Tag Archives: parenting

Teenager In The House

You’ve been celebrating for days – the “last days of my childhood” you call it. As you binge watch Hannah Montana, play Mario Kart with your brother, and request a My Little Pony cake. No more ordering off the kid’s menu, no more cheap movie ticket, no more school with the little kids… Teenagedom is officially here.

And I’m sad because you’ve been such a fun kid. Quirky and headstrong and tender hearted.

And I’m happy because you’ll be such a fun teenager. Still you, just more focused and deliberate and every bit as headstrong.

This year has been one of exponential growth for you. Perhaps it is your age, but more likely it’s been the steady stream of changes and crises. First, our change to a new church (one you didn’t approve of or enjoy) and your decision to stay at the church you grew up in – forging a new type of independence. Secondly, your sister’s cancer diagnosis and the household chaos that followed. You stepped up to the plate in ways we never expected: babysitting, preparing meals, helping with housework… learning to navigate our new, unpredictable life.

My messy hoarder now has an immaculate room. You’ve learned the thrill of decluttering and re-organizing. You’ve embraced the practical art of interior design, constantly moving items around, creating new decorations and perfecting your space. You still see beauty in unexpected items and appreciate the sentimental value of things, but you’ve learned to filter and focus that gift. Sometimes the obstacle of best, is an overabundance of good. You inspire me to streamline, not just for its own sake, but so that I can truly enjoy what I have.

My fellow candy fiend and food lover has become a healthy eater and diligent exerciser. At first this project worried me, even though we’d been talking a lot about making good choices and being more active. Too many girls your age become obsessed with weight, vain, judgemental, unrealistic, unhappy… launching themselves into a vicious cycle of self-loathing. I know I did. It’s taking me years to recover and I’m afraid I don’t set the healthiest example for you. But you’ve been remarkable balanced: not giving anything up, just moderating, adding better foods, trying new things. “It’s good for the liver” is your new catch phrase. You can rest easy, I’m sure that your liver is in fine shape.

My little rebel has found her own faith. Where you once insisted that “the sneaky snake” was the hero of the Eden story, you’ve now become quite devout. It’s always been important that you do things in your own way in your own time, and that’s something we will respect. We may not see eye to eye on theology, fundamental and progressive beliefs are bound to clash. We do understand where you are coming from (we spent many years there ourselves) and we value the strength of your convictions, especially as you live that out with increasing love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. We are probably wrong about some things. And you are bound to be too. On who God is and what life is all about. Yet love will never fail, it is the greatest commandment for evangelicals, emergents and confused agnostics alike… so we will make that the final word, the one we can always agree on. The purpose and the measure of life is how well and how much we love.

You’ve changed more in the space of a year, than in several before this. A dramatic switch from underachiever to workhorse, as if you’ve finally taken the reins of your own life. You are going after what you want. You are growing up. You are totally up for this teenager thing.

Me, not so much. Thinking your Mom’s an idiot is as much a part of teenagedom as hormones and emotional outbursts. It’s right up there with certainty that you know best and seeing the world in black and white. Your all-or-nothing approach to life comes with a side order of impressive willpower, but it also has the downsides of that particular brand of perfectionism too. It’s my job to give you perspective, even when you don’t want it, and keep boundaries up until you prove you can find balance on your own. I’d rather just be your friend and do the fun stuff (sci-fi movies, cooking projects and drinks at Wendells), but you still need a mom. So we’re going to keep butting heads. Just remember that I’m a person too (and still get my feelings hurt) and most importantly – in the middle of the very worst fight we will ever have, I will still love you fiercely and unconditionally.

Also, I like you a lot. And that doesn’t always happen with Moms and daughters.

Happy 13th Birthday!

Love

Mom
Dear C,

Happy Birthday, Teenager! Your age has finally caught up to your attitude – and I mean that in all the best ways. You are my feisty, independent, self-assured girl who knows exactly what she wants and how to get it.

I can’t even count the number of ways in which you have impressed me in this, our toughest year. While the rest of the family was falling apart, you somehow seemed to overcome every challenge and thrive. You killed it at school, excelled at dance, set an example for the rest of the family by embracing a healthy lifestyle, created amazing works of art, organized and decorated the best looking room in the house, and helped your mom and I by picking up lots of responsibilities at home when we were at the hospital with B, or just plain exhausted.

You have had to deal with way more than any 13-year-old should have to face, and I am both grateful for and proud of the way in which you have responded. Thank you for all you have done to help us through this difficult season of our life.

At the same time, I want you to know that you don’t have to be supergirl. It is okay to not succeed sometimes; perfection is not the goal. All we ask from you is to do your best; I hope that’s all you expect of yourself, too.

I know this year has been tough for you in other ways, too, especially with the rest of us attending a different church. I admire the strength of your convictions, and your determination to follow the path that you think is right for you. Please know that I am always behind you 100%, even when we find ourselves going in opposite directions.

I’m excited about your trip with Mom this fall. I hope you both have a fabulous time making memories and connecting in a way that isn’t always possible in the midst of our crazy life. Have fun – you deserve it!

Love,

Dad

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The Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very-Bad Week

…or year… or life. Or maybe it just feels that way.

Sometimes when everything seems to be going wrong, and you think “at least it can’t get much worse” – that’s when life winds up and punches you. Right in the throat.

So there you are. Gasping. Stumbling. Grabbing at everything, anything you can touch. Mind spinning. Thinking… what the actual hell?

All the other people in the room seem to be breathing without any thought at all. Like it’s easy. Like they’re entitled to it.

Our reality took a turn for the laughably pathetic last week. While my daughter was in Children’s Hospital for the week, receiving a particularly nasty round of chemo, and in isolation (because of course she had a miserable cold on top of everything else), her Dad took a shift sleeping over, so that I could see my other kids and my Dad (who’d come to help out at the last minute). But mostly so I could sleep at home, in a bed – a special gift I’ve learned to cherish at this point in our journey.

I was buzzing around, tidying up, while my freshly-washed, pajama-clad boy stalled bedtime with a cookie treat. He’s easily distracted, and doesn’t always remember to chew, and on this night, he also had a miserable cough due to cold. You can see where I’m going with this? It wasn’t the first time. Probably won’t be the last.

Which was why I was pretty calm when I first noticed him choking and sputtering. “Here we go,” I thought, as he coughed up cookie pieces and mucous, then cried and vomited in my arms. I gave him both puffers. It didn’t help. He began itching at his throat and his feet, hives spreading faster and faster. That was new.

At this point I’d recruited my Dad to drive us to the ER; my daughter to fetch a new bucket and my purse. Still calm. Still old territory for us. He was still talking, as only my little chatterbox can manage while still coughing and puking.

I crouched by his seat all the way to the hospital, Mommy-auto-pilot fully engaged – first aid edition. I sent my Dad home, sure we were in for a long wait and the usual procedures. As I walked through the door I noticed he was working hard to breathe. Not good.

I interrupted the receptionist. “He’s having trouble breathing!” While he dry heaved in my arms, I juggled a bucket and purse and an increasingly heavy 4-year-old.

She used her calm, customer service voice on me, informing me that I would need to find his health care card while she finished helping the couple at the desk. The volunteer guarding the door chastised me for jumping the line. “These people were here first.”

Does no one hear my panic and repeated “He’s having trouble breathing!” – anyone?

He goes limp in my arms. I can’t wake him up. He’s still breathing, but it’s shallow.

The triage nurse calmly waves me over to another desk, pulling out the O2 sat monitor. “He’s having trouble breathing. He’s choking. He has hives…” I must have explained. I can’t remember it now.

She sprang into action after the clip took it’s reading. Waving us through. Bringing another nurse to our side.

Now there’s a bed. Now there are people everywhere. Hands and equipment and tubes everywhere. I’m surprised that they don’t push me out of the way. I’m stunned by how quiet my busy little boy is. Barely conscious.

“Is he normally this subdued?” they ask. I’m completely panicked by this question. There’s no way he’d lay quietly for any of this poking and prodding. Now he’s passed out entirely.

One of the nurses calls for someone to “bring the peds crash cart – right now!”

And that’s when the world stopped.

It must have sputtered back into existence at some point, a blur of tears and questions and steadily beeping machines. He starts fighting back, pushing the mask off his face and protesting over the IV in his hand. What a lovely sound that unhappy shriek is to my ears! I hold him as close to me as I can with all the tubes and wires and nurses in our way.

At some point they bring me a chair, which I ignore, climbing onto the very edge of the bed with him. I text my husband, “he’s okay” – not yet ready to explain how very close we came to not-okay. They’ve pumped him full of meds and oxygen, and are monitoring him closely.

The doctor comes to explain that they will be admitting him to hospital now. I ask if we can be transferred to Children’s Hospital, where his sister is already a patient. She looks at me like I must be joking. It’s only a few hours before April Fools Day, after all.

It did feel like a terribly cruel joke.

5We got to ride in an ambulance. Though he could barely breathe, the boy thought this was pretty exciting. He was also thrilled when he recognized the ‘big hospital’ which has always been a lot of fun for him to visit. Not at all happy when he realized he would not be going home and that, yes, they were going to keep this needle in his right hand and the uncomfortable prongs taped into his nose.

For two days we had both littles and both parents on the same floor of the hospital. Thank God, repeatedly, that Grandpa was back at home to take care of the teen contingent.

It took them longer than expected to wean him off of oxygen, but once they did he bounced right back. His sister was discharged the day after he was.

We’ll be back again next week.

None of this is actually happening to me. Not really. But I’m gasping all the same.

So here’s us, where we don’t take our next breath for granted.


All That Vaccine Ugliness

Vaccine articles abound these days. Not to mention Youtube rants, Facebook debates, pithy graphics and pinnable quotes. It’s the issue-du-jour in the parenting universe; one that doesn’t seem to be losing traction, even as both sides make little to no progress in changing minds.

In fact, those most invested in the issue seem to be polarizing to greater extremes – discussions devolving into calls for lawsuits or criminal charges, shocking rumours of evil intent and ugly name-calling.

Straw man arguments are all the rage in this discussion. You know the kind. Present your opposition’s case in the most ridiculous, laughable way, then swoop in like a hero to knock them down to size. Be sure to add a few nasty insults disguised as jokes. Appeal to fear. Appeal to a sense of superiority. People eat that stuff up.

It’s fun. Fun to read about all the ways I’m right, right, right. Fun, even, to sneer at the ridiculous claims made by the “other.”

I was prepared to jump right in. As much as I like to think of myself as a moderate, a conciliatory voice in a sea of extremists, this issue hits me right where it hurts.

So I wrote a post. Out of fear, anger, even pain. Lashing out… but, you know, in a funny and readable way. It probably would’ve done well, if I’d gone ahead and published it. I’ve seen a lot like it out there. No doubt read and shared by only those who agree already. And this one pushed all the right buttons. With a so-adorable-you-could-die picture of my cancer-fighting daughter at the end. The KO punch. Take that straw-morons!

Self righteous. Self indulgent. Pointless.

Because most parents don’t lead with their minds, they lead with their hearts. Especially when it comes to the safety of our children. Which is why this vaccine debate can get so very ugly, so very quickly. It taps into our primal defense system.

That doesn’t mean I don’t think I’m right. But I’m going to try to set Mama Bear aside to make my point. This is important. But it’s not personal.

At the core, it is an issue of world-view.

Do you trust the scientific and medical community?

What do you value most highly: personal liberty or communal responsibility?

Ultimately, what do you fear?

To vaccinate or not to vaccinate, it all comes down to fear. Either way, parents take a risk. A risk because vaccinations are neither 100% effective (and wane over time) nor are they 100% safe (not much in this world is). A risk because these diseases might (and in some cases are) making a comeback, putting my child at risk to contract, and spread, a preventable illness.

I’ve been a homeschooling mom, on the granola-crunching, tree-hugging, all-natural west coast. I know many families who choose not to vaccinate. My kids are friends with their kids. In our corner of the world, about 30% of children aren’t fully immunized. These parents are simply behind or doing what they think is best for their children. I know this. I even understand why.

When it came time for us to decide, we put our trust in traditional medicine. Not because I believe in blindly following the dictates of medical professionals like the infallible gods that they are (read this with a great deal of sarcasm), because it makes sense. This is not an unstudied and untested field – the medical evidence is public, accessible and clear. This is not a money-making scheme – vaccinations account for less than 2% of Big Pharma profits. This is not a conspiracy by a powerful elite – these are fellow parents who choose to vaccinate their children also.

Ultimately, I decided to do what I could live with. What if my child became ill, suffered permanent damage, or even died, because I chose to flout convention? What if another child did? I’d heard the stories my Grandpa told of a year spent in an iron lung. Of many who died. Polio. Small pox. Measles. Entries in a text book about deadly epidemics that seem like ancient history to us. Is it right for our family to reap the benefits of progress without doing our part for the future?

But none of that matters now.

You see, I don’t have a choice anymore. My daughter doesn’t anyway. Chemotherapy is stripping her immunity and we are at the mercy of the herd. At a time when every illness looms large and terrifying.

This is fear. Not a remote, theoretical possibility of harm, but one more skirmish in the day-to-day fight to keep death at bay.

So you understand why the question of “preventable diseases” seems SO much more important right now. Our instructions are clear: if she is exposed, even briefly, to one of these illnesses (or to someone who has been) we are to bring her immediately to the hospital. Full on emergency.

Did I mention that my best friend caught Whooping Cough last year? It was brutal. Nothing theoretical about it. And right in our own back yard. My daughter’s already so sick, I don’t know if she could survive that. Did you know that measles kills 400 children per day? North America used to be protected, but it’s back now and it’s a deadly disease. There were over 300 cases of it in our province last year. Did you hear about the NHL mumps outbreak? And on and on and on.

Danger lurks around every corner. Especially for us.

Despite my initial reactions, I’ve always known that those of us who choose not to vaccinate our children are neither monsters nor idiots. Though we’ve come to very different conclusions, we are the same – concerned parents.

Do the risks of immunization outweigh the benefits? Are reports of outbreaks overstated? Are the effects of measles, mumps and whooping cough (among other things) less dire than we’ve been led to believe?

I don’t think so. I really don’t. Since my daughter’s life is at stake I wish I did. I would rest so much easier. For once, I hope I’m wrong.

All I ask, from all my fellow parents, is that these decisions not be made lightly. Do the research. Not just the stuff that’s fun and easy to read, that makes you feel good. Look beyond the condescending attitudes and prejudices on both sides to examine the evidence. Consider the source – is it reputable… qualified… is there accountability… is there an agenda?

Be wise.

Be thorough.

That’s all I can ask.

Because you’re deciding, not just for your own kids, but for all of us who can’t vaccinate. For all the infants, for those with allergies, for those whose vaccinations have worn off or didn’t take, and for those whose immune systems are already damaged.

Be absolutely sure that you are doing the right thing.

She’s counting on you.

img_2008
So here’s me, using the emotionally manipulative picture anyway. Couldn’t resist…


Raising You is an Art, not a Science

Dear 12-year-old,

Before you, I thought parenting worked like science – laws and equations, inputs and outputs, theories to be proven and disproven with clear, quantifiable results. I may not have used those words. I may not have been aware that I believed this. But my first few years as a mother, and my experience as a daycare teacher, led me to calmly assume that I could manage and mold, if not control, my children.

Your sister, who’s always been predictable, logical and mostly straightforward, strengthened this approach. I had Opinions. I took Positions on the Issues.

Then you came.

You came in a swirl of colour and emotion and self determination. You knocked us out of our neat, manageable orbit. You made us laugh. You made us cry in frustration. You made us see things differently and pay attention to what matters most.

You still do.photo 1

For the first 8 months you refused to sleep in a crib, ever, peacefully slumbering the nights away in your car seat. As a preschooler you INSISTED on wearing a plastic, gold-foil tiara all day, every day, for more than a year. By school age, you eschewed nightgowns and pjs, sleeping fully clothed, occasionally with your back pack strapped on your back.

You have always danced to your own off-beat tune.

You still do.photo 2

I love that about you. There’s so much I love about you. We butt heads a lot. Me parenting you and you being parented by me, is not something that’s ever going to be easy. We’re too much alike in temperament. But I see you, and even when we’re completely at odds I see the great and amazing person you are becoming too.

  • You are creative, not only in the art you make, the strange inventions you think up, but lately in the stories you tell (in serial form to eager classmates); the Unhappily Ever After novella you wrote was dark and snarky, but vibrant and descriptive in a way that warms your writer-parents’ hearts.
  • You are passionate, feeling all the feelings deeply (and loudly).
  • You are sociable – an extrovert in a family of introverts, who genuinely enjoys people and values that interaction above whatever task or activity is happening.
  • You are funny, so cleverly, sarcastically, mature-beyond-your-years funny that guarantees we laugh more than most families. Wit is a hallmark of brilliance (that and your newfound appreciation for science fiction – bravo).
  • You are beautiful. And I know that you can’t see that most days. Which might be your age, or your desire to be tall and willowy, or this stupid, plastic, air-brushed world we live in – but I hope that every time you look in the mirror you see past all that, and see the beauty that I do. If you can do that, I will promise to stop call you “cute” which I know you hate.

It’s not easy being a middle child. Especially not in a family like ours. But you are strong and spirited and that bold personality refuses to fade to the background. Since I first began coaching your 4-year-old sister NOT to let the baby (you!) push her around, I knew you’d be a force to be reckoned with. From day one you’ve challenged us, and though it can get bumpy and intense, I believe that in the end, it’ll be a good thing, both for you and for us. It’s possible that my personality is just a smidge ‘strong and determined’ too, so I have to take some credit/blame.

The world needs more good, strong women – and you have all the makings of a great one. I’m so glad to be your mom!

Happy Birthday!

And now a word from Dad…

Dear C,

In so many ways, I feel like we’ve learned more about you, and the woman you are becoming, in the past year than in any year that’s come before.

I see it in your artwork, which stuns me with each new piece. You have so much creative talent bottled up inside you, and now that it’s spilling out onto the page (and your bedroom door), I’m absolutely astounded – and so proud. I just can’t wait to see what you will produce as you continue to learn and grow in your skills and passion.

I see it in the Once Upon a Time story you wrote for school which, let’s face it, was really more of a novel. I didn’t know whether to be disturbed by the darkness of your tale or excited by your ability to spin it with a vocabulary that far outstrips your age, but I chose the latter. I know you don’t see yourself as a writer, but in a family of writers, it’s clear that a little something has rubbed off.

I see it in your wicked sense of humor, in the movies you enjoy, the books you read, and the songs you sing. You are a ton of fun to hang out with, which makes it all the more sad when you take off on us for three weeks, like you did this summer for Chicago. And yet, I’m so glad you got to have that amazing experience.

I see it in your dance, where you worked so hard and stuck with a class that you hated, just so you could do the ones that you love. That willingness to persevere and go after what you want will serve you very well.

I see it in your love and patience with B and S: how quick you are to forgive when he unintentionally hurts you, and how you always choose to play with the kids rather than put away the dishes.

And I even see it in your desire to make up your own mind about church. I know that our change has been hard for you to accept, and while we do want Nexus to be a family thing for now, and for you to give it your best shot, I greatly admire you for standing up for what you believe, and really owning it. I will always support you in that, whatever path it leads you down.

I love you C, and I’m proud and grateful to have you in our family. Happy 12th birthday – next year’s a big one!

Love, Dad


He’s big. He’s bad. He’s Four.

We told ourselves that the first year would be the hardest, that life would find normal after that. The next year, we told ourselves that, really, adopting and adjusting must require at least two years. It’s year three and he’s never stopped rocking our world.

But we wouldn’t get off this ride, not even if it meant uninterrupted sleep and endless free time, because life with the boy is worth it.
Happy 4th Birthday my son!

You crouch low, stomping bare feet on the grass.

“I’m big. I’m bad. I’m big. I’m bad.”

Then you blow my house down. I scream. You clap your hands, shrieking with laughter.

I remind your wandering feet that we don’t go into the road. Not even big, bad wolves. You spin a tale of wolves growing wings and flying over the road. Big hand gestures. A grin that could swallow the whole world.

I’m pretty sure one day it will. You’re irresistible!

Not many can understand your chatter, but it’s coming. You work so hard with Cathy, the speech therapist we have to sneak into the house. She has to work with your sister first, because once you catch sight of her, you won’t rest until she gives you her undivided attention. You understand more than anyone imagined. You are delayed in some ways, but outstrip much older children in many areas.

You’re so smart! I’m one of the privileged few that gets to see just how bright and creative you are. I was amazed when you started naming all the letters you saw last fall. Sure, we’d read alphabet books and you liked to watch that phonics video with your sister, but we’d never taken the time to intentionally teach you these things. You just picked it up. Pretty soon you were naming all the letters, both upper and lower case – and the sounds they make. Pointing them out on signs and in books, shuffling through flashcards and playing alphabet games – little else can hold your attention like the letters.

Except maybe trains. And volcanoes. You’re obsessed with volcanoes.

You started preschool this year, and you LOVE it! You’ve done so well, enjoying the general busyness, the interaction with other kids, the outdoor play, and the hugs and attention from Miss Kathleen, Miss Christine… and your very own teacher/helper (Miss Christy). They’ve noticed how sweet and intelligent you are too.

This year, we saw beyond your struggles to your strengths. We don’t know what the future will bring; we’ve been warned that you will need extra help to learn. You need help with safe behaviour, social cues and sensory modulation. But you are resilient and good natured and you keep surprising us. No tiny preconceived box can hold you.

You have a relentless determination when it comes to overcoming obstacles. Unfortunately for us, these obstacles are often there for a reason – like the deadbolt on the front door. One of the scariest moments in my life was seeing that door hanging open and you nowhere in sight (we found you three doors down laying in the road with a friendly cat). Then it happened again. And again. The latches on the back gate. The child lock on the medicine cabinet. The time you found an unlatched door on the school, then locked yourself in (and daddy out).

I hope you survive your childhood. I hope we do. It’s exhausting, and scary sometimes, because I love you so much and want your life to be safe and easy (and sometimes just a little quieter). But you are not built for safe and easy. You’re meant to be extraordinary! Not to mention fun, rambunctious, silly, happy, imaginative, affectionate, sweet and full of love, love, love!

Bringing you home, to our family, is one of the best decisions we’ve ever made.

Happy Birthday buddy!

Love always, Mom

 

And now… a word from Daddy.

Shortly after you came home forever, we celebrated your 2nd birthday. At the time, I was a little overwhelmed by how crazy you were. I had never experienced such energy combined with such little regard for personal safety and reasonable limits.

Of course, it’s perfectly normal for a toddler to get into all sorts of trouble. So I told myself, if we could just survive till you were 4, things would surely calm down.

Well, here we are on your 4th birthday, and unless you’ve radically changed since last night, all I can do is laugh. If anything, our crazy dial has been turned up another six notches. But, our capacity for crazy has likewise expanded.

I now realize that you have a zest for life that cannot, will not and should not be denied. Yes, it needs to be checked by common sense and a concern for those around you. And yes, I very much look forward to the day when we can go out in public and your mom and I can just relax, without one of us having to constantly follow in your footsteps to make sure you don’t do any damage. That will be nice.

But this is who you are: a boy filled with wonder, a thirst for adventure, a need to move, and a desire to experience everything your world has to offer. And you do it all with an irresistible grin that makes it impossible to stay frustrated with you for long – even when I want to!

Lately, you’ve taken to stomping around the house, whispering to yourself, “I’m big. I’m bad. I’m big. I’m bad. I’m big. I’m bad!” I believe you lifted that from the Wonder Pets.

It couldn’t be more fitting. You’re big. You’re bad. You’re tons of fun. And you are loved. I’m so glad you’re part of my family, Mr. Goob! Happy 4th birthday!

Love, Daddy


Sinking

Hustle, Bustle
Push, Pull
Undertow

Swirling currents
Essential activities
Unrelenting demands

Faster, Faster
Higher, Stronger
Better, Bigger
More

I can’t touch bottom anymore.
I’m not the strong swimmer
I thought I was.

No lifeguard
at this end of the pool.
Play at your own risk.

Drowning
in busy,
in belongings,
in belonging to.

I need
to save myself
for a change.

drown

So here’s me, carving out moments of still and silent for Lent. Because God keeps whispering “Be Still” and it’s time I listened.


Putting Myself in Her Shoes

The girlshoes

scratch.
scratch.
scratch.
Covering every little spot with pink. There’s noise buzzing beside my head… loud, annoying. I hold my marker tighter. Lean closer, closer, closer. My nose is filled with the sting of ink.
scratch.
scratch.
scratch.
Out of nowhere, a hot weight on my back. The buzzing is Louder than ever…
“itstimetogoweregonnabelateitoldyoutogositonthepottyareyouevenlisteningtomeCOMEON…”

I look up into my Mom’s eyes, wanting to show her my picture. It’s almost done. Looking back I see a stripe of white along the edge. Not right. Not right at all. Needs more pink.
scratch.
scr…

HEY! Where’s my marker?

Her face is right next to mine. Her mad face. Buzzing again. With a pink marker in her hand. MY pink marker. MINE.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Mad. This is my mad face.

The world moves under me… my chair pulled away from the table. Away from my paper. Away from the white spots I haven’t finished. Not right. Not right at all.

I reach for it.

There she is again. “It’s. TIME. to. go.”

I’m catapulted onto my feet, a big, warm hand wrapped around mine.

We’re going somewhere?
Now?
Right now?
Why didn’t anyone tell me?

So here’s us, where life moves too fast and the girl just won’t be rushed.

For those who are new to the blog, our 9-year-old is navigating Down Syndrome, a hint of OCD and, being-her-mother’s-daughter. She’s joy and charm and mischievous giggles. She’s also the reason we’re almost always late.

This is my entry for the
Wordpress Weekly Writing Challenge: Leave Your Shoes at the Door
“consider things from a different point of view…
walk a mile in someone [else]’s shoes.”

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/01/27/writing-challenge-shoes/


On Any Given Lunch-hour

Three little toes curl over the edge of the table. Flexing his entire body he catapults himself, his booster and his chair across the floor. “NOOOOOOOO!!!”

Today is a blueberry day. NOT a leftover mac ‘n cheese day.

Big sister disagrees. Pushing her bowl of blueberries disdainfully to the side. The boy eyes them from across the table.

“Look! Ketchup on noodles!” I say, in my best infomercial voice.

She nods enthusiastically.

I grin widely, flourishing his toddler-sized fork… demonstration bite. A lesser woman would have spit the lukewarm, congealed horror onto the floor immediately. I maintain the smile, tactfully depositing it into my napkin.

Blueberries it is.

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For Word Press Weekly Writing Challenge: Lunch Posts – simple, short, descriptive.

So here’s us, at lunchtime.


Do You See What I See?

When you were born you could barely see. Your world was indistinct shapes and startling sounds. And it was yours. The entire world, yours for the demanding and needing and the taking. Babies are like that.

As you grew, your sight expanded also. It was still your world and you could see better than your old mom with her increasing prescription. As accurate as your vision was, you couldn’t see the world clearly yet. Children never can.

You see, that’s my job, teaching you to see the world. As it really is, not the airbrushed, politically palatable con that Madison Avenue pushes. As it should be and can be, not the complacent, self-absorbed placebo of sitcom reality.eye

SEE – the beauty, the profound, hiding under layers of normal everyday.

SEE – the potential, the promise, masquerading as family members, friends and strangers.

SEE – the brilliance, the inspiration, calling you to reach beyond safe and easy and boring.

Every time I look at you, that’s what I see.

So here’s my Five Minute Friday contribution. As you might guess, the prompt is: See.

Here’s how this writing flash mob at lisajobaker.com works:

5minutefriday1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.

2. Link back here and invite others to join in.

3. And then absolutely, no ifs, ands or buts about it, you need to visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them in their comments.

– See more at: http://lisajobaker.com/#sthash.RuQmJjtj.dpuf


Glimmers of Christmas

audienceWe’re tucked in together, shoulder to shoulder, like books on a shelf. To my left, my husband’s look-a-like, the grey haired version, his face and gestures strange on that familiar frame. His left leg is propped in the aisle, too stiff to bend completely. On the right, my mother’s sister uses her one good hand to maneuver her leg brace into position. Farther down my daughter clambers awkwardly over Daddy and brother, the mountain of coats chair, and Oma, who’s hiding a bag of candy canes at her feet. Nine-year-old arms and legs narrowly miss kicking the curly head in front of us as she wedges herself onto my lap. It’s a full house tonight. Warmth on every side.

pigskinThere’s a cool draft sneaking in under the door. The light stretches thin into this back hallway, the shadows at the end overpowering it entirely. Such a cold, industrial space would seem unwelcoming to most, but his appreciation echoes all the way down. “Baaaaallllllll!” he shrieks, chasing the imitation pigskin as it bumps and thumps its way down the tiles. I close the lid of the Lost and Found box, grateful to the careless student who unknowingly provided our intermission entertainment, my very own half-time show. As he falls on his prey, it’s hard to tell who’s winning the wrestling match. The unwieldy ball is much too big for his little hands, but his enthusiasm is larger than life. I’ve no doubt the ball will eventually concede defeat, collapsing in sheer exhaustion. I certainly do.

starThe stage is dark in every way: black floor, heavy curtains, every light extinguished. But I can hear them, the shuffle of ballet slippers and instructional whispers and nervous giggles. Every parent leans forward, peering past elf costumes, shellacked hairdos and garish stage make up to find their very own dancer. Mine’s wearing a chef’s hat, an apron, and a stage smile I’ve never seen before, but I recognize her shape, the impish twinkle in her eye, and the baking sheet she stole from my cupboard last month. My other dancer comes out more than once, part of senior company, she plays many parts; while I know her face, I don’t recognize her at all. She is so grown up, so graceful and beautiful. Not the baby I used to dance around on my hip.

These moments, these details, fly by so fast. Each one, a brief glimmer of joy and family and the Christmas I’m hoping for. But I’m more focused on keeping us all out of trouble and inside the lines. Shushing the littles who holler and wail at the worst times, making holiday plans with the in-laws, feeling hemmed in by the crowds and worried about dinner, snapping at my partner for not knowing what I need and taking offense when he does the same.

I miss them. Over and over again, I miss the glimmers. They slip through my fingers while I juggle my worries and obligations. I need to rewind, to relive it in slow motion and taste the best moments again.

I guess that’s why I write.

So here’s us, hobbling and flailing, shrieking and wrestling, and dancing our way to Christmas. It might not be postcard pretty, but we’ll get there.

This was written for the Word Press Weekly Writing Challenge: Collecting Detail Weekly Writing Challenge: Collecting Detail | The Daily Post
http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/12/16/challenge-collecting-detail/
write about three original details I noticed from encounters during my day.


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