Back to school: of notebooks and daydreams

Back to school shopping has evolved in our household.

This year we bought notebooks with a front cover image of One Direction, a British boy band consisting of five irresistible mop tops. Last year our notebooks featured Justin Bieber, if you’ve ever heard of him.

The year before that we purchased brooding notebooks with images of Edward Cullen, the impossibly beautiful vampire from the “Twilight” series. And before that, we brought home notebooks depicting the Jonas Brothers, a family pop trio of cuteness and hotness. I’m sure you remember them.

I recall my own school supplies of long ago with depictions of Barbie, the Partridge Family, and yes, the Bay City Rollers.

The themes of our school supply purchases are like a child’s daydream. A backpack full of budding discovery. A locker full of emerging hopes. And a shopping bag of full-blown marketing to parents, for those notebooks also hold the dreams of mothers like me.

No matter who is pictured on my kids’ notebooks I still want the same thing and maybe you do too: We want our kids to have it all.

But there’s more to our parental dreams.

click here to read more on Living Lutheran (thanks, Living Lutheran!). . .

Maybe parenting is like a sling shot.

Maybe parenting is like a sling shot.

You wind it up, pull it back, pull it, pull it tight, and then BOING you let it go soaring through thin air. No longer in your control. All the while you were winding you thought that was the hard part, only to find out that no, the hard part is letting go, the hard part is watching.

My pregnancies were spent in the subways of New York City. I worked full time because I thought I had to, although in hindsight I'm not sure I did. Bob and I were in the rare position of having cheap housing and low expenses while living in one of the most expensive cities in the world. I suppose I worked because I wanted to. I wanted to be important, and to be important you worked. Or so I believed. Truth be told, I'd simply  never not worked, although these days I'd sure like to give that a try.

My OB-GYN clinic was located equidistant between our home in Brooklyn and my office in Manhattan. I arranged that on purpose so I could take the subway to appointments and then get back on and head on into work, no matter how big my belly was. I'll tell you that the thousands of other people who shared my R-train route were generally very kind, always embarrassing me by offering me their seats if I was standing, grabbing on to a pole for balance. Being from the Midwest, I would have preferred that me and my fleshy beach ball go unnoticed, but that doesn't happen in the city. Same thing when my belly weight threw me off balance and I toppled like a weeble on the corner of 26th and Park Avenue South, in my navy blue maternity office-wear. I was hoping to quietly wobble upright unnoticed as the zillions of people around me marched like ants to their workplaces. But for one thing, the laws of physics wouldn't allow me up, and for another thing, those nasty New Yorker's simply came to my rescue and pulled me up. I headed to my my 8th floor desk space  with one of those classic knee scrapes a 3-year-old kid would get on a playground.

When my babies were three months old, respectively, I went back to work. I felt lucky because I knew many other women who had less time. Still, I should have stayed home longer, even a couple months longer, but that's another blog post. Of course the question hit me: what's the point of having kids if you're going to hand them off to someone else? I mostly brushed off these questions and a wise colleague advised me that kids need you more when they are teenagers, so work now and save up the career capital until later.

Even as I had questions, the most amazing childcare provider emerged. A new friend in Brooklyn, who like me, was from Minnesota. She understood perfectly the whole Midwest-to-East Coast dynamic. Plus, get this, she was a Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist. Yes, my daycare provider was a practicing mental health counselor. Her skills constantly came in handy for all of us. She became first in a long line of people we've enlisted to care for our children. For the most part, it's all worked out surprisingly well. (I really don't know how anyone can say they do anything independently. It's metaphysically impossible.)

I no longer believe in so called "career capital" but my colleague was right. I feel like for the past 15 years all Bob and I've been doing is winding up the sling shot. We thought we were doing the hard part, but we were just pulling tight the energy so we can soon let it go, sending it into eternity. Everyday is less control, and loss of control is -- well, I don't know, isn't that a basis for mental breakdown? Hello parents of young children, you're all headed for inevitable insanity. No, I'm not saying that, but maybe to some degree I am. No, really, this is just how it is with me.

It has taking me 15 years to come face to face with parental loss of control, as our kids prepare for 11th and 8th grade, as my daughter learns to drive, as my son becomes more mysterious, as we are a few short years away from college and the (inhale) empty nest. My friends tell me the loss of control continues as children find partners, lose partners, have their own babies. "My son, the father" is an essay by Anne Lamott that I'll be using next Monday, in the first night of teaching my composition class at Des Moines Area Community College. Even now, witnessing my own kids taking care of younger kids is something I'm not fully prepared for.

My young niece is experiencing parental loss of control far too early as today she is being induced because her baby was diagnosed in utero with a terminal condition, anencephaly. She and her partner will lose their baby, who they've named Charlie King Ball, at birth, which will be within the next 12 hours or so.

Maybe parenting has to be like a sling shot, creating a force so strong we cannot contain it. Because if we could contain it, we would. And children, apparently, sadly, cannot be contained.

With love, T

Learning to fly. Learning to let go.

The Roosevelt High School cheerleaders, varsity and jr varsity.
Wish we could all see the fifth stunt group, to our left,
who apparently didn't fit into the frame.
It's fun to see the new girls learn to fly and the veteran girls teaching them.

There's something about this picture I really like.

I think it's all the reaching up. The pushing up. The stretching up. The looking up.

All the upward movement by the base juxtaposes with the flyers, who seem (understandably) rather tentative by comparison. Don't get me wrong, these flyers look awesome, but they're not on their toes like the back bases are. They're not looking upwards, like all their supporters are.

What the flyers are doing is looking out and revving up the audience -- while not letting on to their precarious situation. The flyers are totally dependent on a highly synchronized team to ensure their safe propulsion, trick, and landing.

The team moves perfectly together by counting. In this sport, precision is required otherwise a flyer gets dropped, and possibly seriously hurt. When a flyer falls to the floor, her trust in the base is broken. When trust goes down, the base can't get the flyer back up.

A reliable base who never allows the flyer to get hurt makes for a spectacular show.

I love all the symbolism in that. The teamwork, collaboration, and the idea that when someone succeeds we all do. Blah, blah, idealistic, blah. Imagine my son's hands making the motions of endless yacking, opening and closing his palms like clapping clams.

Girl child with one of her many cheer coaches,
and one of her many cheer awards. We are so very proud of her.

As you may know, I haven't been all that supportive of my daughter's cheerleading passion. I'm still not. But I am trying. This year I believe that great God almighty has taken pity upon this confused mother and made the English teacher the cheer coach. (How's that for grace?) That helps my state of wondering if cheerleading is the subject on which to spend so much time, energy, and money. Bob and I are doing back flips to finance the cheer habit and provide transportation, as girl child is now on three teams.

But what do I know? I'm lucky if I can get through any day without bloodshot, baggy eyes to meet my deadlines du jour. My goals often include recovery from sleeping with the most active subconscious in the world, which is not really sleeping. It's more like resting your brain on a bed of thumb tacks.

So when your kid finds her passion, something she loves to do, something she's good at, something she has access to, something others look to her for leadership -- you should raise yourself upwards and shout THANK YOU! to the heavens and earth. Even if you don't totally understand it. Even if it's not what you had envisioned for your child.

Right?

I'm trying, I really am. But honestly, I'm the most tired cheerleading mother you'll ever meet and I still have a hard time letting go of my preconceived notions of what passions my daughter should keep. You can imagine how giddy I was when my daugther informed me that this year she'll be the principal's assistant every day first period. (Mrs. Danielson and Girlchild kind of hit if off last year when Girlchild recruited the English teacher to be the new cheer coach. The Principal and my kid are thinking yay, a cheer coach. I'm thinking yay, a potential letter of reference for college applications.) My red eyes grew big with joy and all I could say was "I like! I like!" I think she did that intentionally so I'd lay off on my other concerns. It was a brilliant plan that worked perfectly.

Queue my son's clam-clapping hand motions to indicate yacking.

Still, if you want to join me in supporting all these upwardly mobile girls, find me every Friday night starting soon at the Roosevelt High School football games. I'll be the one cringing at the violent body contact on the field and reveling at the beautiful synchronicity on the sidelines. Then promptly going home to bed.

Thank for stopping by my blog. I wish you a wonderful weekend!

With love, T

The possibility of a bicycle booty call

Hello Snake Charmer Friends! Are you out there? Why would you be as I haven't written forever? Gosh, in the good old days of unemployment I was writing everyday. And you were all good enough to humor me and say nice things, or at least not say mean things.

About six months ago I decided to quit writing. I decided writing wasn't good for my mental health as it became yet another problem solving task clogging my brain. I graduated last December after a two-year fury of writing 100 pages for my book (book? what book?) in the nooks and crannies of my time. Right after graduation I pushed forward with 20 more pages and then just stopped. It's an effort to clear my mental clutter.

Some of you saw the picture I posted on facebook (against my better judgement) of my son at six months taking a bath in the kitchen sink among the dirty dishes. He was happy as a clam, pink and pudgy, smiling straight at the camera while sitting the suds. He totally didn't care about the chaos around him. I remember Bob and me feeling so tired that neither one of us could walk 20 feet to the bathroom to prepare his bath. Instead, we finished with supper (probably hot dogs or an equivalent dish), left the dirty dishes, and filled up one kitchen basin with soapy water for the baby. It was like a continuation of the long awaited dinner hour time together, and a procrastination of the much dreaded child bedtime hour.

Now that baby is 13-years-old, and metaphorically those dishes are still in the sink. A kid grows up no matter how distracted you are from mothering. You wish you could make more money, work less hours, travel to new places, get a full night's sleep, take dance lessons, read more books, look better, be cooler, and whatnot. Wishes are endless. Meanwhile all your kid does is grow up and grow away.

I can't remember the last time my boy smiled like he did in that picture with him in the kitchen sink. Wait, yes I can. Just last month he smiled. Bob and I have figured out the secret to get a teenage boy to smile. While bike riding we pull just ahead of him and then coordinate one, two, three to give him a synchronized booty call, lifting our behinds from the bike seat and wiggling to the glory of our son. Yes, a parental booty call in unison will make my 13-year-old smile big, just like in that sudsy picture of long ago. I'm pretty sure it's a smile of disgust, but we'll take it. I offer this parenting advise as a free gift to the world.

Unemployment hasn't been my personal issue for over three years now, so I don't know why I keep referring to it. (First paragraph, approximately four topics ago, in case this post is confusing to follow.) I guess it's just one of those deep-as-the-ocean experiences that you never forget. It all ended so badly, like a long overdue break-up with a horrible boyfriend. But the good thing about unemployment is it opens the door to a whole new group of friends who know exactly what you're talking about, unlike the people who secretly believe it will never happen to them. Shout out to all my friends who have ever lost a job! Love you!

Actually, the truth is I am writing and I'm writing a lot, in my new position of gainful employment. So I guess you could say I'm a professional writer. That's cool. I'll take that. It's not my own creative writing, but these are minor details. That will come when it's time. (I'm working on my capacity for zen wisdom.)

A couple months ago I was able to whittle out an essay from those lastly written pages from my poor little book project. A generous friend helped me edit it so I could submit it to a literary journal. I said it before and I'll say it again: I don't care if it gets rejected, which it probably will; it's a miracle that it got submitted at all.

The problem with not writing is that it has the opposite effect that I'm aiming for. I wish to clear my mental clutter so I quit writing, yet writing is the exact thing that clears my mental clutter. Kind of like a chicken and egg thing. Makes sense? Of course not, my thinking is cluttered.

For now, I've got a kid going to sailing camp, a kid who can cook, a kid who is learning archery, a kid who makes me laugh, a kid who is amazing with kids, a kid who wants to do international relations (ahem, I didn't influence that), a kid full of possibility, and a kid packed with opportunity. The incredible thing is this: these kids generally like me. Not a bad deal for a mother who has spent most of her mothering years feeling pretty much overworked, overbooked, and overwhelmed.

By now you, if you've made it this far in the post (thank you!), you are probably wishing I'd stick to my new policy of not writing. Still, I thank you for coming over to the Charmer blog and I wish you a lovely weekend full of possibility.

With love, T

What freedom feels like

After the fireworks, this is the route
we took home to escape the crowds.

Not to bore you with another spectacular bike ride story, but sheesh, talk about an extrasensory experience. We left at dusk on July 3 and required tweenboy to join us, at his great disappointment.

We three rode through the woods and when we entered downtown ran smack into the full moon, an over-sized golden circle rising above the tree tops into the blue twilight sky. As we whizzed past people lined up to watch the fireworks I kept shouting out, look behind you! full moon! like a biker dork on parade. 

Arriving at our favorite destination these days, Mullets, we ordered two beers and one soda pop. We mingled among the multitudes who showed up with their blankets, lawn chairs, strollers, and wagons to wait for the show to start. Fireworks over the city were a hit. I'll agree with my friend Anne who says that Des Moines's skyline "is the cutest." The fireworks were spectacular. Everyone clapped. 

We escaped the traffic clog on our bikes, riding back through the Gray's Lake bridge path (photo), lit up in neon. People in canoes were scattered about the dark water. One canoe was setting off these miniature hot air balloon thingies. Yes, fire and all. Riding back home through the woods, it was pitch black except for two of us had headlights, lighting the way for all three of us. Plus, we could see rogue fireworks bursting all around us. Besides that, it was total darkness, the moonlight did not reach the path. Still, we hummed along at a pretty good speed. It's amazing how many other bikers were out too. All we could hear, though, were the ear splitting sounds of crickets, frogs, and nighttime critters. It was still about 90 degrees and when we arrived at our trail head, a soccer field. Sweat and salt dripped down my face. A huge sprinkler was on, inviting us to stand in it's spray. We did.

It was all ridiculously joyful. Tweenboy said he liked it all except for the bike riding part. Bob decided our bikes were a good investment.

I concluded, this is what freedom feels like. Made possible in part thanks to one paid day-off from work, a great city, a bike-obsessed husband, and a hilarious son.

Happy 4th of July to you all!

Psychosomatic or just plain psycho

Water Fire events are held
in summer on the canals in
Providence, Rhode Island.
I've only seen it in pictures and TV.

"Where you came from is gone. Where you thought you were going to never was there. And where you are is no good unless you can get away from it." Flannery O'Connor

For almost all of our 15 years together, my daughter and I have shared a love for the word Providence.

We love the place. A city in Rhode Island that we've only driven through twice, when she was one year old, to and from a Cape Cod vacation she hated. She cried sleepless in our beach side rental nearly the whole week, driving me and Bob insane for the constant screeching and the frittered thousand dollar investment.

We love the old television series, set in the city of Providence. About a beautiful yet big-hearted family physician, her quirky sister, and their many collective boyfriends. (Our favorite boyfriend was good guy firefighter, Burt, played by the actor would go on to play the role of Mad Men's Don Draper.)

And we love the theme song of the television show, the sweet but haunting tune, In My Life, by John Lennon and Paul McCartney. The lyrics start, "There are places I remember, all my life though some have changed. Some forever not for better. Some have gone and some remain."

While we love the Beatles rendition the best, the song has been covered many times. I like Bette Midler's version in the movie For the Boys. We adore the Providence show's version as recorded by Chantal Kreviazuk. When we watch the DVD's of Providence (sadly, which don't include all the episodes) my daughter will queue Kreviazuk's version on her iPod and we listen through shared ear buds through the opening credits because for some reason the DVD version doesn't include the original theme song and we can't stand the song they inserted as a replacement.

Apparently Ozzy Osborne, Johnny Cash, and the cast of Glee have also covered the song, but I haven't heard them yet.

Providence is defined by the Merriam - Webster dictionary as "divine guidance or care." According to this source the word is often capitalized, as if it's a proper noun. Providence. I often wonder if that's the reason we like the show and the song, because we like the word and what it could mean. Although I honestly don't know how a three year old could possibly consider "divine guidance or care." That was the age of my daughter when we started to love the word, Providence.

But what do I know about little children and what do I know about divine guidance?

When I think about all the tender times of intimacy with my daughter, I also think about the postpartum depression that came after she was born. Now, well over 15 years later, I think about it more than ever. Postpartum depression is defined by the Mayo Clinic as this: "Many new moms experience the baby blues after childbirth, which commonly include mood swings and crying spells and fade quickly. But some new moms experience a more sever, long-lasting form of depression known as postpartum depression. Rarely, an extreme form of postpartum depression known as postpartum psychosis develops after childbirth."

I wanted a child yet I remember bursting into sobs in the shower just after we got home from the hospital. Baby sleeping in next room, I stepped into the bathtub and a rush of reality crashed into me. How drastically my body had changed. How dramatically my daily routine had changed. How little control I had over my own destiny.

In those same early days I would look down into the bassinet and see my baby as an object, not as a human, but as a strange appendage of myself that I felt needed to be removed, like a cyst or a tumor. "But it can't be removed," I remember telling myself in a most methodical thought pattern, "because it's illegal to remove it." It was incredible to me that something that I had created, that I had spawned, was also a resident of the state. That the an outside rule of law had any kind of say over this thing that I myself had created. And that I, indeed, did not have the right to do whatever I felt was best, even if it was to get rid of it. It was like saying my little finger had a bill of rights, when I should be able to treat my little finger in a way that was best for it and me. I think for a short time, my postpartum depression was probably bordering on psychopathic thinking. When you're all out of whack it's hard to control your mind.


Whenever I hear those stories of babies abandoned in garbage dumpsters or killed in public bathrooms, my heart aches and I wish there was some way I could reach out to the mothers. And I can't believe a first stop for these traumatized young girls is often jail. They need to be wrapped up in love and care and treatment. 

So here I am 15 years later, postpartum depression gone, Providence prevailing, and my body is all full of hives. I think. There are itchy red bumps on my legs and arms and I can't figure out what's going on. It comes and goes so I can still go to work and function through the day. But my skin looks like a newly plucked chicken, red dots on pink. Did I eat something bad? Is it an allergic reaction? Is my liver quitting? What?

Benadryl didn't even make a dent in the rash so I'm steering towards natural solutions. I'm applying and  ingesting vitamin E and it's helping. But I don't have any solid reasons why this rash except for one possible theory: about ten days ago my daughter got on an airplane and flew to New York City to be with my in laws for three weeks. It's not that big of a deal, good grief she flew alone when she was ten years old. She's in good hands. She's getting treated like a queen. It's her summer vacation. She's almost 16 years old. I'm working and I'm tired and I need a break from driving her to and fro. This circumstance doesn't seem hard to understand.

Yet these red bumps appeared about the same time she left. Psychosomatic rash? Super late recurrance of postpartum depression? Repressed anxiety? Stupidity?

I've had this saying for a long time that when I'm home, I want to leave. And when I leave, I want to return home. In other words, when I'm with my kids, I want order. And when I have order, I miss my kids. Why is it that I must choose? Why can't I have both?

As usual, I don't have a good way to end this post so I'll lean on John Lennon and Paul McCartney:

Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more.

I'm praying for deepest, richest, widest, and biggest dose of "divine guidance or care" for you all, for all you love, and for all you can't understand. And hoping these psycho red dots go away. Wishing I could be present, here and now.

Peace and joy, T

I'm Published!

God could use someone like you. 

That was the official slogan used by Luther Seminary to recruit new students. But when we were there, I liked the satirical slogan better:

God could confuse someone like you.

It was written by student editors of the seminary newspaper, our neighbors and friends, who also came up with a whole separate slapstick issue the school newspaper, poking fun at all sorts of things, reminding us all that if we took this God-stuff with too much solemnness, we're pretty much doomed. Think John Stewart does the seminary newsletter. Both real and satirical issues of the newsletter came out monthly but in all seriousness, the satirical version seemed to speak more profoundly.


I was reminded of this when yesterday I read of the essays in this new book that just came out, a book that I feel so very privileged to be a part of. . .READ MORE