life in the current

Last week I started a new job. I'm being a therapist again, after more than four years away from clinical work. The counseling center where I've started seeing clients is slowly generating bookings in my part-time schedule and so the re-entry has been blessedly gradual. On Tuesday morning I had a great second session with someone, spent way too long on paperwork, ran home to relieve our excellent babysitter, hung out with Gabriel for a bit, and visited with a new friend who is also a clinical social worker and stopped by to give me a crash course in a particular clinical problem while the boy watched a video...then it was time to get Frances, drop off both kids at a friend's house so I could see an Eastport Girls Club family, get everyone home in time to throw together a quick dinner, and oh my goodness by the time the kids were in bed and a work call had been made I was so very exhausted.

Yesterday was yoga class in the morning (after far too long away) followed by a happy surprise collision with Mike at home before he went to class and I went to pick up Gabriel. Then my dear boy and I raked leaves in the backyard. Or rather, I raked and he attacked the piles with a very big stick.

He charged the leaves with such gusto! Clearly there were all kinds of imaginary opponents lurking in the leaves, invisible to my limited eyes. I'm lucky Sir Gabriel was there to keep them at bay.

I was filled with a kind of crazy euphoric gratitude that afternoon, thinking of all the supportive people in our lives, the opportunity to do the work I trained to do, the growing village this town has unexpectedly become. After we picked up Frances I spontaneously suggested we invite one of her pals to come out with us for hot chocolate. Which we did. At the cafe we ran into more friends and the kids earnestly - and hilariously - performed magic tricks over and over for me. The big kids did not exclude the little kid one iota. And I felt so content I do believe I might have been glowing.

Then today I somehow completely missed the fact that the calendar said I would be at a meeting and taking Frances to gymnastics at 4 pm. Eek! Midway to gymnastics I had to pull over, apologize profusely to Kate the stood-up babysitter, apologize to my colleagues, apologize to the children who desperately wanted to play with Kate, and then head back onto the road only to slide into the parking lot and run Frances into class late (much to her well-articulated chagrin).

But even as I rushed her in, it occurred to me that this is what approaching balance in one's life is like. You don't actually ever get to a particular spot where all things are in their proper places. Balancing isn't being perfectly still, when you think of it - it's shifting and swaying ever so slightly, executing gentle movements that realign one's weight and center over and over. There are too many moving parts in a living body for stillness to make any sense, and there are too many moving parts in a family to ever really settle into a fixed approach to daily life. Even when jobs and schools stay the same, the very fact of so many people living and growing together ensures the need for adaptive movement and change. Kids are potty-trained, develop a new fear, or meet a new best friend. Marriages grow, friends come in and out, illness visits, community unfolds, babies are born! And each part has to shift to accommodate the moving, glorious whole.

Maybe it's pregnancy, or rejoining with people in the unique environment therapy allows. Or maybe it's the season - the last leaves lingering, poised in golden light, all of it about to give way to winter. There is so much change in the air, and - second trimester hip issues notwithstanding - it is extraordinary to realize I can move with this current. That we all can.

stitches and poky

 

Last night, having returned home from a lovely, full few days in Pennsylvania, Gabriel dug through a new bag of hand-me-downs and delighted in the discovery of footie pajamas pants. Just pants with feet. Genius. He enthusiastically pulled them on and his big toe stuck right through a hole in the end of the right foot. He looked at my plaintively.

Mama, could you sew the hole shut? Right now?

It wasn't too too late so Gabriel followed me to the closet where I keep the sewing box and then helped me pick out some thread. I sloppily sewed up the hole with the pajamas still on his feet. He watched, mesmerized.

Mama, can I sew too? Please??

No, because it's bedtime, but maybe tomorrow we can do some sewing. 

And with that answer, instead of protesting, he looked off into the middle distance, his eyes gleaming with private crafting plans for the morn, then he ran up the stairs and dive-rolled into his bunk bed.

Fast forward 11 hours. The sky was just beginning to brighten and Gabriel was wide awake in his bedroom. His first words to me: I think we should make some clothes. Or maybe a doll, and then clothes for the doll. And then we could make a little pillow for the doll to sleep on. Okay?

This all sounded overwhelmingly ambitious to me at 6:45 am, and I told the boy he had to wait til we got home from church to get started, and geez louise Gabriel, sewing takes a lot of time and effort! But lo and behold, he and Frances basically accomplished it, and much more, before the day was over.

 

After church he fished scraps of felt out of the craft closet and said he'd like to make a bunny. Frances was sitting nearby and I could see her ears perk up at these words. Her too, please! So we drew a template together, cut out pieces of felt, and I sat with the kids and offered assistance while they sewed their front bunny and back bunny together. Watching the needle slide in and out, Gabriel named his orange bunny Stitches. Frances declared her blue bunny was Poky. 

After the bunnies were complete, they immediately came to life. And as you know, living creatures have a lot of needs: food and drink were procured, small toys, leashes and collars (we spent a lot of time with two adorable puppies over the holiday), as well as little beds for the bunnies to sleep in. Scraps of felt were pinned and tied to the bunnies before they came outside to play, serving as makeshift clothes in case they were cold.

I watched Gabriel tuck in Stitches tonight before I said goodnight. I was so overwhelmed with tenderness watching him, thinking of my 17 month old niece Louisa who put her favorite stuffed toy to bed over and over just a couple of days ago at my mom's house, sweetly covering him up on the floor with a dish towel, just as Frances used to do at that age. In their own way, my kids are still playing that game. I'm so glad we had the time and space today to let Stitches and Poky come to life. It's a welcome, warming surprise to realize that my big kids are--sewing skills notwithstanding--still pretty small.

giving thanks

The director of Gabriel's preschool emailed me this picture a week or so ago, a sweet reminder of Halloween morning, when Bug Boy and Laura Ingalls trick-or-treated in a nursing home.

Yesterday I was chatting with the checker at Trader Joe's and comparing Thanksgiving notes. We agree that it is the best holiday. We agree that you simply cannot skip the dinner rolls, even though they are completely superfluous, because too many people are attached to them and Thanksgiving is not the time to challenge anyone about food. We agree that the more the merrier, and unexpected or new guests are always excellent additions. In my mind I was remembering Thanksgivings past with friends who were relatively new at the time, but he had a much better example to share.

"Once my partner and I invited a lady we met at the bus stop," he told me with a grin. "She told us her name was Queen Elizabeth, so that's what we called her." He explained how they knew she would have nowhere else to go, and gave her instructions on how to get to their house. To their surprise she showed up on time, and apparently proceeded to get outrageously drunk. I made a little quip about how I guessed Queen Elizabeth can do whatever she damn well pleases, and he laughed. We wished each other a happy Thanksgiving and the kids and I were on our way, navigating the loaded cart through the crowded parking lot, my mind already on how to unload groceries, exercise and shower in the 45 minutes I had before it was time to leave for early dinner with some new friends that evening.

But my mind kept returning to Queen Elizabeth. My little joke downplayed how extraordinary his story was. Talk about radical hospitality! Would I invite a crazy lady at the bus stop to our Thanksgiving dinner? No, I would not. But thank God for people who do, with grace and humility and humor, so that they can teach the rest of us.

I am noticing these sorts of kindnesses everywhere these days. Lynann sent me that picture from Halloween, just because. Danielle brought us a bag of sweet potatoes from her garden. When Gabriel suffered a freak neck injury this past week and I was in a quandary, unable to leave his side but due to attend the Marco Polo Expo - a much-anticipated culmination of the second grade's hard work and creative efforts - I frantically texted two friends at 7 am who drop their kids off at a school near our house. Could one of them please come over and stay with Gabriel while I went to the last half of the Expo?

They both came over. I rushed off to Frances's school and was greeted by a buzzing room full of kids and parents. When my daughter saw me she raced to the door with her big brown eyes aglow and explained breathlessly that Delanie's mom and Maggie's parents had been listening to the story she wrote, and she got to show them her Mongol-inspired felt ger, and now I was finally there and she could show me! The parents in question grinned at me, appreciative of her enthusiasm, and I could not stop the tears from stinging in my eyes. I missed so much of it. So many big-hearted adults had stepped in. Frances was so happy I was there. During Marco Polo Jeopardy (kids vs. parents) she climbed into my lap and insistently volunteered me over and over - I eventually answered Travel for 200 points - though of course the kid team won, by a gazillion points. They were just awesome.

When I came back, my house was filled with the sounds and harmonious energies of two chatting moms, a newborn, a three year old, a two year old, and Gabriel, who was gingerly sitting up for the first time in over 24 hours, playing with his younger friends. What a happy scene! What a joy to see my boy feeling better, surrounded by people he cares about and who care about him!

What would we do without the countless kindnesses that surround and support us, making the work of being a family so much lighter? This Thanksgiving I am grateful for the generosity of strangers, friends, and family; for so many who show me by their quiet example how much sweeter life is when you are willing to give of yourself.

And you? Where does your gratitude flow this year?

stories for children

Last Wednesday after school, we brought a friend of Frances's home with us for a play date. Wednesday is library day for the second graders, and in the backseat between Frances and Gabriel she proudly showed them her loot: a book on vampires, complete with terrifying fanged images from early Hollywood and bulleted lists of ways the unfortunate child who crosses a vampire's path might defend himself. The girls joked about stringing up garlic around the house. Gabriel was silent.

Until I pulled into our driveway, upon which he climbed out of the car, took one look at me, and burst into tears. "This is too scary," he moaned as he smashed his face into my thighs, embarrassed by his reaction but far too overwhelmed to keep it inside a moment longer.

Since then he's insisted on an escort to and from the bathroom, is quick to startle, and has spent a lot of time on my lap. He's reluctant to venture away from the house or his immediate family. He hasn't said a word about vampires, and I doubt it's even about vampires anymore - he's just left with a lingering sense of fear.

The most restorative activity that seems to heal this perceived tear in his usually safe and loving world is sharing stories. More, more and more stories. Over this lovely relaxing weekend, Mike's parents visited. We had more downtime than usual, and so I spent a good portion of it in the backyard on a blanket, reading from Isaac Bashevis Singer's Stories for Children. 

The stories in this collection are intense, strange (or at least I should think they would be to Gabriel) - about the supernatural, God, death, justice, nature, art, family, and come to think of it, everything that really matters in this life, usually played out with a cast of characters that includes good and bad Jewish spirits that haunt the streets of Polish shtetls. I love reading them with Gabriel. They are rather long and yet he sits motionless through them, barely breathing, and when we finish one (often with tears in my eyes, feeling emotionally exhausted) he pauses for a bit, then turns to me and asks for another.

This is the antidote to ridiculous faux vampire nonfiction (and lots of other nonsense kids encounter out in the world). These stories are about the truth, and children are so good at recognizing the truth! We read a story about Naftali the storyteller, his beloved horse Sus, and their long journey together. We read another about a poor orphan boy named Menaseh who falls asleep in the woods and dreams of a beautiful castle where he finds his parents and grandparents waiting for him. Though they show him its wonders, they quickly send him back to the living world, where he wakes to meet a new friend. The story ends after the two leave, when "among the undergrowth and wild mushrooms, little people in red jackets, gold caps, and green boots emerged. They danced in a circle and sang a song which is heard only by those who know that everything lives and nothing in time is ever lost."

At the end of the collection, in an epilogue titled Are Children the Ultimate Literary Critics?, Singer writes,

No matter how young they are, children are deeply concerned with so-called eternal questions. Who created the world? Who made the earth, the sky, people, animals? Children cannot imagine the beginning or end of time and space. ... Children think about and ponder such matters as justice, the purpose of life, the why of suffering. They often find it difficult to make peace with the idea that animals are slaughtered so that man can eat them. They are bewildered and frightened by death. They cannot accept the fact that the strong should rule the weak.

The child is often a philosopher and a seeker of God. ... If I had my way, I would publish a history of philosophy for children, where I would convey the basic ideas of all philosophers in simple language. Children, who are highly serious people, would read this book with great interest. In our time, when literature for adults is deteriorating, good books for children are the only hope, the only refuge. Many adults read and enjoy children's books. We write not only for children but also for their parents. They, too, are serious children.

From one serious child to another: may the week ahead be safe, happy, and healthy for you and for your dear ones, filled with good stories that satisfy the seeker and philosopher in all of us.

all saints and superheroes

Yesterday morning was a special All Saints Service at our church. Every year the church invites a dixieland jazz band to play, and the music is perfect - painfully, joyfully so. There were baptisms, there was a tuba, there was Lazarus emerging from the tomb, and there was a beautiful sermon about, in large part, the holiness of tears. I suppose that's a good thing, because good gracious, despite my best efforts I think I cried through the whole thing.

It was a big day for Frances, who served as an acolyte for the first time. That means she wore a red robe with one of those white angelic blousy get ups on top and carried a candle on a long pole in the procession leading into the church, during various parts of the service, and in the recession at the end - not far from the jazz musicians walking us all out to the raucous strains of "When the Saints Go Marching In."

She looked so small and solemn in that red robe! She was a good foot shorter than any other children participating in the service that day, and even though most of the time - she is my first, after all - she strikes me as impossibly old, long, lanky, and sophisticated, while we were in church I was reminded (thank you!) that she is just seven. She's a little girl.

Saturday was hard. I brought Frances to a superhero-themed birthday party for one of Gabriel's classmates and though I offered to take her elsewhere with me for awhile, she couldn't resist the balloons and cupcakes and opted to stay. But that is a hard spot to be in--bigger sister in a room full of wild and wooly smaller boys--so she eventually felt left out and pouty. And I was short-tempered with her persistent negativity, and then, and then...the day seemed to unravel from there. We arrived late everywhere, there was way too much backseat bickering, my messy, chaotic house resisted all efforts to tame it...basically, push back everywhere I turned, from animate and inanimate objects alike. And so late in the day, when a shelf of books in Gabriel's room dislodged after I bumped it with the vacuum and all the books went sliding to the floor, I sat down and cried.

It was fatigue, frustration, the stuff of everyday life weighing a little too heavily, but mostly it was my inability to get through to Frances, to circumvent all the junk cluttered between us. It was the grief I feel after the initial smokescreen of anger has worn away and I am left empty-handed, bewildered and sad.

Reading together at bedtime helped (it always does) and I do believe she felt good about herself after carrying that candle without setting anything on fire the next morning. After church she and her brother donned their fabulous party favors and played in the backyard, Gabriel deep in a fantasy superhero world and Frances somewhere else entirely, humming and talking quietly to herself on the swings while her cape fluttered behind her.

Tonight she was put on the spot in a group of people, and when I tried to quietly help her out after a short moment of awkward silence, she looked up at me with flaming red cheeks. Angry tears instantly formed and filled her eyes, and I knew I had made a mistake. I felt desperate to do something, to distract and somehow save her from those hot tears that would only make things worse if they managed to overflow. After she had a chance to settle herself I apologized for trying to help when I knew she could speak for herself just fine. She listened, then told me I had embarrassed her terribly, and that she was mad. Later still she ran up to me and silently hugged me around the waist (or where my waist used to be) as hard as she could. I stroked her hair for awhile, then she ran off.

Push, pull! Much later, she patiently explained to me that even though I think of her as an outgoing, talkative person, sometimes she is actually really shy. And that when a person is three or four or five years old, they can be more extroverted without feeling embarrassed, but now that she is older she feels embarrassed all the time.

Why?

Because now I know how you're supposed to act. I know when I do things the wrong way.

Oh, my thoughtful girl. When I see her twisted up inside herself it is hard to step back and let her find her own way. I think of Jesus calling to Lazarus in the cave: Come out! Lazarus had to do the work and get up and walk, but it was in response to a loving voice. How might we be a pathway for that voice that beckons to Frances, calling her forth when she is scared and uncertain, keeping her inner superhero hiding in the shadows for fear of doing things the wrong way? How to give her the courage to be her own extraordinary, idiosyncratic, perfectly lovable self?

To put it more plainly, how to endure the pain of loving our children so very much? How to find the strength to stay close and stand apart?