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