The Turtle that Turned Into a Frog

Over the course of our lives the people we love will go through countless transformations.
Love them in the present moment, remember them softly and help them
boldly walk out into their future.

My adrenaline would skyrocket and my palms would sweat when I realized that I hadn’t felt her kicks in almost 8 hours. I scolded myself for not paying close enough attention. I tried to scan my recent memory for any movements and then I would lay down and wait with my hand over my belly. The waiting was the worst part. My thoughts would go limp, time stretched out for an eternity. I would softly call out to her, “Turtle, wake up.” And then there was faint movement, so slight it could be and would be missed time and time again.  

For the first week of her life no one, including us, could remember her given name. All of us continued to call her Turtle. She was such a soft child, calm and slow. On the 8^th day of her life however that all changed.

My Love rushed her to the ER on the 8^th day of her life. She seemed to be having difficulty breathing, her breath sounds were raspy and her skin sucked in at the bottom of her neck when she would take a breath. My Love held her while she had her trachea scoped, was stuck a few times with an IV line and was monitored overnight. Reflux was the diagnoses.

It is hard to remember what followed next. Her vomiting started at around age 1 when we tried to transfer her off of formula. At one point I had counted 8 visits to the ER for vomiting. Constipation was the diagnoses most times. If I am honest however, it started long before the vomiting. I would watch my restless newborn try to sleep. She would reflexively kick her legs up and let out strange cries during the night. While rubbing her tummy at odd hours of the night I wished for the slow calmness that she once had felt.

Two years later she was diagnosed with a dairy and soy allergy.

My turtle was given no choice in her transformation. She became movement. Movement it seemed helped her tummy feel better. Kicking her legs out and up at night as a newborn, sucking furiously and unrelentingly on her pacifier as a one year old, crouching down and jumping up as a two year old were some of her first uncontrollable movements.

As we started to understand her allergies better she started to feel better but movement had been etched on her soul. Dancing, twirling, kicking, wrestling, biting, scratching, laughing, jumping and running. She reflexively collided into us and everything around her with brute force. As an almost five year old now she much prefers wrestling over playing with dolls. She lives and breathes kinetic energy.

 She is a turtle that turned into a frog.  It happened over time, so slowly that her name, Turtle, was forgotten.  Lost among old memories. Boxed up with the maternity clothes, ultrasound pictures and baby shower announcements. I think about her now and again. I lay still sometimes and remember how soft and slow she felt. I whisper her name, Turtle, and I wonder if she remembers the stillness that we shared.

To transform into something utterly different than what might have been is truly a remarkable feat. It is a rocky road that can cause pain, suffering, sadness and an eventual death to that which has always been known. We can either choose to be angry about the uncontrollable transformation or we can choose to watch closely to see what comes next. The next will be different than the before. There will be new sensations, new names and new memories.   Our love shifts, it makes room for the present moment, knowing that we did the best we could in each moment leading up to the now.

My daughter’s movement and energy are tantalizing. It is contagious. As we wrestle for the 10^th time together in one day I find myself giggling at her squirminess. Her bombastic wildness is refreshing. We have taken the hint and have enrolled her into Martial Arts. The strength and fortitude that she is learning coupled with her wild movements is creating yet another transformation.

Over the course of our lives the people we love will go through countless transformations. Love them in the present moment, remember them softly and help them boldly walk out into their future. Many times the transformations that are underway cannot be fully appreciated and will never be fully understood.   There is no clear finish line...And the finish doesn't matter anyway. Our lives are lived within the transformations.

Confidently Existing

For the past two years trees have been screaming at me during the day and whispering to me in the shadows of my dreams and it is time I take heed. These trees are confident. Confident in their roots, confident in their place, confident in their upward growth, their budding strength and confident in their steadfastness.

As a stay at home mother I constantly feel grounded with little room for adventure or personal gain. My kids, my routine, my chores and my responsibilities keep me stuck within strict confines and I sometimes wonder where the adventure is hiding. Trees also have no choice and grow where they are planted with no thoughts of travel or adventure. The rain cries, the sun sparkles and the wind dances, but the tree stands tall and grows deep. This uninhibited growth while being grounded is bewitching. I forget that, like a tree, I also have this choice to grow tall and deep. I can be the deep roots that my family clings to and I can grow tall strong branches, allowing my family to climb higher and higher.  I yearn to grow deep and tall. To have a broad structure and to have depth. As a tree, this growth happens reflexively without thought, it is the job of a tree to grow deep and tall. The tree doesn't try to grow feet. The tree doesn't try to fly.

Trees seem to also be nature's gladiator, instinctively fighting to keep a foothold in the most extreme conditions.  I forget that I too can and have to fight. Meltdowns, disobedience and moody behavior from my children can overwhelmingly bury my feelings and I give up. I have to persevere however and keep the foothold of communication open and positive. I have to fight to hold onto my loving feelings at times and push through the haziness of child indifference in order to continually strengthen our bonds. Trees however don't have to think about their strength. Being a strong fighter is in their nature. This organic strength is beautiful.


A tree's predisposition for longevity also allows it to bear witness to terrible events to hard to contemplate and events so wondrous they leave one speechless. I have been witness to terrible things; my daughter being born without a breath, a son living with sensitivities and anxieties which at times can test my core being and arguments between My Love not worth remembering. But I have also lived through wondrous happenings; the uninhibited laughing between two siblings, My Love's passion for and fulfillment of his dreams and my re-commitment to our family are only a few. I endure through the pain and through the elation. Sometimes I do not want to endure. I don't want to show up for life. I want to be left alone. Every day I have to decide to endure, I have to re-commit to the race. A tree's endurance and longevity however are spontaneous. This reflexive endurance is courageous.

As 2013 draws to a close I find myself meditating on these three attributes; growth, strength and endurance. I stand in awe of the surrounding trees, waving down at me, reminding me to grow deep and tall, to find the strength to fight hard and to endure no matter the circumstance.

Up until now, what I have found so profound and puzzling however is the simplicity and relaxedness at which the tree performs these bewitching, beautiful and courageous acts.

At the end of 2012 I made and have kept many New Year's resolutions. I sacrificed coffee and alcohol, started routinely working out, kept a gratitude journal and concentrated on having a heart of giving. I worked hard to keep these resolutions and am still working hard today. Thankfully and ultimately however I am not satisfied. Tonight I yearn for more. I am ready to stop laboring, working so hard to live within my goals. I am ready to start breathing. Breathing in and out the confidence that I have worked so hard to attain. Having ultimate confidence in my growth, my strength and my longevity will allow me to live a more reflexive, organic life.

For the past two years trees have been screaming at me during the day and whispering to me in the shadows of my dreams and it is time I take heed. These trees are confident. Confident in their roots, confident in their place, confident in their upward growth, their budding strength and confident in their steadfastness. There is magic and excitement in the realization of a quest not yet taken.

For 2014 I will treasure and hold tight to my confidence in order that I may continue to grow organically, have the strength to fight uninhibitedly and endure spontaneously.  What a bewitching, beautiful, courageous life -- just like the trees.







 

To My First Born, My Favorite Child (or so my 2nd one thinks)

I will miss you when you have a family of your own and we don't collide into each other every day.
But I will never miss being your mom. I love and admire you in ways that are unspeakable.

Thank you for ignoring my insults and learning how to tune out my crazy sometimes intense judgments. Thank you for your belly laugh and your contagious kindness.

Thank you for your conversations. Thank you for your meltdowns which have taught me to be more compassionate and forgiving. Thank you for your inquisitiveness and your ability to relay interesting fun facts.

Thank you for your realism and your palpable love of toys. Thank you for your goofiness and your innocence. Thank you for your ability to be alone.

Thank you for your love notes. Thank you for your hand prints. Thank you for your sleepy smiles. Thank you for your forgiveness and your love.

Thank you for your cries and your sadness. Thank you for your intelligence. Thank you for your rightness.

Thank you for your sweet whispers.

Thank you for your anxiety, watching you push through these struggles is a testament to hard work and perseverance. Thank you for your honesty and your boldness. Thank you for your dry sense of humor.

Thank you for your rational routines and your love of dogs.

Thank you for the genuine person that you are.

I will miss you at two years old and all your jumping. I will always miss your 3 year old self and your Boston accent. I will miss you when I wasn't looking and you grew to be a video gaming 6 year old. I will miss our morning arguments when  you were 7 and didn't quite feel comfortable with life. I will miss your eight year old resiliency.

I will miss you when you have a family of your own and we don't collide into each other every day.
But I will never miss being your mom. I love and admire you in ways that are unspeakable.

Daddy

At 11:00pm I walked into my first born's room to make sure he was cozy, that his night light was on and that he hadn't fallen asleep in any weird positions. This is my habit every night as it has been for the last 8.5 years. A little more than 4 years ago I added another child into my habit but it is all the same.

My slumbering child fell asleep upside down tonight. His feet lay on his pillow. I made sure to bend my knees while pulling him up and laying him right side up for you see he has gotten so big, so strong, so unwieldy. As I tucked the covers around his body he looked up with sleepy eyes and a huge smile and said, "Daddy!"

"No sweetie, it is just me, go back to sleep," I choked out.

"You looked like him," my child said as he smiled and rolled over, still sleeping.

I walked out with tears in my eyes. His Daddy was currently on one of his travels. 2 weeks, 4 days, 6 days, 1 week....The time span away always different, but a habit of his since our first born was ever even conceived.

I videoed My Love's departure message once. My now 8 year old was only 2 at the time and My Love and him were playing hide and seek in the yard. Running, yelling, wrestling and laughing together. My Love knelt down real close after their play and looked him in the eyes.

"I have to go away tomorrow, but I will be back soon," he plainly stated. "I love you and will miss you very much."

During this "away time" the two of us always made paper chains, talked about when he would return. Took videos of cool forts, bike rides and new achievements.

I remember one video vividly. My first born was jumping on his bed and I was asking him how many sleeps until Daddy comes home. The video camera cuts to the paper chain taped up in his room. "ONE MORE CHAIN!" he calls out while jumping.  I move the video camera to his barely walking little sister and she says, "daddy!" and then the video cuts out.

Walking out of my son's room my mind replayed this video. "Daddy!"

Below the very thin surface of school, daily chores, playtime, mealtime and everything in between my kids miss their daddy. I miss their daddy. They dream of him. I dream of him.

These days however it is the "elephant in the room." We all know he leaves. We all know he comes back. There are no paper chains however, no count downs, no "daddy!" videos. We have become immune to the travel schedule. It is as much a part of our life as is waking up.

The limbo days (the travel days) we however laugh and wrestle a bit less. We subconsciously stare at the 5:00pm clock. Our meals are haphazard and inconvenient. There is one less playmate and twice the work. We do not dare to speak of it though. There is a very real fear in all three of us that if we fess up and admit our missing, we will become unmoored from the rock that has saved our sinking ship and we will sink to the bottom of the ocean, alone.

My Love will continue to travel. We will continue to be left at home carrying on with routines and schedules. But as of today, I refuse to  deny it. I will speak it. I will tell back to my kids memories and funny stories of their dad. I will ask them what they miss most. I will honestly tell them how many more days are left. I will take  more "daddy" videos and I will most importantly remind them of how much their daddy loves them.

After last night, My Love deserves to be more than what dreams are made of.

As I ruffled my son's messy sleepy bed head this morning I looked him in the eyes and said, "I miss your daddy."

He smiled, "me too."

Belief

This post is dedicated to my first born. Your loyalty has comforted me beyond measurement. A genuine gift that will always be prized. You are my shinning lamppost, greeting me ever so softly as I begin my journey into uncharted lands and glowing brilliantly as I return with new convictions.

*********************
My second born, not-so-little bundle of joy has stretched me physically, mentally and spiritually. She has enabled me to warp into positions not accustomed too. Despite my discomfort I do not have a choice. I am pulled into new lands, deposited alone in new territories with only one option; to believe.



Celebrating the beginning of my second trimester, carrying my not-so-little bundle of joy I was attacked by pain. "This pregnancy is different," I remember thinking. My pelvic floor felt like it could and would drop out of my body at any given time. Sometimes after sneezing I would cautiously look around on the floor, wincing in pain, knowing that half of me should be all over the floor. The pressure tortured me. It hurt to walk, to sit, to stand, to lay. No comfort.

I had no choice in the pain.  I carried that girl until the day she was due (and no longer). Looking back I realize that it was the most optimistic time for me, ever. "Having a second child would be no problem," I told My Love. We were always worried about our first born. Family dynamics were going to shift obviously, and My Love and I had many late night conversations.

As my body stretched, I imagined how enjoyable our family would look like with four, very rarely complained about any pain and reflexively smiled throughout my entire pregnancy.

My body achingly stretched for this child. I had no choice, you see, for I believed in this child. I believed in her life.




After our 5th or 6th Emergency Room visit in a period of only 12 months our second child's gastroenterologist confirmed out worst fear. Our not-so-little bundle of joy was allergic to soy and dairy. My Love and I, being vegetarians ever since 1998 when I unfortunately walked into a Russian open air meat market, looked at each other, terrified. The next day My Love left on work travels and I was left to deal with this conflict.

Marriages always have their ups and downs. At this point in our relationship with a one year old (that almost always was upset with tummy issues) and an almost 5 year old (that loved to throw tantrums) we were slogging through one of those down moments. This new information did not make it any easier.

Our house had never refrigerated meat (...except for the one time I did eat a steak, pregnant with not-so-little bundle of joy).

Our values regarding humane treatment of animals and our issues with the U.S. meatpacking industry had been in place for more than a decade. Even our almost five year old had never tasted meat. Over the years however, after having our first child, we had become a bit lax and did eat our fair share of cheeses and yogurts. Allergic to dairy and soy. What were we going to do?

When My Love returned from his travels I had the answer. There would be no discussion. We were going to eat meat. I felt as strongly about this as I had about being a vegetarian.

My mind hurt. It had warped itself into a new value system. Discarded my old way. Being stretched like this turned me upside down. I would stand in the meat aisles confused, dazed and ultimately alone. I did not know the first thing about buying, preparing or cooking meat. Some days still, these same feelings rush back to me.

My mind ached. I had no choice though, you see, for I believed in this child. I believed in her life.




At three and a half years old my not-so-little bundle of joy cried genuine tears. Tears of disappointment and failure. We were half way up Tiger Mountain on a family day hike. My almost 7 year old though had refused to climb any higher and we were taking a water break. My Love and I were proud. We had climbed a long way, we were satisfied and decided that heading back down to the car would not be a bad idea. Our legs ached from carrying both kids intermittently. It had already been a long hike.

And then we looked at her. Tears were streaming down her face. "I have to get to the top," she said. It only took me a split second to decide that of course we had to get to the top. There was no other way. Her spirit demanded it.

My legs were stretched to the breaking point that day as I carried her on my back the entire way down. I had no choice though, you see, for I believed in this child. I believed in her life.




Lately my not-so-little bundle of joy wants to talk about God. "What is God," she will ask and then quizzically gazes upon my answers.

I was raised in a very religious home. I asked Jesus into my heart at age 4. I went to Sunday school and even taught Sunday school when I was in high school. Something happened though along the way and I started questioning the entire notion of God. I wondered why He would never talk to me and why I never really felt His presence. Scientifically God did not make sense and it started to unnerve me that my prayers were never answered. In the year of 2000 I had an anti-climatic mountain top experience and decided that religion just wasn't for me.

I am not a bad person. I don't swear. I don't drink (ever). I look out for my neighbors and I try to live an authentic life. I'm just not religious. Science, for me, makes a lot more sense.

So when my not-so-little bundle of joy asks me, how the world was made or who God is, I want to furiously yell back my scientific answers. But I stop. I allow all the answers to be heard. I give all the options.

My spirit grapples to find the right way forward. It stretches in ways I did not think possible and I decide right then and there that if she decides to attend church, to get involved religiously, I will be by her side and I will rejoice with her, I will sing with her and I will pray with her, for I believe in this child. I believe in her life.

There is no choice.

Living Over the Net

Crystal clear quietness invaded my space and caused my ears to ring. No laughing. No music. No birds. No child's monitor hissing in my ear. No phone ringing. No chitter-chatter. No traffic. No children. No tea kettle. No rain drops. A solitude of nothingness stretched out in front of me. A black hole of silence, as if I had been plunged deep underwater. And then the silence quickly ended with a great finale of pots banging, dishes cracking and kids whooping.

There are these perfectly quiet times in my life. Sometimes short and quick other times drawn out, like a tug-a-war rope waiting to be pulled on. There is now no predicting how long it might last. At first it was startling. My first plunge into silence. I tried screaming for help, looking around frantically for someone to pull me out of the quietness. Realizing that my voice too had been silenced I gave up screaming and tried to settle into my new surroundings. Quietness, the absence of noise. It stretched on for years. I grew quite fond of it. I became reliant on the predictability of my quietness. And then one day that predictability ended.

Settling into this new silence proved to be a bit tougher than one might imagine. The jarring that occurred after each bout of unpredictable silence was enough to make my ears ring. The sounds, emerging from the short bursts of silence were hyper and chaotic. I was a ping pong ball being bounced between two enemies. I began to distrust my quietness always anxiously awaiting another deafening blow of sound frequency. During this new silence I became jiggery, haphazard and confused.

I yearn for the quietness of days gone past. The days when it was too loud and I chose to tune out the distracting sounds.  I had reached out for the silence. I had needed the silence for I had much to ponder and too much to work out. I rested beside still waters (although the water was raging all around) and my soul was restored. I alone decided when the silence would cease.

Somehow, along the way I gave up the right to decide when the silence ends. It could have been my restored self, giving back the time I thought I had stolen. In any case, there is now no predicting when my silence will be taken from me. I have become paralyzed within my quietness unable to even enjoy the deafening absence of noise. At any moment there could be an explosion of unharmonious sounds and my ears will jump into action. At these times I dearly want to hold on to my silence. To tuck it away. To control it.

But then there are those times that I am slapped in the face by silence. It takes me by surprise. Drifts by on a breeze. I smile at the quiet but knowingly continue on my pandemonium journey. I dance within the craziness of sound and laugh in the face of the void of sound. I don't want the commotion to stop.

I am learning to live over the net, bouncing back and forth between two polar opposites. I am learning that predictable silence creates no challenges and that hyper caterwauling creates no restoration. I am learning that I need both restoration and a challenge in order to gracefully live life. I am learning how to be at peace within the noise and within the silence. I am learning that I am not in control of the ping pong game but what truly matters is how I deal with the living between (over the net).

The Ruse

I was given a beautiful, colorful, surprising gift and a confession that had to be made. The gift - five excellent years of work (outside the home) after my first child was born. The confession - I don't regret one day of it.

This post is dedicated to My Love, without whom I am nothing. Thank you for supporting my crazy decision to stay at home these past three years. From you I have learned resolve, with you gained confidence, by you taught love.

*************************************

Standing in the too long Safeway checkout line, wondering if I could eek by in the express checkout I am suddenly transfixed. My kids are arguing, one is being just a bit too loud, the other a bit too babyish. Both are unloading the cart with me but at the same time both have one arm hanging on me, asking for gum or anything else that will rot their teeth. The little one has to potty, the older one is staring at magazines. Both keep sarcastically rousing each other... and then there is only one item left in the cart and they both lunge for it. One gets their finger stuck the other is triumphant and knows how to gloat.

I watch it all. Smile at the checker, pretend to ignore the beasts at my feet and continue on my journey. My blood pressure stayed in check. No adrenaline surges. No elderly female person telling me to enjoy these moments. Paid in full for groceries. Now on to unload (into the car) and reload (into the fridge).

These beasts are my children. My precious children. I love them. I love watching, observing their behavior, predicting who will win each argument, wondering if they will ever grow up to be upstanding citizens. An awesome experiment.

My gift....I have only been here for three years, only two more years to go and I will be back in the work force full time. Five years in total to be completely, wholeheartedly with my children. Only five years. Only five years. Only five years.

My confession...I am so happy to have had full time work the first five years of my oldest son's life. It has helped me to cherish each moment (the good, the bad and the ugly) that I have with my kids. I am not tired, I am not burned out, I am not overwhelmed. I have only two more years, and then I will be given back the gift of full time work (outside the house).

An experiment with outcomes that will far exceed any expectation I might have had.

The Finish Line

Is it the finish line or the process in which you get there that counts? Classic Tortoise and Hair saga. But really, if I'm honest, it is the finish line that counts most for me. The blue ribbon. The recognition and the rewards. I tend to hurry through the race at top speeds in order to check it off my list and begin a new race. I am a finisher. I check my goals off the list and begin a new one with no real thought on how the process of achieving this goal might have changed me or my living habits. Completing my to-do list in the time given is top priority. I can quite easily finish anything I put my mind to. Unfortunately, the only thing achieved is that, whatever it was, is finished, crossed out...And then I move on, swiftly. I do not meditate of lessons learned, rarely praise myself, never relax, do not take stock, rarely philosophize on my living habits and never do I make the same list twice. I am an organized, efficient machine. But lately I have been finding some faults with this energizer bunny mentality.

Two years ago my dentist informed me I had two cavities (my first two cavities ever) and that if I didn't start flossing my gums would need surgery soon. I made it my goal to floss every day until my next dentist appointment. Every night, while flossing I thought about habits. How is a new habit formed. Why are habits broken? Can habits be replaced with new habits? I did my duty and flossed but at the same time I changed how I brushed my teeth. Adding flossing to my regimen didn't exactly mean that I would floss until I died but changing the way I brushed would help me remember to floss when I had forgotten. Close the deal. Cross it off the list. I have flossed every day since then. But something had changed inside me. This certain activity (flossing every day) had scared me. I doubted my ability to carry it through; to cross it off my list...I had to do something drastic. I had to totally change the way I did something else in order to help me remember to floss. Brushing differently each night was harder for me than the flossing. It was a tandem relationship. I congratulated myself but still just crossed it off my list.

In crossing this off my list, my brain started to wrap itself around the faraway thoughts of habits.  How do you undo a habit? How do you start a new habit? My flossing/brushing tandem relationship stuck out at me. I began to relax into this goal with new found energy and every night, while brushing my teeth, I would mediate on habits, lists, goals and finish lines. Ultimately, months later my brain settled itself around the process of achieving. I had changed my process of brushing and linked so closely to this was my goal of flossing every night. It dawned on me that it wasn't the flossing every night that mattered (although my dentist would disagree), it was the fact that I had come up with a process for achieving my flossing goal.  The finish line really didn't matter. It was the new habits I was forming that felt so good.

I gave up Coffee in December of 2012. I did great for about 3 weeks. The problem was that this too scared me. Another goal that might not be checked off the list. I thought about my process for achieving this goal and realized that alcohol would have to be given up as well. Another tandem relationship. Who knows when I might start drinking again but at least I am striving to concretely change my relationship with alcohol by dwelling on the process of achieving this goal, laying down new tracks. During this process I have decided to be more dutiful in my thankfulness. When at my wits end, think about everything (anything) that I am thankful for. Build new coping strategies, new habits.

Lately my to-do lists are shorter and if I make one I don't necessarily cross everything out. I am working on changing my attitude towards my lists. A clean house doesn't really matter if I make it known how upset I am at having to do it all myself. However, being thankful that I have a house and that I am home every day occupying its space makes me feel happy to clean it. Rushing into a career just because one is needed doesn't help with my future satisfaction. However, taking time to let the idea of a career seep into my very being helps me toy with every option. Pulling all the weeds in my yard, makes it look nice but it doesn't help that at the same time my kids keep asking me to play with them.  Making a game though out of the yard work with my kids and only getting a small piece of it done does give me a successful motherhood feeling. The process of getting to where I want to go needs to look better, needs to be better. I have finally realized that the end is a pitiful place to be with no place to go. I have started to go backwards down my path. Unraveling my finish lines and actually breathing life into this process called living. It feels good.

The Trouble with Parenting

Ever make a decision and then have to re-visit it fifty or so times to re-assess, re-direct or re-examine? It is enough to drive me crazy. I like clear cut options with clear cut directions that if followed correctly end with satisfied feelings.

This so called parenting thing doesn't work like that though. I am dealing with a dynamic impermanence that I have never before witnessed. Little beings that, by the time they take their first breath, are changing, rapidly, in a constant flux, transforming quicker than time can count.

We want the best for them. From the beginning we strive to protect, nurture, heal, encourage, support, train and keep them alive. All of the parenting choices we make - split second, thought out, strategic, in the moment and subconscious should help end the indecision. But no matter what, each parenting choice leads to more choices, more re-examining, more wondering if we did the right thing. It is like those Chose Your Own Adventure books. So many endings. So many possibilities. So many rewinds.

I get asked quite a lot by parents for sage parenting advice, tips or just pieces of kid humor. I look blankly back at the questioner/inquirer. "Your guess is as good as mine, and probably better", I say. I honestly do not know what the answer is.

There are so many questions. How should you help them fall/stay asleep, how big should I cut the pieces of food, will they choke, which school should I chose for preschool, my kid has his/her hand down her/his pants - what now, potty accidents, vitamins, elementary school teacher problems, ailments, friend choices, tantrums, intellect, sports, independence...the list goes on forever. It never stops. To make matters worse, there is NO right answer.

Don't get me wrong, I have found the right answer to these dilemmas, but then I am forced to re-evaluate the answer again and again. As my child changes, a new answer (to the same problem)presents itself. This new answer could come moments after making the decision or it could come weeks later, but it always shows itself - teasing me, taunting me, ruining my ability to wash my hands of the problem.

This re-evaluation used to make me crazy. I wanted it to be clean. Ordered. Sequential. The trouble with parenting is that it is not clean and we are never done. Lately I have been trying to embody this uncleanliness. Live within the transformation of my kids.

We used to call my older one the "Spiller." If there was a glass full of liquid on the table he would knock it over somehow. He didn't even have to be close to it. Looking back I cant remember the last time he knocked something over. Now my not-so-little bundle of joy has taken on this name. Spills abound. I remember reading somewhere that this spilling problem comes from the fact that between the age of 3 - 5 kids cannot access correctly where their hand ends. They are growing too fast and therefore when they go to grab their juice, cannot help but spill it. Imagine this for a moment. The child does not even have time to calculate his/her growth. The growth is so fast they cannot even keep up with their own body.

Living with my children's growth means not always having an answer or being okay that a new answer might present itself within a matter of minutes or days. My decisions as a parent can never be final. I am learning to live within the transformation, no mans land.  This is the trouble with parenting - all is in flux.

Memorials and humanity

I am catching a plane to Minnesota this weekend to be with family and memorialize my Grandma, who passed away bluntly and unexpectedly a couple of months ago. My mom informed me today that there will be a time during her lakeside service to share thoughts about Grandma (GiGi, as my kids refer to her, for Great Grandma)  A memory, an appreciation, an endearing trait, a funny story. Keep it short, she said, I'm sure there will be many who will want to talk.

How to memorialize a life in such succinct terms? She had so many rabbit trails, pathways and journeys that I was not privy to.  What I to decide share at her service might not be correct or important.  There were so many facets to her life, to my life, to all of our lives. Our stories are long and they have so many unexpected patterns. What is the sum of it all?

So here it goes.

What I appreciate about Grandma was her absolute insecurity in herself and her place on this Earth and her ability to mask this insecurity with an amazing self confidence in all areas of her life. This has taught me that the conflict between my most deplorable weakness and my most awesome strength, that wages in me every minute and hour of my days, is the purest definition of humanity. It is within this battle that I am chiseled and ironed out in the hopes of one day reaching my final conclusion. My story may take many unexpected turns and twists but it is my story. Mine alone. Mine to write. When I finally reach my last page and close my book all I can hope is that I am happy with how I engaged in battle.

All of us are on this same path. We are all battling our own hostiles. Give grace.

I love you Grandma. Thank you for teaching me this lesson.

What will you do with your time?

I have fallen apart over my kids and I am slowing learning how to be put back together.
I am taking advantage of this time given to me to live strategically and intentionally
so that I may be authentic in all my interactions.

I didn't anticipate that my kids would slowly unravel me, crack me apart and spill my guts all over the street. But I also didn't think they had the ability to put me back together.

After my oldest stomped his way upstairs tonight, mad after two hours of lego building that he couldn't figure out the last step and mad that his mom was trying to save the day when (he reminded me) just two years ago, I had destroyed his play mobile castle when carrying it across the floor, (it slipped from my hands and crashed to the floor), I begrudgingly climbed the stairs to "have a talk." As I reached for the banister I instantly understood his angst. My childhood was thrown back in my face. It hit me pretty hard. Unraveling emotions I didn't care to think about. Why didn't I ever trust my own parents when I was little? They always seemed to know just the right way to take care of things. It made me mad.

I had a good chuckle. I cant believe he remembers when I broke that castle! Reaching the last step I figured that if he could remember the castle he for sure was going to remember how I reacted to his feelings. I walked into his room and rather calmly let him know that I had figured out the last step (I didn't break anything) and that I was hoping he would come down so I could show him. As I walked out I heard a faint, "thank you." Once at the table again I reminded him that it is not okay to yell when frustrated, that we can indeed work as a team. He agreed. I sighed a big sigh of relief. I hadn't lost my temper. But, I still was unsure about what our teamwork would look like in the future.

Time marches on. It can be a gift or it can be a slave master. Since birthing my children and up until a few months ago I have been ruled by time. I have deemed myself powerless. My emotions have been a rollercoaster of good, bad and ugly. There has been no strategic plan, no forethought, no lessons learned. Just time. Get through the day. Get through the phase. Get through the age. As I am "getting through" all of this my kids break me down, clear cut my nice scenery. Make me tired. Gut me.

As I kissed my not so little bundle of joy goodnight this evening I was instantly thrown back into time. Four years ago my oldest was her age. Only 4 years old. The transition of having a baby sister was just too much to handle. One night, while My Love was traveling, he got frustrated with one of his toys and threw a tantrum. He came into her room while I was trying to get her to sleep and kept repeating the same thing over and over again. He wouldn't leave me alone. I lost my cool. I got really angry. I put his little sister down in her crib and proceeded to yell and scream at him. We went at it. Nobody won. While replaying this nasty memory I wondered if he still remembered it too.    My heart cracked wide open.

Lately my kids are helping put me back together. I have decided that I don't want to just get through the day. I want my kids to have good memories of these years. I want my kids to be better at this parenting thing than I am. I want my kids to see me laugh and sing. I have one year left until his baby sister goes to Kindergarten. One year. What can I do with a year?

A few days ago I picked my oldest up from school. As is our habit we stayed so that he could play on the playground. His sister was sleeping in the stroller and he asked me to play tag. Why not? We played tag. I ran. He ran. We laughed. The best part though was after the tag we hung upside down on the bars together. We looked at each other upside down and laughed. "You look pretty good upside down," I said.  "I have never seen you upside down," he said. "We should do it more often," I said.

I am slowly being put back together and it feels good. I gave up coffee and alcohol in January and have started exercising regularly. I am striving to find ways to be thankful for all I have been given. I am trying to giggle more and am learning to let things go. Professionally I am trying to figure out my next steps that will put me unto a career path that makes me happy while juggling the needs of my grown up family. There is so much that can be accomplished in one year!

I have fallen apart over my kids and I am slowing learning how to be put back together. I am taking advantage of this time given to me to live strategically and intentionally so that I may be authentic in all my interactions.

Thank you to my children -- without you I never would have had to be put back together -and I am so much a better person for it!

Brain Clutter. Your last regret?

I often wonder what my last thought will be. My last memory. My last dream. My last spoken word. My last gesture. There are some spaces in time that consciously go into my "last moment" rolodex. There are other periods of time that just like to take up space. Like when you are trying to find some important contact and you just keep flipping through needless information. I sometimes forget that these rolodex cards are removable and should be promptly trashed when happened upon. Brain clutter. I only wish to keep those cards worthy of being my last. But this is so backwards.

I yearn with all my heart to live, think, dream, talk and gesture like it is last. Forget the rolodex. Alas, I am beaten most every time by my brain clutter. There is only one time that I forge through this so called life and subconsciously live like it is my soul's last breath. This happens when I say goodbye to my kids. Pure love springs eternal when they are going to bed all snuggled sweetly or when they go off on a grand adventure with their Dad. When I kiss their pink cheeks as I watch them walk into school or when I say yes to an after school play date. I am fiercely struck by these moments of separation and I can do nothing but live like it is my last moment.

I have too much brain clutter. Last moments do not happen nicely, tied with a ribbon. More often than not last moments happen within the brain clutter. Yelling, distraction, frustration, sickness, tiredness and being overwhelmed are just a few of my everyday emotions - my brain clutter. This clutter gets in the way. It prevents me from finding  that one important contact.

No regrets. The "R" word. My Love and I used to pride ourselves on not having any. There was a moment in time that I could not even remember the actual word. I would say, "What is that R word, again?" But it can slowly creep into your life and take over without even asking permission. I don't want to keep asking for "do overs." I just want to breathe  like I have been given a do over - all the time so that when my last moment comes I am not living within a regret, covered up with brain clutter.

The other night I had THE BEST night's sleep. It wasn't because I went to bed early or because my kids didn't wake up. It was because of my continuous dream. Prior to going to bed that night we had been breathing in about 8 days of straight sun and highs in the 60s. In March! All night long I dreamed of torrential rain. The rain kept raining. Downpour. It rained hard all night in my dream. There was no story line. No happenings. Just rain. I woke up to a rainy day and I felt so comforted by the water. My "rain" dream kept replaying all day in my head and when I went to bed the next night, I said out loud (to my Love's horror, I'm sure), "I wish my dream last night could have been my last dream. It was so wonderfully peaceful." I don't want to die of course. I just want to make sure that when in the act of dying that I have wonderful amazing joyous peaceful brain activity, with no regrets prying their way into my domain.

The only way for me to achieve this is to start throwing away the brain clutter and start living to die. Every moment. Every day. This cannot be a goal to attain. At this point in my life this has to be a decision of commitment to my life, my Love's life and to my children's lives.  

Opposites Attract

Why does the middle so enchant me? I yearn to go beyond but cannot unstick myself. Opposites attract. Or, in my case, I dwell on what could become of the merge. The two opposites, finally connecting, compromising, merging, as one. Authentic meets Intentional. I cannot decide which opposite suits me. You may qualify this as a bit crazy.   I would agree. Especially given my personality of black and white thinking. ...But there are times (when I am alone) that the opposite game just doesn't work. I am thinking about my being. My personhood. My identity. My nature.

You know of the conflict I am speaking about. We all deal with this. We want so much to show our true feelings, to let it all hang out. We want people to know us deeply. We want love that comes to us unconditionally, no matter  the makeup or fashions of the day. Confusingly, we also so need/want to look nice. We need the pretty package. We plan, think and strive to look and say smart pretty little sayings. Our lives have to have the most intentional ribbons tied around it. We have to at least show others how amazing we are. Authentic meets Intentional.

We played little bear this morning in bed, my two kids and me. My smallest is always the most crowded bear and she kicks us all off the bed, laughing that she is the only one left with all the blankets. My oldest today wanted to be the littlest. We complied. He sang the song,  but at the end he  belted out,  "roll over, roll over, and they all came closer and the littlest one said, I'm happy."

There HAS to be a happy middle point. I cannot live in the Authentic world for too long but get so bogged down in my Intentional world. So, I have determined to live Intentionally Authentic and Authentically Intentional. I know that this doesn't make any sense. But for me, I am happy, I have discovered the middle and am content to continue to dissect these feelings until one of my own pulls me in an opposite direction.

To Reach the Top

It was easy. It was a sunny September day, no plans. A trek to the top of Tiger Mountain was intriguing. Four miles round trip. Having just arrived home from the Salmon Days festival with my family, I knew if we left quickly we could be home before dinner. I threw a couple water bottles and granola bars in my backpack and we spontaneously all jumped into the family van. I told our kids of the adventure about to begin. Many times since moving to Issaquah we had seen the paragliders jump from the summit of Tiger Mountain and gracefully glide around and eventually down to the grassy ground. I joyfully told our giddy kids that we were going to trek to where the paragliders jump from. My then only three year old looked wonderfully amazed and my seven year old started to ask questions. This is where our journey began.

It ended in the same way, in the car. Five hours later.

But what of the middle? The kids scrambled out of the car. So exciting. Walking sticks procured. Seven year old bounding ahead. Parents cautioning the fast pace. Slowing down. Taking pictures. Stopping for a water break. And then the complaining. Are we there yet? My Love and I peered into each other's faces not wanting to break the silence. Trying to read each other's thoughts. It was supposed to be fun. Should we give in? Should we turn around? We had only been hiking for 20 minutes. Positivity still abounded. We trudged on. Fascinating items were pointed out to small children. Snails traveled faster. My Love and I kept glancing at each other. We still could not figure it out. Should be keep going?

Continually moving out of the way of descending trekkers we started to ask, "how much further until the top?" "You're almost there," is what we heard 25% of the time. "It's totally worth it!" we heard from another 25% of them. "You're only half way there," is what we heard from the half of them.

Only half way. Only half way. The middle. How many water breaks and complaints could one put up with until deciding to turn back? My Love and I weren't sure. And then my 7 year old sat down. "I am not going any further," he blankly stated. Ok, there is was. My Love and I decided that it was commendable. We had gone far enough. Had a good time, but it was time to turn back. We both agreed  -- and then our eyes fell on our three year old. Big crocodile tears slide down her cheeks and she started wailing. "I have to get to the top," she wailed.

My son was content. He had done and seen enough. He had enjoyed his journey but was done, ready to descend. My daughter was not content. She had to keep climbing. I was torn, but only for a split second. I turned to my 7 year old and blankly stated, "we have to get to the top." He was not happy with his sister for quite some time.

We of course made it. It was gorgeous. The view was exquisite. Our happiness on having made it was paramount. The icing on the cake: while we were soaking up the view, three paragliders jumped and took off on their journey. My three year old was awestruck. My seven year old seemed content still.

I have looked back on that day many times. There are some people that have to reach the top. It is in their blood. No matter the mountain. They have stamina, perseverance, a dream and just the right amount of silliness to make it possible. Others are content with the middle. Others still are content in the journey whatever that may be. On this specific day however it did not matter what any of us wanted. We had to reach the top. Our spunky three year old demanded it.  We had to climb. We had to sweat.

I am so thankful for those that have to reach the top. She will not be the one to sit with another because they are content and don't need to go on. She will trek ahead, always returning but with new found memories and emotions. She appreciates the view from the middle but knows deep down it will always be better from the top; for the view and her essence will mix to form something entirely new. She will always recognize the middle for she will always be a part of this family but there will always be enough love to allow her to keep going. This perseverance will earn her the right to discover new heights and to take risks. To take the leap. To change the organic world by being an active participant.

Looking back I don't know why I just didn't sit with my seven year old while My Love took her to the top. Why was it so important that we did it together? It was so important because we had to show her that we all believed in her. The ones that are constantly reaching for more (for the top) need so much encouragement and so much support. They crave other's belief in them.

To this day, whenever we pass the Tiger Mountain trailhead, my now four year old belts out, "remember that day, when I changed all your minds?" I smile and know that no matter the hardship, I will always believe in and strive to meet her at the top.