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 

Blaming Ayn Rand

The front of our refrigerator just got slammed. Everything is wrapping up for the school year, so we have been bombarded with certificates. 

For completing lacrosse, for being a “safety star,” for participating in a “día de español.”

Beckett brought home awards for just showing up and doing what was expected. Not for his astonishing skills, although he has plenty of gifts to share with the world. 

I know our generation loves to stomp on the participation awards. I think this is because too many of us were required to read Ayn Rand in high school. But I am all for recognizing someone for showing up, because, sometimes, showing up and doing ordinary things is really hard.

I would love a ticker tape parade for getting me and the boys to church on time in our Sunday best. I would love a thumbs up with a big toothy grin for being a shy person and showing up to the event with … people. And, despite lots of gratitude from Nathan, I have yet to earn a trophy for getting the laundry put away in a timely manner. That could be because it has yet to happen.

Here’s a thought, though. What if we change that? Maybe there is no glory in completing ordinary tasks, but what if we tell our kids that some days we’re proud of them for just being brave and showing up?

This was on my mind when I read the book Brick By Brick by Heidi Woodward Sheffield this week. It is about a little boy named Luis that is so proud of his Papi, a bricklayer in a big city. The boy highlights his dad’s day, climbing high in the city to lay bricks, eating lunch during a long day at work, mixing mortar and shoveling sand. The boy compares his daily work of reading books, climbing high on the monkey bars, eating lunch at school and building with molding clay. His Papi’s daily, unglorified hard work allows their dreams to come true, eventually owning their very own house of bricks. 

There’s rarely any glory in what we do every day, but that does not mean we can’t make one other feel seen as everyone struggles to build something. Maybe all of these participation awards are a great opportunity for us to teach our kids that it’s nice to feel noticed as we lay brick after brick to build a life.

#heidiwoodwardsheffield

A Little Scared of Flooding

 

Last Monday when I picked Beckett up from school, he climbed in his booster seat like he was in slow motion, slung his backpack, buckled his seatbelt, and gazed out the window exhaustedly. We exchanged loving pleasantries, and then, like some top-of-the-food-chain predator, like some crocodile with his eyes and nostrils peeking out of the water, like some mother lioness crouched in the tall grass, I attacked:

What did you learn?

How was recess?

What was your favorite part of the day?

No wonder he wants Nathan to pick him up from school.

Despite these best efforts, I got nothing. In fact, very few of his responses contained more than a handful of syllables. 

I don’t remember. Good. All of it. Can I have some gum?

When I was a classroom teacher I used to be mind blown when parents would describe this phenomenon to me. They would sit in parent conferences and ask what their kids were learning, how things were going, who they played with on the playground. I would conduct these magical days in the classroom with storybooks and math games and songs...this spectacular dog-and-pony-show...only for their kids to tell them their day was “fine.” And, now, here I am with my own kid, eating crow that somehow these parents should have been more engaged. I am truly sorry...

After school we drove to the library to get some books for the week, and dear Ms. Donna, the children’s librarian, was there. As so many Outer Banks kids do, Beckett already loves her, and he went to her for some help finding books. 

He told her he wanted hurricane books, because he learned about flooding and was a little nervous since we live at the beach. She extracted a classic Gail Gibbons’ nonfiction on hurricanes from the shelves. They found some superhero books, too, because that’s what they were playing at recess, he added.

After a while we checked out and went home. He unpacked his bookbag and his Scholastic Book Fair haul spilled out, full of Ninjago books with little toys attached, which were great, he said, in case he needed trinkets to swap with his buddy at snack time.

So, truth be told, I’ll probably keep beating that dead carpool horse, but you better believe we read about Hurricanes that night. 

Superman Can't Fix This

I was washing dishes last week when I heard Beckett ask a question from the kitchen counter... “Is everyone in our family a white person?” 

“Yes, they are,” I said.

“Phew,” he sighed. 

I closed my eyes and thought: “Oh, no. Ask questions before you react.”

“Why did you sigh like that, buddy?”

“Because I don’t want anyone in our family to be treated unfairly.”

We live thirty-six miles from Elizabeth City, NC, a town recently in the headlines for the shooting of Andrew Brown, Jr. Nathan chose to join other clergy in Elizabeth City in a prayerful procession of peace in response to the shooting, so we discussed as a family why he chose to participate. I always struggle with talking to Beckett’s young, categorical mind about racial injustice, and I fumble every single time. We keep having these conversations anyways, because they are just that important to get right.

When Beckett was very little we would say the job of superheroes, like Superman, is to stop villians from causing harm. As he got older, the job of the police was to help people in danger. But, there’s a good guy vs. bad guy dichotomy that falls apart quickly the more aware you become. He’s old enough to know that explanation is shaky at best, because he knows now that there are some childhood heroes that don't use their power to protect and defend everyone. We told him that many people in our country still assume black people are criminals and expendable, but in our house we believe that black lives matter. 

Last week, we read Something Happened In Our Town by Marianne Celano, Marietta Collins, and Ann Hazard. It’s a story about the way two families, one white, one black, experience and discuss a racially-motivated police shooting in their town. The families reflect on racial injustice and the historical roles of their families. The parents discuss with their children the ways to break these patterns of hate and injustice. 

We told Beckett that while it’s true that the world is much a fairer and safer place for our family, we have a responsibility to show courageous compassion to those that don’t get treated with that same humanity. Superman can’t fix this, but we can teach our kids that, in time, they can.

#somethinghappenedinourtown