good enough parent confession #5: riding the waterslide

"I want to stand here by myself," he tells me as the bell signals impending waves.

"That's fine," I say, further directing him to remain close enough that he could hold my hand if needed.

"Okay" And with that, he flashes me his delicious smile and walks into the oncoming waves.

{Well, mama, I say to myself, it is time to pony up...}

I splash my way to him and pick him up. 

He laughs as I carry him in my arms and start removing his life jacket and then...

He stops laughing

He starts squirming and

He starts scream-crying.

You see, we were going to hang in the wave pool for one more round of waves and then ride the water slide two more times before going home...as long as he made safe choices. 

{making safe choices, a growing area of difficulty for him that afternoon}

Screaming. 

Bargaining. Big big tears. Back arched. Body rigid. 

More screaming.

I consider the ease of riding the water slide "one more time, pleeeeease" and how that would likely calm everyone down and {maybe} get us home with fewer tears.  

So tempting.  

But I decide against it and instead, pack up our bag and hoist both bag and boy across my shoulders.

                           

He screams bloody murder all the way to the car.

"I wanna go on the water slide! I wanna go on the water slide!  I wanna go on the water slide!"

He pushes against me and kicks his feet.

And then braces himself against my attempts to buckle him in to his seat - so much so that I have to take a break -

To laugh

 {it was that or cry}

And record this epic tantrum on film.

I finally get him buckled in and we drive home with his cries on repeat.

45 minutes later, he was sucking his thumb and snuggled into my lap on the couch.

My bathing suit was still damp and my arms were shaking from the exertion of tantrum-wrangling.

I kiss his sweaty head and whisper, 

"I had a wonderful day with you.  I am sorry the end of our adventure was so disappointing and sad."

"It's okay," he says with his thumb still in his mouth, "I make safe choices tomorrow."

-----

confession number 5: 

Sometimes you have to be "that parent" who takes her kid from the water park, kicking & screaming

{even if it feels bad}

and

Laughs {or smirks} when emotionally overwhelmed with her child 

and

Asks her other child to hold the camera while it is recording bad behavior.

Sometimes safe choices are hard choices and you have to trust you will get a do-over tomorrow.

life is sweet

i am standing atop a boulder, overlooking the cool river rippling below and watching activity on the opposite shore.  i am preparing to jump - i feel trepidation and confidence. feelings that reflect my experience in real-time and the general feelings of my inner mind. 

this, my last day of summer, is one dedicated to reflection, despite myself.

in a couple of weeks i will close out an era.

it means little to most people i encounter but it has BIG meaning to me.

the culmination of 8 years of instability and countless hurdles, more school, long hours, loads of debt, and lots of tears.  

yes, in a couple of weeks i will submit my application for a full social work license and will have reached the light at the end of the tunnel.

i am not sure what the light will bring as i forge into the season ahead.  

standing above the water, i can't help but recall  a conversation with my parents a couple of years ago when i was really struggling with the implications of turning down an offer for full-time employment in order to continue working 3 part-time jobs, with an odd and unpredictable schedule.  they know my decisions have caused me angst but their encouragement that day was this: savor this time. 

set a long-range goal and then stay present in the moment.

{also knowing that is a tall order for this gal}

remember that our present circumstance is my choice made up of a series of decisions we established

after weighing the options and identifying what is best for me and for our little family.

the journey here has not been easy or ideal {though i recognize it might look like it to some}.

i feel confident in the decision to work hard at the opportunities availed to me.

i feel proud of staying present {mostly} and being able to hold steady. 

in this time, i have had the luxury of the both:and -

finding viable employment in which i experience meaning and joy and overall fulfillment and

being able to stay at home many days with our kids.

my work schedule is flexible enough to take long road trips, join field trips, be a secret reader, sit alone in a hammock and/or just take time away. 

i feel blessed

and

as i get closer to the light at the end of the tunnel, 

i feel reassured that this was the right journey for me - for us. 

looking ahead my palms sweat with familiar trepidation in the face of the unknown but i am savoring how i feel in this moment: abundantly thankful {and relieved}. 

feeling lucky

"Hey, how many dead people have you seen?"  

he asks and quickens his pace to catch my hand in his as we walked toward the bus stop.  

We are in the middle of our homemade summer camp {just the two of us} and had, only moments before, polished off a discussion on the coping function of alcohol.

"Not like ghosts or anything but real people?  I mean, what is that like - to watch someone die?"

My step falters ever so slightly as I embrace his inquiry and receive his hand.  

It doesn't take me long to recall how I felt as I stood beside a family just days before as they entwined hands across their loved one's chest to confirm the last breath.  Even now, as I write, I am merely hours removed from such an experience. 

My brow perspires as I struggle with how to quantify my experiences. 

I am holding my breath and misunderstanding his question. 

He shifts his hand in mine and I exhale, finding relief in acknowledging the heart of his question is actually about the experience itself - of being in the presence of death.

This {I think to myself} this is why I love my time with you so much.  

In the middle of a bustling city, after we have spent part of our day trying to see who can burp the longest, you ask me about the soft underbellies of life.  You grab my hand and ask questions that catch me off guard.  

I love that you have to clarify that you are not asking me about ghosts.  

I love how you can appear aloof and distracted and sassy and then initiate sharp, poignant conversations that demonstrate how adept you are at taking in and processing what happens around you. 

I know I have said this a million times and it is your job to poke holes in my sincerity but that doesn't take away from the reality that I spend so many moments in a day watching you, admiring you, and thinking:  

I love you and I feel so lucky to be your mom.

seven bottles

"Here, shuffle these," they said, handing me a stack of giant cards. 

A gold emblem on the black back of each.

We were crouched in our seats, trying to set up for a reading.

My first.

It was dark outside - save the occasional spotlight from the headlights of a passing car or a flash of lightening.  Jonathan Bernstein was on the radio, trying to be heard above the steady rain - the competition unable to rouse the kids who were sleeping in their seats.

"Try to clear your mind and think of a question you have or something you'd like guidance on."

Clearing my mind was a tall order this time of night but I tried.

I closed my eyes and took deep breaths, concentrating only on the feeling of my lungs:

Inflating. Deflating. Inflating...

I absentmindedly shuffled the deck in my hands and handed them back.

 

They took the cards from me, straightened them in their hands, and then splayed the cards across the fabric.

It took a number of tries but the cards finally did what they wanted and remained splayed long enough for me to select four.

They set those four aside and gathered the remainder together, removing them from the reading space.

They placed 3 cards {face down and vertical} side-by-side.

The 4th card was placed {horizontally} in the space above the trio.

"These three," they said, "represent the past, present, and future."

"And this one," placing a finger on the top card, "represents the overall theme of your life."

I suppressed a giggle.

Readings and horoscopes and planets and rising suns are not my thing.  

It is, however, my sibling's thing and they were crouched here in the car, with me {the skeptic}, getting ready to speak into my life with the wisdom they know.

Inflating. Deflating. Inflating...

The past

Full of words, broad themes and vague descriptions that seemed to barely fit or resonate.  

The present

A bit more resonate.  I shifted my body closer, wanting to make sure I didn't miss anything.

The future

Spoke right to the question I had formulated while shuffling the cards.  I got goosebumps.  

And then, this:

An overall theme of feeling overwhelmed by options - under water and suffocated by an octopus on your face.  Unable to see that, while all the bottles seem like they represent something different, they actually are the same.  Blind to the fact that if you would just take the octopus off your face, you might be able to see and attend to the bottle of your heart {cheesy, I know}.  

The description of feeling and thought process was so right on.   

Tears sprang to my eyes and the reading stuck with me for a while.  

In fact, I started this post a day later but abandoned it as I got swallowed back underwater.

But last week I had to make decisions. 

Big decisions. 

Ones that required me to really attend to my goals and convictions and beliefs.  

Last week I feel like I was forced to rip the octopus off my face.  

And that which felt overwhelming and obscured and suffocating has shifted. 

Into something that feels overwhelming {it is change, after all} and exciting & content & right.

legacies, lyrics, and living in the now

I wanna have friends that I can trust, that love me for the man I’ve become not the man I was.
I wanna have friends that will let me be all alone when being alone is all that I need.
I wanna fit in to the perfect space, feel natural and safe in a volatile place.
And I wanna grow old without the pain, give my body back to the earth and not complain.

 - From the Avett Brothers' "The Perfect Space"

Every time I hear this song, I think of my father. 

About his journey to be loved for the man he's become, not the man that he was.

I know, that in so many ways, the story is my father's to tell.

About who he was. About what he endured. About who he's become.

But it is also ours - the story belongs to our family.

Before. During. After.

Most of what I remember from Before relies upon flickering memories of childhood, photos, and the narrations we've pieced together over time. 

Provider. Adventurer. Creator. Innovator. Father.

And then, 

there was the playful afternoon he chased my sister into the living room, 

jumping up to kick her gently in the bum.

{Crack. Shudder. Thud. Silence. Moan}

There was blood.

Plaster was missing - down to the metal frame.

Evening shadows played across the front window.

The year that followed was tough.  

{Who am I kidding?!?} 

 The years that followed were tough --- they continue to be tough.

So much was the same...but different.

Time away from work. Doctors' appointments. Sleeping - always sleeping. Early retirement. Massage school. Motorcycles.  Charts and graphs. Pain. Impulse buys. House renovations. High school graduations. College drop-offs. Weddings. Innovations and Ideas. Diagnoses. Re-diagnoses.

Emotional Disconnect.

During.

And then, an "official" diagnosis: Traumatic Brain Injury.

Too late. Anger. Frustration. Sleeping - always sleeping. Pain. Massage and more massage. Journals and writing. Charts and graphs. Doctors appointments and aversions. Esalen. House renovations. High school graduations. College graduations. Funerals. Innovations and Ideas and Calculations.

Emotional Disconnect.

After.

We each have our experience, our impressions, our hopes and disappointments. 

Our resentments. 

I spent the first years of my marriage, writing letters and demanding my father take responsibility for the myriad ways our family was messed up.  The list was long.

 But it was not {all} his fault. 

It is our family.  Our story.  Our in-elasticity.  Our triggers.  Our dysfunction...together.

I stopped writing my angry letters long ago.  Probably not soon enough to leave some things unsaid.

But I stopped writing as I began to internalize four truths:

one:

 Every family is messed up - even the bright, shiny "perfect" ones

two:

Holding someone accountable for things beyond his control is like trying to hold water in your cupped hand - it always dribbles out to nothing substantial

three:

Living in the present and creating space for people to be be who they are {in the moment} feels better

four:

Our family still has a "together."  We continue to seek each other out and we continue to try.

In fact, last week we all expended concerted and intentional effort to spend time in the same space as one another.

We traveled hundreds and thousands of miles to reunite, recreate, and relax...together.

And one of those nights, while playing cards, I thought:

How lucky we are - to have one another.  

To have a father {and mother} who have imprinted such a legacy on us:

Grace {however guarded}, Perseverance, Self-reflection, Loyalty, and Courage 

to find our voice(s) and  keep coming back to what is and what will be.

"...to feel natural and safe in a volatile place."