Thoughts that keep coming back to me lately, words of "wisdom" for me:
1) When you give a gift, don't expect anything back, including an expression of thanks. This also includes "gifts" of encouragement or just a nice e-mail. If it comes back to you, all the better. If it does not, and you expected it to, what was the value of the gift, anyway? This is a hard one for me but it's important.
2) "Not everything that's true needs to be said". Thanks, Lanita for that one....it's goes against every fiber in my being to keep some things "unsaid" but if I'd live by this one, I'd live much more peacefully with others, I think...
3) "You weren't around when you were young". This one comes from Dad. As in, you don't remember the junk that you did when you were that age. But oh yes, we do...
4) "I need help". Interestingly, this came from the book How to Raise Totally Awesome Kids by Chuck and Jenni Borsellino. I'm realizing more and more how hard it is for me to reach out and admit that as a pregnant mother of a toddler, I am overwhelmed and need help. Emotionally and physically, but I do no one a great service by trying to carry the burden alone. I will seek out more help.
5) Keep it real. In relationships, I hide from the "messy" stuff because it hurts to deal with it. But the more I am open with my feelings, the more I feel accepting of the differences I ineveitably will have at times with others.
6) "What's said during jury duty, stays at jury duty". Thanks, judge for that one. I guess that goes along with #2, so if I'm called in again for a nice juicy case, I will have a tough time with #6 as well. *Sigh*
7) It's okay to find your own rhythm. Taken from Angelica and her Kindermusik teacher, Miss Cindy. Stand when other sit, tap the floor when others tap the drum. Do what you must, but be true to your heart's dictation.
Happy fourth of July weekend!
Friday, July 2, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Serendipity
We had just gotten back from a week on the road, and after driving straight through the entire state of Kentucky--taking advantage of the fact that little Angelica was still napping--by the time we arrived in Florence for "one last stop" before heading home we were...wiped...out. Hubby suggested Olive Garden and I said Why not? So there we were, corralled into a corner booth a couple hours earlier than the standard Friday night rush, and I couldn't have been happier to be somewhat hidden, sweaty and casually clothed and just generally feeling unkempt after so many hours as a road warrior. And a very hungry one, at that.
Minutes after we arrived, we noticed that in the next booth was another family with a little girl, a sweet and gregarious little blond girl with glasses, probably about four. She noticed us and was delighted to see that we also had a little one in tow. Angelica, shy at first (what a deception!) observed with guarded interest as the other little girl pulled out all the tricks to get her attention, waving, asking her name and my name, jumping up and down and making silly faces. As I watched it all play out, a slow smile played on my lips until I was finally feeling relaxed and less self-conscious. I waited to see my daughter's reaction, and I knew it was coming.
It came. Angelica's joy finally let loose and all timidity was gone in a flash. She squealed, she jumped, she mirrored the other girl's faces and movements. She made her own faces, and the other girl obliged by imitating them as well. My husband and I laughed. The other parents, however, were not so endeared. "Honey, stop jumping! You're bigger than her". "Turn around, because I want to color with you". It seemed like they got more desperate as the time went on, to try anything to get their daughter to leave ours alone. At one point I said "It's okay, they're just playing". I looked around, there was virtually no one around us. There was a booth across from us with three adults, none of which seemed to notice us. The servers laughed as they approached our tables. I thought, Are the other parents the only ones bothered by this? They were two little girls, entertaining each other while waiting for food at a restaurant, a seemingly natural and amusing activity. For us, the fatigue and tension of driving slipped away as we watched them in action. Although the other girl's father didn't seem to share our point of view, at one point he did joke: "Dinner and a show anyone?"
The food came and we all ate, save some distractions from the younger crowd and soon the other family was leaving. Seemed they couldn't leave soon enough, and as they walked by our booth neither parent looked at us as the little girl and Angelica said their good-byes. I felt saddened, since it had been a pleasant experience for us. Had we ruined their dinner out?
Then my husband reminded me of a pre-baby trip we were fortunate to take to South America. We were staying in a hotel near Iguazu Falls and met an Argentine couple in the game room. Even though at first I wasn't drawn to them--thinking Argentines are sooooo loud!--soon they struck up a conversation with us and by the end of the evening, we were sharing music CD's at drinking mate together, while asking people to take pictures of the four of us. We remember them fondly, and always say that we'd love to go to Argentina some day to visit our friends.
We thought back about the hotels we had been at during the last week of traveling to South Carolina. Nice people, yes. Some shared conversations, here and there. Yet I started thinking that Americans tend to prefer sticking to themselves in similar situations. Was it cultural? Americans don't want to get involved with "strangers"? Too unsafe. We insist on maintaining our personal space.
Fortunately I had another serendipitous moment the midst of those negative thoughts. After the other family left, I realized that an older, African-American gentleman (who I thought wasn't paying attention to us) at the booth across from us was listening intently as Angelica sang "Baa Baa Black Sheep" to herself. He applauded her effort at the end of the song, and then launched into his own version of the song, much to our surprise and delight, pausing to check with me about the words, and then making up his own lyrics anyway. From across the way, he then asked what Angelica's name was, and continued to heap loving attention on her. Periodically he would come out with another made-up song: "I'm a big girl now, I'm a big girl now, I pay the bill, yes I'm a big girl now" as she gave the credit card to the waiter, followed by the same chant with "I'm leaving now" as we stood up to go. We took Angelica over to say goodbye and blow kisses. and I noticed his shirt: World's Greatest Grandpa. I said that it was a very appropriate shirt for him!
That greatest grandpa made my heart expand. He didn't have to show such kindness, but it just seemed to flow out of him naturally. He didn't care who heard him, and neither did I. And now I am reminded that these moments happen wherever and whenever, not only while traveling abroad. And to put it all in perspective, the other family was doing what they thought was best, too. Maybe it is better that children don't bounce around on restaurant booths "bothering" the people around them. I understand that.
Perhaps I'm too leniant, myself. It might be a good idea to nip this kind of behavior in the bud while she's only two. But honestly, a little booth bouncing doesn't bother me. I (not so) secretly like watching those kind of spontaneous acts of joy come about: while traveling, in a restaurant, at the community pool. Could it be that I, the introvert, live a little vicariously through my daughter's unabandoned interactions?
I think the greatest grandpa would sing to that.
Minutes after we arrived, we noticed that in the next booth was another family with a little girl, a sweet and gregarious little blond girl with glasses, probably about four. She noticed us and was delighted to see that we also had a little one in tow. Angelica, shy at first (what a deception!) observed with guarded interest as the other little girl pulled out all the tricks to get her attention, waving, asking her name and my name, jumping up and down and making silly faces. As I watched it all play out, a slow smile played on my lips until I was finally feeling relaxed and less self-conscious. I waited to see my daughter's reaction, and I knew it was coming.
It came. Angelica's joy finally let loose and all timidity was gone in a flash. She squealed, she jumped, she mirrored the other girl's faces and movements. She made her own faces, and the other girl obliged by imitating them as well. My husband and I laughed. The other parents, however, were not so endeared. "Honey, stop jumping! You're bigger than her". "Turn around, because I want to color with you". It seemed like they got more desperate as the time went on, to try anything to get their daughter to leave ours alone. At one point I said "It's okay, they're just playing". I looked around, there was virtually no one around us. There was a booth across from us with three adults, none of which seemed to notice us. The servers laughed as they approached our tables. I thought, Are the other parents the only ones bothered by this? They were two little girls, entertaining each other while waiting for food at a restaurant, a seemingly natural and amusing activity. For us, the fatigue and tension of driving slipped away as we watched them in action. Although the other girl's father didn't seem to share our point of view, at one point he did joke: "Dinner and a show anyone?"
The food came and we all ate, save some distractions from the younger crowd and soon the other family was leaving. Seemed they couldn't leave soon enough, and as they walked by our booth neither parent looked at us as the little girl and Angelica said their good-byes. I felt saddened, since it had been a pleasant experience for us. Had we ruined their dinner out?
Then my husband reminded me of a pre-baby trip we were fortunate to take to South America. We were staying in a hotel near Iguazu Falls and met an Argentine couple in the game room. Even though at first I wasn't drawn to them--thinking Argentines are sooooo loud!--soon they struck up a conversation with us and by the end of the evening, we were sharing music CD's at drinking mate together, while asking people to take pictures of the four of us. We remember them fondly, and always say that we'd love to go to Argentina some day to visit our friends.
We thought back about the hotels we had been at during the last week of traveling to South Carolina. Nice people, yes. Some shared conversations, here and there. Yet I started thinking that Americans tend to prefer sticking to themselves in similar situations. Was it cultural? Americans don't want to get involved with "strangers"? Too unsafe. We insist on maintaining our personal space.
Fortunately I had another serendipitous moment the midst of those negative thoughts. After the other family left, I realized that an older, African-American gentleman (who I thought wasn't paying attention to us) at the booth across from us was listening intently as Angelica sang "Baa Baa Black Sheep" to herself. He applauded her effort at the end of the song, and then launched into his own version of the song, much to our surprise and delight, pausing to check with me about the words, and then making up his own lyrics anyway. From across the way, he then asked what Angelica's name was, and continued to heap loving attention on her. Periodically he would come out with another made-up song: "I'm a big girl now, I'm a big girl now, I pay the bill, yes I'm a big girl now" as she gave the credit card to the waiter, followed by the same chant with "I'm leaving now" as we stood up to go. We took Angelica over to say goodbye and blow kisses. and I noticed his shirt: World's Greatest Grandpa. I said that it was a very appropriate shirt for him!
That greatest grandpa made my heart expand. He didn't have to show such kindness, but it just seemed to flow out of him naturally. He didn't care who heard him, and neither did I. And now I am reminded that these moments happen wherever and whenever, not only while traveling abroad. And to put it all in perspective, the other family was doing what they thought was best, too. Maybe it is better that children don't bounce around on restaurant booths "bothering" the people around them. I understand that.
Perhaps I'm too leniant, myself. It might be a good idea to nip this kind of behavior in the bud while she's only two. But honestly, a little booth bouncing doesn't bother me. I (not so) secretly like watching those kind of spontaneous acts of joy come about: while traveling, in a restaurant, at the community pool. Could it be that I, the introvert, live a little vicariously through my daughter's unabandoned interactions?
I think the greatest grandpa would sing to that.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Must Travel
I take a deep breath and feel the mental weight of worry, worry that I am tired of carrying around with me and want to let go of. Why is it that the things that bring me such joy in life also make me dizzy with anxiety? Child-rearing is a given, of course. But travel is what is heavy on my mind right now. Part of the problem is that I never give the preparation part the time and energy it deserves. Packing calls for a type of person that is more detail-oriented than me. Funny, since I've done it so many times and it is a prerequisite to going ANYWHERE...you'd think I'd be farther along than I am now, but I'm not. I half-heartedly dump stuff into a suitcase and then scratch my head hours later when I open it, only to realize I've forgotten the toothbrush or the razor or the deoderant...again. Plus, what was I thinking with that outfit?! I'm not feeling it now, whatever inspired me to add it to the mix the night before.
Forget the fatigue of preparation woes, the anxiety comes from somewhere else--which must be the Unknown. Things could go well, or something could go wrong. Money might run out, or unexpected expenses might come up. Or who knows what else. But what will I see, and where will I go? That's what drives me. I have to see something new, or visit a loved one, or both, and expand myself and my horizons. Every time I do, I come home recharged. And interestingly enough, it's one of my favorite activities to do with my daughter as well. Who wouldn't melt at the sight of a two-year old safely buckled into her seat on the plane, singing with Daddy and happily awaiting the thrill of landing? Me, of course....well that's another story. In the momemt I smile tightly, and grasp the armrests like hand weights. And I worry that the plane will overrun the runway....and I think about how I used to be like her, I used to be so free when I would fly...
In those moments that I push through the worry and the fatigue of pre-travel/travel I do fly. I am never so alive as when I'm going somewhere. Contentment, pure joy. I live to travel and I reconnect with that free, flying, joyous me that gets buried in the routine of everyday life when I am on the move. Yet the most freeing thing of all is to find myself flying unexpectedly in the middle of the day-to-day itself. It will come out of nowhere and bite me in the butt, but ever so often I have that moment...where I know that this is where it's at. Waving goodbye as she stands at the top and sits in Daddy's hand to go down the twisty slide with her one more time. Watching the connections made as she repeats a new word, a sentence. Pulling weeds out of the flower garden together as she triumphantly shouts "Bye-bye, little yuckies!" Listening to he squeal of delight in anticipation of a cool bath on a hot June day. Just being together.
In those moments, there is no worry, no anxiety. Now, I know that I will push through the fog of packing and worry that has settled over me for this next trip, and I will soon find myself in the other bliss of routine-free joy. Laughing and marveling at new experiences. I close my eyes and visualize it now, and feel my breathing slow down. May I come to experience, one day, a sense of calm to overrule the worry that threatens to steal that joy.
Forget the fatigue of preparation woes, the anxiety comes from somewhere else--which must be the Unknown. Things could go well, or something could go wrong. Money might run out, or unexpected expenses might come up. Or who knows what else. But what will I see, and where will I go? That's what drives me. I have to see something new, or visit a loved one, or both, and expand myself and my horizons. Every time I do, I come home recharged. And interestingly enough, it's one of my favorite activities to do with my daughter as well. Who wouldn't melt at the sight of a two-year old safely buckled into her seat on the plane, singing with Daddy and happily awaiting the thrill of landing? Me, of course....well that's another story. In the momemt I smile tightly, and grasp the armrests like hand weights. And I worry that the plane will overrun the runway....and I think about how I used to be like her, I used to be so free when I would fly...
In those moments that I push through the worry and the fatigue of pre-travel/travel I do fly. I am never so alive as when I'm going somewhere. Contentment, pure joy. I live to travel and I reconnect with that free, flying, joyous me that gets buried in the routine of everyday life when I am on the move. Yet the most freeing thing of all is to find myself flying unexpectedly in the middle of the day-to-day itself. It will come out of nowhere and bite me in the butt, but ever so often I have that moment...where I know that this is where it's at. Waving goodbye as she stands at the top and sits in Daddy's hand to go down the twisty slide with her one more time. Watching the connections made as she repeats a new word, a sentence. Pulling weeds out of the flower garden together as she triumphantly shouts "Bye-bye, little yuckies!" Listening to he squeal of delight in anticipation of a cool bath on a hot June day. Just being together.
In those moments, there is no worry, no anxiety. Now, I know that I will push through the fog of packing and worry that has settled over me for this next trip, and I will soon find myself in the other bliss of routine-free joy. Laughing and marveling at new experiences. I close my eyes and visualize it now, and feel my breathing slow down. May I come to experience, one day, a sense of calm to overrule the worry that threatens to steal that joy.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Randomness
The end of the semester has crested in all of its drama once again, and then ceased, and now I'm left in the aftermath...feeling a little anti-climatic. I ponder the sign by our university announcing today's ceremony of "commencement" and wonder why years ago they didn't choose a word that actually means the end instead of the beginning in order to refer to graduation. Yes, typical graduation speeches are full of references to the fact that the new graduatates truly are beginning a new chapter of their lives, but having been through so many end-of-the-semesters as an instructor, and as student now years ago, I prefer to see it for what it is: completion. I see a student passing by and I quickly review in my mind's excel sheet (too bad I've never been as savvy using the real kind) his/her grade. The anxiousness settles in on me instead of the student. What grade did I give her? Will she be upset with me now that grades are posted? Ridiculousness, and you'd never think you'd hear that from your teachers. But that's where I stand at the end. Making it all about me.
I have been really irritable lately and wonder why it seems like there is a physical pull the keeps me away from writing. I've pulled out the microscopic lens to examine all the things that went wrong over the last few months, since they went by so fast that mostly I was just surviving and not reflecting (except in my sub-consciousness and a few cautious remarks here and there to a sympathetic ear). I know I sound pessimistic, but change is unsettling and there has been a lot of it lately. So I let out a weary sigh at the end of another semester because at least it's one thing I can check off my list that is completely finished, closed, nicely and neatly. Most other things can't be wrapped up that orderly. Maybe that's why I had a minor breakdown about the house being a mess to my husband. One more thing to set me off because I can't get a handle on it, can't complete it. (To my orderly readers: this is not just an "oops why can't I keep up with laundry/dusting lament"....No, on the contrary we have lived in disorder for so long that I would laugh if I saw or smelled my house "clean" just one day while walking in the door, without the random pileup of stuff and dust, and sometimes ants and spiders or crumbs and spills that linger...) Why can't I figure this stuff out? And now I mean all of it--not just the physical mess. The inner disarray is more unsettling. The questions I really seem to be getting at now that I have a moment to think...Am I really good at what I'm doing?....Is it time to transition into another direction with work?...Why did I do "x" in "y" situation? Why did that relationship turn out that way? It's too much self, self, self. An overdose of self-consciousness.
So that's when I know (even though something in me fights it so severly) that I need to write, since it's one activity that seems to keep me sane. Why? Because it gets me out of myself. (Weirdly, enough, yes..even when I'm writing about that durn self).
Madeleine L'Engle put words to this truth about getting out of one's self so well in her memoir A Circle of Quiet and I felt privileged to just happen to stumble upon it this afternoon. She says:
"In real play, which is real concentration, the child is not only outside time, he is outside himself. He has thrown himself completely into whatever it is that he is doing. A child playing a game, building a sand castle, painting a picture, is completely in what he is doing. His self-consciousness is gone; his consciousness is wholly focused outside himself. When we are self-conscious, we cannot be wholly aware; we must throw ourselves out first. This throwing ourselves away is the act of creativity. So, when we wholly concentrate, like a child in play, or an artist at work, then we share in the act of creating. We not only escape time, we also escape our self-conscious selves....A writer may be self-conscious about his work before and after but not during the writing..." (Engle 10)
So even though the forces that may seem to want to keep me away from it, I MUST write. I must get outside of myself and in the process, become free. In the midst of the craziness of these last few months, another activity that has kept me sane is watching my daughter at play (as Madeleine mentions). In my mind's eye I see her soul in the joy expressed when she throws her head back and closes her eyes, begging to go higher as the wind blows throw her hair and the birds chirp all around us and we both laugh...I have felt myself so freed just by the observation of it. Now I get the connection between her moments of complete abandon and my occasional moments when I break through the mental fog and barriers that try to keep me from creativity. I need to be creative in order to become me, and to forget me. Happiness is laughing until you snort and then laughing even more because you snorted--and you don't care about looking stupid to the person who is laughing right along with (and probably also at but who cares) you. Happiness is throwing that negative lens away and saying: "I did the best I could in such a challenging situation. Maybe next time I'll do even better."
And as for "commencement," what's done is done. I'm going to throw out that red pen for the summer and try to delete the mental spreadsheet.
I have been really irritable lately and wonder why it seems like there is a physical pull the keeps me away from writing. I've pulled out the microscopic lens to examine all the things that went wrong over the last few months, since they went by so fast that mostly I was just surviving and not reflecting (except in my sub-consciousness and a few cautious remarks here and there to a sympathetic ear). I know I sound pessimistic, but change is unsettling and there has been a lot of it lately. So I let out a weary sigh at the end of another semester because at least it's one thing I can check off my list that is completely finished, closed, nicely and neatly. Most other things can't be wrapped up that orderly. Maybe that's why I had a minor breakdown about the house being a mess to my husband. One more thing to set me off because I can't get a handle on it, can't complete it. (To my orderly readers: this is not just an "oops why can't I keep up with laundry/dusting lament"....No, on the contrary we have lived in disorder for so long that I would laugh if I saw or smelled my house "clean" just one day while walking in the door, without the random pileup of stuff and dust, and sometimes ants and spiders or crumbs and spills that linger...) Why can't I figure this stuff out? And now I mean all of it--not just the physical mess. The inner disarray is more unsettling. The questions I really seem to be getting at now that I have a moment to think...Am I really good at what I'm doing?....Is it time to transition into another direction with work?...Why did I do "x" in "y" situation? Why did that relationship turn out that way? It's too much self, self, self. An overdose of self-consciousness.
So that's when I know (even though something in me fights it so severly) that I need to write, since it's one activity that seems to keep me sane. Why? Because it gets me out of myself. (Weirdly, enough, yes..even when I'm writing about that durn self).
Madeleine L'Engle put words to this truth about getting out of one's self so well in her memoir A Circle of Quiet and I felt privileged to just happen to stumble upon it this afternoon. She says:
"In real play, which is real concentration, the child is not only outside time, he is outside himself. He has thrown himself completely into whatever it is that he is doing. A child playing a game, building a sand castle, painting a picture, is completely in what he is doing. His self-consciousness is gone; his consciousness is wholly focused outside himself. When we are self-conscious, we cannot be wholly aware; we must throw ourselves out first. This throwing ourselves away is the act of creativity. So, when we wholly concentrate, like a child in play, or an artist at work, then we share in the act of creating. We not only escape time, we also escape our self-conscious selves....A writer may be self-conscious about his work before and after but not during the writing..." (Engle 10)
So even though the forces that may seem to want to keep me away from it, I MUST write. I must get outside of myself and in the process, become free. In the midst of the craziness of these last few months, another activity that has kept me sane is watching my daughter at play (as Madeleine mentions). In my mind's eye I see her soul in the joy expressed when she throws her head back and closes her eyes, begging to go higher as the wind blows throw her hair and the birds chirp all around us and we both laugh...I have felt myself so freed just by the observation of it. Now I get the connection between her moments of complete abandon and my occasional moments when I break through the mental fog and barriers that try to keep me from creativity. I need to be creative in order to become me, and to forget me. Happiness is laughing until you snort and then laughing even more because you snorted--and you don't care about looking stupid to the person who is laughing right along with (and probably also at but who cares) you. Happiness is throwing that negative lens away and saying: "I did the best I could in such a challenging situation. Maybe next time I'll do even better."
And as for "commencement," what's done is done. I'm going to throw out that red pen for the summer and try to delete the mental spreadsheet.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
A person's a person...
I had this shocking revelation yesterday--I realized that I really do like kids! I know, that may not sound very newsworthy and maybe it's a given for a lot of people, but this discovery has been a real eye-opener for me.
I was the baby of my family, and until turning ten years old I had no cousins. I was delighted to "get" cousins (I had asked my uncle and aunt to give me one that was my age, and one that was a baby so I was a little disappointed that they both arrived as babies, but what can you do...). Unfortunately, we lived a few hours away from that part of the family,and so I really never felt that I was very involved with their childhood. In fact, there is an awkward picture of a young me cradling my baby cousin in my arms, with a look of fear? discomfort? maybe even panic? on my face.
The fear/discomfort/panic of being around babies and young children never really went away. I blame this on the fact that except for one isolated event, I never even babysat as a teenager. In other words I was inexperienced and as I got older, the less and less it really seemed to matter. As I got into my twenties I started to wear it as a badge even--I'm Not a Kid Person. Sure, by then I knew I had to play by the rules--coo and fuss over friends' babies and ask the right questions to seem interested--but my heart was never into it. I ashamedly now remember feeling irritated when friends' kids would come along if we were hanging out. I'd think "Why can't they just get a babysitter?" Now, I realize that's what the people at our restaurant of choice on Friday nights are thinking of us...
If this dirty laundry isn't bad enough already, the worst is yet to come: I must admit that I had not changed a diaper until I was pregnant...and at least six months pregnant at that! My friend who had just had twins graciously handed them over so I could "practice". And I was sitting on that same friend's couch--again, awkwardly cradling one of her infant babies--and now nine month's pregnant myself--when I confessed that day to "not being sure that I had the mothering instinct for my own baby". I really believed that I might not feel loving toward my own child, given my history of indifference and discomfort with other children.
Angelica came into the world soon after that confession and rocked my own world. As every new mom learns, I knew immediately that there was nothing I wouldn't do in order to protect and help my sweet baby thrive. Yet I was still fraught with insecurities and ended up just hoping to get by each day without completely screwing it all up, since "it" was a lot on the line. Yet even after mastering diapering and sleeping schedules and transitioning back into work I realized that my love for other babies was still very intellectual. I could talk passionately about being a mother but I could still look with disdain at a child throwing a tamper. I was, and still am, very far from being Mother of all Earth's Children.
But yesterday I laughed and played with my friend's kids and Angelica with complete abandon. I delighted in the antics of the little boy playing peek-a-boo with his plastic glasses and gleefully put them on myself. Last week I found myself really interested now when I chat with another friend about her five-year old's development, and I can't wait to hold the new babies and those still to come. I loved on the kids on our trip to Mexico, and realized that Dr. Seuss was right on when he penned A person's a person, no matter how small. Not so long ago, that quote would had no real signficance to me but now I finally understand why having kids around has the potential to make us better people. These little people have hearts of gold and live with reckless abandon. Their uniqueness and talents are printed on their DNA and it's our joy to find what they are and foster them, even from a very young age.
Not only that, their trust must be conserved by us, the older and "wiser" adults. We must protect their innocence, and not insist that they grow up too fast. We fan the flame of their joie de vivre. And not just for our own children. For all the children in our life, because they enrich us and we have the power to give them their wings.
This is not a test, so I haven't aced it. And if I still don't always have the right words for your child at the right time, I apologize. I still tend to get shy and tongue-tied around people I don't know well, children included. However, my recent discovery has freed up my silly side so I can laugh until it hurts with the small crowd when the inspiration comes.
Interestingly enough, liking kids makes me like me a little more.
I was the baby of my family, and until turning ten years old I had no cousins. I was delighted to "get" cousins (I had asked my uncle and aunt to give me one that was my age, and one that was a baby so I was a little disappointed that they both arrived as babies, but what can you do...). Unfortunately, we lived a few hours away from that part of the family,and so I really never felt that I was very involved with their childhood. In fact, there is an awkward picture of a young me cradling my baby cousin in my arms, with a look of fear? discomfort? maybe even panic? on my face.
The fear/discomfort/panic of being around babies and young children never really went away. I blame this on the fact that except for one isolated event, I never even babysat as a teenager. In other words I was inexperienced and as I got older, the less and less it really seemed to matter. As I got into my twenties I started to wear it as a badge even--I'm Not a Kid Person. Sure, by then I knew I had to play by the rules--coo and fuss over friends' babies and ask the right questions to seem interested--but my heart was never into it. I ashamedly now remember feeling irritated when friends' kids would come along if we were hanging out. I'd think "Why can't they just get a babysitter?" Now, I realize that's what the people at our restaurant of choice on Friday nights are thinking of us...
If this dirty laundry isn't bad enough already, the worst is yet to come: I must admit that I had not changed a diaper until I was pregnant...and at least six months pregnant at that! My friend who had just had twins graciously handed them over so I could "practice". And I was sitting on that same friend's couch--again, awkwardly cradling one of her infant babies--and now nine month's pregnant myself--when I confessed that day to "not being sure that I had the mothering instinct for my own baby". I really believed that I might not feel loving toward my own child, given my history of indifference and discomfort with other children.
Angelica came into the world soon after that confession and rocked my own world. As every new mom learns, I knew immediately that there was nothing I wouldn't do in order to protect and help my sweet baby thrive. Yet I was still fraught with insecurities and ended up just hoping to get by each day without completely screwing it all up, since "it" was a lot on the line. Yet even after mastering diapering and sleeping schedules and transitioning back into work I realized that my love for other babies was still very intellectual. I could talk passionately about being a mother but I could still look with disdain at a child throwing a tamper. I was, and still am, very far from being Mother of all Earth's Children.
But yesterday I laughed and played with my friend's kids and Angelica with complete abandon. I delighted in the antics of the little boy playing peek-a-boo with his plastic glasses and gleefully put them on myself. Last week I found myself really interested now when I chat with another friend about her five-year old's development, and I can't wait to hold the new babies and those still to come. I loved on the kids on our trip to Mexico, and realized that Dr. Seuss was right on when he penned A person's a person, no matter how small. Not so long ago, that quote would had no real signficance to me but now I finally understand why having kids around has the potential to make us better people. These little people have hearts of gold and live with reckless abandon. Their uniqueness and talents are printed on their DNA and it's our joy to find what they are and foster them, even from a very young age.
Not only that, their trust must be conserved by us, the older and "wiser" adults. We must protect their innocence, and not insist that they grow up too fast. We fan the flame of their joie de vivre. And not just for our own children. For all the children in our life, because they enrich us and we have the power to give them their wings.
This is not a test, so I haven't aced it. And if I still don't always have the right words for your child at the right time, I apologize. I still tend to get shy and tongue-tied around people I don't know well, children included. However, my recent discovery has freed up my silly side so I can laugh until it hurts with the small crowd when the inspiration comes.
Interestingly enough, liking kids makes me like me a little more.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
The children's house
What is volunteerism? Could you give a definition of the term, and show the children some examples of what it looks like?
Makenzie, Erica and Taylor stared at me wide-eyed, and Justin was silent. We were sitting in the director's office of one of the YMCA affiliated children's home in Mexico City for rescued children, where these and other university students had come to spend their spring break doing community service. I came as a translator for the group, and at that moment shortly after arriving we had just found out that our task for the afternoon was to speak to the different groups of children and teenagers--aged six through seventeen--about what it meant to do volunteer work. The students would have to split up and each one would present to a different age group. The catch? Each presentation would have to be in Spanish, which these students had a limited command of. So, what do you think? Are you up for this? Do you want to do it? The director kept beaming and asking over and over in Spanish, which I relunctantly translated. Of course they didn't want to do it; how could they do it? And it was obvious from their expressions that they felt the same way.
The children that the students would be presenting for were niños de la calle--street children. They told us their stories: parents that were drug addicts, that abused them. Impoverished families, some of whom had emigrated from Central America or other states in Mexico on their way north--to try to find a better life, or more realistically, just some kind of work--anything to put a meal on the table but didn't get that far. People who had nowhere to go, no one to offer assistance, and nothing left to their children. Desperate people. The children suffered, and the fortunate ones were eventually brought to this place, this casa hogar, which served as a safe haven for their bodies and souls--literally. They lived in the boarding house throughout the week, were served meals, performed chores. They were transported back and forth from school and taken care of from morning to night. They said prayers before their meals and were given a chance to discover what it meant to be loved.
Just be real. Just be yourselves with the children--that's all they're looking for was the advice given to us by a staff member as we were briefed about what kinds of circumstances brought them to this place.
One boy's situation had been so cruel that he was missing most of his left arm--because as a small child his mother had yelled at him to not touch this, to not get into that, and at her breaking point took out a knife and cut it off. Yet this now-seventeen year old even joked about it with Justin as they played a team-building game which involed holding hands: "I can't give you my hand--it's the only one I have!" Yet it's an uphill battle, according to the staff. They say that the children receive healing for their souls during the week only to go back to their families on the weekend, which presents all kinds of problems. But they are still their families and the children's home refuses to cut them off from them altogether.
So we went into an empty classroom and the four students got started on their presentations. They made posters with illustrations of soup kitchens and people planting trees and picking up garbage to clean up the community, and wrote out scripts of what to say in Spanish. They told me what they wanted to say in English, I dictated it back to them in Spanish, and they wrote it down. Then they practiced reading through it in Spanish. We joked around that their high school Spanish was coming in handy, and I was really proud of their work. They had taken on the challenge--and were rising to the occasion. Makenzie went into the classroom with the youngest children, the six to nine year-old bunch and read to the children about community service and her personal experiences in Ireland. It was phenomenal. After the presentation, I had to keep the children's attention and we sang songs and laughed as the children practiced their new English words. I had never imagined I'd be teaching the children--I had visualized myself as the silent observer, stepping in only if translation were necessary. When we had finished I felt that Makenzie and I both had personally made great achievements as we had had to improvise and meet the challenge.
We bonded with the children as we ate lunch with them, helped them with their chores and hung out during their weekly music class (which involved lots of choreography and solos by the especially talented ones!) and we laughed, held hands and just spent time together. I mused about how easy it was to be "real" with them as we were advised, even though hours before I'd been slightly terrified to even meet them. Then came the closing remarks. The director asked each of the four students and myself to make comments about our experiences with the children. The remarks were emotional and it was obvious that we had been impacted. Taylor said she didn't want to leave. Then the children stood up, one by one, and spoke of what they enjoyed of our visit. Even some of the teenagers were obviously touched and thanked us for coming, and then we were presented with gifts--a stuffed animal for each of us. One of them looked a little tattered, obviously well-used. Wasn't that the bear I saw on one of the child's beds? one of us speculated. Even considering what little they had, they gave it freely. But most freely, they gave us their hearts.
We were attacked by embraces, and literally pushed back by their force. I looked down to see one little girl crying, with her arms attached around my legs. She wouldn't let go. I knelt down and kissed her head. In that moment I finally realized the truth that when you become a mother you have the responsibility to mother other children. The affection I felt in that moment came directly from a mother's heart. I looked in her eyes and said that everything would be okay. I held her close. I know that I was only there for a moment, but I hope in that moment she realized that she is not alone. I pray that she will be well-cared for and grow up to be a confident young woman, capable of achieving her own dreams and more important, capable of sharing love from her once-shattered heart.
The students from the group and this "translator" herself left the children's home completely transformed that afternoon. What had been presented to us as an impossible task turned out to be not only possible, but transcendental. Because irony of irony, the assignment was to teach the children what community service was all about, yet the message was taught to us by the children of the street who reminded us that life isn't just about circumstances. It's what you do with those circumstances to persevere and become something more than you ever dreamed you could. Meet your challenges with grace and always be yourself.
I am humbled by the lesson.
Makenzie, Erica and Taylor stared at me wide-eyed, and Justin was silent. We were sitting in the director's office of one of the YMCA affiliated children's home in Mexico City for rescued children, where these and other university students had come to spend their spring break doing community service. I came as a translator for the group, and at that moment shortly after arriving we had just found out that our task for the afternoon was to speak to the different groups of children and teenagers--aged six through seventeen--about what it meant to do volunteer work. The students would have to split up and each one would present to a different age group. The catch? Each presentation would have to be in Spanish, which these students had a limited command of. So, what do you think? Are you up for this? Do you want to do it? The director kept beaming and asking over and over in Spanish, which I relunctantly translated. Of course they didn't want to do it; how could they do it? And it was obvious from their expressions that they felt the same way.
The children that the students would be presenting for were niños de la calle--street children. They told us their stories: parents that were drug addicts, that abused them. Impoverished families, some of whom had emigrated from Central America or other states in Mexico on their way north--to try to find a better life, or more realistically, just some kind of work--anything to put a meal on the table but didn't get that far. People who had nowhere to go, no one to offer assistance, and nothing left to their children. Desperate people. The children suffered, and the fortunate ones were eventually brought to this place, this casa hogar, which served as a safe haven for their bodies and souls--literally. They lived in the boarding house throughout the week, were served meals, performed chores. They were transported back and forth from school and taken care of from morning to night. They said prayers before their meals and were given a chance to discover what it meant to be loved.
Just be real. Just be yourselves with the children--that's all they're looking for was the advice given to us by a staff member as we were briefed about what kinds of circumstances brought them to this place.
One boy's situation had been so cruel that he was missing most of his left arm--because as a small child his mother had yelled at him to not touch this, to not get into that, and at her breaking point took out a knife and cut it off. Yet this now-seventeen year old even joked about it with Justin as they played a team-building game which involed holding hands: "I can't give you my hand--it's the only one I have!" Yet it's an uphill battle, according to the staff. They say that the children receive healing for their souls during the week only to go back to their families on the weekend, which presents all kinds of problems. But they are still their families and the children's home refuses to cut them off from them altogether.
So we went into an empty classroom and the four students got started on their presentations. They made posters with illustrations of soup kitchens and people planting trees and picking up garbage to clean up the community, and wrote out scripts of what to say in Spanish. They told me what they wanted to say in English, I dictated it back to them in Spanish, and they wrote it down. Then they practiced reading through it in Spanish. We joked around that their high school Spanish was coming in handy, and I was really proud of their work. They had taken on the challenge--and were rising to the occasion. Makenzie went into the classroom with the youngest children, the six to nine year-old bunch and read to the children about community service and her personal experiences in Ireland. It was phenomenal. After the presentation, I had to keep the children's attention and we sang songs and laughed as the children practiced their new English words. I had never imagined I'd be teaching the children--I had visualized myself as the silent observer, stepping in only if translation were necessary. When we had finished I felt that Makenzie and I both had personally made great achievements as we had had to improvise and meet the challenge.
We bonded with the children as we ate lunch with them, helped them with their chores and hung out during their weekly music class (which involved lots of choreography and solos by the especially talented ones!) and we laughed, held hands and just spent time together. I mused about how easy it was to be "real" with them as we were advised, even though hours before I'd been slightly terrified to even meet them. Then came the closing remarks. The director asked each of the four students and myself to make comments about our experiences with the children. The remarks were emotional and it was obvious that we had been impacted. Taylor said she didn't want to leave. Then the children stood up, one by one, and spoke of what they enjoyed of our visit. Even some of the teenagers were obviously touched and thanked us for coming, and then we were presented with gifts--a stuffed animal for each of us. One of them looked a little tattered, obviously well-used. Wasn't that the bear I saw on one of the child's beds? one of us speculated. Even considering what little they had, they gave it freely. But most freely, they gave us their hearts.
We were attacked by embraces, and literally pushed back by their force. I looked down to see one little girl crying, with her arms attached around my legs. She wouldn't let go. I knelt down and kissed her head. In that moment I finally realized the truth that when you become a mother you have the responsibility to mother other children. The affection I felt in that moment came directly from a mother's heart. I looked in her eyes and said that everything would be okay. I held her close. I know that I was only there for a moment, but I hope in that moment she realized that she is not alone. I pray that she will be well-cared for and grow up to be a confident young woman, capable of achieving her own dreams and more important, capable of sharing love from her once-shattered heart.
The students from the group and this "translator" herself left the children's home completely transformed that afternoon. What had been presented to us as an impossible task turned out to be not only possible, but transcendental. Because irony of irony, the assignment was to teach the children what community service was all about, yet the message was taught to us by the children of the street who reminded us that life isn't just about circumstances. It's what you do with those circumstances to persevere and become something more than you ever dreamed you could. Meet your challenges with grace and always be yourself.
I am humbled by the lesson.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
BFF
I met and lost my only best friend in elementary school. In first grade, Amy and I had an instant bond and laughed at things that no one else did. We saw the world through the same lens. At recess, we would jump up on the tall wire fence together--arms outstretched and feet fitting through the holes closest to the ground--and make up the rule that we must go around the entire playground by scaling its walls. Anyone else would have thought we were crazy, but I didn't care. I was safe and secure in the total abandon and recklessness of a friendship where I was accepted and loved exactly for who I was.
Life whizzed by for the next few years pretty uneventfully. Amy and I remained best friends up until third grade when the unthinkable happened. We had a fight. And not just a little one, either. We had a huge drama-filled ordeal where she had her posse on her side of the playground who also hated me, and I had...well I had myself to defend. Of course I don't remember what we argued about. Instead, I replay the moments of humiliation that were to come after that fateful day. Things like Amy wagging her newly-pierced earlobe from across the room in math class to torment me, because I wasn't yet allowed to get mine pierced. Or Amy and a few of her posse advancing on me (by myself) on the playground only to spit with venom in my face the most horrible word: "PUS!" and then walking away laughing, and saying she remembered how I hated that word. Or perhaps the most painful--the day that I so proudly came to school wearing my new-to-me second-hand green Guess jeans (complete with the Guess triangle on the back pocket) and Amy and her friends again taunting me: "Are those Guess jeans? I bet your mom got them at the second-hand store". Ouch. I denied the claim, but it shot an arrow deep into my chest. How could someone who knew me so well use the knowledge to rip me apart?
I'd like to say that the story ended in elementary school, but it didn't. As we got older and continued in the same schools, Amy and I got civil again. Even became friends again. I sought her friendship so long and hard that when I got to high school, I realized that I would need to start over looking for friends, because her ghost of friendship was all I had been clinging too. My already shattered heart broke into a million pieces one day in study hall as I hoped against hope that the multi-page note, now being folded up into that special friendship fold and about to be furtively passed on would find its way over in my direction, but at the last minute did not--although it had my name on the first page--since my Rival #1 was also named Melissa. The other Melissa had won in the triangle, again. At the end of the note in BIG letters was my sentence: BFF. Best friends forever with the other Melissa. I would never, ever win her affection again.
I have carried Amy and Melissa in my heart with sadness for many years. I cringe whenever I hear anyone mention their "best" friend, as innoncent as the reference may be. I mourn for my loss and I have been on a quest to find another best friend to fill Amy's shoes ever since, but it's never quite happened. I've been invited to be a bridesmaid in several friends' weddings, but I was never the maid of honor. I have met wonderful people, make incredible connections, but have been almost relieved when I had to move away or the other person left. I can keep friends better by distance, it seems. Or I have shared my friendship "issue" too soon with a new person and I have scared them away. In one of these cases I recently find a friend who I lost contact with for some mysterious reason and try to reconnect through facebook. When I ask (who even asks??) to "friend" her, she doesn't respond. So I wait. Finally after a month and a half, I can't stand it anymore. She and I had connected so well--so I call her out. Well, not really. I put the blame on myself. I tell her I'm sorry for making her uncomfortable with my request, and that I really was just happy to catch up a little with her, and I wish her well. (Which is not really true. My real motivation is to find her and show her how wonderful and I am and wait for her to pursue me, and want me to be her friend. Which of course doesn't happen). I'm let down again and the pain smarts from her final words "Um, okay thanks" as if it had been Amy pushing the P-bomb at me again at recess.
So here I am at square one once more. If I'm honest, I realize that my best relationships are with people from whom I don't expect to fill that BFF hole in my heart. I do well when I reflect on advice I have heard from a friend before: "Be careful not to put all of your eggs in one basket." I know I am a much better friend when I'm not needy and full of expectations. I know, I know, I know. I receive much joy by just being myself and enjoying the moment of shared experience or good conversation. I realize that back in elementary school I began to believe the lie that no one would want to be my friend simply for who I was, and that I've carried it along by defending myself and withdrawing at the first sign of conflict or discomfort in a relationship. In this "thin place" I have a choice to make. I either follow the same pattern and believe that every friend in my life is Amy (after third grade) in disguise waiting to tell the whole world that I still shop at thrift shop (even though I'm proud of it now). Or I can reach out in faith and carve out a whole new path, hand-in-hand with my friend who will never let me down, the friend that made me who I am and was with me in those awful friendless moments hurting right alongside with me. In this friendship I can again be safe and secure in being who I am. Little by little, I am opening myself up to that truth. Thank you, Jesus.
I hope he has BFF scrawled on his palm for me.
Our High Priest is not one who cannot feel sympathy for our weaknesses....let us have confidence, then and approach God's throne where there is grace. There we will receive mercy and find grace to help us just when we need it. Hebrews 5:15-16
*The reference to a "thin place" comes from Mary Demuth's recent memoir Thin Places which inspired me to write this entry. By all means, go go go get the book!
Life whizzed by for the next few years pretty uneventfully. Amy and I remained best friends up until third grade when the unthinkable happened. We had a fight. And not just a little one, either. We had a huge drama-filled ordeal where she had her posse on her side of the playground who also hated me, and I had...well I had myself to defend. Of course I don't remember what we argued about. Instead, I replay the moments of humiliation that were to come after that fateful day. Things like Amy wagging her newly-pierced earlobe from across the room in math class to torment me, because I wasn't yet allowed to get mine pierced. Or Amy and a few of her posse advancing on me (by myself) on the playground only to spit with venom in my face the most horrible word: "PUS!" and then walking away laughing, and saying she remembered how I hated that word. Or perhaps the most painful--the day that I so proudly came to school wearing my new-to-me second-hand green Guess jeans (complete with the Guess triangle on the back pocket) and Amy and her friends again taunting me: "Are those Guess jeans? I bet your mom got them at the second-hand store". Ouch. I denied the claim, but it shot an arrow deep into my chest. How could someone who knew me so well use the knowledge to rip me apart?
I'd like to say that the story ended in elementary school, but it didn't. As we got older and continued in the same schools, Amy and I got civil again. Even became friends again. I sought her friendship so long and hard that when I got to high school, I realized that I would need to start over looking for friends, because her ghost of friendship was all I had been clinging too. My already shattered heart broke into a million pieces one day in study hall as I hoped against hope that the multi-page note, now being folded up into that special friendship fold and about to be furtively passed on would find its way over in my direction, but at the last minute did not--although it had my name on the first page--since my Rival #1 was also named Melissa. The other Melissa had won in the triangle, again. At the end of the note in BIG letters was my sentence: BFF. Best friends forever with the other Melissa. I would never, ever win her affection again.
I have carried Amy and Melissa in my heart with sadness for many years. I cringe whenever I hear anyone mention their "best" friend, as innoncent as the reference may be. I mourn for my loss and I have been on a quest to find another best friend to fill Amy's shoes ever since, but it's never quite happened. I've been invited to be a bridesmaid in several friends' weddings, but I was never the maid of honor. I have met wonderful people, make incredible connections, but have been almost relieved when I had to move away or the other person left. I can keep friends better by distance, it seems. Or I have shared my friendship "issue" too soon with a new person and I have scared them away. In one of these cases I recently find a friend who I lost contact with for some mysterious reason and try to reconnect through facebook. When I ask (who even asks??) to "friend" her, she doesn't respond. So I wait. Finally after a month and a half, I can't stand it anymore. She and I had connected so well--so I call her out. Well, not really. I put the blame on myself. I tell her I'm sorry for making her uncomfortable with my request, and that I really was just happy to catch up a little with her, and I wish her well. (Which is not really true. My real motivation is to find her and show her how wonderful and I am and wait for her to pursue me, and want me to be her friend. Which of course doesn't happen). I'm let down again and the pain smarts from her final words "Um, okay thanks" as if it had been Amy pushing the P-bomb at me again at recess.
So here I am at square one once more. If I'm honest, I realize that my best relationships are with people from whom I don't expect to fill that BFF hole in my heart. I do well when I reflect on advice I have heard from a friend before: "Be careful not to put all of your eggs in one basket." I know I am a much better friend when I'm not needy and full of expectations. I know, I know, I know. I receive much joy by just being myself and enjoying the moment of shared experience or good conversation. I realize that back in elementary school I began to believe the lie that no one would want to be my friend simply for who I was, and that I've carried it along by defending myself and withdrawing at the first sign of conflict or discomfort in a relationship. In this "thin place" I have a choice to make. I either follow the same pattern and believe that every friend in my life is Amy (after third grade) in disguise waiting to tell the whole world that I still shop at thrift shop (even though I'm proud of it now). Or I can reach out in faith and carve out a whole new path, hand-in-hand with my friend who will never let me down, the friend that made me who I am and was with me in those awful friendless moments hurting right alongside with me. In this friendship I can again be safe and secure in being who I am. Little by little, I am opening myself up to that truth. Thank you, Jesus.
I hope he has BFF scrawled on his palm for me.
Our High Priest is not one who cannot feel sympathy for our weaknesses....let us have confidence, then and approach God's throne where there is grace. There we will receive mercy and find grace to help us just when we need it. Hebrews 5:15-16
*The reference to a "thin place" comes from Mary Demuth's recent memoir Thin Places which inspired me to write this entry. By all means, go go go get the book!
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