Middle of the Night Lessons

Last night I got to hold my neighbors' brand new, healthy baby boy.  I forget every single time how incredibly small a new baby really is - it's the epitome of miraculous.  The feeling of such freshness in your arms is at once weightless and heavy. Maybe fresh is a strange word in light of spit up, diapers and the messiness of having a baby. But it is the translucent softness of their skin, eyes still unable to focus, tiny lungs breathing on their own in the world, a fierce act for such a small fragile being.

It was a gift to see this sweet family in PJs and glasses, cuddling and beautiful, exhausted and curious.

New babies give me a strange sort of ache these days - something new to me. I am 37 - ten years older than when I had my first child - and I can see the page slowing turning in our family story. I can't say we won't have another but I am honest that it becomes less likely every year - and I also wonder about our family's ability to balance the needs of everyone.  I don't want to race through their childhoods, crossing milestones off the list. I want to have the chance to relish as many of the moments as I can, marking them in my heart like dogeared pages in a family album.

But sitting with this new mother and remembering that strange sensation of recovering from childbirth.  I remember feeling an odd balance of being heroically strong, unbelievably exhausted, totally relaxed sprinkled with unexpected waves of panic.  I felt peaceful and terrified all at the same time.

As our kids get older, we live in the moment (THIS is hard - not THAT). We often forget what was challenging or exhausting - I am lucky because I've written a lot of it down and it surprises me all the time how much my memory is different than my actual experience.

The old adage, "Little people little problems, Big people big problems" is true - but it devalues that we learn as we go along and it's all important. An unexpected middle-of-the-night-baby-screamfest is not the same as a middle of the night phone call from an adult child - but we become parents in steps and they all matter.

My general sentiment for new parents is that a crying baby or a tricky sleep pattern does not a bad mom (or dad) make. You will have a life time to ask yourself what you're doing wrong, don't get started on it too early.

As parents we all have strengths - some people are better with babies than toddlers, teenagers than adolescents. We are not the best at everything. Some parents become the best sort of parents when their kids are grown - better late than ever has never been so true.

The lessons we learn in the middle of the night getting to know a new baby serve us well through the raising of that tiny person. 

• Be gentle with this tender new being, with yourself.
• We cannot do this alone. No one will give us a prize for never asking for help. 
• Sometimes holding them close is the answer, sometimes walking away is best. 
• We can love them to the moon and back, but we can't know everything that's going on in their head. We just do the best we can.
• We can love someone who is making us crazy - in fact in this case, we have to.
• If we don't take care of ourselves, we aren't doing anyone any favors.
• Tomorrow is a new day. Literally. And it comes too fast.

We won't do everything right, sometimes we won't do anything right, but if we loved that baby (toddler, teenager, adult), I think, we did exactly what was asked of us.  

Parenting is not a competition - and when treated as such everyone loses. Parenting is more like pilgrimage. Make friends with your fellow travelers and you'll never be lonely. There are no books with all your answers, no parent who did everything right. Many paths lead to the same place. We use our best judgement and we walk on our own two feet, and God willing, we all get to that promised land.

Up, Up, Up

I went for a run this afternoon under the first wide open, blue sky we've had in what seems like a while. We live near the banks of the Mississippi River and I have a favorite route that winds it's way high above the river.

My run began with the sounds of fire engines and police cars somewhere near by and as I got down near the river I could see they were stopped above the dam, lights still flashing.

People were starting to gather near an intersection - other runners and bikers and I decided I didn't need to involve myself, but also that I didn't need to invite trauma into my line of vision either. We have a choice - sometimes the right answer is to look towards and sometimes to look away.

I stood for a brief minute watching the helicopter hover above the dam. I turned and ran with my back to the firetrucks and police cars, grateful for our first responders who don't get to make this kind of choice. But I ran none the less.

We've been watching the terrible news from Oklahoma, also trying to understand a local tragedy yesterday that killed two fourth grade students, and the death of Zach Sobiech this week as well.

On the way to help my parents last night we heard the song Clouds on the radio and all my kids heard the announcer say that Zach had died and my youngest asked if he ever got to see the video that was made for him.  I said, yes, I believe that he did.

So we sat in the car and watched the YouTube clip a few times on my cell phone (technology is amazing). I asked the kids why they thought that he felt like he had fallen "down, down, down" and they said because he was sick and scared.

I asked why did they think that even though he is the only one who falls, "they" go "up, up, up"? And my oldest said because he didn't want his family to be sad, he wanted to help them be alright.

And I finally asked why did they think that Zach says he's going "up a little higher" and they all agreed it was because he's going to heaven and that would make his family feel better.

"I think that Zach is a saint.  Not a canonized saint in the church, but a saint in the way that he was able to lift people up, in fact people all over the world with just his voice and his heart."

I asked the kids who else they knew in their lives like that and they went down a list of people we know and love.

"What can you do to be more like Zach?  To lift people up at school or at home? How can we make his impression on us be a lasting impression?"

They agreed to go to school the next day and look for people who might need lifting "up, up, up."

We all felt better, taller, stronger.

I finished my run with the sun on my face and Springsteen on my shuffle:

"Now I believe in the love that you gave me.
I believe in the faith that could save me."

I don't know yet what happened on the river this afternoon, but I hope we keep finding the way to go up, up, up and fly a little higher.

Cheating To Win

As we're in the final sprint of the school year, I realized that I am a cheat. A rotten, cheater. And I'm proud of it.

The old dock weighs a ton and is more crooked than strait. But it's perfect.

Escapism is a key tenet of our parenting.  When we're feeling disconnected as a family, exhausted or over scheduled, I jump ship. Instead of facing the deluge of filling the days with baseball, science camp, language camp, swim team, soccer and summer school - I turn tail and run. 

A lot of people think I'm nuts, but it is the best mistake I make every year.

Every year right after school gets out, I pack the car and we head up North. I grew up this way.   A few years before I was born, my parents bought a run down fishing resort  (seven tiny cabins) with another family. The main dock was submerged in the lake and people had been using the woods as their own personal garbage dump. The Arch Mother imagined it to be a get-a-way for the family but also as something for the teenagers to do to stay out of trouble.

At the time, they didn't realize they'd be having another baby. I wonder if they would have done it if they'd have known I was coming along. Those first few years involved a lot of work cleaning, painting and fixing. Actually, its still a lot of work but conveniently my siblings and I have grown up into people who love to work.

The Lake taught my siblings and I how to share space, work together, make decisions, handle conflict, give generously and receive graciously and as The Arch Mother would emphasize, how to treasure family and have fun as a family unit.

So I spent every summer in this small town in northern Minnesota.  I got my first job at 13 and stayed working summers there until I was 23.

My parents, siblings and I continue to share the old resort. It is more or less the same - though now you can tell it is well cared for and loved.  We don't operate it - we keep it packed with the 41 grandchildren and 4 great grandchildren. The Athlete and I bought the cabin next door when it came up for sale (just as irresponsible and unnecessary as my parents purchase nearly 40 years before).  I also promptly had another baby. The Athlete, God bless him, drives a lot of hours during the summer and works shorter weeks, but much longer days. He arrives Thursday night and leave early, early on Monday morning.

It was another great, bad decision.

We've had a long winter, a nonexistent spring and I'm pretty much ready to just launch into summer. So as I'm prepping the kids for the end of school all I can think about is getting away.

We don't do summer sports. We say goodbye to our wonderful neighbors. Kids tell everyone they'll see them in September. I trust that my friendships will survive a few months without lots of face to face time. I let my yard go to seed. I pretty much let everything go to seed.

We stock up on books, board games, puzzles, swimsuits, sunscreen and play clothes. And we head out of town. I know we're lucky. I know not everyone can do this. I know that not everyone would want to either. We proudly hang out with wood ticks, leeches and tons of mosquito's. We feel very blessed, and we don't mind the critters if they don't mind us.

But the gift is about slowing down, about unplugging, about letting a day unfold and not be scheduled out.

The neighbors are noisy.

My parents started out with one phone between the seven cabins, eventually came cell phones but the coverage was spotty at best, Now everyone seems to have WiFi and iPads. The trick is going to be unplugging even when we don't have to unplug. Leaving the cell phone turned off so that the only ring tone is the loon echoing off the lake or the hummingbird wings at the feeder.

I'm cheating. I'm getting our of town. And I can't wait. Every once in a while it's OK to break the rules.

Not every creature is sweet. But they are all cool.

Finding Space & Saying Sorry

I've had a hard time making space in my life for writing. Everyone who has ever considered themselves a writer (I think) has gone through one version of this or another.

Writing is the thing that helps me find perspective, centers me, allows me to evaluate and move on.  I see my life differently in my written words.  I told my sister recently that writing is cheap therapy.

In my free time instead of writing, I've been gardening.  Planning parties. Playing outside. Scheduling summer. Wasting time online. Starting to run again (slowly). Teaching my daughter to ride a two wheel bike. Dreaming about house projects we're ages away from doing. Dealing with a toddler who doesn't know what "quiet" means yet.  Reading too much of the news. Learning we don't need every detail.

I apologize that I've been absent, that I haven't made this part of my life a priority. And maybe this apology is for the few of you who read along here - but mostly it's for me.  We should be tough on ourselves. We should be honest about what we're choosing, but we also have to be gentle.  It's the balance that's tricky.

Life is like learning to ride a bike. It takes lots of practice. Up hill is hard work.  Down hill can be a relief. Fast is exhilarating (and sometimes scary). Falling hurts. A great ride is euphoric. Even professional bikers crash sometimes. The only option is to give up or get back on.

We fail ourselves sometimes. We don't live up to our own expectations. It's no ones fault but our own.  So we say sorry and move on. We remind ourselves we can do better next time.

Sorry. 

Here we go.