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.