Parenting 101

The moments that will win me an award...

You're going out to dinner tonight? I want to go!
You can't go; it's for adults.

Yes. I can go. I'm grown up.
No you can't. Where I'm going is only for adults.

Where are you going?
Out. Just, out.

Where?
The Children's Museum. (but it was a retirement party.)

Still a lifetime to live

It's no secret I've been meditating on turning 40 these past few weeks. Who knows how much more juice I have in me but I like to think I've got at least half a tank. My dad made it to 76, so his forty was a fairly good mid-mark. I wasn't even born yet in his world. He turned 42 a little over an hour after I was born. This birthday, I wanted to find an image of him at 40 but I couldn't find a photo mark from 1975. There is a great one of him at 38 rocking' a mustache at an All Souls event. Still, I found these two shots which I fell in love with immediately and felt kin to given my current daily life. 


There are so many things about the first image I love: the horizontal camera, his never changing physique, the metal thermos of water and Deb's reflection in it (as I'm sure she's the one taking this photo). Dad taking a photo and one being taken of him in that mustard yellow top and this white pants. Though it's hard to tell, I'm guessing my mom is pregnant and I can't say I've seen many photos of her pregnant. It's ironic to me that their up in the mountains "hiking". I have never known either of my parents this way, though I've always wished they were more like this.  


I often ache for conversations I wish I could have had with my dad about parenting. In looking through old photos I constantly feel a sense of longing for how much love he gave us all. Not perfection, just presence and affection. I like seeing this guy in his 40s with young kids, schlepping through the days of breakdowns and bottles and carrying toddlers. That's where I'm at and since he's always in my heart, I feel he's here too. I like to think he understands every parenting failure and the small wins. I hope somehow he can sense the sheer joy I have in each of miss M's freckles (since every new one of mine was an insult to me that he always declared he loved). There are moments with miss A that I know my dad had with me. With both my kids I can see what my dad saw when he looked at us. I take comfort in the fact that he wasn't perfect either and I still loved him madly. I anchor to the idea that if my kids can have that same sense with me, I will have succeeded. Happy Birthday RAC! Cheers to discoveries left to come that help me channel you.

Feeling Forty

Turning 40 is a mind trick. Whether you're right or wrong, it's hard not to mark this birthday as the halfway point; give or take a few years. I've tried to encompass it all. A few months ago I think the inevitable march toward the "middle" held me up more than it did on the actual day.

Still I find myself trying to make sense of what turning 40 means. It's funny to watch people celebrate this milestone. 40 is a reason to do something major and I felt it for a while - the need to go big. And then I had a serious talk with myself about getting out of debt and being responsible (ah being an adult). I guess that's what turning 40 feels like and why I dreaded it on some level. I really can no longer lie to myself. In the past few weeks though, I've come to enjoy the honesty I'm facing.

But 40 also feels like two girls giving me hugs in the morning as we eat cake for breakfast. Two girls growing so quickly and the silent aching joy I get watching freckles pop on a 5-year-old face. The pride I have when a 2 year old fights back and the terror I feel imaging that teen. Hearing "I love you" and believing that's the true gift (and knowing I got myself the gift I really wanted instead of waiting for someone else to give it to me).

40 feels like a quilted blanket of friends from many phases of my life. Fifteen years with the same partner and so much learned about commitment. Friendships have come and gone. There are also those just getting woven in to the pattern. The past few years, I've hated coming to understand that inevitable evolution of all friendships. Now I just hold pride in the moments we have together - however brief or long. There is a warmth of a lifetime of memories already. And still, a lifetime more of memories and friendships to come.

I took a quiet moment of gratitude this weekend. Thanking my body for all the years it has never failed to carry me or do the things I asked or demanded. I'll take the trade off for all the times of competitive play, climbing 14ners, Saturday runs, pregnancy and on a yoga mat. I can think back through many moments over this lifetime where I never worried about what my body could do (except breastfeeding - that was BS, body) and as I grow older, I realize the sheer indulgence of that.

It would be no surprise to say my life to this point hasn't had much grace. But the beauty part about turning 40 is I'm okay with that; I'll wake up tomorrow and try again. I've stolen moments in the mirror looking at the sunken places where my eyes come to rest. As of late, I've come to focus more on the darkness and less on the blue of my eyes. Though now I approach the mirror as an old friend. Not a place of validation for my hard-earned physique or a place of despair about what I am not. As I raise two girls, I understand how utterly important it is that I greet this face as positively as I do theirs every morning.

I feel young and old at the same time. A long deep breath in and a long deep breath out. It's taken me forty years to sit in one spot and start to train my mind as much as I train my body. I can master my existence. I wonder how much I can shape what will happen? I'm too old to ignore the moments that have taken place; the choices I have made; the person I am. I'm too experienced not to believe in life's ironic unfolding. I'm too young to loose hope in what still may be headed my way.

Lesson Number One

Miss M has been asking to take a singing class. For weeks I would offer "dance" and she'd say, "no, singing". I couldn't find a group kids singing class. The closest I could get was a theater class in the spring. So I found a one-on-one session to try. I of course loved the teacher, loved the situation. Miss m? not a peep. Literally not a peep. Some scrunched up head nods and glances (at me for 25 of the 30-minute meeting) in response to the teacher's questions. In all honesty, we were in an under decorated sound proof room the size of my cube at work. Needless to say she was too young for the experience. If she wants, we'll return down the road.


For the time being, I have chosen to focus on singing songs with her that expand out of my 50/60s pop and indie band favorites to identify newer, cooler pop and other more more up-to-date tunes (also more females). The other night we picked Lesson #1 from Mulan II (which if you're dying to know is not as good as Mulan - lesson #1 might be the best part). She knew a fair amount of the words already but still it was fun.

In any case, it's all about exposure. Sometimes she'll say phrases unknowingly and I'll need to show her the irony of, liking "dancing in the dark". This lead to a Saturday morning Bruce Springsteen concert.

Miss A has begun a phase of showing off all the cool things she can do. It involves moves like putting her coat on the ground and flipping it over her head to put it on. More recently, she regalled me with walking backwards into daycare. She was doing it tonight (right in to the kitchen table) when I realized she didn't know what moonwalking was; miss M either. How did they parent in the 70s without Google?!

As we were watching the video, all sorts of questions popped up. I found myself trying to explain that MJ doing the moonwalk during Billy Jean live at the Mowtown 25th Anniversary was history in 1983. It was then that I realized, move over Mulan, I have some lessons of my own.

Miss M asked, "Is that a boy or a girl?"
"A boy but his voice is high like a girl's, right?"
So what do you think?
Great. Can we watch something else like, "Shut up and dance with me"?

The time has come

I feel like this poem speaks to what I'm working on lately. Hopefully I won't be 60 before I feel it resonating with where I actually am. I'd welcome some form of my 40s though. Dear heart, I haven't forgotten you. Again and again I return in fits and more giggles these days.

LOVE AFTER LOVE
The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
∼Derek Walcott

Deep Thoughts, Chapter 10


Are you lucky? I'm lucky.
You are lucky. Do you eat Lucky Charms?

I like pictures. It's like I'm dancing in the dark in my underwear.

I look different in different clothes.

Our current resident toddler is retiring this month. She's moving on to the greener pastures of being a big girl (aka 5). Not to worry though, we have a replacement whose already been vetted out and groomed for the gig. More Deep Thoughts, Version 2.0, to come.



Old dog, new tricks

It's been a long time since I tried something new. Last weekend we went back to Lake Mac. It was a weekend of water, sun and sand. I took Monday off so we could stretch it out a bit more. The Harris' stayed too, so we had someone to hang with when everyone else left. The lake emptied out from the weekend campers.

A camp neighbor offered up water skis to borrow. Phil and D were encouraging me to give it a try, since I never have done it before in my life. I was worried about getting hurt and kept putting off D. Then in a moment of clarity, I said I would give it a try. What was I scared of after all? Sure I got my arse handed to me after a headstand attempt on a paddle board but I was feeling better now. If water skiing was what was going to paralyze me, then so be it. I'd rather be paralyzed by an act than by a decision.



So D borrowed the skis and we went for a ride. It was sunset: the lake was practically ours with only a few boats and a parasail to be seen. The water was clear and calm in the waning light. Phil gave me the mechanical pointers of the task. If I'm good for anything, it's following instructions about how to navigate my body into an activity. I'm a natural athlete that way (lol).

I sat in the water awkwardly holding my legs in position with the skis. The boat started forward: The first time I faltered. The second time I felt it. The third time I was up and running; not for long and certainly not pretty but I was doing it. I have to admit, it felt pretty great. I was proud of myself. And tired; I thought that was it for the day. I took a break out of sheer lack of strength.

Everyone swam and jumped off the boat. Miss M showed off with cannon balls and jack knifes. I like to think I inspired her bravery. Little A got in on the action too, just to keep up. It was fun and I was proud of both girls. D too for getting me going.

I decided to give the skiing one more try before we headed back to camp. This time, I was up and at it for a much longer stretch. I felt the sheer exhilaration that comes with finding out you CAN DO something you thought was scary. I felt a sense of pride I haven't realized in a long time. I felt young and capable and cool. I couldn't get the smile off my face. It felt kind of like this:


I guess it looked a lot less like that though. Still I made it outside the wake and into one long great turn. It looked more like this:




The Reading Mother

by Strickland Gillilan (1869–1954)

I had a mother who read to me
Sagas of pirates who scoured the sea.
Cutlasses clenched in their yellow teeth;
"Blackbirds" stowed in the hold beneath.

I had a Mother who read me lays
Of ancient and gallant and golden days;
Stories of Marmion and Ivanhoe,
Which every boy has a right to know.

I had a Mother who read me tales
Of Gelert the hound of the hills of Wales,
True to his trust till his tragic death,
Faithfulness lent with his final breath.

I had a Mother who read me the things
That wholesome life to the boy heart brings-
Stories that stir with an upward touch.
Oh, that each mother of boys were such!

You may have tangible wealth untold;
Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
Richer than I you can never be --
I had a Mother who read to me.

One of Miss A's teacher's pulled the last stanza out for me a while back. I completely forgot about it until I just found it now on a piece of paper in her cursive writing. I am feeling a moment of gratitude for her taking the time to pass this along. Reading to kids is one of my most favorite activities. It was after I came in and read to Miss A's class on her birthday.