Friday, November 7, 2014

Yay for the One Step Closer

The extraordinary is not beyond you. It’s just one small step away. – Julia Immonen
Last weekend, the boys and I sat down to watch a Halloween DVD.  Curious George: A Halloween Boo Fest has been a staple in our house for a year.  And at the risk of sounding like I've crossed over into some sort of mom-zone for which there is no recovery and I'll be doomed to wear high waisted, tapered jeans all my days, I never, ever get sick of watching it.  It's sweet and fun and my boys love it.
We all know that putting in a DVD doesn't mean our movie instantly starts playing.  There is always a delay while we sit through title cards, FBI warnings and anti-piracy pleas.  This all serves to annoy more than delight because we can't even skip or fast forward through them.  But something very special happened when we all sat down to watch that DVD.
The first thing to appear is the Universal image.  A beautiful animation of our planet takes us on a 10 second journey through outer space.  Jack always says "That's our Earth. That's our home" every time he sees it.  Will started clapping and laughing.  He clapped even more when the FBI warning came up (that must be a first) and clapped during the anti-piracy warnings.
To most of us, those annoying frames are tiny things keeping us from enjoying our movie.
To Will, they represent one step closer.
Yay for the one step closer.  Yay for the almost there.  Yay for the farther along now than I was a second ago.
The elections were this week.  My choice for State Senator is currently down by 60 votes.  SIX ZERO.  He hasn't conceded yet and we don't yet know how this will all turn out but I maintain a glimmer of hope.  This country isn't where I want it to be.  We're deadlocked, divided, disenchanted, and disgruntled.
I voted because I had these women cheering me on.  I imagined these beautiful angels surrounding the polling place clapping as each woman walked in.  I saw women of all ages and some with babies and young children.  Those are some of the truest heroes because it's just too easy to use kids as an excuse to not vote.  I imagined all of the thousands of steps, some big, some small that have happened since this photo was taken.  Could these women fathom that their daughters and granddaughters are still fighting some of the same battles around equality?  But if I think about my lesson from Will last weekend, I wonder if they'd be focusing more on all that has happened.  All of the steps closer to equality we are than we were decades ago.
So in their honor, I say yay to the one step closer.  Yay to the people who still take up the good fights.  Yay to a greater awareness I see in each new generation.  I am no delusional Pollyanna who believes we've reached the apex.  A circuit court's ruling that came after the elections this week has me feeling defeated all over again because I want a better world for my sons.
But we have to reflect on how far we've come.  And we can't lose hope.  Cheer for the one step closer, acknowledge the two steps back and try again.
Before you know it, the warnings and titles and preludes are over and the movie can begin. Don't jump out of the theatre during the long wait.  But don't sit there with your popcorn waiting for some magical projectionist to get you where you need to be.  Get up, make a phone call, volunteer, get comfortable being uncomfortable.  Be the change.  Because change is coming my friends.  Change is coming. But in the meantime, I will say...
 Yay for the one step closer.

Thursday, October 30, 2014

The Most Important Part of My Village

Thanksgiving is just around the corner.  I know, I can't believe it either.  Earlier this year I had the opportunity to present at an early childhood conference on a topic I am quite passionate about- improving communication between working parents and those who care for our children.  I partnered with the Director of our childcare center and we delivered a presentation that sought to build empathy for both groups and relay best practices for communication.  We ended the presentation by reading a thank you note each of us wrote to the other person.  In this season of gratitude, I am sharing this letter on the blog.  I hope it reaches every single person who cares for young children.  Your parents may not always articulate what you mean to them, but I know I speak on behalf of so many.  From the bottom of our hearts, thank you.


Dear Caregiver,

You didn’t see me the other day as I stood outside the door.  As I was leaving that morning, I heard my son crying.  I peered through the glass as I saw him sitting at a table while you, hands gently on his arms, knelt down to look right into his eyes.  As he told you about the problem he had encountered you never lost his gaze.  You talked to him and listened.  To almost anyone else in the world his problem would have been the smallest, most insignificant issue.  Maybe he didn’t get to play with his favorite truck.  Maybe he had trouble sharing.  But you listened as if it was the biggest problem because you know that for him, they’re all big problems.

I held back every motherly instinct to rush in and rescue him.  I didn’t need to.  I have you.

I have you to listen to my children every day about the big problems, the little discoveries and the joyful celebrations.  I have you to hug them when it seems like their tears will never stop falling.  I have you to help us teach them how to be responsible, loving citizens of the world who realize that sharing means twice as much fun, twice as many friends and twice as much happiness.

Each day when I’m at work I am surrounded by photos of my family in colorful frames.  Their smiling faces remind me that the hard work I do provides them with opportunities for a wonderful life.  But it’s hard and I feel guilty for the time when I’m not near them.  And that’s why I’m so grateful I have you.  You have become part of the fabric of their lives.  You are my village and I am so honored that you chose children as your life’s calling.  I don’t know how you do it.  How you smile when I’m sure your head is throbbing, how you listen to the little things like they’re big things all day long.  You deal with the messiest of human beings and you wake up every day to do it all over again.  You are amazing.

And last week, you didn’t see me again.  I came in to pick up my son and peeked around a corner to see you sitting outside of a bathroom stall.  Inside was my precocious, wonderful son trying to use the potty.  And knowing that those things take time, you sat outside reading his favorite book while he giggled.  And I giggled.  Because that is the kind of loving act that only a parent could possibly have the patience for.  But you’re not a parent yet and yet here you are in the very trenches with us.  Thank you for every book, every dance, every song, and every hug.  My children are better people because you’re in their lives.  We are better parents for the information you give us every day.  And the world is a better place because people like you care so much for the very smallest of us.

Thank you so very much,


Love, a Working Parent

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

2,000 Pieces Later

The story of the 2,000 piece puzzle took some unexpected turns, but we finished it with a trip to the emergency room.  But I'm getting a little ahead of myself...

Last fall, fearing we had fallen into a helpless rut of a routine, we decided to dust off a 2,000 piece puzzle that we had been meaning to assemble but never got around to.  I've heard that any project you don't complete in the 6 months following the purchase of a new home will never be accomplished.  I sort of feel that way about the plans we had before kids.  Be they as big as that trip to Europe or as small as a puzzle, the dreams and plans you make before kids can be pretty tough to realize once they're here.  You just learn to replace them with new dreams.

We were making great progress on that puzzle until Will decided to stop sleeping start teething.  So the puzzle sat on top of our bar in the basement until he was feeling more amenable to sleep.  The bar of which I speak is one that Trevor built years ago in the basement of his college house.  It was a gathering place for all of our friends.  He hosted parties regularly and we have hundreds of photos of us at T's Bar as evidence for our boys that, once upon a time, their parents were cool...and sometimes made questionable choices.  Now the infamous T's Bar was a dusty ghost of its former self.  Toys were scattered all over it and on top of the toys was our puzzle.  A perfect metaphor for the passing of time and the changing of seasons.


Ye Olde T's Bar

We had completed roughly 75% of the puzzle before putting it to rest for a few months.   Once Will started sleeping through the night again we found we had fallen back into the same routine that sent us digging out that puzzle in the first place.  But by late June we decided to give it the old college try and bang that puzzle out once and for all.  The fact that I just used the expression "old college try" means that we truly are not cool anymore.  But we were!  I promise!


Our brand of "cool"
July 3rd, 2014.  Trevor was set to fly to San Francisco early the following morning to attend one of his best friend's wedding.  We were having a family night watching movies- The Great Muppet Caper to be exact (how weird is it that Charles Grodin is in love with Miss Piggy in that movie?) It was right around the time when Charles was framing Miss Piggy that Trevor started feeling incredibly sick.  I even happened to capture a photo of Jack's shock and awe.



Trevor was suffering from horrible abdominal pains that were unrelenting.  They lasted long after the popcorn had been eaten and the boys went to bed.  A quick trip to WebMD and Trevor diagnosed himself as possibly having gallstones.  Oh boy. He was scheduled to leave at 5am to catch his flight to California and the panic set in.

Based on more Dr. Internet advice, Trevor drank a potion concocted of a spare apple juice box from a Happy Meal and some apple cider vinegar.  It did calm the pangs long enough for him to get a nap in before he took off for the trip.  I don't think I got much more sleep than he did.  It's so scary to see someone you love so much in pain.  Later, I told him that I now know how he must have felt to see me in labor- helpless, scared, and trying to stay calm for the both of us.  He had another attack the night after the wedding and I met him at the airport the following Monday to take him to the ER.  Do you know what the ER is like on the Monday after the 4th of July?  Absolutely, freaking crazy, that's what!  He ended up going home without being seen, but was able to schedule an ultrasound with his doctor for that Friday.  The ultrasound confirmed that he had many, many gallstones and his gall bladder would need to be removed.  An appointment with a surgeon would be made that following week.

Saturday night.  Trevor and I felt motivated to finish that puzzle.  The boys went to bed and we started a movie.  For the last time, Trevor brought that massive puzzle out from on top of the bar and we sorted pieces.  I tried to make conversation but I noticed him growing quieter and quieter as the minutes went by.  We had finally reached the very last piece of the puzzle.  We both put our fingers on the piece and together, dragged it across the puzzle into its spot.  "We did it!" I exclaimed.  Trevor's level of enthusiasm didn't rise to the occasion and I just knew.  I just knew he was having another attack.  And it was the worst one he'd had yet.

Let me summarize the next 48 hours-

Panic, worry, late night call to brother-in-law to take Trevor to the ER, sleeplessness, multiple text messages to brother-in-law for updates, early morning phone calls to parents, lots of goooood drugs for Trevor, meeting with surgeon, emergency laproscopic gall bladder removal, home again, deep sigh of relief.

I think back to that crazy weekend.  And I'm incredibly grateful that Trevor had something that was very easily treatable.  But I also think about how we barely finished that puzzle before he was being taken to the emergency room.  There was a moment in the waiting room while he was in surgery that I thought about how much we take for granted.  

We'll finish that puzzle someday.  
We'll have that important conversation someday.  
We'll make those plans someday.

Someday is nothing more than a cruel myth designed to keep us all stuck in our own fear and laziness.  Someday is a unicorn farting glitter into a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.  

What if he hadn't recovered?  What if it was something much more serious?  How could I ever stand the sight of that unfinished puzzle knowing that we passed over 100 opportunities to complete it together?  I think there was a part of me that was reluctant to finish it.  While it lay there unfinished it carried with it all the hope and promise for more togetherness. Would we still have anything to look forward to if we completed it?  2,000 pieces later I can tell you that we do.






There is another puzzle in our future.  We've set our sites smaller- 1,000 pieces.  And there will be one less gall bladder to help us complete it.  We can live without that gall bladder, but it's much harder to think about living without each other.  Some people worry too much about that, but others don't worry enough.  My advice?  Kick someday to the curb. Whatever it is you've been thinking of doing or saying, do it today.  Now is the perfect time.

I think it's worth mentioning that after posting the original puzzle blog, I got the most amazing messages from people sharing with me their own version of "puzzle night".  Some chose puzzles, others chose cards or board games.  Others took long walks or watched a movie while their cell phones and laptops were tucked away.  

Our puzzle became our way of saying, "I don't know how long we're on this crazy spinning globe together, but I know it won't be forever.  So while we have this time together, let's not waste it."

Earlier this month we had an absolute blast at the wedding of a good friend.  The wedding was in a museum that had a carousel going all night long.  Spinning around on that carousel, laughing and taking #carouselfies reminded me of the days long ago when we were just Trevor and Nancy and not someone's parents.  And looking at these photos, I have to say...


I think we're still cool.




Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Kanga & Roo

Last August, for Trevor's birthday, I made plans to take him out for an evening of wine tasting and live music downtown with friends.  My mom came to town to stay with the boys and while getting ready for our night our, 3-month old Will threw a fit unlike anything I had ever seen.  I tried holding him, nursing him, rocking him, all to no avail.  I remembered hearing that skin to skin contact for infants can calm them down.   This practice, also known as Kangaroo Care, is very common after babies are born and I remember holding both of my boys on my chest for close to an hour after they were born.  But somehow in the hustle and bustle of parenting, the practice gets lost.  I can't recall doing it a single time after birth with either boy, but I decided to give it a shot.  So, desperate to calm my baby down before leaving for the night, I tore off my shirt and bra, stripped him down to his diaper and held him against my chest.  I took a cardigan out of my closet and wrapped it around us, nuzzling him to me in a warm mama cocoon.  Within seconds, he calmed down.  His body relaxed until the only noises he made were the sounds of him catching his breath, still calming down from the sobbing.  I sat there with him for about 10 minutes until it was safe to hand him over to my mom.  He was fine for the rest of the night.

Last week, 16-month old Will had outpatient surgery that required anesthesia.  For the first time I knew what the word faith meant.  It's a miracle of faith that parents can hand their babies over to gowned up pediatric hospital staff, who are absolute strangers, to operate on our absolute most important treasures.  So I had to have faith in these people and thank God for them because the surgery was very successful and Will is going great.  

The staff brings parents back once their child has woken up.  A nurse led us through a series of double doors until we came to a hallway that led to his recovery room.  I could hear the unmistakable sound of my baby's cries the minute we hit the hallway.  When we got to the room he was crying and completely entangled in wires and cables that were monitoring everything from his blood pressure to his blood oxygen levels.  The nurse was holding him, his back was arched as he wriggled and writhed around, confused and scared.  When I heard him cry out "Mama" I nearly lost it myself.  Will still breastfeeds and I asked the nurse if I could nurse him.  She said, "of course!"  She showed me to a chair where I gathered my tangled up baby into my arms.  As I yanked up my shirt to help him nurse, tears sprang to my eyes.  I was instantly taken back to May 1, 2013 in the minutes after he was born.  He was scared, crying, and unsure about where he was.  But when he found me he knew he was home.  Fast forward to last week.  He was scared, crying and unsure about where he was.  I looked up at the monitor.  His heart rate was 172.  But as soon as he started nursing, Trevor and I looked up at the monitors, amazed at what we saw.  His heart rate immediately went down- 160, 150, 140, 130 until finally settling around 120.  If there was ever a testament to the power of human touch, we saw it in that little room.  We hear about the power of touch, but I've never actually seen it with my own eyes displayed before me on a monitor.  Love and science all mixed up together.  I was his Kanga and he was my Roo.  A calm came over the entire room.  We all just held space together, grateful for the wonderful outcome of that scary day.  As much as I calmed him, he calmed me too.

I think back to those moments now and I reflect on how precious few opportunities we have to truly connect with other humans.  We never lose our need to connect, to touch, to embrace, to hug, to kiss, but we develop very rigid boundaries about how and when those things should happen.  I smother my boys with hugs and kisses while they're at an age when they'll let me.  And I want them to grow up to be men who aren't afraid to be affectionate with people they love.  And after a very scary day for both of us,  I will forever hold this image of Will, cradled safely in my arms, very close to my heart.  That I could be his harbor, his home, and his Kanga in the moment when he needed me most was a moment I'll treasure my whole life.

Kanga & Roo after the surgery

Friday, August 22, 2014

Summer Vacation

My brother found us a little cabin near Lake Michigan to spend a lazy week.  I can tell the story of our summer vacation, but I will let the beautiful words of these poets and the photos of my beautiful babies do it for me.  They speak to the art of presence, something that grows increasingly difficult with all of the many distractions we face.  To be far away, in a little cabin near the lake was a great gift.


The Summer Day
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-- the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

Mary Oliver





God, let me be conscious of it! Let me be conscious of what is happening while it is happening. Let me realize it and feel it vividly. Let not the consciousness of the event, as happens so often, come to me tardily, so that I miss half the experience. Let me be conscious of it!

From the diaries of Anne Morrow Lindbergh













Now is the Time to Know


Now is the time to know
That all that you do is sacred.

Now, why not consider
A lasting truce with yourself and God.

Now is the time to understand
That all your ideas of right and wrong

Were just a child’s training wheels
To be laid aside

When you can finally live
With veracity

And love.

My dear, please tell me, 
Why do you still


Throw sticks at your heart

And God?
What is it in that sweet voice inside
That incites you to fear?

Now is the time for the world to know
That every thought and action is sacred

This is the time

For you to deeply compute the impossibility

That there is anything

But Grace.
Now is the season to know
That everything you do is sacred.

Hafiz

The Peace of Wild Things
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
Wendell Berry

The Open Window 

The old house by the lindens 
Stood silent in the shade,
And on the graveled pathway 
The light and shadow played.
I saw the nursery windows
Wide open to the air;
But the faces of the children,
They were no longer there.
The large Newfoundland house-dog
Was standing by the door;
He looked for his little playmates,
Who would return no more.
They walked not under the lindens,
They played not in the hall;
But shadow, and silence, and sadness
Were hanging over all.
The birds sang in the branches,
With sweet, familiar tone;
But the voices of the children
Will be heard in dreams alone!
And the boy that walked beside me,
He could not understand
Why closer in mine, ah! closer,
I pressed his warm, soft hand!


Wednesday, August 13, 2014

The Day Bryan Higgins Died

Two days before Bryan Higgins died, I picked up a book at Barnes & Noble called "How It All Began" which tells the story of the mugging of an elderly woman on a London street and the ripple effect it has on a community- how our paths can be altered by someone we will never meet.  Stories of chance encounters and the connectedness of all of us spinning madly around on this globe have always fascinated me and so, on that rainy Monday afternoon, I picked up that book.

Two days before Bryan Higgins died, Robin Williams died and the world was awash with grief and sadness over the loss of this electric ball of frantic joy and energy.  Robin Williams has always reminded me of my dad- goofy, full of bad puns and from the same city outside of Detroit.  They're the exact same age and maybe, just maybe, they found themselves at the same park or block or intersection at the same time.  I scrolled through photos of his life and his career and I couldn't help noticing his eyes.  His sad eyes that stared off at some distant point much too far for any of us to see.  I wondered if we only see the sadness in someone's eyes once they're gone.  If this is true, I vowed to look a little harder at a person's eyes.

The day that Bryan Higgins died I noticed an old and faded roadside cross that had been erected after the death of a very young man, who worked with me years ago, who was killed on a black and snowy January morning four years ago.  His black car slid out onto black ice and by all accounts he died instantly on the scene.  The cross was on its side but I saw its white paint against the tall green grass.  It must be hard to maintain, that old cross.  There is no sidewalk on that side of that very busy street.  And besides, Bradley isn't at that old wooden cross.  He never was.

The day that Bryan Higgins died, a few friends posted an article about his death.  He was a young man who was found beaten on the streets of San Francisco.  He went by the name Feather.  I looked at photos of this transcendent man.  I found out that he had several chance encounters with my sister and while we had several mutual friends I never met him.  So why do I feel like I know him?  There are two answers to that question.  

Jack and Will.

Becoming a mother has been the most transformative experience of my life.  I can no more shut off the part of me that seeks to nurture and protect the innocent and vulnerable than I can stop my heart from beating.  Suddenly every baby is my baby, every person has potential and every tragedy rocks me to my core.

The mother in me sees the sad eyes of Robin Williams, it notices the old faded crosses on the side of the road and it weeps at the suffering of a man named Feather.  The day Bryan Higgins died I realized for the first time in my life that I see the world through a completely different lens than I did on January 6, 2011 because the next day I became a mother.  And everything changed.  The vulnerability I feel when my babies are away from me is as powerful and potent as the helplessness I feel at the ugliness and sadness of the world.  Because the mother in me sees the faces of my own precious babies in the face of Bryan Feather Higgins.  I see the face of someone else's baby.  I see a phone call at 6:30 on a cold January morning with the news that your child has been killed in a car crash.  I see the face of my son Jack in Robin William's sad eyes.  I see him when he disappoints himself, when he feels that he's let us down.  I see, at 3 how he's already learned that life can be sad and there is not a thing I can or should do to stop him from learning those lessons.  I just hope I can be vigilant when watching those eyes and that I can stop the world from swallowing him up whole as he makes his way slowly into it.

But that's not all.  That's only half.

The mother in me looks across the street to see a different memorial cross which stands in someone's front yard, someone who bore witness to that tragic accident, and I know it represents the fact that the boy who died on that black snowy morning is not forgotten.  I see people having meaningful conversations about love, loss, depression and suicide and maybe, just maybe, people are looking closer into someone else's eyes and finding some undiscovered sadness.  The mother in me sees the photo of the rainbow colored balloons that soared above the heads of all of those who attended a vigil on the day Bryan Higgins died.  The mother in me cradled both boys in my lap at 6:33pm when he was taken off of life support because when faced with the ugliness of the world, we all have no choice but to combat it with love.  And I have to see the love.  I have to look very hard to see the love in this world and not let the darkness swallow me up.  The mother in me sees the helpers, the friends, the love, the outpouring of grief and support for Bradley and Robin and Feather.

Two days before Bryan Higgins died I bought a book on the ripple effect caused by tragedy.  I find myself tonight standing on the shore of a great ocean while emotions and thoughts ripple out and away from me and will for quite some time. 

Don't let the sadness of this life cast you into the deep end of the ocean.  Stand bravely on the shore and as the water laps at your feet and the sand starts to shift, roll gently with the tide.

Two weeks before Bryan Higgins died I found a blue jay feather in our backyard.  It had been years since I held a feather in my hand.  Such a study in contrasts.  A hard, plain quill running through tiny tufts of down extending into the most exquisite blue barbs.  

Prickly and fluffy, brilliant and quiet, intense and subdued, soft and hard.  Just like life.


Bryan Feather Higgins- from his memorial page.  

Wednesday, April 30, 2014

The Magical Math of Love

Silly me.
I thought my heart was this part of me
that hit its capacity after I met your dad.
And when your brother came I thought,
No, this must be it.  
One heart can't possibly hold any more.
Then you.  Sweet baby you.
You, who arrived in the warm dark hours
before spring danced into town.
Like those lilacs that bloomed on the day you came home,
my heart expanded with so much love that we floated like clouds
out of the hospital into the warm spring air.
You, who we named for a great poet
whose deep soulful eyes are their own sonnet
to the wonder and magic of love.

And now you turn 1.

The light from a single, tiny candle will dance in your eyes.
One little candle that contains
An entire journey around the sun,
Every breathless new discovery you made,
Every single prayer, hope, and wish I have for you.

I gaze down to my chest where blessedly you still fit.
I see the rise and fall of your chest with each delicate breath.
Our hearts beat together mere inches apart.
Somehow my heart contains all of this love.
Somehow one candle holds all of my dreams.
They grow in capacity but never in size.
How wonderfully peculiar, mystical and sacred these feelings are for you.
Endlessly multiplied but never divided.

That, my sweet baby, is the magical math of love.





 My sweet baby Will.  Our world would not be nearly as lovely, fun and joyful if you weren't here with us.  With all of my wishes today and for every wish to come, 
happy birthday.