making choices that make them their best selves and I think now it is time I make a few of those choices for myself.  Less phone, more reading.  Less sitting, more walking outside.  Less anxiety about people who don’t get back to me, more following-up.  Less despair about this world, more doing small things to repair it. 

As a mildly pudgy middle-aged mom of two crazy kids with a day job I gave myself and no actual title or significance, maybe I can let go of some of that self-examination (self-recrimination?) and instead remember the intoxication of the big world.  My inspiration has always been the marvel of how things go together.  My job is to enjoy the marvel.  Help others remember it.  Strengthen it.

I’m still in here.  The blessing is that the brash has been worn off a bit.  I can listen a little better, maybe hurt others a little less.  I’ve also learned lessons in… staying power.  I have some perspective on who really gets hurt in this world: everybody.  If you’re alive, you’ve probably struggled against loss, or addiction, or glass ceilings, or prejudices, or violence.  But let’s face it, some people have it way worse than others.  I didn’t really know that in college.  Not really. 

So yeah, maybe I turned out a little more boring than I’d hoped, but what put me here are my own choices, not cultural injustice or misfortune.  I’m not at all jealous of his commute or his lifestyle or the pressure he feels.  As for what I’m supposed to be doing, I’m doing it. I need to trust myself a little more.  Maybe I'll fail in this stage in my life, too.  Maybe I'll lose more relationships.  Maybe I'll continue to suck at the things I've always sucked at doing.  I'll never get "success" from my art.  However, if I’m really lucky, I’ll paint a piece; it’ll make someone’s day; they’ll buy it; and every time they see it, it will give them warm fuzzies.  My initials will be on it – all three.  Because Shelley Helms from 1992 didn’t have quite what it takes to be this person, but Shelley Helms Fleishman in 2018 does. 

A poem from last year:

What I am Not

It has taken me a long time

to grow up,

past independence into dependence, again.

I raise my own and still cannot say I have

a hold on what it takes to

make a life – more

make a life full and worthy and clean,

if there is such a thing.

But what I can offer is progress, the moving

of the stakes:  I do not accept

how things were

as how things are.

I am not unthinking about the seasons

of light or who lies at the right hand.

I am not the person I was;

I will change and change.

Maybe it was a gift to be a child

who stayed a child too long:

the angst of differentness

rolling mostly down my back

and now the lagging mindfulness bloats

onward with creeping surety.  Wisdom

being the property of the aged,

my aging coming slow and stupid,

fast as a glacier, but steady,

steady on.

- SHF

A Little Nazi

I've been wrapped up in our own family drama this week -- Lila had her appendix rupture -- so I sort of missed much of the news this weekend. But got on social media and I see people denouncing nazis and I'm like, "duh." Like, that's so obvious. Why would you even post a meme about that? So now I see the news in Charlottesville, Va and I see WHY we have to denounce nazis. My summary is this: a group of guys had a klan rally sans sheets. They held a bunch of Tikki torches (well done Tikki for denying any associations with this group and their agenda) and marched for racial purity and the plight of the white man. The inevitable counter-protest happened and a nazi ran his car into this crowd, killing a woman -- blood smear on the street, dragging bodies, gory undercarriage.

I cannot believe this is happening. Yes, it was in one city, one gathering. But it was so...blatant. Even in the 60s klan members wore sheets when they burned stuff in yards. Part of them was ashamed. It seems like no one is ashamed now. People feel they have the right to be awful to other people.

Here is my FB post, my meme. I actually was going to post this, but it just got too long and felt too important to just throw up there under "What's on your mind, Shelley?" Just for the record: I don't think having light skin makes a person any better than someone who has darker skin. I think it is wrong to kill people because they are different. I am against anyone who is a white supremacist or fears that the white man is under attack. I live a life of privilege, but I still see the mothers who have to drop their sons at school and have to fear for them because they are starting to look tall and strong -- and therefore "dangerous" because they are black. I see women of color who have to work twice as hard to be recognized half as much. I see my Muslim neighbors who deal with automatic fear. I see people who want to make lives in our country but are exploited and despised. I want the value of a person to be judged by how hard they work and how much they love. It is how I judge myself and why I fail.

I am fully aware I have my own prejudices. I rarely see the sort of institutional racism that I know is out there. I am extra-attentive, less real, to families and children who have a different background. I find that I unconsciously make eye contact and smile at "sketchy" people I see on the street to let them know I see them; I realize that means I am afraid, instead of what I want it to mean. However, I am trying to understand the world we live in and the experience of others.

And to me, it seems like the current mood of our country is due to mostly anger and fear, but also a sort of selfishness. I don't want to fall into cliches, but the spirit of it all seems to be a graspy sort of fear about losing something. I don't know any of the men holding Tikki torches (I don't think) but I know people who have a little bit of the mentality in those guys. They may not be men. They certainly don't call themselves white supremacists, but they fear that letting otherness into our communities is bad for America. By "bad for America," they mean it is bad for them. They fear loss of jobs or safety or status. But also the "Love" side seems to only love certain things and certain people. They shun and ridicule the people who disagree with them. They see the opposition as 100% stupid and worthless. The fringe on either side seems a little crazy and desperate.

Inside of it all, there seems to be a plea to be acknowledged, to be valued and appreciated. In looking for a way to understand others, I want to be able to see the value in them. I can (and DO) absolutely reject the stance of those men in VA, and still I can find value in some part of their person. How can I condemn them for their close-mindedness and be close-minded myself?

For whatever reason, this morning I remembered a woman from my childhood. Her name was Sheila. My mother has a history of collecting stray people, bless her. Sheila was one of those. She came in from time to time to help mom cook and clean. She never finished High School, though I think she was very smart. She was young and black and uneducated in a small, southern town, She lived in the projects. She had gold teeth and a bad perm. She was addicted to something, not sure what. She had been in jail. The outside indicated that she was a bad bet. But she was so loving. She had a wonderful smile. She did a great job for my mom. Her fried chicken was to die for. I'm not sure her fried chicken was worth the many thousands of dollars she cost taxpayers in government housing or assistance, but SHE was. It is over 30 years later and I remember my joy in seeing her. I also remember my fascination with what her life must be like and how she saw our lives. She could have hated us. Maybe she did. I'm sure I was not all sweetness and light to her. But we were able to talk about books we loved. We could talk about boys. We had life in common. Sheila never got better. She never beat her addiction. She died a violent death.

I'm sure I never told Sheila that I admired her. I should have. I will tell you instead. I admire you. I admire your hard work to get through school or to get a job or to raise a family or to get clean. I admire your service to your country, your church, your community. I admire how you get up every day, go to a shitty job under someone you don't respect, and still do good work. I value your persistence in teaching your kids discipline. I appreciate your abilities to create, build, manage, and grow.

Nazis, no one is trying to take those admirable things away from you.

If there is a kernel of beauty in Sheila, a criminal, a freeloader, an addict, then there must be a kernel of goodness in all of us. I choose to find it. I choose to look for the good. I choose to not be afraid of others. I choose to help when I can. I choose to keep my mouth shut when I don't have anything important to add. I choose to be my best self and look for the best self in you.

I teach my children that tearing down someone else never lifts you up (though I'm still working on that, myself.) Right now, that mantra doesn't feel true. I hope it still is. I might be naive about how to handle these hate groups. Don't get me wrong, I am sad and angry and scared. However, even as they want to be better than someone, I want to be better than them. I want to distance myself from everything they say and they do and to treat them as if they are something less than human. I don't have to like them. I don't even have to respect them. I can abhor their actions. However, I will love them and feel for them. I will hope they get better, that they don't live a hellish life filled with soul-sucking hate, always viewing the world around them with suspicion and sneers. I will fight them, but I will do it with compassion. Otherwise, there will be a little nazi in my soul and I won't let that happen. Because, duh.

Gabby Douglas, Thank You for Not Being the Best

This morning I woke to Gabby Douglas getting bullied and people condemning the bullying… and I’m just really over it.  I’m over this presidential race and the s***show that is my social media feed.  Some days I just wish I’d be re-diagnosed with a deadly case of cancer so I could say all the really honest things that I want to say to my online friends.  Things like, “When did you go bat s*** crazy?” and “Please stop posting pictures of your overweight kid eating donuts and ice cream.” 

Yeah, I know.  I’m an awful person.  It’s true.  But if there’s one thing I took away from my upbringing, it’s original sin; we’re all a little crappy.  I don’t trust the people who look perfect.  I’m sure that could be analyzed and over-analyzed and maybe it will be.  I’ve certainly got my issues, but… isn’t that what makes us human?  There’s all that psychobabble bumper sticker philosophy about the importance of the journey.  I’m working on the assumption that we believe that – a little bit. 

So back to Gabby. 

My daughter doesn’t participate in gymnastics.  We tried it; it didn’t stick.  Fine.  However, she watches the Olympics and she watched The Gabby Douglas Story.  If you haven’t seen it, it’s exactly what you think it is: an uplifting story about a gifted athlete who overcomes physical, financial, and emotional difficulties to become a champion.  My daughter loved it.  Because of this movie, she know the name of this gifted athlete.  She knows about the health of Gabby’s mother.  She knows about how weird it would be to live in someone else’s house in order to train.  She knows about getting discouraged and about the pressure to succeed. 

I’m not saying it’s a great movie, but it’s probably been the most inspiring movie my kid has seen.  You know what I like about it?  Gabby was weak.  You know I don’t mean that she had a lousy back handspring.  I mean that she doubted herself and cried and quit.  Then she changed her mind and started again. 

I think it’s important that my kids see that – that my girl and my boy see weakness.  Every adult knows life is a series of failures.  You don’t always win the elections.  People say bad things about you.  You fall.  You have people who stab you in the back.  The real story happens after the game/match/set/event. 

Watching the Olympics, my daughter wanted to know why Gabby Douglas wasn’t in the all-around and we explained about the cutoff and how difficult Simone Biles’ combinations are and how strong she is.   So then my girl questioned why Ms. Douglas would compete if she knew she wouldn’t win. 

That’s the question, isn’t it?  For me, that hits the heart of why people are so pissed right now.  Everywhere.  All the time.  We know we aren’t the best.  We aren’t the one percent.  Life isn’t quite as awesome as we thought it would be when we were 7.  I haven’t won American Idol.  Not once.  No Nobel Prize.  Not even a Pulitzer.  The Met is not clamoring to have me do an installation of my Avant Garde artwork.  I don’t even have a self-published book out.  I have failed. 

This week, my daughter saw Gabby Douglas as a failure – and I was GLAD.  Here is this hero, a glowing, smiling child who conquered the balance beam and floor routine with spirit and hard work, who has grown into a woman I’d like my children to emulate.  She understands fortitude.  She also understands good luck.  She knew Simone Biles, if healthy, would win.  She may not have the same glow as 4 years ago, but I don’t need her to glow.  She owes me nothing but her best.  This Olympics, we both knew her best was not good enough to win unless someone else stumbled.  But I am so, so very grateful she went anyway. 

I am not the best painter.  I am not the best writer.  I am not the best mom.  I am not the best wife.  I’m not the best daughter or sister. 

Most likely, my kids won’t be either.  I also know they won’t be going to the Olympics.  Instead, I want them to be the Gabby Douglas of their own lives.  My hope for them is that they will have the grit to keep tumbling in the face of their own doubts, their own shortcomings, and the disappointments of others.  When a coach benches them, I hope they stay on the team.  When their friends laugh at their choice of footwear, I hope those shoes don’t go in the trash.  When they have to work a part-time job while their friends don’t, I hope my kids get promoted.  I hope that they will continue to work hard and enjoy life when they are not the richest and the tallest and the skinniest.  I hope that they can be teammates with those who work hard to create beauty and those who appreciate effort.  I hope they will fail and fail and fail… and then keep going.  I want them to have big dreams, but for them to know that the days between the dreams are the best.

In the meantime, thanks Gabby and Ally and every other gymnast out there for coming out to compete even though you knew Simone Biles was gonna kick your butt.  Thank you, Laurie, for your absolute joy.  Thank you, Aly, for your leadership and your hilarious/painful parents.  Thank you, Gabby, for your composure.  Thank you, Madison, for your grace.  Thank you for not being the best, but for being pretty darn awesome anyway.  Way to stick the landing.

Headbands and Shin Guards

I haven’t written a Lila post in a while.  She’s almost 7 and is, as my grandfather would say, “a pistol.”  I’m not sure how that term got started and it might be more accurate if it referenced a piston in the engine, but the driving, exploding power would be the same, I guess.  She’s a force. 

I’ve often marveled at other mothers’ stories of taking their kids to the emergency room, explaining away bumps and bruises, getting stitches, etc.  It seemed a little crazy to me because Jack wasn’t like that, but now I know.  Because Lila is. 

This is not a girl who avoids getting dirty.  She is constantly on the move.  She runs everywhere.  (That’s another thing mothers were always saying…)  But she really does.  Up the stairs, down the stairs, to get the mail.  Everything at a run.  She falls down 4, maybe 5 times a day.  She hits her head.  She gets splinters.  She’s scratched up.  The other day I noticed she had abrasions all over her face: on her nose, lip and cheek.  She didn’t even know where they had come from, even though she had clearly face-planted somewhere, pretty hard.

And that’s ok.  She usually gets up laughing.  Because she laughs a lot.  And she makes everyone around her laugh, too.  She has a truly great giggle that easily turns into a fantastic belly laugh. 

We got to see all of this in action this weekend at her first soccer game. 

ASIDE

I say this is her first soccer game.  It’s not.  We tried soccer when she was 4 or so because, well… because of all the reasons above.  She was crazy active.  It was a huge fail.  She was so excited to get to the field for every practice and game, then totally freaked out.  She cried and screamed and neither my tow-the-line parenting nor Josh’s complimentary cajoling could get her to play.  Every practice.  Every game.  All season.  Anyway…

ASIDE OVER

So, in her “first” soccer game, Lila was a badass.  First off, she was adorable.  I love soccer girls, with their braids and curls and cute faces, contrasting with their accouterments of war (shin guards.)  They mean business, those little girls.  Or, at least, mine did. 

She was chewing gum furiously.  I’m not sure where she got it, but she was working it.  She had an intense look on her face.  Sometimes she was practicing her whistling, so she had this little lips- pursed look, face all scrunched.  She never lost focus.  And that’s where this game was so different from all the other games for us, I think.  Jack was always spacing out, playing with grass, playing with his hair, whatever.  There was none of that.  None.  Every moment that ball was in play, her eyes were on it.  She was ON IT. 

She ran.  Everywhere.  It was like all those trips up the hill to the mailbox were just training for this moment.  I never realized she was fast.  Apparently, she is.  She never gave up.  She never stopped. 

Let me be clear, she has no soccer skills.  Footwork is not her thing.  And her left foot is never even considered as a kicking option.  But what she does have is… no fear.  She was up in there on every play.  She’s a defensive maniac.  You come up against her and she is going to do her best to get that ball away from you and going in the right direction.  If you knock her to the ground, she will be kicking at the ball from the ground and using her body to get in front of you. 

She’s a scrapper.  I’d forgotten that word until now, but it’s perfect.  She’ll go to the ground fighting, get up fighting, and fight until the whistle is blown.  In a group of 6-yr-old girls, it’s a little terrifying.

And there’s my moment.  Watching was awesome.  I was so proud, but I was also a little scared for my girl.  Not that she’s get kicked in the face, because she’d shake that off or we’d get stitches.  We could get past that trauma.  I was scared that somehow, someway, she’ll lose that fearlessness, that joy.  That’s what it is, at its heart – joy.  She pursued with all her soul that little round ball and, in doing so, had a tremendous amount of fun.

And I was sitting there afraid for the moment when she’d lose that feeling, when she’ll “grow up” or get coached out of it, or have someone tell her it isn’t lady-like. That trauma is harder to heal.

But that’s on me.  That’s my issue.  My work is to keep myself from being the person who sets up artificial boundaries for my girl.  I have to believe that a piece of that fierce, competitive girl is alive in me, and that I will protect it in my child and not worry about what else is out there.  My work is to continue to encourage her to be proud of being strong and fast and fearless.  Maybe sometimes I can be a little bit afraid for her, because that’s a mom’s job, too.  Maybe I shouldn’t let her chew gum while she’s running like that.  And I did tell her you can’t play from the ground, you’ve got to be on your feet to play. 

Here’s hoping she always stays on her feet.

******

This makes me think of a poem I wrote for Lila a while back…

A Wish for My Girl

I hope the wind is kind when this one flies, or

starts to fly, falls, and flies again.  The nest is

too quiet.

She will see the sky, gilded

clouds moving farther away and leap

to touch, never considering the ground.  She is the one

who sees the wide beach, pitted and soft, reflecting light, and stops. 

Filled with joy.  Will stand, arms out, and breathe open

her love with big gusts of happiness.

My fear: that the sun will claim her scorching

faith in speed and flying laughter, that she will not see

she is the source of golden light.

And, I hope the wind is kind.

Same School, Different Planet: the exceptional child

I have two children.  They are both a handful in their way.  Jack came first, and because he was a great kid, we had another one.  Seriously.  I don’t think Lila would have come along if I hadn’t been sure that we could make another one just as awesome.  And we did.  Different, but no less awesome. 

There are the obvious differences: age, gender, personality, abilities.  Today’s post is about the personality and abilities.  But also about how those difference play out in school.  We’re two years in to both of them being in public school and their paths have been vastly different already.  Lila is “average.”  Jack is “exceptional.”  Their little universes are worlds apart. (See what I did there?)  I guess it’s no surprise that their school experiences would be so different.  But it has been.  At least to me.

And I know I’m not alone in this because I have so many friends who have kids who are on the spectrum or have kids who are special needs: ADD, dyslexia, sensory issues, etc.  In fact, parents with a whole bushel of average kids are the odd ones out.  But even if you don’t have a kid who has a diagnosis, if you have multiple kids you know they are very different creatures.  They learn differently, interact with people differently, and have to be parented differently.

So in our house we are struggling with those differences.  Jack is a freaking genius at some things, but he can’t modulate behavior changes to adapt to what is around him.  “Simple” things-- like stopping when someone says stop—are really hard for him, and it’s nearly impossible for us not to get frustrated.  He makes weird sounds.  He doesn’t respond to people who try to talk to him.  He doesn’t have a handle on his emotions and he doesn’t have the same level of emotional independence as his peers (he’ll still crawl in my lap.)  However, he still has those damn pre-teen emotions: desire to be liked, social disappointments, pressure to please his parents and teachers, and the ever-present need to pester his sister.  From a parental viewpoint, it’s overwhelming.  Some things just can’t be changed, no matter how you parent.  It’s his brain; whatever caused it has already caused it.  It ain’t going away.  I just don’t want him to be stripped of his confidence because of it.  I think our role as parents is, first, to love him and, second, teach him to love himself.  He doesn’t have a chance if he doesn’t like himself.  He’ll collapse inward and be depressed before he’s out of middle school.  I want him to see himself as I see him – as a sort of exploding star of awesomeness.  He could either become a black hole or light a universe. 

Enter, school. 

Jack was born August 19.  When he started Kindergarten, the cutoff was sept 1^st.  We went back and forth about holding him back because he was young and small and a boy.  But he was also really, really ready for some real school.  We took him to the little assessment thing they do for entering kindergarteners and he blew the assessor away: taking a chapter book off the shelf and reading it to her, doing math in his head, telling her facts about space.  She said we would be doing him a disservice not to put him in kindergarten.  So he started kindergarten when he was 4.

Fast forward 6 years.  He just started 5^th grade.  On one level, he is fantastic.  He has never been below the 99^th percentile on any standardized test he’s taken.  He reads at a college level, about 150 words a minute.  He finishes his work early and his teacher almost always says Jack forces them to push their curriculum all the way to its edges and beyond.  But he also struggles.  He’s been bullied.  He’s teased and excluded.  He crosses social boundaries: touching kids who don’t want to be touched, arguing with teachers, showing difficulty in working with others.  In 3^rd grade, he had a particularly vicious teacher who publicly, repeatedly shamed him, and he spent most of that year separated from the class, facing the back wall of the classroom.  It is my greatest regret that I didn’t pull him from that class as soon as I saw the signs.  I tried to work with the system and I wish I hadn’t.  The only benefit from the year is that we had him tested (in the school and independently) and that information has been really helpful. 

And 4^th grade was better.  He had a “cool” teacher who is fun and genuinely liked Jack; he saw Jack as a kid rather than a problem.  There’s a second teacher in the classroom all day, and she worked with Jack to keep him organized and focused on the task at hand (instead of reading the books he has hidden in his desk.)  He has more friends.  He’s happier.  So I’m happier. 

However, I’m not sure if he’s really reaching his full, exploding-star potential.  He’s capable of above grade level work in every subject, which he’s not allowed to access.  He’s limited to a library of books that are below his reading level.  Most glaringly, there are absolutely no resources or “interventions” to help Jack with his needs: social interaction.  It has become clear that general socialization with average kids does not rub off on Jack.  He needs extra help, but it is not available (through the school.)  He’s doing just fine, but we have to figure out if “just fine” is enough.

Now, let’s contrast Lila.  She’s average, remember.  And she’s thriving.  She went into kindergarten unable to read, enthralled with finger paints, and sometimes forgetting the number 14 when she counted to 20.  She has progressed like a bat outta hell.  She loves it.  It is perfect for her.  I have no reservations that she is in the right place.  It almost feels too easy.  And her experience this past year has shown me what school is supposed to be like for a kid – and for the parents.

For Jack, it has always felt like I was trying to walk down the center of a ship when it’s being tossed in the waves: always off balance, always trying to get back to center, sometimes thrown to the deck.  Lila’s path is one through an open field of flowers, end clearly visible, everything sunny.  This is the difference between school for an average kid and school for a kid who is not average.  School is designed for the average.  In some ways, it simultaneously creates and demands average.

I always did well in school.  For the most part, I’m a very well-behaved human being.  Laugh if you like, but I rarely break the rules.  And here’s a secret: I don’t think that’s necessarily a good thing.  I’m too influenced by authority figures.  I want my kids to respect their teachers, elders, and – of course – parents, but I also want them to question and take chances.  I want their definition of success to be their custom creation. 

The school’s definition of success dooms Jack to failure.  He will not be able to sit still.  He will not encourage collaboration in the group projects.  He will not sit quietly.  He disrupts.  He challenges.  He rebels when treated unfairly.  I don’t think any of these things are bad, unless he’s hurting someone else’s ability to learn.  But in school, all these things are bad.

Jack is the one who gave me the title of this entry.  I’m not even sure what he was talking about – maybe how different 4^th grade is from kindergarten.  Regardless, he has it right.  He and Lila go to the same elementary.  We walk the same sidewalk to school.  I let them go through the same doors every morning.  It’s the same school.  But it’s a different planet.  

The Impossible Notion of Balancing Compost

I compost. Well, I try.  I gather all my scraps from the kitchen and put them in this big, stinky, buggy barrel and give it a couple of twirls.  There’s supposed to be some thing where I balance the brown stuff with the green stuff to get the proper PH, etc.  I don’t really care about that.  I’m just glad to not have stinky kitchen trash and I’m happy because I get to feel like I’m doing the right thing.  And that’s the thing.  I’m trying really hard to feel like I’m doing the right thing. 

Because you really can’t always do the right thing.  You can try.  Feed your family organic foods.  But not just organic foods, vegan foods.  Not just vegan, but local vegan.  Be active in your kids’ schools.  Not just active, but be the room parent.  Don’t just be the room parent, be the Pinterest parent (or the guest teacher parent.)  No, no, no.  Don’t just volunteer at the school and give tons of money, home school your kid.  Be a stay at home mom.  But not a lazy stay at home mom!  Be the SAHM who makes every day a loving, learning experience.  But wait!  Maybe not a SAHM.  Be a working mom, who succeeds at every level: promotions, great work clothes, AND come home patient and alert to the needs of your child.  Meet all the needs for your husband.  Be a full partner in the marriage.  Or… maybe not a real full partner, because he needs to feel masterful and stuff.  And, of course, lots of vigorous sex.  Totally present, wild, but also tenderly intimate sex.  Because you’re not tired at all. 

I mean, really.

It truly is impossible.  And that’s just the stuff you do for everyone else.

Motherhood, being a woman, is an everchanging series of turning points.  You have choices, from the time you’re reasonably self-aware, about what kind of person you want to be.  Motherhood requires that you also – to a certain extent – decide what kind of person you want to raise.  You are responsible for raising a healthy, well-rounded, kind, principled, contributing member of humanity.  It can be consuming.  Sometimes I question how consumed some moms (parents!) can be. 

I see a whole population of people who did very well in excellent schools, had successful jobs, are competitive and driven, and who just happen to be female and had babies.  Some of them quit those jobs and have put all their drive into raising their little ones.  This is good and bad.  It’s good because my compatriots are killing it.  They are mommying their hearts out.  They are doing it all right.   The kids have every resource.  Their lunches are packed.  They have piano, soccer, AND thai chi.  They get tutored.  They have awesome birthday parties.  To me, it feels like too much.  The kids don’t seem damaged.  Maybe a bit more anxious than I remember being, but not spoiled or incapable.  A little ungrateful.  A little naïve.  But hey, they’re kids. 

So what’s bad?  It’s the moms.  Their ambition finds new avenues: triathlons, home sales businesses, arts and crafts.  (I don’t judge.  I’m describing myself here. ) They may have a kind of desperate look around the eyes and restless hands.  They drink a lot of wine.  They’ll tell you they’re happy and that they’re lucky.  I don’t think they’re wrong.  Necessarily.

There’s a conflict.  Women are presidential candidates (president?) and Supreme Court judges and CEOs of IT companies.  We are also nurturers and home builders.  Both identities are really hard to maintain.  I would argue that they are doubly hard to maintain at the same time.  However – and this is my thing today – I think there is painful cost when a mother denies one or the other.  That balance, though, it is very nearly impossible to reach.  Forget that; it IS impossible.  There’s guilt, or unfulfilled potential, or some unnamed feeling that you just aren’t doing it all right, no matter which choices you make. 

So I’m taking the little victories and trying to be ok with them.  I’m making a little bit of money after years of being more or less totally dependent.  The kids have really crazy hair and mismatched socks, but they go to school (fairly) clean and happy.  They aren’t perfect and I’m pretty sure they don’t expect life – or their mother – to be.  I am learning new things. I am confident.  I meet new people and make new friends. I fail. I keep trying. 

And when I finish typing this, I’ll take the batch of kitchen scraps that prompted this post to the compost bin.  I’ll congratulate myself on trying to do the right thing.  I’ll have some regret that I’m not balancing it the way I should.   I’ll spin the wheel.  

Saying (and doing) Grace

I’ve been thinking a lot about grace.  Not a constant thing -- because, who has time?! -- but it has been sneaking around the back edges when I drive home from the gym, or check facebook, or consider some comments made by a friend.  You probably know that I’m not a very religious person.  Not anymore.  I’ll spare you my spiritual history, but I will tell you I was raised Southern Baptist in GA.  That bit of history is important because it informs how I think of the word “grace.” 

In a religious sense, it has a couple of meanings.  It can mean a prayer before eating, as in “Shelley, will you say grace?” (a question you really can’t answer in the negative.) It can also mean the act of God that forgives sins.  Grace is the acknowledgment of wrong and the release of responsibility for that wrong.  It is a letting go without turning away. 

I’m not sure many use “grace” as a prayer anymore.  It was that way in my grandparent’s home – on my dad’s side.  We had many family dinners, with heaping plates of casseroles and cobblers.  My grandfather had a daily prayer that served for all but the most formal events, when the floor might be given to someone more loquacious, but his version was this:

“Heavenly Father, pardon our sins.  Accept our thanks, for these and all thy many blessings.  Amen.”

Simple.  Probably some derivative of some formal prayer that, for him, ceased to be anything but part of the ceremony of dinner.  But I can tell you that it is imprinted in my and my brother’s head.  And it says a lot.  Forgive us.  And thank you.  We know you do a lot for us.  Bye. 

Strangely, this has connected in my mind with the facebook game where people tag one another and you have to list 3 or 5 things a day for 5 or 3 days.  Varies.  But the end result is you have 15 opportunities to be thankful.  I’m feeling pretty darn lucky at this point in my life, so it wasn’t hard, but the act of taking the time to be thankful – sitting down and writing the things that bring me pleasure, make me feel like this life is awesome, kick me in the pants and say “LOOK AT ME.  I’m beautiful.”—that was fantastic.  Because I am grateful.  I really enjoy being alive.  I don’t know if that’s because I had my cancer diagnosis so young and it made me a little more aware or if I’m just one of those floaty, daydreamer types that gets lost in the light in the clouds.  Doesn’t matter.  I am thankful. 

But grace is not just about being thankful.  It’s also about the wisdom of staying open.  For me, and I venture to say –for everyone—that’s harder than being thankful.  It means considering others in a way thankfulness does not.  We allow them to step away from guilt or shame or anger without recrimination.  Sometimes, I guess, they don’t step away.  The life they choose to live is one we don’t like.  And, the way I see it, we don’t have to like their life.  Their mistakes, their wrongs, their poor judgment, are theirs.  We hold them to society’s rules.  God holds them to his.  We, if we’re strong, we give them grace.  We don’t shut them out.  We don’t turn away. 

I’ve been talking about God like he’s a part of my life and he’s really not, but he is part of how I think about grace.  If there is an ultimate example of forgiveness, I think the Bible gives us that.  I think the gift of Christianity is that it is inclusive; you don’t have to be born into it.  It is a community you can join.  Just by being born, we have all been thrown into this community where we share our feelings, our pictures, our accomplishments, and – yes – what we are thankful to have.  It is a technological world and a world where human interaction is changing.  We can express ourselves in ways I never dreamed would exist when I was a freshman in college.  That time for me was eye-opening: so many different people, so many different views.  And we were all desperate to share and be heard.  This time seems like a world-wide freshman year.  (I didn’t handle freshman year all that gracefully.)

So I want to handle this time gracefully.  I have children who I want to grow up to be big-hearted and accepting.  I want them to love this world and love the people in it.  I want to model that life for them.  However, I’m a pretty judgmental girl.  I say that to be fair.  Because I’m also honest.  I struggle with stupid people and mean people and evil people.  I also have to say I think I’m pretty good at letting other people do their thing if they aren’t mean or evil.  It might have to do with how little I care about their thing, but still.  If there is a God, and he made us in his image, maybe that allowed him to see us as worth saving.  Seeing that promise in each other is a challenge. 

My son is autistic.  Very mildly.  But it makes him weird sometimes.  He has annoying behaviors.  He doesn’t get social cues.  It can irritate me.   I also love him very much.  He is a tremendous joy.  He is sweet and smart and helpful.  And he’s funny.  However, there are certain things he just can’t do.  He cannot control some of his tics – which come out like disrespectful obstinacy.  He cannot be a sunny, personable kid in the face of frustration.  He is close to my heart.  He’s my first and he’s probably the most like me.  So, maybe it is easier to give him grace.  Sometimes, on a good day, I can look at him and let it go.  I can see past his difficulties, his bad choices and I can just love him completely.  I can be thankful for everything that he is, the whole package.  That, to me, is grace. 

Someday, I hope my grace extends much, much further.  I hope that I can connect with the little bit of me that is in everyone, despite religion or political affiliation or just plain stupidity.  And that I can love them as completely as I love my son.  But, for now, I’m thankful for this.  Amen.