Small Towns Are Weird

    Growing up in a small town is weird. I can’t imagine I’m alone in this judgment. In some ways it’s wonderful, in that people always say it takes a village. I grew up riding in carpools to dance class and getting band-aids put on me when I fell off my bike in my neighbor’s driveway. But in some ways it’s disorienting, at least when you leave. What happens when you step out of the village, is that you realize it is a bubble, and perhaps your sparkling talents are like a lot of other people’s. Perhaps that grade point average is not that impressive (I’m talking about me, if you couldn’t tell). Perhaps that hometown hero's batting average is a lot like lots of other player’s averages (this one’s not me). And, perhaps that superlative didn’t mean that much after all. What happens when you leave is humbling and probably necessary. Your idea of success shifts, and you realize there are a lot of ways for people to shine that your small town didn’t begin to offer. At least, that’s what I realized.

    That’s a good thing, because I am a former elementary school teacher and current stay-at-home parent. I’m not humbly accepting any major accolades for my homemade waffles and PTO raffling. Most days, I remember that’s not where my value lies anyways.

    This was fresh on my mind when I read the boys the latest installation of Andrea Beaty’s Questioneers, Lila Greer, Teacher Of The Year. Illustrated by David Roberts, this picture book tells us the origin story of the student’s teacher, Ms. Lila Greer. We learn of her childhood spent in anxiety. We learn of a move to a new town that rocked her world. We learn of her kind teacher that scaffolded her assimilation to this school in a way that allowed her to make friends and absorb her life changes confidently.

    When the inferiority of being a former-small-town-gifted-student hits me, I have to remember Ms. Lila Greer. I have to remember that accolades are usually few and far between, and the most important things to me can be small and often unseen. The way Nathan and I raise our children, the ways I nurture my marriage, the ways I show up for my community. These are the ways I pay forward some of that weird, small-town love.

#andreabeaty

#lilagreer

#happyvalentinesday

Taking A Break

There are neighborhood kids everywhere, and it’s amazing. They are in our driveway, in our backyard, in our trees. These kids are running around with my boys, swinging foam swords and filling plastic cups with weird mud concoctions and making forts out of gnarled sticks. I peek out at them every once in a while to make sure that a scream wasn’t a cry and everyone’s okay – and they usually are. But last week I heard crying and yelling. I went outside to see what was going on, and two of the kids were upset after a tussle had gone wrong. Everyone was okay – one friend just didn’t stop when the other had enough. Nevertheless, the feelings got big really fast, and the tears fell and the words were snuffled as they explained to me what happened. We talked it out and they went off to play. I peeked out a few minutes later to see if the joy had returned and I saw one of the boys sitting off by himself. When I asked him how he was doing, he said, “I just need to take a break for a few minutes.”

I was really impressed that this little guy knew what he needed, that he could listen to his body so well. He probably knew he wouldn't have fun yet. He probably knew he wouldn’t make good decisions yet. He probably knew he needed a moment to process what happened.

This was fresh on my mind when I read Peter’s Chair by Ezra Jack Keats this week. In this book our beloved Peter, from The Snowy Day, just became a big brother and it’s not going well for him. His mom shushes him when his block tower crashes down and his dad is painting his old baby furniture pink. So Peter takes matters into his own hands, grabs his favorite blue chair, and runs away…to his front yard. There he realizes he no longer even fits in that little blue chair. He spends a little while outside in thought, and eventually goes back inside. When he does, ostensibly at peace, he asks his dad if he can help his dad paint the little blue chair pink for his sister.
I’m guilty of letting the world tell me that taking a break is being lazy or retreating from a problem. These two little boys, both real and fictional, reminded me that a break is sometimes just what I need to let the joy return.
#ezrajackkeats

Clinging To All The Things

Lately I haven’t been waking up early for my sacred “me-time” before the demands of the day begin. I haven’t restarted my weekly five-mile runs on the downtown waterfront in Manteo. I haven’t been writing in my office sunroom with the view of the water sparkling in the corner of my eye. Truth be told, in a lot of ways I don’t feel like I am who I was before I had cancer. While I’m not sure I’m supposed to, I can’t help but feel like when I emerged from cancer treatment last year, when I crossed the finish line from hell, I was so eager to get back to normal that I became overly regimented in all the wrong forms of normal. Perhaps, I was just clinging to all the things that made me feel in control of my life…if only I could keep my kitchen clean and keep the fridge stocked and keep the laundry folded, then…

This was on my mind last week when I began reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl this week. Inspired by the fantastic new Wonka movie, I decided to reread this childhood favorite of mine with Beckett. As I read the exposition of Charlie Bucket and his life of extreme poverty, the torture that was living next to a chocolate factory when all you had to eat was cabbage, and his dilapidated little house full of his four elderly grandparents that all oddly slept in that one bed, I was so struck by Grandpa Joe. He was tired and bedridden and, can you blame him, downtrodden, but when “Charlie, his beloved grandson, was in the room, he seemed in some marvelous way to grow quite young again. All this tiredness fell away from him, and he became as eager and excited as a young boy.” Nightly, Grandpa Joe would brighten their dreariness through stories of magic and joy and hope.

And I realized in that moment, that Roald Dahl perhaps had it right (forgive me for compartmentalizing all the ways he otherwise had it so very wrong) in the development of Grandpa Joe. Because, every day he stopped to remember the magic. In fact, he made it a priority. Later on in the book, Willy Wonka said, “In your wildest dreams you could not imagine the things that could happen to you.” Grandpa Joe reminded me to let those things back in.

#charlieandthechocolatefactory

Stepping Off The Rollercoaster

I feel like I just stepped off a rollercoaster. Heart racing from adrenaline, body tense from gripping the waist bar, feet fumbling from the impatient conveyor belt beneath me. Go ahead now, your turn is done, you can’t stay here. 

Ringing that cancer bell recently ranked as one of my best days, but also so unsettling. 

You’re just going to let me go? After all of that? I can’t, I still have my rollercoaster legs.

After ten all-consuming months of treatment, I realize we never really grasped a sense of normalcy. I was constantly moving into the next phase, one that brought new doctors, new demands on my time and body, and new limitations on my ability to participate in my life. We were constantly pivoting in some new, ungodly way. 

And now that it’s done, I don’t know what to do with myself. Do I scramble around and try to make up for ten months of unaccomplished chores? Do I try to reach out to some long-lost friends and see if I remember how to talk about normal people things? Do I try to get my crow pose back? What an exhausting headless chicken dance.

All of this was fresh on my mind when the boys and I read Swashby And The Sea last week. Written by Beth Ferry and illustrated by Juana Martinez-Neal, this picture book is about a reclusive sea captain named Swashby. Captain Swashby had a special relationship with the sea. It always gave him just what he needed when he needed it. So when ol’ Swashby retired, he settled in a quiet, isolated spot by the shore. One day a free-spirited little girl moved in next door, disrupting his solitude. Swashby put forth a hearty effort to maintain his quiet life, with grumpy messages in the sand and rejected invitations to tea, but the sea continued to interfere, finding ways to push the spirited little girl into Swashby’s life. The sea gave him what he needed…love and community.

Perhaps I need to take note from ol’ Swashby and stop the headless chicken dance. I need to let go and trust that eventually the chores will get done and the conversation will come back and my body will regain its strength. Like Swashby, I need to surrender to my own metaphorical sea, and trust that I’m going to get exactly what I truly need. 

What Are You Waiting For?

 

Three weeks ago, I woke up disappointed to see 7:45 a.m. on my watch. I was scheduled for surgery that day with a noon arrival to the hospital, the next step to achieve another dazzling check mark on my breast cancer treatment plan. My disappointment that morning came from the inhumane request to not eat or drink after midnight. Being thirty-five and the mom of two early-risers, 7:45 a.m. was the best I could do to sleep the morning away so I didn’t have to experience half-a-day of no coffee or food. The horror. 

Hours later, Nathan and I found ourselves at the hospital pre-op room, still awaiting the anesthesia that would at least take the consciousness out of my hellish waiting game for a Beyond burger and fries. Not to mention, of course, the arrival of pathology results and general anxiety about surgery.

True to form, the next thing I knew Nathan had me wrapped up in some mind-puzzle game that had me in tears laughing instead of snipping at him for chewing gum so close to my hospital bed. He cleverly took my mind off of my discomfort and anxiety, pivoting so effortlessly towards joy and fun.

This moment was fresh on my mind last week when the boys and I reread Mo Willems’ Waiting Is Not Easy!, a favorite of ours from the Piggie and Gerald series. In this award-winning classic, Piggie sends Gerald the elephant into a near-meltdown waiting for a surprise, which turns out to be the brilliant, Milky Way-decorated, starry night sky. Gerald is so pleased with his surprise, he coyly starts Piggie down a similar waiting game for the sunrise. 

My surgery morning was one of many episodes in the current season of excruciating waiting. But Piggie and Gerald (and Nathan) reminded me that, really, I’m always waiting for something. Whether it be the surprise of a starry night sky or the relief from a painful diagnosis, there is always something I’m preparing my body and mind to experience. The moments I’ve been waiting for come and go quickly but, if I pivot well, I will find the real living happens while I'm waiting with the people I love.

#mowillems 

Building Sandcastles

I have watched the entirety of Gilmore Girls this past month. I’ve done this before, but in the past it’s taken me much longer to conquer. It required zero effort on my part. Netflix didn’t even make me click for the next episode. I’ve had very good reasons to do nothing, and for many of those days, nothing was all I could do. The past month has included a bilateral mastectomy, multiple trips to the plastic surgeon for reconstruction, and two rounds of chemotherapy. 

There have also been days lately that doing nothing was all I could come up with to do. Days that I don’t know how to be a parent, or a partner, or a friend, or attempt any of the things that I love doing. While I’m not sure much is expected of me right now, I do know that most days I feel in a weird holding pattern. The reality is, of course, that this phase is not forever. The other reality is that this phase is still part of my life. My husband and his church are still churching away, growing and loving and serving. My boys are still making new friends, making mistakes, making plans. Most of my month was spent trying to figure out what I can do and fearing all the things that haven’t happened.

This hit me like a ton of bricks this week when I read the boys Jules vs. the Ocean by Jessie Sima. It’s about a little girl that spends the day at the beach attempting to build a big, fancy sand castle all by herself. Over and over again, the waves keep crashing her sand castles and stealing her sand pail. The ocean becomes this anthropomorphized enemy in her mind, out to get her and ruin her plans. Eventually, her sister comes back from surfing and tells her that the ocean isn’t doing this on purpose, it’s just what the ocean does. It happens to everyone. So Jules builds another sand castle, and the ocean takes it away again. Eventually, her mother affirms, it happens to everyone. Besides, the moon really controls the waves, anyway. 

Jules reminded me that I have to show my kids that we keep building sand castles anyways, even if they look a little different. So, here I sit at my computer, attempting to write. I’m still keeping an eye on those waves, though. Maybe even the moon, we’ll see.

#jessiesima

If You Give Me A Diagnosis

I used to joke with Nathan that trying to get pregnant combined some of my favorite things, the greatest of which is making schedules. 

This summer I was thrown a major curveball, making it difficult to make schedules or decisions. Back in late July, I went for an annual exam, and then a precautionary mammogram, and then a biopsy, and then a breast cancer diagnosis at thirty-four years-old. All of a sudden, my love of making schedules was turned on its head, forcing me to a state of surrender which doesn’t come easily for me.

My normal concerns like what to cook for dinner and how to wear out the boys after school turned into questions like whether to get a lumpectomy or a mastectomy and whether I should bother tweezing my eyebrows if I’m just going to lose them in a few months from chemo. My typical love of making plans turned into writing down every order my doctors give me. My normal color-coded planner turned into a giant shoulder shrug, My answer for what’s going to happen has become: “I think, probably, but I don’t really know.” 

This was fresh on my mind this week when we read Laura Numeroff’s classic If You Give A Mouse A Cookie. Numeroff’s serial book tells the tale of a boy that gives a mouse a cookie, which kicks off an unpredictable, chaotic odyssey in which the mouse then wants milk, and then a napkin, and then, and then, and then. The reader gets a silly sequence of events in which this little boy follows a mouse who is just making a series of in-the-moment decisions on life’s terms.

I wish my cancer diagnosis had brought me to a state of enlightenment, where I didn’t worry about things like my eyebrows or losing my boobs. It hasn’t. I'm sure I’ll get through surgery next week, and then following treatment, and then jump right back to fretting over just how organic my broccoli actually is and whether my freshly-grown-back-hair cooperates in the beach humidity. I hope one thing sticks, that when this daunting treatment plan is over I choose to show my kids that, like Mouse, we just make decisions on life’s terms. I’ll enjoy my metaphorical cookie today and be comfortable not knowing what will happen next.

#lauranumeroff

#breastcancer

A Risky Move

Hats off to our county’s school system. Us parents can be quite the crapshoot.

Nevertheless they brought a handful of us in to participate in the interview process for the new principal at my son’s elementary school. They held “stakeholder” interviews with small groups of parents, faculty, and administration. They hedged their bets by giving us scripted questions that parents had submitted, but we were able to go rogue if there was time. Those “extra time” questions were super informative to me, but not just about the candidates. 

I was reminded that parents always come to the table with our own agendas.

Questions were asked about boosting teacher morale, about inclusion and educating neurotypical students about those with special needs. Questions were asked about the use of data to empower teachers and what they might do for the school if they received a large sum of grant money.

These answers all mattered, especially to the parent asking. We have so many nuanced experiences forming our parenting decisions for our one-of-a-kind children. I forget all the time that my children aren’t the only unicorns. I especially forget that we aren’t parenting in a vacuum.

This was fresh on my mind when we read A Computer Called Katherine written by Suzanne Slade, illustrated by Veronica Miller Jamison. This book tells the life story of Katherine Johnson, the Black female mathematician whose work contributed greatly to the first successful U.S. space endeavors. The book describes her childhood, in which her community was up in arms about many issues, including desegregation and women’s rights. The book phrases it beautifully: “Their arguments seemed wrong to Katherine — as wrong as 5+5=12. [...] She kept working hard in school and dreamed of a future when all people would have equal rights.” Determined to give her what she needed regardless of the beliefs of their community, her parents moved to a new town so she could receive the education she needed to thrive. They did all they could to give their exceptional child the world she deserved.

It’s a risky move, bringing in the parents. But Johnson’s mom and dad showed us that we have to listen to all of the parents at the table.

The Flag In My Face

Everywhere I turned someone was waving this flag in my face. 

In my face, as I’m calling out spelling words and folding laundry and chasing Oliver’s scooter to the bus stop. In my face, as I sit in book club while Sue Monk Kidd proclaims a feminist cry against unfulfilled dreams and unheard voices. In my face, as I listen to a friend wondering how she got lost in a decade of marriage and parenthood that was supposed to be hers, too. I began to feel nervous, quite frankly, that I wasn’t doing enough right now. I began to worry that I, too, would wake up one day in a state of discontentment. I began to worry it was this inevitable condition for women and mothers in the world.

That flag flourished again last week when I read The Year We Learned To Fly by Jacqueline Woodson, but this time I found it comforting instead of alarming. Woodson, one of the greatest children’s book writers of our time, wrote about two young children stuck in their apartment in a season of never-ending storms. They kept struggling through waves of discontentment — boredom, anger, loneliness, feeling ignored. Their grandmother told them: “Lift your arms, close your eyes, take a deep breath, and believe in a thing. Somebody somewhere at some point was just as bored as you are now.” The word “bored” was adapted to each of their struggling moments... She learned from her enslaved ancestors that no one can “cuff your beautiful and brilliant mind.” So, she taught her grandchildren to imagine their lives better.

And they did. 

Woodson reminded me, and hopefully taught my boys, that I shouldn’t worry about a feeling that may not happen, all I have to do is take care of myself today. I sat still long enough to remember I feel confident, happy and grateful in this life I am active in designing. What I can do in the future, and what I’ll model for children, is to pay attention to the imagination that discontentment breeds. I’ll remember that I know how to use my voice, and that I can feel safe that I have a partner that respects me when I speak up. So if I need to recalibrate one day I’ll lift my arms, close my eyes, take a deep breath… because maybe discontentment is inevitable. Maybe that’s how we know it’s time to grow.

Hurricanes and Maple Syrup

Beckett’s a peculiar eater.

His food can’t be sticky or messy. Ice cream and mac and cheese have been completely out of the picture. Last week, though, we were having pancakes for dinner, in honor of his Papa visiting, and Beckett decided to try maple syrup. His life was forever changed. 

We realized our finger-food-kid needed to figure out how to use a knife. We taught him how to hold it and angle it, but he struggled a bit. The next morning, he was drenching his leftovers in syrup and said, “Can you just cut it for me?” And I responded, “No.”

That was a big for me, not over-parenting to show my utter love and devotion for my boys. 

With Valentine’s Day upon us, I was thinking about what love looks like as we read the book Hurricane by John Rocco. This book is about a little boy that loves his neighborhood dock. He loves exploring the creatures below, fishing and cannonballing into the water. One day he walks home in that eerie pre-storm feeling and learns a hurricane is coming. The next morning he wakes up to the destruction of fallen trees and hanging gutters. Perhaps most significantly, he finds his dock has collapsed into the water.. 

He goes to his parents and neighbors to ask for help rebuilding, all of whom lovingly tell him they can’t right now, they’re all tending to their own mess. (Which is a lesson in and of itself!) He takes to the dock himself with hammers and nails. But, it’s too much for one person. He almost gives up, when along come his parents and neighbors, with all of the manpower to build a new dock with the boy, not for him.

A lightbulb went off with a parenting tenet that I will surely wrestle with my entire life — letting my kids struggle to solve a problem is a counterintuitive, but powerful way of showing love. In this book, the boy’s parents didn’t race to the dock to fix it for him. They let him try to solve the problem with a hammer and nails first.

This Valentine’s Day I’m reminded that one of the best ways I can show my boys love is through the gift of struggle, whatever their goal may be. Sometimes love means giving my peculiar little boy the gift of figuring out how to enjoy his pancakes with a little syrup on top.

#johnrocco

No Cake Today

Beckett learned about Martin Luther King, Jr last week in school and came home wanting to bake a cake for his birthday. I really like cake, but that’s not what we are going to do today.

We’re going to read Freedom On The Menu by Carole Boston Weatherford, because here’s the truth, I don’t have a big parenting moment that I can share, or should share, about Martin Luther King, Jr Day. This is not our story. Today I need to model to them that, at least most of the time, the first thing we do to offer love and respect is to listen to other people’s stories.

Carole Boston Weatherford’s book is not directly about Martin Luther King, Jr. It’s about the Greensboro Four: David Richmond, Franklin McCain, Ezell Blair Jr. (Jibreel Khazan), and Joe McNeil. Four Black students from NC A&T University that staged a sit-in at the “White’s only” lunch counter at Woolworth’s in Greensboro, NC, refusing to leave until they were fairly served. This book is particularly special to me, because my family lived in Greensboro for a decade. When we moved away, George Floyd’s face was still painted on the Woolworth’s window. The Greensboro Four sparked a movement of sit-ins across the South, of young people working bravely for equality. This book is told from the perspective of a young Black girl named Connie, who lives in Greensboro during this time. During her story, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr visits Greensboro and her family attends the speech. Connie said that she didn’t understand much, but “it sounded as if he believed God was on our side.” That line haunts me. 

There’s so many nuances to that statement that can be parsed out in our homes and places of worship and relationships. The bottom line to me, though, is that my kids will know that we stand and act bravely on the side of equality and justice. I want my kids to listen long enough to know that the best way to honor Dr. King is to love in big, brave ways when life calls for it, even if that means today we just listen. Today we just listen, so that tomorrow we can make sure everyone gets a seat at the metaphorical counter. Then, by all means, buddy, we will order your cake.

#freedomonthemenu

#carolebostonweatherford

#mlkjrday

Right Jolly Old Elf

I sometimes struggle with Christmas as a parent. For me, Christmas brings so much magic, largely because of my experience as a child. We had yearly trips to the movie theater for the big holiday movie with our close neighborhood friends. We attended the ethereal midnight mass by candlelight on Christmas Eve. We traveled to my grandparent’s house where all the cousins would pile in one bedroom and my dad would sing ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas. 

I want my boys to have similar magical memories of Christmas. And, I think they will. The struggle for me arises when I realize how many of the parts of Christmas I love conflict with how we raise our kids the rest of the year. Sometimes, Santa feels like an elaborate lie instead of a magical herald of joy. Sometimes, the rush to get gifts seems like a box to check instead of a gesture of love. Sometimes, the decorations seem like a reflection of society’s excess, instead of an act of community. I can’t help but wonder if we were doing it “right,” it wouldn’t conflict with our parenting values at all. 

Last week we were reading the book Saint Nicholas: the Giftgiver, retold and illustrated by Ned Bustard. This book tells the history of Saint Nicholas as an activist for social justice, a missionary, a priest and a bishop. The books tell us that the genesis of his giftgiving was when he threw three bags of gold through a family’s window one night, so their three daughter’s would “avoid calamity” (be sold into slavery). This charming picture book weaves the historical St. Nicholas with the legend of the man with a belly-like-a-bowl-full-of-jelly in a charming way that reminds us that “Santa” brings joy and gifts because he’s a harbinger of God’s love.

And, I like that a lot. I like how this story reminded me that it’s not that hard to recalibrate Christmas. And I think that can be done without getting rid of the twinkly lights and Right Jolly Old Elf. We spend time with those we love, we act with kindness the best we can, and we forget about the naughty list. We offer help in brave ways. And, we remember that there is always magic in the world, but it’s only going to look like flying reindeer for so long.

Woefully Unprepared

I can recite a couple of prayers beginning with “Baruch atah Adonai” by the glow of the menorah candlelight. I also make a mean kugel.

I’m a little bit Jewish. Despite being raised in the Episcopal Church, my dad made sure to incorporate some of his family’s religious traditions into our childhood. Every Hanukkah we would light the menorah and get a bag of gelt, the gold-covered chocolate coins in a pinched net that hurt our fingers when we couldn’t wait for the scissors to open it up. My childhood playroom is filled with VHS tapes about the Maccabees.

Yet here I am, woefully unprepared to teach my own kids about this part of their family’s history and faith. This became evident this week when I took to the Holiday book box and the only Hanukkah books I found were two board books: Biscuit’s Hanukkah and Happy Hanukkah, Curious George! (Sorry, Bubbe! Just kidding, we called her Nana. But that would have been way better.)

Thankfully, Curious George gave us some good talking points. Especially the concept of mitzvah, which stopped me in my tracks while we were reading. It occurred to me while reading that my dad is a walking mitzvah — constantly in service to others. As children, he showed us that we don’t have to wait for the lighting of the menorah to be reminded to show love to others.

Self-awareness hit me that evening. Black Friday brings on this annual shift in which I become so focused on shopping and reliving my nostalgia through my children that I’m like this holiday-spinning Tasmanian Devil, until the moment we sing Silent Night by candlelight at church on Christmas Eve with the wax dripping onto my fingers. I often forget why we do this whole Christmas thing at all. 

Beckett and I brainstormed ways we could be of service. I suggested a beach clean-up or seeing if a neighbor needs us to pick up sticks in their yard. We live in a maritime forest, so he thought that idea was so ridiculous he heckled me for about five minutes. Otherwise, he was on board with getting our hands dirty helping others. Hopefully I can show him that, like his Papa, a mitzvah is a great way to celebrate what we believe, no matter where we light our candles.

After Dinner Horseplay

It’s not our first visit to the emergency room with our kids.

This particular visit was brought to us by after dinner horseplay, iterations of “settle down!” from the kitchen sink as I scrubbed the last dinner pan, followed soon after by the type of crying that spelled out the next few hours before I actually ever saw what happened.

Oliver busted his chin on the floor. So, we buckled them into their car seats with their spaghetti sauce-stained shirts and headed to the ER. Nathan’s assessment assured me there was no critical danger, but I dreaded the stitches that were likely in store for us that evening. 

I knew he was going to be fine, but I still felt anxious and guilty, and maybe even wondered if I would be questioned for bringing my filthy, bleeding child into the ER. As we waited to be called back, one of his preschool classmates was frantically rushed in by her mother with a head wound from...after dinner horseplay with her big sister. A few minutes later, the ER door opened and out sauntered Oliver’s preschool teacher and her daughter. These familiar faces shifted our conversations from debriefing scary experiences with furrowed brows to exasperated laughter and friendly chatter.  

This was on my mind when we read Lost and Found by Oliver Jeffers this week. In this book, a sad, silent penguin shows up on the doorstep of a little boy. Assuming it lost, the boy searches far and wide to find out where the penguin belongs, only to hop in a boat to the South Pole to find the penguin’s home. All the way there, the boy chats with the silent penguin and tells it stories. They don’t find the penguin’s community at the South Pole, but the boy drops the him off, noting he looks sadder than ever. On his trip home, it dawns on the boy that the penguin was never sad, he was just lonely. He turns his boat around, reuniting with the penguin. 

Jeffers reminded me of how important it is to have community. As my family continues to emerge from Covid isolation and settles into a new town, I’m reminded that we are not meant to journey through life alone. We have to find our people that will laugh at our tales, listen to our wild days and … keep us company in the ER waiting room.

A Cutlass And So Much Other Stuff

 

My parent’s house is full of stuff. They may be upset if they knew I published that. 

My brother, sister and I have come and gone over and over, each time taking the treasures we wanted and leaving the junk we didn’t. We came home from college and left movie posters and textbooks. We got married and neglected the wedding RSVP cards that were sent to their house. We visited at Christmas and left our gift wrap and weird-distant-aunt gifts. We stopped by for the weekend with our dog crates and infants’ travel cribs and left the bassinet attachments and rawhide bones. We brought them coffee mugs after we traveled and picture frames after we added one more member to the family. 

Last weekend I went home to help clear out some of that stuff. I pulled into their driveway, with a trunk full of empty Rubbermaid containers, and there they were. Brightly standing side by side to welcome me home, faces painted with big smiles and arms already spread wide. A sight I see every time they welcome me home and every time I set off again.

This was fresh on my mind when I read Faraway Things by Dave Eggers this week. This book, beautifully illustrated by Kelly Murphy, tells the story of a boy who lives by the sea and collects treasures washed up on the shore, or “faraway things” as his father had called them. We learn the boy’s father has died, but was the keeper of the lighthouse that stands prominently on the cliff. One day the boy finds a cutlass, only to learn that it belongs to a mariner who hit a sandbar because there was no longer a beacon from the lighthouse. The man offers a trade, the cutlass in return for any of the treasures on his ship the boy pleases. The boy picks out a lantern, which he places at the top of the lighthouse, returning a lost beacon of light to the shore.

If I take one thing from last weekend it’s the realization that, like that cutlass, my little boys are already my faraway things. They are not ours to keep. From the moment they are born our job is to provide them a safe harbor and to prepare them for an unimaginable life at sea. We have to keep our beacon shining, with big smiles and arms already spread wide when they come back home.

#daveeggers

What I Should Have Done Was Nothing

I had visions of what I would do with this free time. 

Lounging on the sofa binge-watching my own shows, shows that aren’t Cocomelon. Laying on the beach reading a book, not clutching my toddler from the current at the surf. Sitting in my quiet office and focusing on my writing, instead of typing on my phone in a stolen moment waiting for my Instacart pick-up (#sorrynotsorry). 

This past summer I couldn’t help but fantasize about a few hours a day of down time while the boys are both at school. I love these days fully immersed in motherhood, but my boys are one hundred percent non-stop. That first day I dropped Oliver off at school I did completely bask in a morning at the beach with Nathan but I, admittedly, have not lounged at all since then. I’ve chosen to do a lot of the same things I did before when I had Oliver balanced on my hip...post office, grocery store, quick run, clean the kitchen before the next meal.

As a stay-at-home parent, I’m unsure of how to reconcile that completely self-imposed guilty feeling of doing nothing. I have this overwhelming drive to knock out the laundry, the dishes, the meal prep, but probably not mail the wedding RSVP that will still somehow ride around on my dashboard for weeks until the due date passes. 

This was on my mind this week when we read Frederick, a 1968 Caldecott Winner, by Leo Lionni. This story is about a family of mice working hard to store up for winter, all except Frederick, who seems to be barely pulling his weight. When his family asks him why he is not working, he says he is collecting rays from the sun or colors from the meadow or words to fill the long winter days ahead. Sure enough, hibernation brings hunger and boredom to the mice… and Frederick’s moment comes. He shares his memories of the sunshine and the colors of the meadow. He even regales them with a poem, filling their hibernating hearts with joy.

Frederick reminded me that, while, sure, the kitchen does eventually need to get cleaned, doing the chores is not what I bring to the table. Frederick reminded me not to confuse sitting still with doing nothing. If I don’t rest now, I won’t have any real joy to give later. 

#leolionni

Mavericks

I have all these new words in my vocabulary since moving to the Outer Banks. Words like pop-up and swell and barrelled.

I have these words in my vocabulary because when we moved, my husband almost immediately took up surfing. Now Nathan and the boys are constantly practicing paddling and popping-up in the living room. New wetsuits and boards that are completely necessary keep appearing in the garage. Nathan slips out the door before first light to surf before work. I don’t know what’s happening anymore at my house but, I’m not going to lie, it’s fun. 

Last weekend we took the boys out to the beach to watch a pro surf competition. We could only manage to keep them engaged in one heat — the women’s finals. The young women were amazing, carving out these intricate rides out of lackluster waves. The reality is that I would have been dazzled by just about any level of surfing, so it wasn’t until their heat was over that I was really impressed. The defeated surfer (who happened to be the 2018 World Junior Champion) lingered at the shore until her competitor finished her victory ride. Despite her visible exhaustion and tearful disappointment at losing, she and another young woman hoisted the winner onto her shoulders and carried her up the beach.

There’s a chance this is customary sportsmanship in surfing. But it brought tears to my eyes, nevertheless, that I pretended weren’t there as I continued to bury the boy’s feet in the sand in an attempt to keep them still a bit longer.

This was on my mind when we read Sarah And The Big Wave, written by Bonnie Tsui and illustrated by Sophie Diao. This nonfiction picture book is about Sarah Gerhardt, the first female to surf the big waves at Mavericks in California. It’s an inspiring story about an unknown surfer who made a name for herself in a sport largely qualified by male victories. There is a timeline on the last page, the final event occurring in February 2020 when Maya Gabeira broke the world record for the largest wave surfed by a woman.

While I hid my own tears from my boys, I hope they saw hers so they know that their own hard work matters, but the real impact comes from hoisting up those on the journey with us.

#sarahandthebigwave

First Words

Oliver has started talking quite a bit this summer. 

As a parent, this is something you eagerly wait for. You read board books and sing folksongs and talk to him in the car about the birds you see out the window. Then that magical day comes when the ga-ga’s become, “No, I’m not,” or “Let go me!” or “Un-thank you” or a quite clamorous “No! Baby do that.” 

Those long-awaited words have revealed a lot of defiance and indignance. Apparently, my diaper-clad child has inferred these last two years that he’s the king-of-this-castle, and now that I think about it, he may not be wrong. We actually have been tirelessly accommodating his every need since the OB-GYN told us we could no longer hide in our postpartum room at the hospital. 

Perhaps, like childbirth, I forgot since Beckett’s toddler years how two-year-olds behave. Perhaps, like childbirth, I forgot about how they manage to go limp and gain forty pounds on the floor of Walgreens when you don’t give them the candy they asked for. Perhaps, like childbirth, I forgot about how they crumble the Kashi breakfast bar onto the floor because it no longer meets their expectations of three-minutes-ago.

The other reality is that we just have a kid that’s figuring out how to be heard. That changes things a little.

The other night while we were reading Knuffle Bunny by Mo Willems I was struck by the first line: “Not so long ago, before she could even speak words, Trixie went on an errand with her daddy…” We are told the story of how Trixie loses her stuffed animal, Knuffle Bunny, on their errand to the laundromat. Her babble makes it so hard to share her needs with her dad that she resigns to tears and tantrums. They frantically retrace their steps. Upon finding Knuffle, Trixie bellows, “Knuffle Bunny!” which happen to be the first words she ever speaks.

I don’t have the solution for Oliver’s phase of toddlerhood. But, I do know that finding your voice is hard at any stage in life. We don’t always have the tools to say what we need to say. More likely, we don’t know how to say it effectively. All I do know is that we can carry patience and love for one another, and some compassion for those still figuring it out.

#knufflebunny

Completely Unfazed

I was so excited when the Amazon package arrived the other day with Uncle Bobby’s Wedding. 

Uncle Bobby’s Wedding by Sarah S. Brannen, illustrated by Lucia Soto. This book is about a little girl named Chloe, who adores her Uncle Bobby. She learns that he is going to marry his partner, Jamie, and begins to worry that they won’t continue to have fun together as they always have. Uncle Bobby starts bringing Jamie on all of their adventures...the ballet, the ice cream shop, sailing … and Chloe begins to love her future Uncle Jamie, too. Chloe learns that there is an abundance of love, not a scarcity. Their marriage becomes a huge celebration to this little girl that loves her uncles. 

Beckett loved this book so much that he asked me to read it to him twice. Then, a few hours later, he curled up in Nathan’s lap and asked him to read it to him, too. I eavesdropped on Nathan asking him some questions, afterwards… Turns out, Beckett was completely unfazed by Uncle Bobby marrying Jamie. He was only concerned about why Chloe felt worried and how Uncle Bobby loved her so much.

It was a nice reminder that if you show kids that love is the priority, then love will be the priority.

#pridemonth #unclebobbyswedding #lgbtqpicturebooks