The Best Moment of My Day

Admired writer Shauna Niequist recently wrote a post about the best moment of her day and invited readers to share their own. I'm not sure I've ever really thought about it. I love the first sip of coffee in the morning, my morning run, praying before dinner when all four of us are there together, almost-daily phone calls with a certain friend, kissing Jason when he gets home from work. But if I had to choose a favorite, it'd be this:

Bedtime stories, Mother's Day 2013

The girls, freshly showered and be-jammied, snuggled next to me while I read to them before bed. Our family, together again at the end of the day. A book (The Secret Garden, Amelia Bedelia, anything by Kate Di Camillo) holding our attention. The promise of a glass of wine on the couch or the back patio in fifteen minutes. The knowledge that we're all home safe for the night.

I don't particularly enjoy the lead-up to this moment (hurry, take a shower, brush your teeth, stop petting the cat, brush more, fill your water bottle, choose a book, leave the cat alone), but it's awfully hard to top those few precious minutes when the three (sometimes four) of us are huddled together over a book on that darn couch Jason and I bought from a used furniture store in Ann Arbor in 1999. It's right where I want to be, at least six out of seven nights of the week. It's the best moment of my day.

Five Things That Have Happened

1. The event I've been working on since November, TEDxGrandRapids, took place last Thursday. I'm feeling incredibly lucky to have been part of such a dedicated and creative team and incredibly proud of the writing I did to give our event a voice. (Virtually all the website copy, blog posts, and audience newsletters - and many of the news releases - were written by me, and it's simultaneously a huge relief to be mostly done with the project and a strange sense of emptiness to not be thinking about it every day.) A few thoughts, post-event:

• As the event got close, another team member and I took over the Twitter feed. My job the day of the event was largely to post, re-tweet, monitor, reply, and keep track of an exploding hashtag - and I've really only been on Twitter in a minimal capacity for less than a year. All credit goes to the super-smart college student on my team who very nicely sat down with me, helped me set up TweetDeck, and taught me about RT, MT, hashtags, and all manner of Twitter usage. At one point I actually said, "I'm sorry! I'm thirty-five! I learned to type on a word processor!" but he was patient, and I was reminded that I'm not nearly old enough to stop learning new tricks.
• Our speakers were very, very smart people whose talks were challenging, interesting, and inspiring. This is exactly as we had hoped and planned, so - good! And yet, I don't think I'm the only one who found the cumulative effect of all those PhDs doing amazing research/people overcoming obstacles and dreaming big/innovative designers with bold ideas for the future to be the nagging thought, What am I even doing with my life? (And: I remember having that feeling before, after reading Mountains Beyond Mountains by Tracy Kidder, and I remember that it eventually went away, so I'm not too alarmed. I think I'll re-watch the talks when they come online, maybe one at a time so as not to be overwhelmed.)
• The night before, at the speaker-sponsor reception, I got to chat one-on-one for about half an hour with one of our speakers, a genomics medicine expert whose talk centered around the efficacy of genetic testing and what individuals might want to do with that information. I got to quiz him about my family history of Alzheimer's, ask about my insurance company suspicions, and get advice about whether and how to be tested. That interaction alone was priceless and gave me a ton to think about regarding my health care.
• Over the course of the day, I also saw a high-school classmate that I haven't had contact with since graduation, drank one perfect MadCap cappuccino, discussed vasectomies with the wife of a favorite local business owner I'd just met, used my latent calligraphy skills to prettify the name badges of late-registering attendees, and cried my eyes out at a TED video that was interspersed between the talks. It was a day unlike any other, that's for sure.

2. On Friday, I helped take the event down in the morning (this involved glamorous things like pulling up yards of sidewalk tape in the drizzling rain and washing out multiple water containers), then picked up my Riverbank Run 25K packet in the afternoon. Because WHY NOT RUN 15 MILES TWO DAYS AFTER A 16-HOUR EVENT? Our school principal, for whom a team of us was raising money with the run, generously hosted a pasta dinner for the runners and their families on Friday evening. It was nice to spend a little time with the other runners and their families, and in retrospect, it was nice to have that extra reminder that each of us, sponsored by others, was running for a dear cause. Because, while the first 12 miles of the run on Saturday went beautifully (Sarah and I talking and laughing and downing Gatorade as we always do), the last 3.5 miles did not feel good. At all. And I may or may not have been doing an embarrassing amount of self-talk and sing-song chants to the beat of my feet on the ground about being strong, running for a cause, and making our team proud. In the end, we finished - and within about 20 seconds of the time we've gotten every other time we've done this distance, too. Apparently if you wind me up, I do a nine-minute mile until I can't do any more. I came home, got in the hot tub, and spent much of the rest of the day in bed, thank goodness.

3. Sunday was Mother's Day. After the girls awakened me early (7:01) to bring me breakfast in bed (yogurt and granola, mango, coffee) and my favorite flowers (lilacs), I had a few moments to reflect on how my Mother's Days have changed so drastically over the years. I so clearly remember those first, blurry ones - crying babies, tantruming toddlers, so much sweating involved either packing us all up to go somewhere or hosting family at our house. I remember ending the day with a defeated sense that, to truly enjoy a day of thanks and relaxation, I'd have to do it WITHOUT my children, and that didn't feel right at all, Plus, my role then was so totally as A MOM that not getting that acknowledgement bothered me more than it probably should have. These days, I truly love (most of) the time I spend with the girls. They're not sleeping sweetly on my shoulder or using adorable three-year-old voices to babble brightly, and I do miss that, but they're legitimately fun to be with. Highlights of the day this year included the way the girls had hung little signs and pictures all around the house for me to find, our family brunch at Trillium Haven (where Annie took down a plate of bacon faster than I've ever seen), seeing both grandmas for a bit in the afternoon, and, of course, the cards the girls made me at school. Jemma's, I want the record to show, proclaimed that I "smell like honey," which is not exactly the message I get from her after I've returned from a run. Next time she backs away from my post-workout kiss, I'm going to yell, "I thought I smelled like honey!" and see what she says. Annie's entire list of "10 Things About My Mom" thrilled me - not just because it's a project I used to do with my second-graders after we'd read Because of Winn-Dixie, too, but mostly because of list item #5, which said, "Whining does not work with her." I'm not sure I'm going to stop celebrating that little tidbit, since it proves that if you say something almost every day for nearly nine years, your child will eventually internalize it. (I'm also not able to stop hearing that phrase in what I call the Wesley Willis voice. Jason agrees.) Anyway, it was a super-special day, and I felt loved and lucky, and I wish I could tell my past self that Mother's Day will eventually a) mean a little less to me in a good way, since I'll have other sources of affirmation in my life and b) get better, as far as the having fun WITH the kids thing goes.

4. On Monday, the sleeplessness and excitement of last week caught up to me. I got my hair cut, watched DVR'd Mad Men, and took a nap. I was like a college student after finals: only interested in sleeping, and wishing my mom would do my laundry.

5. Yesterday, I made Smitten Kitchen's salted brown butter rice krispie treats, then promptly ate almost half the pan. I mean, that's not the ONLY thing I did yesterday, it's just all I'm telling you about.

Things They Say: Spring Has Sprung Edition

Yesterday afternoon, after a day full of biking, squirt-gun fights, bubbles, sidewalk chalk, frozen yogurt, eating outside:

Jemma: This was a really good day.
Me: It was, wasn't it?
Jemma: I'm mostly happy when it's warm and sunny, and grumpy when it's cold and dark.
Me: You, me, and the rest of the world, babe.

*****

This morning, playing at the park after a picnic breakfast, Jason was wearing an unfortunate baseball cap that was too high and made his head look strange. I was teasing him, and he turned it around to wear it backwards, at which point I was trying to figure out who or what he looked like.

Jemma: A baker?
Me: . . . No . . .
Annie: I know who he looks like! Caillou! Ah ha hah!

(He took it off.)

Right Now

:: listening to the birds chirping outside the dining room windows.

:: taking Instagrams of the magnolia trees in full bloom, waning daffodils, and my first tulips in the yard.

:: coping with the accompanying pollen-related allergy issues.

:: knowing I'm going to be sore from a tough yoga class this morning.

:: hydrating for tomorrow's last long run before the 25K.

:: procrastinating a few little writing assignments that need to get done before this event next Thursday.

:: wondering if it would be so wrong to make pineapple mojitos for the third night in a row.

:: wishing the laundry would fold itself.

:: feeling proud of my little writer and the great poetry she shared at yesterday's reading.

:: still giggling at Jemma's television debut this morning, announcing "This is FOX 17 morning news" before her class was featured on air to honor her teacher.

:: slowly learning just how much you find out by driving carpool.

:: looking forward to the weekend: soccer game, baking, piano recital, a little surprise date with a certain 8-year-old, gardening, grandparents, and friends.

Of Brave Knights and Heroic Courage

"Since it is so likely children will meet cruel enemies, let them at least have heard of brave knights and heroic courage." - C.S. Lewis

I couldn't be more glad that it's finally May. This April really, truly was "the cruelest month," just like T.S. Eliot said, and I kept starting post after post here listing and lamenting all the small injustices of the wet, cold, cruel spring. Jason's car died and needed to be jumped, repeatedly, on the most monsoon-like day ever; every few days, big, fat snowflakes would blanket the lawn with white before turning to sloppy raindrops; one of the cats peed on Jemma's backpack and raincoat and I sent her to school without realizing what had happened; Annie's soccer practice schedule has been changed eleventy billion times due to weather/whims/seasons of the moon; family dinners have been few and far between; Jason's been working long days at the office and bringing work home each night; I fell while running and hurt my hand and leg; we ran out of things to do on what felt like the hundredth cold, rainy weekend; I wanted to get in bed with a stack of books and some simple carbohydrates and get out when it was June.

Eventually, of course, the spring actually came. Today it was 85 and sunny: doors open, turkey burgers on the grill, hula-hoops and bikes, pineapple mojitos, sitting outside amid the daffodils and sunshine to catch up on email. But just before the season changed, amidst all those petty annoyances, one other cruel thing happened that made me see my parenting in a whole new light.

Two weeks ago, two brothers set off bombs at the finish line of the Boston Marathon. It's obviously not the first act of terrorism that's happened on American soil in my lifetime, and it's not even the first violent calamity of the last twelve months. On the anniversary of 9/11, I wrote about my thoughts on bringing children into this kind of world, and I stand by them, particularly:

In the aftermath of the attacks, I remember hearing the sentiment that this was a world (so dark, so evil) into which it might be foolish to bring children.  I never agreed with that.  I remember thinking that there was nothing new under the sun, that there would always be darkness and death and heartbreak but also love and triumph and goodness.  It was never a question of bringing them into the world, but now that they are here, it is a question of how to tell them about the darkness.  It is a question of how to explain the death.  It is a question of how much to shield them from the heartbreak.  It is a question of how to raise them to love, triumph, and contribute to the good.

And that's the question that I faced this past month, because this month was the first time Annie knew full well what had happened, and wanted to know why. It's not a milestone I was looking forward to. I tend to err on the side of cautious conservatism when it comes to what I want to expose my kids to, and when. We avoid commercials, the news, lots of movies and music and shows that I'm not eager to have influence their innocent little minds. I juuuuuuust finally pulled out the ol' "It's Not the Stork!" book after literally months of sidestepping pointed questions - not because I was embarrassed or wanted to hide information, but because I'm so aware that, once information is known, it can never be un-known.

We sat, folding laundry together up in her bedroom on the day after the Boston bombings, and she asked, "Why would someone want to make a bomb go off to hurt strangers?"

"I know, it's sad and confusing, isn't it?" I asked.

"Are the people bad who did it?" she wondered.

This was before we knew who did anything, so I told her that we didn't really know who, or why, or know how to understand this kind of thing ever, even as grown-ups. And somehow, even as I was talking to her, I had a strong sense that this was the important stuff of parenting, that the silly debates over millions of parenting decisions melt away when you're in the kind of conversation that has the potential to shape a person's worldview. So I ventured a little further, and said I thought that every human being has the potential for great good and great evil, and that people can change, and wondered what she thought about that, if she could think of any stories about people who had done bad things and then changed.

"Like . . . Zacchaeus?" she said.

"Yes! Like Zacchaeus. Do you remember what he did?"

She frowned at me. "Mom, I remember the story," she said pertly, then told it to me in its entirety, ending with " . . . and he gave back FOUR TIMES MORE than he had stolen!" 

My Bible story memory is not what it once was, so I took her word for it, but I was mostly glad we'd had the conversation in spite of my selfish wish that she and her sister could be kept in the dark about evil, bombs, cancer, injustice, racism, poverty, and every single sad and horrible situation on this planet forever. That would be easier, more comfortable, less tricky for sure, but it would also never get at the question of "how to raise them to love, triumph, and contribute to the good." 

So April of 2013, that cruel, cold month, ushered in a new phase of parenting for me. Since the door to the world has creaked open - the information, if you will, can't be unknown - it's reminded me that it's ultimately what our kids see us do in the face of the darkness that will teach them how to be the light. 

I can wish that cancer didn't exist (and that my kids didn't know about it), but since that wish won't come true, I can let my kids see me run to raise money for their school principal who has been battling it this school year. I can wish that homelessness and hunger didn't exist in our community (and that my kids didn't know about it), but since that wish won't come true, I can be glad that the girls have seen their parents pull the car over to give away boxes of granola bars and jars of peanut butter at an intersection. I can wish that we didn't have to ask the community to help save crucial and dear programs like art and language and social workers at our schools, but since that wish won't come true, I can stand at a table at the library and knock on doors and write checks. I can wish that acts of terrorism and bombings never happened in our country (and that my kids didn't know about them), but since that wish can't come true, I can share stories about the bravery and courage of the responders and the helpers in those scenarios. 

I know there's that lovely Fred Rogers quote about looking for the helpers, and I do like it, but I don't think it goes quite far enough. Forget just looking for the helpers. BE the helpers. And let your kids see you do it.

Good Things, April 2013

First dune hike of the season

Filling cream puffs on Easter with Grandma

Jemma's family

Running and fundraising with a great friend

This one, with her head constantly in a book

This one, with her fingers dancing across the keys

Making Jolly Rancher suckers on a Sunday afternoon

Stinking up the house & setting off the smoke alarm with this yumminess

Sous chef, stirring the risotto 

Irresistible bright pink rain boots

My little daffodils, finally blooming

Showing some speed and tenacity on the field

Little artist #1

Little artist #2

In Which I Get Overly Proud of the Kindergartner

She's in the shower and she asks innocently, "Is she really naughty?" She's referring to a classmate who I guess might struggle with some sensory or learning issues. Tonight, Jemma's been telling me about all the times this little one has needed extra help "making good choices."

"No," I tell her. "She's just learning how to be in a classroom. Some kids just take longer than others to learn those kinds of things."

Jemma is incredulous: "But mom, we've been in school for 130 days!"

"Well, I'm sure you're a good friend to her and to everyone, right?" I say.

"Yeah," she says, her voice mixing with the shower steam, "Sometimes I hold her hand and ask if she wants to sit by me on the rug. And Monday she was wearing leopard pants, so I promised her I'd wear my leopard leggings on Tuesday." I think back to yesterday: leopard leggings, purple shirt.

"I bet she loved that," I say.

"Uh-huh," she says, and she finishes up making a potion for her sister to find when it's her turn in the shower next.

*****

Her homework one day was "List five words that describe you." Jemma's list:

AwSoM
Feryis
FredLy
MAD
haPpy

I suppose she thought she should keep it real - you know, talk about how awesome she is, while also admitting that she's occasionally furious and mad.

*****

Her New Year's resolution was, in part, to try more new foods (YESSSSS!), and now at least once a week at the dinner table, she'll pause before a bite of broccoli or cannellini beans or pork chop and ask, "Will you tell Mrs. M?" And I say yes, and I end up texting her lovely teacher the details of just what Jemma tried that night. I'm going to get as much mileage as I can out of that resolution.

*****

Before Spring Break, Jemma came down the stairs one morning, casually sporting a green skirt around her shoulders, with her neck and head sticking through the opening where her waist would normally be. (Additionally, she was wearing a green-and-white striped shirt with navy-and-white striped leggings.) She seemed quite proud of her look, so off to school she went. Fifteen minutes later, a text from her teacher: "Love her style. A skirt as a wrap!" She did it the next day, too (different skirt, of course) and we began referring to her as Project Runway. I think she was trying to start a trend, but sadly, the other kindergarten girls didn't seem to catch on, and her coat interfered with the flounciness of the skirt-as-shawl look, too. I have my fingers crossed for a resurgence later this spring, though.

*****

She wrote a poem yesterday after reading a book of poems and patterning it after one she'd liked:

SLeping

Do you Like Blue? Do You Like red? Do you Like SLeping in your Bed?

do You Like YeLLow? do You Like WHite? do you Like SLePing At nigHt?

She brought it to school this morning, then brought it back home this afternoon with a glowing note on it from her teacher. I was praising her efforts and creativity when she got it out of her folder this afternoon, but she looked less than thrilled.

"What?" I asked.
She pointed to the first line. "I like this line the best."
"Yeah? Why?" I asked.
"The other one . . . there aren't enough words in it," she said.

I was secretly thrilled. I mean, I don't want to brag, but she's basically scanning poems correctly at age six. I see a bright future! Like . . . being an English major! Everyone knows that's where the big money and abundant jobs are, right?

*****

Her teacher and I have decided to keep her in kindergarten forever.