What Do You Say?

I got this submission yesterday from a good friend. It makes me ache.  She asks the complicated question: how can we best love and support someone at the end stage of cancer treatment? It is a question without one clean, clear answer; a question of individual experience, of stage of life, of personality and faith. She's suspended somewhere in between reality and grief, between respect and support.  It's during these hardest time, these inexplicable experiences, where we have to see the illusion of shared experience. Somethings we cannot fully share or understand, somethings we must just witness. How we witness, how we honor and support is what makes all the difference.  - BTH

She didn't think I'd understand - she was apprehensive to stop chemo, but she was apprehensive to continue. Trust me, I understood. In this situation, there is no answer.  There are decisions to be made, but no answer to be had.  If only there was the slightest possibility of peering through that crystal ball to see if one path or the other might lead to a slightly better outcome - a few more weeks, a better quality of life. But there is no crystal ball, and in the absence of the ability to see into the future, she has to make a decision.  Today, to me, that is the definition of courage - of making a decision when there is no answer, and no information at hand to help guide you. I suppose this is where in my life, I would turn to God and my faith, and pray for guidance to follow the right path; that there is, in fact, a path meant to be.  I've never heard her speak of her faith, and I am not one to proselytize, and so the best thing I could do was offer to listen as I drove her to her chemo appointment, and to hope to offer the right words of encouragement to her, because honestly what the heck do you say in these situations? 

I don't know what those right words are, but I think I would want to someone to tell me that I've done an amazing job, that I've fought a heroic battle, that I had found strength to carry on when others couldn't have, that I wasn't letting anyone down, and in fact, that I was inspiring. I think that's what I would want to hear...but I hope to never have to find out. So that's what I told her today, because every word of it is true, and because I could tell that the burden of letting her parents down, that she was appearing to 'give up', was weighing heavily on her shoulders.  She needs to know she is loved, loved dearly, and that she is capable of making the right decision for her and her family.  She asked me if I knew what I would do in her shoes. I told her I did know, or that I think I know what I would do. She didn't ask for my answer, and I didn't offer it - because I think she hears plenty of opinions, and because I think she knew what she wanted to do.  I know that if I had given the battle everything I could, that I would choose quality of life over quantity of life.  The clinical trial she is on right now causes vision loss, and causes her to generally feel as bad as one can imagine.  I would want to see my kids.  I would want my kids to know that I gave my absolute best, but in the end, I would choose to spend my days with as much strength as I could, to enjoy them for every quality moment I had left.

I heard from my friend tonight, a few hours after I left her with her husband at the doctor's office, and she told me she had found peace.  I think it was a kind of peace that she hasn't experienced yet.  I will tell you that as hard as I have been praying for a miracle for her, I have equally been praying for her to be at peace, and to have a good quality of life for however long God will grant her on this earth.  I am so heart broken tonight, so deeply sad for her daughter that will grow up without her mother, for her parents who will lose their only child, for her husband who has had to endure an unjust burden in his early years of marriage, for her friends, and for her students.

My friend was my son's 1st grade teacher last year.  I remember overhearing whispers as we went to meet the teacher night in August.  We didn't know anyone, and finally I learned she had been diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer just weeks before school started, weeks before her daughter turned 1, weeks before she turned 29. Twenty. Nine.  I hate that the first thought that passed  through my head was that of selfishness.  We had just moved to Seattle, and my son (who takes a good 8 months of the year to adjust to a new situation) would have a first grade situation that would mean his teacher was gone 2 days every other week for chemo. We had just left a preschool situation where his amazing (also young) teacher was fighting cancer.  Was it selfish of me to want a normal classroom experience? In about the same amount of time that the thought flashed in my head, it was gone. I wasn't sure why, but I immediately felt at peace that we were put in this class for a reason. There were 4 first grade classes, and God had placed us in this one. I knew that wasn't just by chance. As it so happens, we met one of (if not THE) best elementary teachers our kids will ever have. My son was challenged to go beyond meeting expectations to create new ones, and push past them. She knew every kid's strengths and abilities, and she taught to them each successfully. I have no idea how she did it. In the process, we became friends outside of school, and I saw my son develop a compassion that I have never seen in him before.  He is not an emotional kid, and does not wear his feelings on his sleeve, but I know that the situation with our friend weighs heavily on him.  I know that I must now also pray for the courage to help him through what lies ahead, and to pray for peace for him as well.

Change of Life Baby

The Athlete traveled last week, which is not the norm, and it was timed perfectly with the kids all coming down with Influenza one, by precious one. We were all vaccinated and didn't get very sick, but because I know lots of people without healthcare and many vulnerable folks, we pretty much didn't leave the house for 10 days. We had some aches and low fevers, but for us it wasn't serious. I know that isn't always the case, more than 60 people have died in Minnesota this year of the flu.

One of the hardest parts of the flu running through the house, was that I didn't see my parents for almost two weeks.  Unless they are traveling this is totally unheard of for me. Since they are both 80 (my mom is still a few month shy, but still pretty close), I didn't want to run the risk of passing it on. Really for the first time, I felt the complication of have older parents and young kids.

Having older parents has been nothing but a privilege my whole life.  My parents were relaxed and settled in by the time I was born.  They didn't sweat the small stuff.  They took me out of school to do cool things, they didn't stress if they missed a meet or game I was participating in. I grew up with parents who knew how to focus on their marriage, who were grateful for their health, who enjoyed being with their kids, and who most importantly, I think, we're comfortable in their own skin.

The Brick told me once that the didn't really grow up until he was 43 and facing the birth of his seventh child (me).  There he was with two kids in college, with four more following shortly on their heals. He owned his own small business, handed down from his father. He was starting to think about working less, traveling more, spending more time on the "fun" stuff. He liked nice cars.  He liked sailboats. He was picturing a day when he could enjoy both. He was a competitive guy - and he saw the exciting lives that some of his college buddies were beginning to enjoy. And suddenly, he was starting all over again. It wasn't a happy realization at first.

Ouch.

I don't know what happened or what changed. But the father who raised me, drove economical cars, traveled sparingly, and the only sailboat he ever owned was a hand-me-down dingy from a friend on at our Northern Minnesota lake. He made a good living and it's been enough (even when sometimes it might not have felt that way to he and my mom) for a happy life.

He bet his whole life on his family. He let quietly go of the dreams of sports cars and scuba diving.  He stopped worrying about the things the college buddies were doing and started seeing the richness of the teenagers he was raising.  He realized that parenting in his case was going to be truly a lifelong career. Diapers and bottles were being re-bought and dreams of pilot licenses and airplanes were put away.

He told me, now several years ago, that my siblings should thank me for coming along, because he thought that my arrival in the family saved him from becoming a selfish man. I laughed at him. Literally out loud. I can't imagine anyone thinking that about him - but it was fascinating to me that in the middle of his life he saw himself teetering on self absorption. A new baby changed everything at that point in his life (as babies tend to do) and so he refocused. Instead of the Caribbean with his wife, he started dreaming about a run down resort, about fishing for walleyes instead of diving for lobsters. He found pleasure fixing plumbing, clearing paths through the woods with his sons, smoking a cigar and listening to the teenagers sing campfire songs. Maybe it was less glamorous, but no less rich.

If he was resentful at first that I was on my way, I never once saw it. He has spent his entire life telling me how lucky he is (frankly, telling ANYONE how lucky he is). I am 37 years old now.  And I wonder what will be that midlife crisis for me?  I tell my husband that maybe we should hope for a baby in our 40s.  He reminds me most people don't plan for their change of life baby. I guess he's right, but I sure am glad my folks found space for theirs.

January Ruminations

I've been wanting to lighten up some of my writing lately, but I keep coming back to this kind of basic January writing, its darker, colder.  In January I find myself more introspective, more focused on uncovering, digging. I spent some time today going back through my personal blog - the private one I write mostly for my kids. Almost exactly five years ago, I wrote this essay. It was on the heals of my 59 year old father-in-laws sudden death, which was unfortunately only ten months after the sudden death of his 32 year-old son (my husband's only brother).  A lot has changed in the last five years - my sister-in-law has found a beautiful love again and had another baby. We've added a fourth child, named after his uncle and grandfather. We've made some peace with the realization that loss is as much a part of life as love is. If you've read other posts, you'll see some common themes. Thought I'd share... - BTH

So I've been ruminating about a lot of things these last two weeks, thinking about how we'll talk to the kids when they're older about the events of the last year. I wonder all the time how much they will remember - how all of this affects kids even when they don't have formal memories. And one of the hardest things for me to accept is that for the first time I've felt an absence of God at times. I've felt empty, cried out, exhausted and fearful. It's a bit hard to admit, but it is the truth. I've had a hard time wanting to try and focus in mass, I couldn't tell you what the homily was about at my father in laws funeral, I couldn't really listen.

This doesn't mean we haven't been praying. Every night before we go to sleep, my husband and I say a prayer together, reflecting over the day, our blessings and our future. And that act has helped us, to relax, to let go, to refocus. But I've found myself a little angry during the day. Angry about what we've lost, angry that I know this isn't the last heartbreak, for the first time I think I really saw that life is as much about loss as it is about love. I've been wondering how God thinks we're going to get through this - and whatever else comes our way. I cannot look at the sorrow on my husbands face without feeling truly helpless and a little sick. I've been trying to be really positive, but I just haven't felt it.

Yesterday while I was feeling a little desperate and maybe a little sorry for myself, I had a quiet moment of renewed Grace. I was thinking about the things I've learned in the last year.

• There is no right thing to say when someone dies. Send a card, a note, flowers, memorials, don't try and say the right thing, just let them know you care and you're available.
• Relaying your own horror story doesn't help people feel better - they know they are not alone in their suffering, but having to bare yours too is just too much at the beginning.
• Ask people how they are - take the moment to give someone the opportunity to talk or to move on. Really care. Really listen. You never know how "Are you OK?" might change the future.The Athlete  helped save a neighbor's life about 6 weeks ago because he paused and asked if he was OK and then stayed with him and called an ambulance. He has a wife and three daughters who had a husband and father at Christmas.
• Grief makes people tired and feel like they aren't themselves. Sometime I look at my husband and he looks winded - like he's running a race.
• You cannot reinvent your past, the choices in your history are just history. Today's opportunities are the only things that really counts.
• We all need help. No one can get by alone.
• Be gentle with yourself and the people around you - we're all doing the best we can - and sometimes it isn't enough, but sometimes it is.
• When someone asks you for help, don't hesitate, say yes. You can always figure out the logistics, but sometimes all the other person need to hear is "yes". It is probably harder for the person to ask for help than it is for you to do the favor.
• If someone shows up at your front door unexpectedly, maybe God thinks you need a push in the right direction.
• A robed man with a beard and a Shepard's pole is for illustrated children's books - in my experience there is no lightening bolt, no burning bushes. God's hands are in people who show up to stand behind you, beside you and if need be, to carry you when you cannot bare it yourself.

And I thought about all the help we've received (and even more that has been offered), all the people who have arrived at the kitchen door with chili, lasagna, pizza, chicken, pasta, and chicken noodle soup. Our core babysitter,  brought over cookies and wouldn't take any money on Saturday night when she babysat. She's a junior in high school and she told us, 'I just thought you needed a night out'. And all the people who I can tell are heartbroken for us - when you talk to someone and you can tell they just bleed for you - somehow that's comforting.

And that's where my moment of Grace happened. I felt stronger. I don't mean to make it sound like I'm wrapping up grief neatly - sadness and loss are very messy stuff - but I'm starting to remember that the hand of God is covered in the love of the people around you. And the only way forward is to receive Grace when it shows up or calls and to be Grace when you know you can.

Family Pact

Even with all my good intentions, the first day back to school after winter break didn't go so well for my nine-year-old son. I can't put my finger on it, nor can he, but he came home with droopy eyes and a heavy heart.

He said something on the trip home from school that really resonated with me. At first I thought he meant it in a positive way, as an affirmation of his sense of identity.  But a quick glance at his slumped shoulders and hanging head showed me that, in reality, he was feeling beaten down.

"I'm not easily categorized," he said.

He's a smart, sensitive kid, seemingly older than he is, very social, very extroverted. I realized he was thinking about how he fits in, how he finds his place at school (and sometimes in our very own family). I love this about him - he is a kid who helps me see myself in new and more compassionate ways. I wish everyone had a kid like this. Do you see it if you do?

I had to write a short bio recently and it took me ages. I couldn't for the life of me think about how to describe myself.  Am I first a mother? A wife? A writer? An entrepreneur? A daughter? It gave me a crisis of confidence that I couldn't come up with something to say about myself. Exactly who am I in a few sentences? My son caught me staring at the computer and walked over, smooched me and went back to his book. Crisis averted.  It didn't matter what the words said.  Maybe I didn't know what to call myself, but I definitely know who I am.

During our chat yesterday, I related a story to my son about a conversation I had a few weeks ago with a childhood friend. Our kids are in school together now and we've gotten back in touch. After a few beers at a fundraiser, we got to reminiscing about high school. We knew each other from grade school, but as we got into high school we didn't spend much time together.

I love the friends that I made in high school, but I remember it as a hard time in my life, probably the lowest point for my self-esteem. I never felt cool. I thought that I was missing out on some joke.  I told this friend that, from a distance, he was someone who looked like he hit his stride in high school.  He had lots of new friends; he was a good athlete, etc. His wife overheard our conversation and laughed at me.

"High school was really a terrible time for him."

"Really?" I said. "I would have thought you were very Rah Rah about high school."

He felt lonely and often isolated. He felt like he didn't fit in. He went on to tell me that I was a specific example of someone whom he thought thrived in high school.  I was one of those people he envied. He even said the dreaded word: popular.

"Me?"

In sharing this story with him, I wanted my son to understand that how you feel and how you appear don’t always align. He shrugged his shoulders at me.

"I know, Mom, I know."

My kids are starting to try and identify themselves outside of the family unit and I can't do it for them.  They have to find the way themselves.  From our own experiences, we know it won't always be easy.  In fact, sometimes (but hopefully not most of the time) it will be miserable.

This morning, in case I was going to waver, I got a more firm indication that this is true. I couldn't remember the word my son had used to describe how he felt yesterday, and so I asked him again.  He reminded me and then asked why I was asking. I told him that he had gotten me thinking.

"I don't want you to fix it for me, Mom."

Ouch. Am I that obvious? But, he's right. He's totally right.

Family is like a pact. We take a vow very similar to marriage when we have kids.  And just like a marriage vow, you don't know how important it all is until you're in the midst of it. It's not a command or a decree. It's an agreement to be present through thick and thin.

I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life. I take you to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.

We didn't promise to fix their problems; we didn't promise to fight their battles; we didn't promise to protect them from everything bad or hurtful in the world. We promised to be true. We promised to love them. We promised to respect them and support them. We promised to stand by them in good times and in bad.

I'm going to have these vows printed and framed. My husband and I said them at our wedding more than 12 years ago, and we've lived them pretty well ever since. Today is the first day that I see these vows are so much bigger than a single promise, so much more complicated than just between two adults. We made this same promise to our kids on the day they were born. We just didn't have to say it out loud.

Defining Parenthood

Guest post by Adam Waud about finding and giving comfort in the ever changing role of parenting. For more about Adam and his thoughts about health, wellness and recovery visit http://renewedu.blogspot.com.  - BTH

As a member of the aptly described generation of “helicopter” parents, I was slightly disappointed when I saw the dictionary definition of the word parent.  I expected it to say more about responsibility and teaching and discipline and lend credence to an authoritarian figure.  

Instead, technically, to be a parent is “one that begets or brings forth offspring.”  It is so simple, so practically benign, and so lacking the authority we parents wield around.  We parents today wear our title on our sleeves with no less clout than a 5 star general.  We use it to characterize who is in charge, who is the one to make decisions, who is the one to protect and care and use physical and intellectual wisdom to care for this child and give them an opportunity for success.  It defines us, gives us purpose, and sets our direction.

Because of its societal weight - this sense of self importance, what happens when the ability to be a parent is challenged or even lessened?   Does it diminish our self worth?  Or does it bring us back to fallible position of humanity?  Does it simply bring us in line with our children and set us as just a member of the family, and it is a collective responsibility to care for each other?  We may have more years on our children but the care, the love, and the sense of responsibility goes both ways.

In effort to not sound too academic, these are feelings I dealt with after breaking my hip on April 7^th of last year.  Perhaps because I am a man and only 37 years old, the fact that I couldn’t physically carry my 6, 4, and 1 year old had a profound effect on  me.   I felt as if my value as a parent was less than before.  I was laid up on crutches for almost 3 months so couldn’t chase them in the yard and couldn’t even bring them a glass of water.  When we moved two weeks after my accident, I could not even carry one box into my newly purchased home.  In my mind, I was no longer a parent.  I was in many ways, in effect, now the child.  I was far from elderly, but on some days I certainly felt just plain old – and I hadn’t even learned how to play shuffleboard yet.  A humbling feeling indeed.

While my 1 year old daughter had little inclination into what was going on, my 6 and 4 year boys reacted in different ways.  My 6 year old took to being the care giver.  He acted on his feelings, as many oldest children do, to take care of me.  In the early weeks after the accident, he would bring me things, open doors for me, and even put a pillow under the foot of my bad leg.

He continued to care for me throughout the summer as I was forced to work from home.  He spent Mondays and Fridays at home with my niece while I worked.  My wife was usually at the office and the younger two were at daycare.  As the summer progressed and I healed, I became less and less dependent on the 6 year old for physical assistance but, it seemed, became more and more reliant on him for a smile or hug and general companionship.  In short, our relationship grew and I came to need him as I needed any other friend.  I simply enjoyed having him around.  When the summer ended and he went back to school, I was in some ways heartbroken.  Seeing him go off to kindergarten was easier; seeing him go off to first grade was a crushing blow.  Circumstances had certainly changed in a year.   As I smiled on his first day of kindergarten, I spent his first day of first grade so melancholy that I broke down in tears more than once.   Several days later when putting him to bed, I told him how much I missed him.  He confidently replied, “At least we had the summer together.”  I smiled at him and was in awe of his youthful wisdom.  And later I cried again.

My 4 year old reacted differently and not just because he was younger.  He is is own person and processed things in a different manner than his brother.  He doled out hugs and expressed his concern but the accident caused him to retreat internally much more than the 6 year old.  He started acting out much more frequently.  He started wetting the bed – which was a shock to my wife and I as he was potty trained at 20 months. And now even 8 months after the accident, he refuses to ride his bike.   The good news is with a little help he seems to be showing signs of improvement and finding ways to better deal with his feelings.  He is very bright kid and in many ways I think he just got stuck.   And as a parent, I just want to fix it and make him better, but as a person who is dealing with his own emotional ups and downs, I empathize.   In truth, the fact that he reacted so deeply and emotionally has drawn me closer to him.  He knows how I feel and I know how he feels.  I know scared and confused.  He knows scared and confused.  I don’t want my child to feel all tied up in knots but, selfishly, he makes me feel not so alone.  It somehow pains me to say that, but it also provides me a sense of kinship that my child and I perhaps feel things in a similar fashion.  It comforts me to just lay with him or sit with my arms around him.  It gives me a feeling of hope.  I know he will be ok and, in the end, so will I.

In some ways, this experience has brought me back to when I was a child.  My own father had cancer when I was in first grade and my memory has small recollections of how it felt to see a parent in pain.  He thankfully caught his cancer early and was able to be treated back to full health.  However, I still remember asking him if he was going to die.  I still remember seeing him throw up after radiation.  I still remember the look in my mother’s eye.  I remember the brief feeling of potential loss.  I remember how much I loved my father as a young boy.   I know now, even as an adult, that I still need my father.  We may live in different states but brief visits or short conversations still mean a lot to me.  He is, after all, my dad.

Now as a father myself, I think I understand how my boys felt.  They worried about me.  They love me and they don’t want to see me in pain.  They need me to feel well because it makes them feel safe.  It makes them feel as if everything is ok.  They need me to be able to stand up and chase them around the yard because it makes them feel like everything is right in the world.   And while no child should be without a mother, boys need their fathers.  They need fathers to be big and strong and carry them up the stairs, even when it hurts.

In the end, though, I learned in some ways it is less important to be a parent and more important to be part of family.  We family members pick each other up.  We care for each other and feel things together.  We live through things together.  I certainly don’t want to diminish how much my wife did for me and the family or how she continues to support me through my recovery.  She is part of our family.  But your kids are different.  Their love is blissful.  It is so unencumbered.  It renews us and strips away all our adult armor.  It stops us from being generals and gets us back to being people. 

And it gives us gentle reminders of the importance of presence.  I know now you don’t have to give children anything more than your time.  My father was a great role model for me.  He never missed a show, game, or practice.  He could have worked more and made more money but he took his role as a parent seriously.  I want to be there for my children, just as they were there for when I was hurt.  I just want to be present and be in the moment.

Admittedly, breaking your hip at age 37 when both parents work, you have 3 little kids, and are about to move could be described as a pretty tragic event.  And yes maybe it was, but I am a firm believer that if we choose to accept our path and learn from events, they do us more good than harm.  For me it helped me take a step back and helped me really feel how much I love my children and how much they love me.  And all the tough guy stuff aside, I need my children as much or more than they need me.   Plain and simple. 

Moreover, I love being a dad.  And while life is a journey of self identity, my role in this world as a parent will never change, even if the dictionary doesn’t give it as much clout as it should.

Questionable Parenting

Yesterday my five year old joined the grade school swim team. Well, I joined her to the team. She didn't have much choice. We live on a lake in the summer and so being a strong swimmer is just part of the family deal.  She asked me the night before why we all had to be on the swim team and I told her that we didn't have to be on the team, we got to be on the team.  She told me she was afraid and I of course said there was nothing to be afraid of - but as sometimes five year olds do - she turned the issue on it's head.

"But mom, its not like basketball.  I could drown."

I reassured her that she would be safe, that the coaches would not make her do something dangerous, etc. I told her the youngest kids always practice next to the wall or a lane marker so she'd always have something to hang on to if she needed a break. She went off to bed without more complaint seemingly reassured.

Because a parenting crisis is a huge part of the parenting process, of course it didn't go quite as I planned.

My other kids have been swimming on the team for a few years and I'm a firm believer that a grade school swim team is one of the best youth sports. Multi-grade teams mean that that the little kids have someone to look up to, the middle grade kids are both equally "big" kids and "little" kids and the oldest swimmers have a great sense of their responsibility and importance as team leaders. Seeing the older girls in the pool helping the little girls, hearing the big boys cheer for the kindergartens is just the very coolest thing. I need to explain this because I let my love of the swim team get ahead a bit of my 5 year old's ability.

The Athlete has been in charge of the swimming team arrangements for the last few years - he's an assistant coach and so this was the first time I'd gotten myself involved in one of the practices. For reasons unknown to me, instead of dropping off at practice, I went to practice and stayed.  I have no idea why.  I didn't do this for the boys.  Maybe because my husband could take the boys into the locker room?  Maybe I knew she was scared? Maybe just because the timing worked out.  I don't know.  But I did.

So she is all sunshine and light, running around with the other few girls that she knows.  She's literally a head short than any of the other kids and several parents remarked on how tiny she is. Two people asked me how old she was. Quietly, very quietly, the doubt creeps in.

The little girls all line up - NOT next to a wall but near a lane market. Doubt getting louder, my stomach starting to knot up a little. The coach is watching the girls dive or jump off the block or the wall into the water and swim down the lane. There are a couple of teenage girls in the pool helping.

My daughter is last in line and as I'm watching I'm filling up with dread. Here is where my philosophy of parenting really comes to the test.  We believe in being pretty hands off - especially when the kids are being coached or taught or supported by another adult.  I think its good for kids to have to learn how to react to different style of teaching, communicating and leading.

Everything in me is telling me to walk over to the coach and give her a heads up that my daughter isn't a strong swimmer yet. But I also know that she is my most resilient child and part of me isn't sure that she's going to jump in and swim the length of the pool with no problem at all. So I wait.  I watch.

And she jumps in. NOT near the lane line or the wall. She takes about 8 strokes and panics.  I'm all the way across the pool but I can see the fear. I swear my heart could hear her say:

"But you PROMISED."

She's splashing. She's clearly in trouble. It takes just a second for one of the girls to grab her and hug her. She was never in danger. But I almost died. Part of me wanted to die, because I felt immediately like a failed her. I promised her she'd have something to hold on to - and she didn't.

I didn't realize until later that my husband was having the exact same experience across the pool.  We both watched it happen.  Later that night when we were rehashing the experience, it was oddly comforting and terrifying that we had exactly the same instincts. We both wanted to intervene, but decided against it.

I paced, halfheartedly chatting with other parents, guilt ridden and panicked that I'd made one of those big parenting mistake that your kids still remember on their 40th birthday.  We all make them - most of the time we don't realize it until too late.  My sister had a bad swimming experience as a child and it has haunted her for the rest of her life.  She swims, but not with the joy and exuberance that the rest of us have.  This morning when I told The Arch Mother the story, she immediately mentioned my sister:

"Your sister had a few of those moments. She swears dad almost drown her teaching her to swim. Come to think about it, she still talks about it. Never was a great swimmer after that..."

 "I know, Mom.  I know," I said.

My daughter stayed for the rest of the practice, holding tightly on to the 6th grade helper. But she stuck it out. At the end of practice, I wrapped her in a towel and her first words to me where:

"I almost drowned."

I let her tell me the story and I told her I saw it happen.  I acknowledged that it must have been frightening for her, but she wasn't actually in danger.  We talked about being assertive and responsible about ourselves and our fears.  I told her that she could have asked the coach to jump off near the wall - it's important to ask questions - especially if you feel unsafe. Unfortunately, I told her all of these things about an hour too late.

She is not new to my style of parenting. It wouldn't be surprising to her that I expected her to be tough and independent. I thought after this non-auspicious start that she would want to hang up her suit.  I never, ever let the kids quit things once they've started, but as I paced the pool deck I realized with some grief I wouldn't force her to do this again.  I think the Lord helped her finished the practice, because it gave me time to collect myself, to not rush over, wrap her up and hug her half to death. 

The next few things I told her, I hope, make all the difference. I told her that I was so proud of her for sticking it out.  I could see how she got better as the practice went on. I told her that it looked like a lot of fun.  I was not being dishonest. The girls did look like they were having fun, even my daughter clutched to the helper. I tried to re-frame to focus on the good parts and not the the first terrible jump into the pool.  If I am honest about it, I have to admit that I was way more upset than she was.  She recovered pretty quickly, yet it still makes me feel sick.

I promised that this week, I will take her to the pool and we'll practice the strokes and get comfortable again in the water. And I will do it.  By the end of dinner she was talking about how fun swimming was, how excited she was to get the team suit. She processed her fear so quickly.  I learned that I should have done a better job preparing her for the pool - I need to spend more time in the water with her to help build back her confidence.  She trusts that I will.  You can't break many promises, but you are bound to break a few.

The world isn't perfect. Our kids should hear us say sorry when we fail. They should know that we see them when they are afraid - that we value their experience of events. But just because we're afraid doesn't mean we have to give up.

My daughter taught me that.

The Winter Doorway

I took a breather from technology over the holiday season. At first because I felt determined to be more present to my kids during the holiday - to be more prayerful as a family, more focused on making time for quality time, and less distracted by the noise of modern life. We were wildly and modestly successful.

The "I wants" disappeared as fast as they arrived. It was an important lesson on the power of positive parenting. Trust yourself. Your kids are watching and listening more than you think. We baked and made gingerbread houses. We read Christmas stories at bedtime.  We gave unexpected gifts. We ate dinner together more as a family.  We lit candles and went to mass. We talked and we listened more. There are too kinds of "more" - this year I decided I wanted the right kind of "more" - the real kind.

We truly celebrated Christmas this year, but I still want more time. As I'm facing their return to school, I wish I'd had more story times and afternoon naps. Maybe because I see 2013 will offer me older kids, less naps and more happily independent readers. I love reading to my kids - but now the older ones enjoy reading on their own as well. Maybe it never feels like enough - maybe the truth is that we can always be better at loving each other.

The second was because of the massacre in Newtown.  My three older children are in kindergarten, first grade and third grade and I couldn't stomach how this mass murder was covered in the news - misinformation, unethical reporting (who interviews a 6 year old witness?), and the desensitized banter around it all.

Almost nothing I read, even from writers I really admire, resonated with me. Everyone was talking, writing, and sharing but no one was really saying anything. Some of it even went so far in my mind as being self promoting (I felt like so many people were screaming I CAN MAKE SENSE OF IT ALL!  LISTEN TO ME! LISTEN TO ME!)  The final straw was the NRA press conference where they presented this atrocity as a opportunity to market more guns to schools. I felt sour, shameful and incredibly sad. I craved silence. It gave me a deeper understanding of why peace and quiet are synonyms.

I put my cell phone away before Christmas Eve and didn't take it out again until after Christmas.  My office had become gift wrapping central for the whole family and so it lost its appeal as my quiet retreat.  It felt so freeing to leave all the noise of social media and online news for a bit.  Like returning from vacation - I am energized and happy to be back writing, reading again.  It was an important lesson for me - stepping away hopefully makes us better when we come back.

The last time I took this kind of break, I accidentally forgot my phone on our family vacation last October.  The result was surprising and wonderful.  I felt more focused. I took runs without Pandora and had to listen to my own thoughts.  This blog emerged from one of those runs.  Running along the beach, watching the ocean disappear into the distance I saw a kindred spirit in the horizon, I saw myself and my writing in a whole new light. And so here we are a few months and many degrees different later.

Fresh snow, no footprints yet

I have many wishes for 2013. I'm sure you do as well. My nine year old told me yesterday that January was named for the Roman god Janus - the god of doorways. He is very into Greek and Roman mythology right now - I love the unexpected wisdom of our kids.

I am living in the doorway right now. I see both sides so clearly. My baby is no longer a baby - almost walking and more than one year old. The nine year old is dancing towards the end of childhood - he's not in a rush - but I can see him gathering wisdom, confidence and experiences like snow falling tenderly, quietly accumulating flake on top of tiny, miraculous flake.

The view from my favorite doorway

We spent the closing of 2012 and the beginning of 2013 with all our living parents. My mother-in-law is visiting for a few weeks and we'll remember my father-in-law (whom our youngest is named after) this weekend.  He'll have been gone for five years now - both a lifetime and an instant.

I asked everyone on New Year's Eve to share something they were grateful for in 2012 and something they were hopeful for in 2013. My father is grateful that his vision is improving, and hoped to keep as much of his memory in tack as possible.  We talked for the first time together as a multi-generational family about my dad's concerns about his memory and his ability. No one was upset or afraid. We moved along onto other hopes and dreams. It's a part of life we must acknowledge and respect.

It made me understand what it is I want for 2013.  I want to live honestly, slowly and fearlessly. I'd like to write twice a week for this blog - I hope you'll help keep me to that vow. I'd like to stay true to my ideals about living a happy, fulfilling life. Sometimes it is easier said than done. I believe in practice, I believe in living deliberately. Thoughtful living does not come effortlessly, but practice helps us face the darkest times with the strength and sturdiness of our sense of self and faith and purpose. I believe in muscle memory for the soul.

Kids on the edge of land and water

We are forever at the threshold of something - but in January we seem more aware of it. I write a letter every January to my kids about how I see them, what I hope for them in the up coming year. I finished it yesterday but it almost writes itself. Now I understand that this blog is for me, about what I dream and hope for myself, what I want to understand and share.

So as I sit here in this doorway thinking about what is behind us and what is ahead, I am grateful. I'm grateful for healthy bodies, true love, big families, safe homes, and all the bounty in our lives. But I'm also grateful for words and stories and the chance to share them. I am delighted that this threshold is a passageway from the brightness of our history, the preciousness of our past.  It sheds light into a new room with opportunity to glow and grow. I pause, we should all pause, and appreciate the view.
 

The divide

First steps on fresh snow