Two Sides of Me

I am blessed to be the mother of a son and two daughters.

From the beginning, my son has always been the perfect amalgamation of his own thing.  Vintage Sam, he is a hand-crafted brand of his own being in the world.  And while once in a while, my husband and I see glimpses of ourselves in him, for the most part, he is custom awesomeness on its' own.

My daughters are another story.

From the time my oldest daughter, Kate came out of the womb, she was instantly a carbon copy of me, except infinitely kinder and much sweeter.  We look like each other, share the same sugary voice, over-enunciate our vocabulary and value language as though it's the hottest commodity on the face of the earth.

From the time that Kate was three-years old, she was reading multi-syllabic words and calling out her preschool teachers for skipping sentences in the stories at circle time.  Fiercely independent, our middle child has never needed anyone to entertain her.  She is the epitome of creativity and can often be found re-purposing twine, cardboard, leaves and safety pins into a masterpiece.  A fantastic piano player, beautiful ballerina and prolific writer, she spends most of her life dreaming smack dab in the present.

At the tender age of five, my younger daughter, Claire is the feistiest, most self assured, would-be pole dancer that you've ever had the privilege to meet.  On the day of her birth, ten minutes before my last push, I started crying profusely and when my OB screamed, "Look at me!  What's wrong?!" I just retorted, "I don't know, I'm scared.  Something's coming."  And sure as fuck, she was hell-bent to be in the world.  When she emerged with absolutely no scream, my OB un-lassoed the umbilical cord from her neck four times and then whisked her away to get an APGAR score.  She was off-the-charts healthy.  A fighter, hard core dancer, consummate singer and lover of all things sparkly and forbidden...she is a force to be reckoned with.  Unafraid or encumbered by the fear that often holds me back, Claire's motto is that life is for the living and that much like Dylan, you should get busy doing that or get busy dying.

Which is why it is crazy to me that the past few weeks, Claire has been stuffing anything and everything up her shirt, signifying that she wants to be a mother.  After shoving three beanie boos up her dress, she asked, "How old do I have to be to be a mommy?"  I told her that she had to go to college, graduate school, study abroad and then maybe at the age of 30, we could talk about it...her hopes seemed undeterred.  "Well, I'm gonna have 29 babies and I don't need a husband."

"More power to you, " proclaimed Kate from the kitchen, "I'm going to art school in Paris."  And in both moments, I was over-the-moon elated for both of them.

Little versions of me wrapped up in both of them...the girl who yearns to live in a high rise contributing to her industry while also breastfeeding a babe and reading Dr. Seuss at night...except I could never figure out how to do it.  Such a beautiful, hard thing to make work in the world.

I suppose at the end of the day, all you want is for your kids to be happy...but man, I hope they get to experience professional adventure and personal peace and that Claire comes to her senses about the 29 babies deal...or I may have to flee the country as the grandmother.

An Afternoon Reflective Siesta

The past few afternoons, I've given myself permission to close my eyes and take a nap.

I curl up in what our family fondly refers to as the "reading chair" with a cream colored afghan, a breeze blowing through the window, a bright orange cup of tea and I...fall asleep. And, it's bliss.

When I was studying abroad in undergrad, I remember thinking how crazy it was that every afternoon, banks, businesses, cafes and open air markets all shut down in honor of the roughly 1-3pm siesta.  But they did.  And so, we too were forced to follow suit.

We let our bodies just slow down.

And this is what's happening to me...it's what does happen to me.  As fall makes its face known with changing leaves and cooler temperatures, shorter days and plants that slowly die, it's a good reminder to gradually choose a different pace...one that welcomes the seasons and honors the cycles of life.

While I was slumbering the afternoon away yesterday, I had this vision of my children grown calling each other to secure details about returning home for the holidays.  I remember feeling happy that they were close as adults and that they were excited to return back to where it all started. 

And then, I started counting.  Sam will be 11 in a few months which means only 7 years left before he heads off to college.  Kate is 8...a decade more for her.  And Claire is turning 5...so 13 more years and they will all be gone.  Is that possible?  Do you ever play this game with yourself?

At that point, I will be 53.  I can't even imagine what that will feel like or what I'll be doing or if I'll have an opportunity to take a blissful afternoon siesta.  Will I still be writing, running, reading, teaching?  Maybe I'll be in Tuscany taking a real siesta in a foreign land.  Either way, at that point, I will not be the only adult...my children will be as well.  Maybe they too will be writers, runners, teachers.

Regardless of who any of us are at that point in time, I hope I will always remember these serene moments of one blanket, one cup of Chamomile and three hearts beating outside of my own that feel very much just like mine all wrapped up in the changing of the seasons.

Navigating the Waters of September

I don't know what September looks like at your house...but here's what's been going on at mine.

From the moment that we round the bend on our walk home from school, my fifth grader, third grader and preschooler, kick off their shoes, grab a snack and immediately start prioritizing which homework needs to be tackled first; assessing which tests have to be studied for; analyzing the best window to sneak time in on that Social Studies project in the midst of shuffling off to football practice, ballet, swim team and music.

And we're all tired.

Because the truth is, it takes a while to get adjusted to a new homework regimen, teacher expectations, extra curricular involvement and what it means to stay focused on school work long after you've left the building.  And with each new grade comes a progression of information that requires all of us to try and breathe and trust that with time, routines will morph, the brain will absorb, the will power will rise up and the yelling will dissipate.

But I forget and so do they...

And so in the midst of the management or lack there of, we get short with each other, we say things we don't mean, we project our stress and we fizzle out.

If I had to guess, I'd predict that the whole deal has been the hardest with Sam because as the oldest, he and we, right or wrong, hold him to a really high standard.

He is hard working, extremely bright, bears the weight of the world on his shoulders and is as interested in pleasing his parents as he is in learning the material and having a general curiosity about the what the hell is going on in fifth grade.

And man, the boy has a shit ton of homework.

So when I watched him walk out of the doors of school this afternoon, I could see so much of me in his eyes and in the back pack strap he clipped around his waist for extra support.  It's just a lot.

And I'm conflicted because academics have always been extraordinarily important to me.  A love of learning and a strong work ethic is honestly, a bare minimum.  But in the same breath, I'm also trying to remember that he's 10.

As we continue to navigate this push pull relationship of working harder than we have in the past and letting go of the reigns to teach him how to be more accountable for his success as a student, I say, here's to time on our knees as parents.  I've prayed so much in these last few weeks for grace, for peace, for trust that he won't need extensive therapy because I've jacked him up.

And here's to our little ones just trying to do the best they can while maybe getting time to throw the football or the frisbee or to build in Minecraft or to ride their bike or to lay in the grass and stare up at the sun before it's dark by 5:30pm.

Here's to all of us making it through September.

Stop Time

This is a picture of me and my kiddos...

It was taken at a bike parade this Fourth of July.  I am 40.  Sam is 10.  Kate is 7...within inches of turning 8 and Claire is 4.5.

Today at the pool, I ran into an old friend from high school.  I was trying to corral my brood between the indoor and the outdoor water slide pools and she grabbed me..."Kelly...I don't know what's happened to Sam but he's grown.  He's so tall and such a handsome kid."

My heart sort of stopped because to me on any given day, he's just my kid.  But then, I look at pictures like the one above and realize...he's literally up to my shoulders.  How dear God did that happen?  He's only 10 years old.

Juxtapose this pic to the one below of me and my siblings.  It's not the best of us.  We'd all been pushing our kids on bikes at the Bike Parade in the midst of humid ass July weather and they were forced against their will to take the traditional pose against my mom's kitchen wall mural.

You know which one I am...Michael is my younger brother by 4 years.  Christina...the red head on the right is my younger sister by 12 years and my baby sister April on the left is younger by 13.

They all have kiddos of their own and really fantastic lives.  But not long ago, I was fighting like crazy with Mike.  I used to beat the shit out of him until he turned 12 and then he returned the favor by pinning me down and spitting on me just exactly when no parent was looking.  I practically helped raise my sisters...changed their diapers, helped them to brush their teeth, read to them and now, I look at them as grown women raising their own littles and I think...please, stop time.

It struck me at the pool that I often live my life in the following fashion...I look at all of the things I have going on and pace myself by saying...everything will be better after I get through this meeting or presentation or project or family event or fill in the blank.  I let myself celebrate for 2.5 seconds and then I'm off to the races on to the next item to check off the list.

Somewhere in the mix, life happens and people grow up and time keeps ticking and memories are either made and savored or, they're not pardoned by the busy hectic freneticness of life.

And so, when my friend said that Sam was so tall and handsome, I thought, I must enjoy this journey.  One day, he'll be like my brother with his own family and responsibilities.  For now, I'll plan to stop and look him in the eye when he's telling me about the latest chapter of a book or a movie that's coming out that he wants to see.  I'll engage him and ask questions...without trying to hurry through it because I'm constantly multi-tasking.

I'll remind myself that

swimming deeply in the waters of all of it is so much more rewarding than simply treading.  Because time goes on no matter...even when we're desperate for it to slow down and let us savor the moments.

Lessons Learned from an Unaccompanied Minor

By anyone's standards, I'm a conservative mother.

You can spin it anyway you want using language like...she enjoys having a pulse on her kiddos...she's actively engaged in the day-to-day details of their comings and goings...she loves knowing them like the back of her hand.

Or, you could say...she's a helicopter mama with a high need for control who has a hard time letting others get involved in the rearing of her littles.

And you'd be right on all fronts.

So, today was a big deal. 

This happened.

I put my 10-year old not so little son, Sam on a plane as an unaccompanied minor to spend the next five days with his grandparents and slew of boy cousins down south.

And to be fair, he didn't fly by himself.  My 13-year old nephew was with him...but no adult, hence, the unaccompanied minor status for both.

I know that people do this all the time.  In fact, I grew up doing it.  My parents were divorced and I got on planes with my little brother to visit my dad.

But...well...um...this is my kid and this time around, I'm the parent.

Last night and really all this week, Sam and I spent time sharing all of the things that he was excited about doing...swimming, fishing, golfing, Nerf gun warring with the cousins,  eating loads of cheese pizza, learning to play poker and staying up really, really late.

I told him that I was feeling both excited and sad thinking about missing him, to which he replied...It's okay to be sad because you miss me, but don't be sad worried that I'm not having fun or really that I'm missing you.  You should find fun stuff to do while I'm gone.  It's kind of a cool time for you too.

And I sat stunned.

He's right.  In the end, this is what kids want.  They want to know that their parents will always be there for them, when they need them.  Simultaneously, they want to fly, literally and figuratively away from home to have new adventures and to discover treasures that they can call their own.  And while they're gone, sometimes indefinitely, they want to know that their parents are happy and aren't sad that they've flown the coup.

This is our job...to love the hell out of our kids while they're under our roof, to encourage them to try on new ventures and to reassure them that we have our own lives pursuing our own passions while they're gone...and, that we will always be here as their rock when it's time to land or to fall.

It was a wake-up call.  And even as I write the words, it seems like such an evident, ridiculous concept to type.  But for me, it's real for the first time, because for so long my passion has been them.  And the time is evolving to rediscover my own wholly exempt of them.

He didn't cry.  He didn't even look back as he descended down the walk way with the "Unaccompanied Minor" sign dangling from his neck.

With tears in my eyes alone, I watched their plane lift into the sky and said, "Be safe, have the time of your life, you are loved, and I will be more than fine."

The Dance of the Tiger Mama

Okay, I'll admit it. 

I'm a Tiger Mama.

And not a little bit of one either.

If you're not familiar with that term, you might substitute it for a helicopter parent, an "overly involved/engaged" parental influence, a very "hands on" mother.

From the time that my children were in the womb, they probably had a significant inclination that academics are very important to me.  With regard to the school experience, I value academics and the faith component of our educational environment more than anything else.

Specifically, I value the desire to voraciously read, the ability to write well, and the love of learning.

To that end, I firmly believe that every child in the world should have access to a public library and an adult who can help to get them there.

And hopefully, they also have someone or better yet, multiple someones in their life who set the bar high and expect them to achieve beyond what they personally think they are able to.

If you ask my children, they will undeniably tell you that I am "that person" in their lives.

I make no bones about it.  Their job is to go to school and to soak up as much knowledge, insight, wisdom, and information that they possibly can.  And then, when we come home, my job is to both keep them accountable for what they've learned and to provide them with opportunities to apply that knowledge in the world.

They like using their knowledge....they just don't like being accountable for it.

Like most parents, we have instant access to their grades, an amazing source of quick and helpful communication with their educators, and community resources that are abundant when it comes to helping them grasp a concept or master a skill.

What we don't have is enough fucking wine in the house when the shit hits the fan which is about every third night.

And it hits the fan because my oldest, my fourth-grader is on overload.  Like me, he's a type A, first-born who has high expectations of himself and does not want to disappoint.  But he is stubborn and he fights dirty and he has no problems with hitting below the belt.

His latest was something like:

"Fine, mom...I don't care if I fail this test.  It will be your fault.  I'll never leave my bedroom.  And you can live with how that makes you feel."

Or...

"Until my grades are suffering, leave me alone."

In both instances, he has a point.  Asserting his independence, he's essentially saying, "Back off, lady.  This is my life.  These are my grades.  I kind of kick ass.  So stop making a Federal case about it."  And in my heart I'm thinking, "You're being lazy.  If you'd just spend half a minute reviewing your work, you wouldn't make careless errors and we wouldn't be in this God foresaken boat after school. And, while we're at it, you should be thankful that you have a mom that cares so much."

Instead, we both sulk.  We exchange sharp words.  We circle the wagons.  Cut each other some slack.  And come back to the complicated, unconditionally loving, albeit, hard as hell, mother son relationship.  And we know that we'll find ourselves right back here again on Tuesday.

I used to care how other moms did it.  Now I don't.  I'm owning how I do it.  Flawed, imperfect and full of love.  Here's to the dance of the Tiger Mama.

For the Love of Sam

I've sort of been in love with you, your whole life.

That's to be expected, I suppose.

You are my first born child...the little one that I cuddled, coddled, learned, and trial and errored nearly everything I know about parenting upon.

And, I know that every mother says this, but truly, you are an amazing child.

At nearly 10-years old, you are almost as tall as I am (and I count myself as one of the taller mamas), you have the most beautiful honey colored, crazy thick hair, bright blue eyes, super cool specs and a boundless passion and energy that just won't quit.

You are insanely bright.  And while I also count myself as one of the more curious people walking the planet, you are ridiculously intelligent.  At any given time, you can be found with your nose in a book digesting novels on knights, dragons, sharks, sorcerers, heroes, and dinosaurs.  You're knocking it out of the park academically and you bring so much love to my heart knowing how seriously that you take it all.

But the real joy is watching you with your friends, your sisters, your grandparents and perfect strangers.  You are a kind soul.  You are generous.  And even though you are often quiet and more introspective, you are aware and conscientious of those who are in need.  And you always come through to help.

I have to be honest.  I'm a little sad watching you grow up.  It won't be long before being at home won't be so cool and your friends' opinions and time will be more important than your dad's and mine.  And that's okay, that's how it's supposed to be.

So, if from time to time, I grab ahold of you for a hug, just indulge me.  I promise not to embarrass you or to hug too long.

It's just that I love you.  I'm so insanely proud of you.  And well, you're just growing up too fast.

For the love of you, Sam...

I'm Sorry

The past few days have been a little rough with my eight-year old son, Sam.

I'm not sure why but we've been at each other.  Maybe it's because we're both first born, type A, OCD personalities that have a specific expectation of how we want things to go down and when they don't, well, we're emotionally charged and pissed off at the world.

And so it was with our last spat over something completely inconsequential that I realized, I have to get better at apologizing to the people I love, and in particular, to my children.

There is something very powerful about modeling the importance of being vulnerable.  Laying your cards out for everyone to see and owning when you've made a poor choice, which most of the time, involves yelling at some insane decibel about something that really doesn't matter.

So after a day of doling out ridiculous amounts of consequences that I never followed through with, I tucked him into bed.  Curling his hair between my fingers, I looked down and said, "Truce?"

He said, "Of course, mom."

I told him that I was sorry for being impatient, sorry for not letting him speak his mind, sorry for being a helicopter parent, and sorry that in general, we had a bad day.

I love the tar out of my kiddos.  I want nothing more than for them to be loving people in the world.  I hope that by showing them that I make mistakes all the time and that I'm willing to apologize to those I've hurt in the process...my example will make a positive impact upon them.

But of course, I don't know.

Until then, I pray that an honest, authentic, "I'm sorry," is the great equalizer providing the chance to start anew, recognizing that tomorrow will bring a new set of challenges, but also a chance for a loving re-do.

Power of Dreams

I awoke like a shot in the dark at 4:12am from a dream.

It was frightening and beautiful all in the same breath.

My 7-year old son, Sam and I were in a prison cell.

There were two beds.  He and I were facing one another aware that this night would be our last on earth.

We were talking about all of the things that we would do together in Heaven...dance, sing, run, ride bikes, swim, play...and all of the people that we'd be so happy to see.

It was painful.  I vividly remember trying desperately not to cry or to seem alarmed or anxious...but only to be in the moment with him...grateful for our time together.

And then the guard came in and turned the lights off.

I woke up instantly scrambling to find him.  Stumbling downstairs, I opened up his door to see him sawing logs...sleeping blissfully.

Turning on the coffee pot, I thought, "Am I enjoying my children or am I surviving these very needy moments of childhood?  Am I seeing them as temporary gifts from God or am I feeling them as burdens?"

The truth is that it is a gift to have as much time as I do with them and before I know it, they will be in school all day, participating in activities in the afternoon, and spending time with their friends at night. And, our story book reading, puzzle making, swimming days will be limited.

Dreams.  They can be powerful and thought provoking especially if you find yourself in a prison cell.

The Gift of Mother's Day

I remember when two lines came up on the test.

I had just turned 29 and was recently married.

I took test after test wondering, is this possible, could it really be true, I'm going to be a mother?

I remember the labor and delivery of each of you.  I remember the breathing, the pushing, the praying and the counting of all 10 fingers, all 10 ten toes, and brief pause before you screamed and cried and we knew that you would be fine.

I remember fumbling my way through nursing, pumping, taking your temperature, and trying to get that damn front carrier to fit just right.

I remember countless times of reading "Goodnight Moon" and singing the A,B,C's and You are My Sunshine and Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.

I remember fevers, ear infections, sleepless nights, exhaustion.  First steps, first teeth, first smiles, first words, first sentences, and the day you learned to read and write.

I remember being so angry because you would not listen the first time and being so tired of repeating myself over and over and over again.

I remember cuddling with you in the chair when you first woke up from your nap and you weren't yet ready to greet the world and still needed time to adjust.

I remember hearing the word "mama" uttered from your lips and thinking that's me...and no one else.

Today Sam, you are seven.  Kate, you are four.  Claire, you are 16-months and I am 37.  You are my children and I am your mama.  Thank you for blessing me more than I could have dreamed possible and for teaching me that love in all of its forms is what matters most.  I love you beyond words.

The Beauty of a Kiss

"A kiss is a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when words become superfluous."

I ran across this quote the other day and fell instantly in love...one, because it was said by Ingrid Bergman and two, because it so aptly describes why we kiss...because when there are no words, the lips are really the best way to connect.

 

Sometime ago, my 6-year old son Sam and I were on the couch watching a show.  A jewelry commercial came on and two actors kissed.  He proposed, she said yes, and they smooched it up.  Sam was grossed out.  He turned away and couldn't wait for Transformers to come back on the screen.  And I thought, little boys are so turned off by romantic gestures...when does the shift take place and the kiss become anticipated?

Because really, the kiss is the best part of all the ensuing craziness.

So, I tried to explain to Sam that someday, he would fall in love and want to show a special someone that he loved them...and that when words won't do, the best way to connect is to give a kiss.  He couldn't imagine it.  I'm sort of glad.

Until then, he'll look away and I'll fall in love with Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman, the look before and then ah, the anticipated kiss.