Five for Five: Words

From the day I strung my first sentence together, it seems as though I have never been at a loss for words.  It was the words of the countless books I read as a child that kept me from going mad within my desperate surroundings.  It was the enchanting tales of other children, stuck in situations far worse than my parents’ unhappy marriage, that allowed me to dream that everyone deserved some happiness in their lifetime.  Some got their happiness in steady drips throughout their lives; other got a jolt of it in the later half. 

As I got older, words- lots of words, kept my mind busy.  It helped drown out the vicious voice of my ever critical subconscious forever chastising me.  If my words made you laugh, your laughter soothed me.  If I made you laugh, I couldn't be all that bad.

I know that the ability to communicate is an incredible gift.  But in my life, there have been times when words have been inadequate, at best.  Walking down the aisle and seeing my smiling groom waiting for me.  Finding out I was pregnant.  Seeing a tiny blip that was my unborn child's heart.  Seeing my firstborn son for the first time.  Witnessing my father passing from this Earth.  Finding out I was pregnant a second time. Seeing my second son for the first time. Finding out I was pregnant a third time.  Seeing my precious last baby's face for the first time.  

The list is endless...

How can you put into words the emotions that threaten to pull you under, both in good and bad ways?  In that raging sea of emotions, words are like flotation devices; they help keep you above water, but they will not swim you to shore.

But what good are words if they are mindless sounds that escape bodies, with no real purpose?  What happens when there is no feeling, no meaning behind them?  What is the point?  Yet, I have been responsible for more noise pollution than I am comfortable to admit.  I am not proud of myself.

Perhaps it was having children, but I began to look forward to the brief instances when there was a bit of quiet in the house.  Granted, too much silence (is there such a thing if you are a parent?) would put me in panic mode.  Surely, anyone who has a child knows that too much quiet usually means a hurt child, a super-clogged, overflowing toilet, or an unauthorized masterpiece on pristine walls. 

Still, silence amongst adults was incredibly uncomfortable. 

And then, a gift.  I was assigned a single classroom to myself.  No teaching partner to share the space.  Planning time with no one in the room with me.  I was forced into quieting myself.  I learned to cope.  I used the time to acclimate myself to just being. 

It became a spiritual exercise, and one that would come in handy.  Observing.  Listening.  To listen to my own heart.  To trust myself with my own decisions.  To finally become comfortable within my own skin.

I had finally found the silent Ying to my loquacious Yang.

And, in that silence, I finally found my voice.

I found that words are powerful.  You don't forget the throb when someone's words cut through your soul like a knife, so I choose my words cautiously.

You don't forget the delight when someone makes mention of something you have done with no intention of recognition, so I make a point of reminding people of the good within them.

You don't forget the joy you feel when you hear "I love you" from those you hold dear, so I make sure I say those words as often as I can, while I can.

And in the meantime, I listen.

And the words will come, as they always do. 

Five for Five: Change

It seems like an eternity since I sat here, in this place, writing about my life.  A year ago, I was working on recertifying for National Board for Professional Teaching Standards and was knee deep in the aftermath of birthdays, a cruise, a communion, state testing and finishing up that damn box to send away.  But I had no idea how many things would change in next 12 months.

My unmarried, childless uncle had a MAJOR health crisis that landed him in and out of hospitals and rehabilitation facilities for the better part of three months.  My sister and I, with five kids in tow, had to clean up his mess.  It took us from May through December to get everything straightened out: from housing to finances, legal aspects to just general " you're going to be okay, okay?" stuff.  A summer from hell would be a very pale description of what those months entailed.  In the midst of all these changes, I had no words for this space.  That was the hardest part of the change, and the one I found the most difficult to swallow.

In the fall, my already frail mother was diagnosed with an incredible rare form of stomach cancer.  Her successful surgery had major complications that landed her (and us) into ICU for a week.  The drain of this next challenge, and the physical changes my mother would now be faced with in her recovery made it impossible to sit in front of the computer and write.  Six words was all I could manage, some days with incredible difficulty.  Again, I would look at my blog, which had once been this source of incredible pride, as something I had abandoned because of life.  And if I wrote of these changes, they would be really real.  And even though I was living through them, I was not really ready to accept them.

The good news: everyone is okay now.  We've experienced some hiccups, but nothing more hair-raising than that.

The real news: Something in me finally clicked and made ME change.  Not in some wild, crazy, I am going to run away and join a circus kind of change.  But for someone like me, who changes at a turtle's pace,  this is BIG.

I've decided that getting older is fine.  It's better than the alternative.  And I want to be one badass old lady and give my kids years of endless  memories.  I want to get even and spoil the hell out of my grandchildren.  I want to get those kids riled up, sugared up and indignant that their parents don't let them get away with shit, and when it hits the fan, I want to climb into my two-seater convertible and drive off into the sunset, waving and blowing kisses to my angels,  planning my next visit.

I've decided to welcome the teeniest of wrinkles that now embrace the outer corners of my eyes when I smile or laugh too hard.  I will not find the grays that now spot more areas of my scalp.  I will thank the Lord above that I have never had to endure chemotherapy and hair loss at a young age like some of my friends.  I have earned every line, wrinkle and gray hair.  They are medals of honor.  The chest heading south is another story, but hey, that's why we have underwire, padded bras, no?

I am TRYING so VERY HARD to change my mothering.  By saying yes more when I can.  By living in the moment more.  By realizing that this is it.  My oldest is on the cusp of adolescence.  My baby is starting kindergarten.  THESE are the best times.  Right now. 

I am learning to be who I was meant to be, who I want to be.  Not a preconceived notion that I must act this way or another because I am a mother, a wife, a teacher.  I am authentic.  I should act as such.

The hardest changes are those affecting my children.  Each one of them is changing, morphing into these incredible people that can be alternately incredibly sweet or defying difficult.  Their physical changes as they mature are hard to witness as a mother who loved the tiny baby stage.  Their emotional growth is difficult to keep up with, as I alternate between goddess and devil's mistress.  Growing up is hard.  For kids.  For parents.  But oh, what a ride!

The biggest lesson I've learned this year is that change comes, whether you are ready or not.  It sometimes helps not to be so dead set against it.  It also helps immensely if you have people around you that love you and are willing to assist you.  It is extremely important to value the ones you love (and generally make you seven kinds of ape-shit crazy) when you have no crisis at hand, so you are ready for the crisis when it comes.  And people, it ALWAYS comes.  Trust me.

What I needed most...



Image by Christopher David Ryan


Today was a regular day. Not too much going on. But for some reason, as the day wore on, my own insecurities, anxieties, and other emotional dredge threatened to take me under.

I stood under the hot water for a long time tonight. I wondered when I would ever get my painful childhood out from under me. I wondered how much of that childhood taints my children's every day.

I wondered where the time has gone. Matthew, in spite of being so big, still was incredibly emotional about something seemingly meaningless this afternoon. My big boy, who often scurries from me when I try to hug him, let me hold him today when he cried. I wonder how often he needs my arms for comfort, and I don't offer them, because he scurries, because he is so big.

Because our timing is off. When I offer, he doesn't need. When he needs, I don't offer.

I know he is asleep now. My ever growing boy, who will too soon be too big for his bed. He is already too big for me to fold into my arms and hold him completely. The pages of his childhood are flying rapidly...Am I missing it?

I put on my pajamas and shuffled out of my bedroom to a final kiss goodnight sweep for three beautiful boys. I was welcomed with the sight on Andrew, asleep on the couch. When I gently rustled him ( I cannot even begin to think of carrying him anymore) he made a face that took me back to when he was a infant, sleeping in my arms. I walked him back to his room, tucked him in, gave him another kiss goodnight.

Joshua started talking in his sleep. Exclamations that only my little Buzz Lightyear would utter. Drunk in his sleep, he smiled. I walked over to my littlest boy. His small little hand found the crook of my neck and pulled me closer to him.

"I love you so much," he said, words slurred with sleep.

"I love you too," I whispered. "Have good dreams," I said.

"I wish I could fly," he sighed, eyelids so heavy.

Oh, little one. I wish you could.

I wish you could fly to me when my arms miss you the most. When I am with other peoples' children. When I should be with you, holding you close. Trying to hold on to you as you are right now.

I wish you could fly to me, as you did tonight, with your sweet voice, your inviting little arms, to save me from myself.

"I always miss you," he said. His sleep, breaking down whatever restrictions a three year old could have; his heart speaking the truth within it.

My heart broke. I always wonder if I am doing the right thing; working outside the home. In the lowest moments, I fantasize about how clean and organized my house would be. What the wondrously nutritious and inviting meals I would make for my family. That fantasy ends rather quickly during the summer months, when I am home, having fun, being lazy with my boys.

Nonetheless, I wonder how badly I am messing up when I hear things like this.

In the same breathe, I hear, "I love you so much Mommy," sleepily sighed. He is already far into the dreamland he is creating behind closed eyes.

It is exactly what I needed tonight. A reminder that in spite of all the bad, I have these three shining rays of light, that are surely guiding me out of darkness.