We are evaluated from the time we are in utero. Quantifiable measurements are assigned to us throughout our lives. When we're born we're given an Apgar score which measures our health at birth. We're weighed, our length is determined, even the circumference of our head is measured. As babies and small children we continue to be measured and weighed; the percentile of our growth compared to the "average" child is charted. In school we are graded, earn a GPA. If we play sports our stats are recorded; even in band we're seated in order of ability. We take standardized tests and strive for high SAT scores. We go to college and collect a certain number of credits to graduate. We start working and earn a certain salary and hope to be compensated according to ability and experience. We become consumers and earn a credit score.
Obviously there is merit and necessity to evaluation and measurement and scores. But are we reduced to the sum of our collective numbers? We seem to work so hard to achieve the quantifiable rewards society dictates we should want. But there are so many aspects to life that can't be measured, certainly not accurately, anyway. I left my career to raise my children full time. I didn't earn a salary, I had no title other than "mom." How can my success as a parent be measured? Does this make me less of a person than one who has a title and earns a salary?
Yesterday a friend of mine called and shared with me that her daughter, a high school sophomore, appears to be ranked number one in her class based on completion of freshman year. My son, also a sophomore, attends the same school. Instead of feeling excited for her, I felt sick for my son, and if I'm honest, for me. I got off the phone and went straight to my son to find our if he, too, had brought home his transcript.
My son is intellectually gifted, sophisticated beyond his years. He always has been. Raising a kid like this presents its own challenges but I never expected his performance at school to be an issue. Smart kid equals good grades, right? In reality, my son's grades are average, sometimes they are poor. He receives comments on his report card regularly that indicate "he performs below his ability." Recently at a school conference, his history teacher said that my son was a challenging student because he aces the tests but doesn't complete the "busy" work designed to help him study for the tests. The school has a system of evaluation. Kids are graded. It's practical. The reality is that this system doesn't take into account the gray areas of ability. My son's grade point average is not an indication of his intellect. Yet that's the tool we have to measure him and if he wants to go to college, he needs to measure up.
I know that out of 372 students at my son's high school he does not rank anywhere near number one. And when my friend shared that her daughter is at the top, it brought out this nasty competitiveness in me that numbers tend to provoke. I was mad and frustrated and I took it out on my son. He didn't know where his transcript was. I told him our friend was ranked first in the class. I was unkind to the point of cruel to him when I guessed where he might be ranked. This was not a proud parenting moment and I'm writing this to sort out why I handled this so poorly and inappropriately.
The reality is that I am mad at the system. I'm not mad at my son. The intellectual part of his brain developed so fast and dominates him, to the extent that I think some of the common sense neurons, the ones that help us understand we still must hand in our homework even though we already know the material, just haven't developed enough. His success depends in part on measuring his ability yet the system we have can't accurately measure his. By virtue of the system, he becomes average.
We're competitive by nature, survival of the fittest and all. And what is "fit" is determined by numbers. But I hate to think that the sum of who we are can be reduced to empirical evidence. When my newborn son was handed to me, I wasn't thinking of his current stats. I wasn't wondering what his grade point average would be or how much he might earn in his career. I just unconditionally loved him. As his mom and while I still raise him, I need to help him navigate life, including the numbers. But most importantly, I need to support him in his efforts to figure out who he is. And that he, more than anyone else, needs to be happy with who that is. And being happy and living a satisfying life isn't determined by metrics.
I've apologized to my son. I hope he's OK and that I was able to explain what happened. I have no intention of finding out his ranking at school now because how proud I am of my son can't be measured that way. What I am determined to do now is to love and embrace the child I have, not the one society says I'm supposed to have. That, you can count on.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Hate Mongering Through Bible Verses
Today I read a Facebook status that read: Pray for Our President, Psalm 109:8. This Psalm is sometimes referenced as "A Prayer for Obama" and has been popular on the internet for awhile now.
The referenced Psalm reads: "May his days be few; may another take over his position."
Perhaps people find this a creative or even "cute" way to express their dissatisfaction with the current administration. I wonder how many of these people read the next line of the Psalm: "may his children be orphans and his wife a widow." The entire Psalm is actually a prayer for the demise of an evil person.
I have no doubt that many people posted this without looking further than the one line. But posting this reference is basically publicly wishing the president dead. This is insidious enough but it is all the more heinous by using the Bible to convey this desire!
I do not actively practice any religion but I was raised in a Christian home. I know many great Christian people. As with any group, there are an unfortunate few that can end up being the voice of many. There are so-called Christians that foster hate by cherry picking scripture to justify their prejudices. I can't think of a more un-Christian thing to do. It is a shame to let this ugliness become the poster child for Christianity yet this is what people are doing by posting this Psalm in this context.
I enjoy and appreciate that my Facebook friends represent different faiths, cultures, political persuasions. But no matter what our beliefs are, I encourage dispensing with hateful messages to express our views.
The referenced Psalm reads: "May his days be few; may another take over his position."
Perhaps people find this a creative or even "cute" way to express their dissatisfaction with the current administration. I wonder how many of these people read the next line of the Psalm: "may his children be orphans and his wife a widow." The entire Psalm is actually a prayer for the demise of an evil person.
I have no doubt that many people posted this without looking further than the one line. But posting this reference is basically publicly wishing the president dead. This is insidious enough but it is all the more heinous by using the Bible to convey this desire!
I do not actively practice any religion but I was raised in a Christian home. I know many great Christian people. As with any group, there are an unfortunate few that can end up being the voice of many. There are so-called Christians that foster hate by cherry picking scripture to justify their prejudices. I can't think of a more un-Christian thing to do. It is a shame to let this ugliness become the poster child for Christianity yet this is what people are doing by posting this Psalm in this context.
I enjoy and appreciate that my Facebook friends represent different faiths, cultures, political persuasions. But no matter what our beliefs are, I encourage dispensing with hateful messages to express our views.
Friday, April 24, 2009
In Memory of Nana
My grandmother, Margery Tovey, passed away in her sleep on April 12. I was not able to travel to England for her funeral but my mother did and read this on my behalf at the service.
This Easter Sunday is a stormy one. Rain is falling and bits of cherry blossom are floating about like snowflakes or confetti. I can clearly hear my Nan say, “hark at the wind!”
As humans we know ours -- and everyone's -- time is temporary. But there are some people you cannot imagine leaving. We need, maybe even expect, some people to live forever. If anyone could defy mortality, it would be Nan.
Yet despite Nana’s indomitable spirit, she left us today, as all humans eventually do. I cannot believe she is gone, I cannot accept she is gone, yet I can reason she was nearly 90 and had been very unwell. But she was different. Small in stature, but mighty in will and constitution, I doubt I will ever again know a stronger person, male or female, than her.
Nan was smart in an innate, empathic way that cannot be learned. She was sensible and knowing. Her desire for fairness and justice often found her putting her own needs last to insure all was right with everyone else. She was born to take care of others and I know it must have been hard these last few years to rely on people to help her. This was not her nature.
When I was at University, Nan took care of me. I have fond memories of staying with her for weekends when she’d cook up a storm for me not just while I was there, but to pack me care packages of dinners and goodies to hold me over and offer me respite from Uni food. It is no secret that her chocolate cake was my favorite and she supplied me with one every time I visited. My ongoing dependence on tea was developed during this time, and whenever I put the kettle on, and it goes on many times a day, I think of her. But Nana did more than cook. She listened without judgement, and she counseled with seemingly divine wisdom, choosing the words and when to say them, carefully and lovingly. I so appreciate the nurturing she gave me during that time and I know my parents, who were an ocean away, did too.
Nana was funny and witty and had a wonderful laugh that I find myself replaying over and over again in my head. She was willing to give anything a try. She was creative and spontaneous. She had an amazing memory. The old village way of life is dying out in modern England, but Nan kept it alive with her colorful stories of Barns Green’s folk through the ages. I feel as though I was there and knew all those characters. She could recite Shakespeare, including all her lines when she played Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. She recited classic poetry. When she visited us in America one summer, I had just returned from French camp and had learned to sing La Marseilles. To my delight, she had learned it years ago, and sang it word for word with me.
She loved animals, both domestic and wild. When she spent time with us in Washington, she’d get up early and sit by the back door, waiting to spot the raccoons. She loved their little bandit faces and would sit for hours in the hope of spying one. When we eventually emerged from our beds, she would delightedly tell us about her critter sightings.
I am so grateful that she was able to meet my boys and visit with them at our home in the States several times. She loved them and she loved to hear about them. She laughed that Nan laugh so heartily when we shared tales of their mischief or their funny remarks. When she was here she’d spoil them with ice cream and Legos and hugs and love. She always asked how the little boys were even after they grew to be not so little. They loved her and have their own special memories of their time with Nana.
In Midsummer Night’s Dream, Puck asks, “How now spirit? Whither wander you?” I see Nan in a garden, it is not too warm or too cold, she doesn’t even need a cardigan. She’s sipping sherry with a lovely bit of bread and cheese. She knows we are all taken care of and she is content.
Above the whistle of the kettle, I hear Nan’s laugh. The impression she left is too great to forget and so she stays with all of us who were privileged to know and love her, which thankfully is the next best thing to living forever.
This Easter Sunday is a stormy one. Rain is falling and bits of cherry blossom are floating about like snowflakes or confetti. I can clearly hear my Nan say, “hark at the wind!”
As humans we know ours -- and everyone's -- time is temporary. But there are some people you cannot imagine leaving. We need, maybe even expect, some people to live forever. If anyone could defy mortality, it would be Nan.
Yet despite Nana’s indomitable spirit, she left us today, as all humans eventually do. I cannot believe she is gone, I cannot accept she is gone, yet I can reason she was nearly 90 and had been very unwell. But she was different. Small in stature, but mighty in will and constitution, I doubt I will ever again know a stronger person, male or female, than her.
Nan was smart in an innate, empathic way that cannot be learned. She was sensible and knowing. Her desire for fairness and justice often found her putting her own needs last to insure all was right with everyone else. She was born to take care of others and I know it must have been hard these last few years to rely on people to help her. This was not her nature.
When I was at University, Nan took care of me. I have fond memories of staying with her for weekends when she’d cook up a storm for me not just while I was there, but to pack me care packages of dinners and goodies to hold me over and offer me respite from Uni food. It is no secret that her chocolate cake was my favorite and she supplied me with one every time I visited. My ongoing dependence on tea was developed during this time, and whenever I put the kettle on, and it goes on many times a day, I think of her. But Nana did more than cook. She listened without judgement, and she counseled with seemingly divine wisdom, choosing the words and when to say them, carefully and lovingly. I so appreciate the nurturing she gave me during that time and I know my parents, who were an ocean away, did too.
Nana was funny and witty and had a wonderful laugh that I find myself replaying over and over again in my head. She was willing to give anything a try. She was creative and spontaneous. She had an amazing memory. The old village way of life is dying out in modern England, but Nan kept it alive with her colorful stories of Barns Green’s folk through the ages. I feel as though I was there and knew all those characters. She could recite Shakespeare, including all her lines when she played Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. She recited classic poetry. When she visited us in America one summer, I had just returned from French camp and had learned to sing La Marseilles. To my delight, she had learned it years ago, and sang it word for word with me.
She loved animals, both domestic and wild. When she spent time with us in Washington, she’d get up early and sit by the back door, waiting to spot the raccoons. She loved their little bandit faces and would sit for hours in the hope of spying one. When we eventually emerged from our beds, she would delightedly tell us about her critter sightings.
I am so grateful that she was able to meet my boys and visit with them at our home in the States several times. She loved them and she loved to hear about them. She laughed that Nan laugh so heartily when we shared tales of their mischief or their funny remarks. When she was here she’d spoil them with ice cream and Legos and hugs and love. She always asked how the little boys were even after they grew to be not so little. They loved her and have their own special memories of their time with Nana.
In Midsummer Night’s Dream, Puck asks, “How now spirit? Whither wander you?” I see Nan in a garden, it is not too warm or too cold, she doesn’t even need a cardigan. She’s sipping sherry with a lovely bit of bread and cheese. She knows we are all taken care of and she is content.
Above the whistle of the kettle, I hear Nan’s laugh. The impression she left is too great to forget and so she stays with all of us who were privileged to know and love her, which thankfully is the next best thing to living forever.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Sisters
I have a sister. Just one. No brothers. When I was 3 my dad brought me to the hospital to pick up my mom and my new baby sister, Lisa. She had a shock of black hair that stood straight up, the envy of punk rockers, had they existed in 1969. Despite a couple of unfortunate incidences that were taken out of context (I was found hovering over her bassinet with an open diaper pin pointed at her belly, hey, I was trying to help her with an embarrassing diaper issue, and another time she was crying so I thought I'd help my mom by retrieving her from her bassinet. Was it my fault I was a small 3 year old and so could only grab her by the neck to carry her to mom? I did my best.) anyway, I liked having her around.
When we were little girls we played together all the time. We played baby dolls, and barbies and acted out scenes from Little House on the Prairie. I bossed her around. She bugged me. We had fights that included hair pulling and nail scratching. Once she made me so mad that I swiped at her, catching the tip of her nose with my fingernail. In her school photo from that year the focal point is a big scab. I lied and said I was just swinging my arms around and that it was an accident. It wasn't, but deep down I was still happy to have her around.
When we were teenagers we shared clothes, a car, sisterly secrets. I helped get her drunk for the first time and walked her in the snow (her adamant request) to help her feel better. Before she got her license I drove her and her friends to and fro which was a pain. But despite the bickering and eye rolling there was no question that it was good to have her around.
I went away to college but our relationship remained tight. We started funny rituals like giving each other corn-themed presents (don't ask), making/decorating ugly cookies at Christmas, and doing the limbo to "Feliz Navidad." She went to college, too, and while we lived in different countries, we wrote letters and sent each other funny packages. We saw each other at holidays and during the summer. Being away at school had given her the confidence to be opinionated. I no longer dominated, it didn't matter anymore that I was older. She wasn't fond of any of my boyfriends and it really frustrated me. But it was because she had my back and while I didn't want her to be right, I was glad to have her around.
I moved to L.A. to marry my now ex-husband (who she may have been at least partly right about) and she moved home to take care of my mom who was undergoing treatment for breast cancer. She lived with our parents for several years during some very difficult times, doing her best to offer support as they struggled with financial and health problems. I lived far away, had a baby and a different life. This sometimes created friction between us, but I was thankful that she was around.
I moved back to the Northwest and she fell in love and got married. My boys were at that prone-to-injury age and their father was constantly traveling for work. The kids' emergency room visits seldom corresponded to times my husband was home. But my sister was always at the ready to meet me at the hospital and take care of the well/uninjured child while I stayed bedside for the stitches and/or bone setting. When my oldest son seriously broke his arm Lisa stayed with me because I was really freaked out. The doctor wouldn't let me stay in the room while they anesthetized my son and set his bones. I was terrified. I stood outside the treatment room door which had a window with a blind, closed from the inside. My sister craned her neck and told me she could sort of see inside. She ran color commentary on the procedure, telling me that the doctor had given a thumbs up to the nurse and that all my kid's monitors were blipping away just fine. When everything was over and my son was pain free and happy with his new purple cast, Lisa admitted she never saw a thing. She didn't want me to be afraid. I tried to be mad that she lied to me but I was truly grateful she was around.
My sister has a daughter. She was born last year, 6 weeks premature and gravely ill. The complications could have also killed my sister. My niece was in the NICU unit for 6 weeks, defying all odds by recovering completely. She is a gorgeous, thriving toddler, a vision of health. Throughout the ordeal I marveled at Lisa's bravery and unwavering belief that things would work out. I'd been a mom for a lot longer than she had, but she was an inspiration to be around.
My sister, as I type this, is lying on an operating table having a double mastectomy. She, at 39, has breast cancer. One breast was affected and the doctors felt it best to remove it. Given her young age and motivated by her baby girl, she decided to have the healthy breast removed, too. Why worry about the disease striking again? She will need to undergo chemotherapy and radiation. She has a long, difficult journey ahead of her. It doesn't feel real. Each day at 7:12 the school bus picks up my boys. Each day the paper is on the doorstep. Each day the normal daily things happen. And I can almost forget that my sister is facing this battle. But the painful reality is there, jabbing and daring me to sink to thoughts of the worst case scenario. Of not having her around.
Her prognosis is excellent. She is feisty in the best of times. I have dealt with her when I've pissed her off and right now I SO would not want to be that cancer. Bring it on. It doesn't stand a chance. Because her daughter, her husband, her mom, her dad, her extended family, her friends and her big sister, who by the way is ready and poised and not afraid to use an open diaper pin if I have to, need her to be around.
When we were little girls we played together all the time. We played baby dolls, and barbies and acted out scenes from Little House on the Prairie. I bossed her around. She bugged me. We had fights that included hair pulling and nail scratching. Once she made me so mad that I swiped at her, catching the tip of her nose with my fingernail. In her school photo from that year the focal point is a big scab. I lied and said I was just swinging my arms around and that it was an accident. It wasn't, but deep down I was still happy to have her around.
When we were teenagers we shared clothes, a car, sisterly secrets. I helped get her drunk for the first time and walked her in the snow (her adamant request) to help her feel better. Before she got her license I drove her and her friends to and fro which was a pain. But despite the bickering and eye rolling there was no question that it was good to have her around.
I went away to college but our relationship remained tight. We started funny rituals like giving each other corn-themed presents (don't ask), making/decorating ugly cookies at Christmas, and doing the limbo to "Feliz Navidad." She went to college, too, and while we lived in different countries, we wrote letters and sent each other funny packages. We saw each other at holidays and during the summer. Being away at school had given her the confidence to be opinionated. I no longer dominated, it didn't matter anymore that I was older. She wasn't fond of any of my boyfriends and it really frustrated me. But it was because she had my back and while I didn't want her to be right, I was glad to have her around.
I moved to L.A. to marry my now ex-husband (who she may have been at least partly right about) and she moved home to take care of my mom who was undergoing treatment for breast cancer. She lived with our parents for several years during some very difficult times, doing her best to offer support as they struggled with financial and health problems. I lived far away, had a baby and a different life. This sometimes created friction between us, but I was thankful that she was around.
I moved back to the Northwest and she fell in love and got married. My boys were at that prone-to-injury age and their father was constantly traveling for work. The kids' emergency room visits seldom corresponded to times my husband was home. But my sister was always at the ready to meet me at the hospital and take care of the well/uninjured child while I stayed bedside for the stitches and/or bone setting. When my oldest son seriously broke his arm Lisa stayed with me because I was really freaked out. The doctor wouldn't let me stay in the room while they anesthetized my son and set his bones. I was terrified. I stood outside the treatment room door which had a window with a blind, closed from the inside. My sister craned her neck and told me she could sort of see inside. She ran color commentary on the procedure, telling me that the doctor had given a thumbs up to the nurse and that all my kid's monitors were blipping away just fine. When everything was over and my son was pain free and happy with his new purple cast, Lisa admitted she never saw a thing. She didn't want me to be afraid. I tried to be mad that she lied to me but I was truly grateful she was around.
My sister has a daughter. She was born last year, 6 weeks premature and gravely ill. The complications could have also killed my sister. My niece was in the NICU unit for 6 weeks, defying all odds by recovering completely. She is a gorgeous, thriving toddler, a vision of health. Throughout the ordeal I marveled at Lisa's bravery and unwavering belief that things would work out. I'd been a mom for a lot longer than she had, but she was an inspiration to be around.
My sister, as I type this, is lying on an operating table having a double mastectomy. She, at 39, has breast cancer. One breast was affected and the doctors felt it best to remove it. Given her young age and motivated by her baby girl, she decided to have the healthy breast removed, too. Why worry about the disease striking again? She will need to undergo chemotherapy and radiation. She has a long, difficult journey ahead of her. It doesn't feel real. Each day at 7:12 the school bus picks up my boys. Each day the paper is on the doorstep. Each day the normal daily things happen. And I can almost forget that my sister is facing this battle. But the painful reality is there, jabbing and daring me to sink to thoughts of the worst case scenario. Of not having her around.
Her prognosis is excellent. She is feisty in the best of times. I have dealt with her when I've pissed her off and right now I SO would not want to be that cancer. Bring it on. It doesn't stand a chance. Because her daughter, her husband, her mom, her dad, her extended family, her friends and her big sister, who by the way is ready and poised and not afraid to use an open diaper pin if I have to, need her to be around.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Congratulations or Condolences?
Our divorce trial took place yesterday. At the very last minute, haggling over a few dollars in the courthouse cafeteria, we finalized our settlement. We appeared before the judge, were asked a few questions and then it was done. We're not officially divorced until the paperwork is signed but for all intents and purposes, our marriage is officially dissolved.
I drove to the courthouse the back way, through brilliantly sunlit farmland and rolling countryside. Flocks of Canada geese flew overhead and a deer stood motionless in a field. I smiled at the beauty of the day, breathed it in and tried to focus on the task at hand. But walking up the courthouse steps, all the bucolic peace I was channeling on the way in dissipated into that familiar heartache and grief. I am getting a divorce.
In the courthouse cafeteria my husband sat working on his laptop. I sat near him and said hello. He asked to borrow a pen. Silently he wrote me a check for this month's support. The awkward tension between us was tortuous. His lawyer soon entered the room and the two of them moved to another table to discuss some last minute details. They summoned my lawyer over to negotiate some final provisions as I sat trembling and alone in the overly air-conditioned room. Jurors came in and bought bagels and cups of coffee. Orange jump-suited inmates were escorted through the building. Lawyers and government employees carried on with their day. And there I sat in suspended animation as our 15 year marriage was summarized by one final dollar amount and the exchange of some furniture.
In the courtroom we sat with our lawyers. The judge had a teddy bear beard, kind eyes and a soothing voice. He praised us for our "creativity" in settling the case ourselves. He asked each of us if we wanted him to ratify the agreement and in the sweep of his pen on paper my relationship with my husband was reduced to a court order. His Honor shook my hand and said the strangest thing, "congratulations."
The dictionary defines "congratulate" as "to express pleasure to, as on a happy occasion." Numbly walking to my car I wondered how the shattering of a dream, a partnership, a family could possible be deemed a "happy occasion." Certainly the judge should have offered his condolences which is "the expression of sympathy to a person experiencing sorrow, misfortune or grief."
I started up my car and turned my iPod to shuffle. Queen's "I Want to Break Free" started blasting through my stereo. I laughed at Fate's cruel sense of humor. Sorrow, misfortune, grief. I felt them all and the tears fell nonstop on the drive home. The judge's seemingly inappropriate "congratulations" buzzed through my head all day. And maybe, I started to consider, he was on to something. Because maybe he didn't view our divorce as an ending, something to grieve and so offer us his condolences. Maybe he saw it as starting over, a happy occasion worthy of congratulating.
When bad things happen we can choose to stay mired in the sorrow and lament our misfortune. But we do also have the choice to look beyond the pain and see an opportunity to start fresh, learn from the past and consciously pave the way to a happier future. So I'm wiping my tears and starting today will choose congratulations over condolences.
I drove to the courthouse the back way, through brilliantly sunlit farmland and rolling countryside. Flocks of Canada geese flew overhead and a deer stood motionless in a field. I smiled at the beauty of the day, breathed it in and tried to focus on the task at hand. But walking up the courthouse steps, all the bucolic peace I was channeling on the way in dissipated into that familiar heartache and grief. I am getting a divorce.
In the courthouse cafeteria my husband sat working on his laptop. I sat near him and said hello. He asked to borrow a pen. Silently he wrote me a check for this month's support. The awkward tension between us was tortuous. His lawyer soon entered the room and the two of them moved to another table to discuss some last minute details. They summoned my lawyer over to negotiate some final provisions as I sat trembling and alone in the overly air-conditioned room. Jurors came in and bought bagels and cups of coffee. Orange jump-suited inmates were escorted through the building. Lawyers and government employees carried on with their day. And there I sat in suspended animation as our 15 year marriage was summarized by one final dollar amount and the exchange of some furniture.
In the courtroom we sat with our lawyers. The judge had a teddy bear beard, kind eyes and a soothing voice. He praised us for our "creativity" in settling the case ourselves. He asked each of us if we wanted him to ratify the agreement and in the sweep of his pen on paper my relationship with my husband was reduced to a court order. His Honor shook my hand and said the strangest thing, "congratulations."
The dictionary defines "congratulate" as "to express pleasure to, as on a happy occasion." Numbly walking to my car I wondered how the shattering of a dream, a partnership, a family could possible be deemed a "happy occasion." Certainly the judge should have offered his condolences which is "the expression of sympathy to a person experiencing sorrow, misfortune or grief."
I started up my car and turned my iPod to shuffle. Queen's "I Want to Break Free" started blasting through my stereo. I laughed at Fate's cruel sense of humor. Sorrow, misfortune, grief. I felt them all and the tears fell nonstop on the drive home. The judge's seemingly inappropriate "congratulations" buzzed through my head all day. And maybe, I started to consider, he was on to something. Because maybe he didn't view our divorce as an ending, something to grieve and so offer us his condolences. Maybe he saw it as starting over, a happy occasion worthy of congratulating.
When bad things happen we can choose to stay mired in the sorrow and lament our misfortune. But we do also have the choice to look beyond the pain and see an opportunity to start fresh, learn from the past and consciously pave the way to a happier future. So I'm wiping my tears and starting today will choose congratulations over condolences.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
The Boys are Back in Town!
Of course most mothers feel attached to their children. And some of those mothers have more trouble cutting the proverbial apron strings than others. It's safe to say I fit this category.
When my oldest son was 3 I signed him up for preschool because I thought it was the right decision for him. But it didn't feel like the right decision for me. I couldn't bear the thought of leaving him in the care of someone else, I'd surely fall apart. So I calmed myself with the decision that I would drop him off and just wait in the parking lot each day. Ultimately I was able to leave the parking lot. I knew I had to let go, and he thrived and I stayed intact.
I never liked the boys riding in other people's cars or sleeping over at friend's houses. Cub scout camp was only barely tolerable for me because their dad went, too. When he was at outdoor school, I would wake up each of the 3 nights my son was gone and imagine him getting lost in the woods trying to find the bathroom. The first time the boys went to a movie without an adult I arrived early to pick them up and practically camped outside the the theatre doors to meet them as soon as they emerged. But I let them go, and they, of course, thrived and I still managed to stay intact.
When their dad and I split up I knew I would need to face the inevitable travel without me. The first summer of our separation my husband decided to take them on a 12 day road trip to visit Grandma in California. The boys were thrilled at the prospect but for me he might as well have sent them down into an abandoned mine shaft. 1500 miles of driving -- each way! Perhaps letting them go unattended into a rest stop restroom! Staying in earthquake country! With a woman who was most certainly never a fan of me! No amount of fruit picking could assuage my anxiety.
But 12 days passed and they returned, tan and beaming and full of tales they will have to recount forever. They definitely thrived. And there was I, still somehow intact.
This summer their dad proposed another road trip with a slight twist, they would drive there and, gasp, fly home! I'm not a flying fan for me, let alone for my children. At least while driving I could call or text them and know they were ok. But last night they traveled home. On a plane. At departure time I checked the airline website. Five minutes into departure I checked the flight status again. And so it went until they landed.
They are both here with me now. Tanned and beaming and full of tales they will recount forever. And they continue to thrive and I am admittedly still intact.
The thing about cutting apron strings is that while you let go of a little fabric, the apron itself is still intact. I realize that raising children is about gradually letting them go so that when they are adults they can not only stand alone, but thrive. If you give them the opportunity to be independent, to explore on their own, but always be there with open arms when they return, the relationship you forged with them since birth will ultimately remain intact.
When my oldest son was 3 I signed him up for preschool because I thought it was the right decision for him. But it didn't feel like the right decision for me. I couldn't bear the thought of leaving him in the care of someone else, I'd surely fall apart. So I calmed myself with the decision that I would drop him off and just wait in the parking lot each day. Ultimately I was able to leave the parking lot. I knew I had to let go, and he thrived and I stayed intact.
I never liked the boys riding in other people's cars or sleeping over at friend's houses. Cub scout camp was only barely tolerable for me because their dad went, too. When he was at outdoor school, I would wake up each of the 3 nights my son was gone and imagine him getting lost in the woods trying to find the bathroom. The first time the boys went to a movie without an adult I arrived early to pick them up and practically camped outside the the theatre doors to meet them as soon as they emerged. But I let them go, and they, of course, thrived and I still managed to stay intact.
When their dad and I split up I knew I would need to face the inevitable travel without me. The first summer of our separation my husband decided to take them on a 12 day road trip to visit Grandma in California. The boys were thrilled at the prospect but for me he might as well have sent them down into an abandoned mine shaft. 1500 miles of driving -- each way! Perhaps letting them go unattended into a rest stop restroom! Staying in earthquake country! With a woman who was most certainly never a fan of me! No amount of fruit picking could assuage my anxiety.
But 12 days passed and they returned, tan and beaming and full of tales they will have to recount forever. They definitely thrived. And there was I, still somehow intact.
This summer their dad proposed another road trip with a slight twist, they would drive there and, gasp, fly home! I'm not a flying fan for me, let alone for my children. At least while driving I could call or text them and know they were ok. But last night they traveled home. On a plane. At departure time I checked the airline website. Five minutes into departure I checked the flight status again. And so it went until they landed.
They are both here with me now. Tanned and beaming and full of tales they will recount forever. And they continue to thrive and I am admittedly still intact.
The thing about cutting apron strings is that while you let go of a little fabric, the apron itself is still intact. I realize that raising children is about gradually letting them go so that when they are adults they can not only stand alone, but thrive. If you give them the opportunity to be independent, to explore on their own, but always be there with open arms when they return, the relationship you forged with them since birth will ultimately remain intact.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Crystal Clear
Today is my, sorry, our 15th wedding anniversary, traditionally known as the crystal anniversary. I wonder, had we stayed together, what we might have done to commemorate 15 years. Such speculation is pointless; there's no way to know what might have been, but I do have 15 years of what was, and it wasn't all bad.
We, like most couples, registered for gifts. We registered for all types of things we would never buy for ourselves but thought we needed since someone else would be buying. Like china and cloth napkins and a toasted sandwich maker and, yes, crystal. Waterford crystal wine glasses with a gold rim. Many people bought these for us and I carefully put each one of them away in our china hutch. I could look through the glass doors at that sparkling stemware and feel like a grown up married person.
One January morning, a few months after the wedding, a violent earthquake hit the San Fernando Valley where we lived. Our house was in ruins. The house pitched so dramatically that it flung open cabinets, closets, even the fridge, hurling the contents across rooms and onto the floor. In shock, I wandered into the dining room. The china hutch doors were closed but the crystal wasn't inside. Those doors, too, had been thrown open, jettisoning the contents onto the floor and then slamming shut again. On the rug lay shards and jagged fragments of Waterford crystal. I picked up the broken base of a glass, the label still on it. I hadn't even had the chance to drink out of my grown-up married glasses.
Among the rubble and tipped over inside the china hutch, a few whole glasses remained which I have kept and used and treasured ever since. So it is fitting to me that this is our crystal anniversary. Like the Waterford our marriage ended up mostly broken, but there were good, solid pieces, too. And I have those to keep.
We, like most couples, registered for gifts. We registered for all types of things we would never buy for ourselves but thought we needed since someone else would be buying. Like china and cloth napkins and a toasted sandwich maker and, yes, crystal. Waterford crystal wine glasses with a gold rim. Many people bought these for us and I carefully put each one of them away in our china hutch. I could look through the glass doors at that sparkling stemware and feel like a grown up married person.
One January morning, a few months after the wedding, a violent earthquake hit the San Fernando Valley where we lived. Our house was in ruins. The house pitched so dramatically that it flung open cabinets, closets, even the fridge, hurling the contents across rooms and onto the floor. In shock, I wandered into the dining room. The china hutch doors were closed but the crystal wasn't inside. Those doors, too, had been thrown open, jettisoning the contents onto the floor and then slamming shut again. On the rug lay shards and jagged fragments of Waterford crystal. I picked up the broken base of a glass, the label still on it. I hadn't even had the chance to drink out of my grown-up married glasses.
Among the rubble and tipped over inside the china hutch, a few whole glasses remained which I have kept and used and treasured ever since. So it is fitting to me that this is our crystal anniversary. Like the Waterford our marriage ended up mostly broken, but there were good, solid pieces, too. And I have those to keep.
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