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