my morning alone

there i was, basking in it.  a silent, empty house.  home alone and the best kind of alone. alone without the prospect of anyone coming home until i get them.  a very different type of alone than i'm used to: that which occurs in 15 minute chunks, followed by a punch related bloody nose, or the need for a snack of olives, or to be informed that the turtle has escaped again.  i was enjoying the time that lasts longer than quarterly segments, but is mostly magnificent because it lacks the constant potential for interruptions, which unnerves me much more than the interruptions themselves.

it's the anticipation of small peoples needs that makes it hard for me to relax.  or finish a thought. or achieve needed clarity.

i was sitting in the fullness of this day- this first day since the start of school when florence has the day off, rose began pre-school, mike is at work, and i have been home. all. alone. i was dreaming of the possibilities, after my walk up the hill and my second cup of coffee, of what i could do with a few days a week like this.  basically, i could conquer my world.  i could return to painting, i could exercise regularly, i could write my book, i could finally learn lugandan, study for the internal medicine re-certification boards, get my garden going, cook my way through julia child, organize the boys closet disaster. the options were endless and i was excited.

so of course this day, after a mere 2 hours of freedom, i had a meeting with the head of the university. my light and breezy new found attitude based on the recently arrived upon reality of having some overdue alone time, was weighted down with a lot of needs, with another reality. really? on this day?
it would have been nice to continue the dream.  to have just a morning a week of pretending i'm retired, but in the best possible way (with out the longing for what was, because it will be in a few short hours).

but.

i know i didn't come to africa to become a really good cook, or the mastermind of lego/ army men organizational systems.  i came here to help where i can, to give my time and what little talent i may have, to teach what i know, to make the world somehow smaller, because God loves us all the same and wants poverty to end, and justice to happen, and wrongs to be righted.

this day, as all days are, was orchestrated from above. the vice chancellor didn't know that zoe had just started school.  he didn't know we had rose or that she had started pre-school.  he just knew our intentions in coming here, my CV, his needs, and thought he'd ask, see what might be possible. 

it will require some good alone thinking time, praying time, asking what can-and-should-i-do time. this new season of something. my season of transitioning myself as i transition my littles. it's again about finding the balance, holding the tension of the opposites as they pull at us, maintaining the pose.  it's about helping with out burning out.  it's about remembering that my family comes first- but i don't need to hide out and wait for their possibly neediness to be revealed. 

trust. be. try. give. hold. let go.  and always, savor the stillness.

first days

today began with mike jumping out of bed and announcing that he'd forgot to set the alarm. doh!
but we chose calm over crazy rush.  we chose trust over panic. and it worked.  we even got them there early.

bryn woke up in tears, mostly because he was tired i think, but the drama of being in year one, having two friends move away over the summer, and worrying that his teacher was too serious- got the best of him.

jude was fine. he's that guy who once he knows a place, and the routine, he is set.  last year was a different story, when it was new and he was new, the world was scarey and he let us know for about two weeks. but going into year 3, at the same school, piece of cake.

zoe had verbalized last night at dinner (while everyone was fighting over who got the finish the broccoli.....i know right?) that she was both excited and nervous.  totally natural, totally appropriate.  today the slowest girl in the world, managed her time and her excitement/ nervous combo- perfectly.  i was amazed.  but not really because the peace i was feeling was also clearly not of this world.  i could feel the prayers, those arms, that sheltering, the mountain inching.

rosie was quite honestly, being a brat- because for once- she was not getting the attention she likes.  she isn't starting school yet, so other people had issues today and needed to be held or their tears to be dried.  but she's three so it's allowed.

at breakfast they wanted to know about how i felt on the 'first days' of my life.  i was shy; my mom and i had a mix up my first day of 1st grade, and i thought she was picking me up at school, she meant the bus stop- that was scarey; but in general- i like new beginnings.

this is a new beginning.  today. wednesday. august 29th, 2012.

 at the equator, we don't have the seasonality that shaped my childhood years.  i miss it, and crave it, because it was another external boundary providing internal guidance.   so school starting  feels like that first cool autumn dry wind, bringing change, the leaving of something, the beginning of another. a seasons when i am not a home-schooler, i'm no longer zoe's teacher, i am free to be only her mom and all the beauty and responsibility and privilege that comes with that.


i don't know what this will hold.  i don't even know how long it was last.  maybe my phone will ring today - maybe there will be desk hiding and falling to bits.  or maybe it won't and these hours will become mine again- to work on our mobile medical clinic- to start the farming- and the poultry project- to write- to teach- to prepare to pick up at the end of the day and be just a mom to these guys, to be the support, the back up, the ears they need, the arms they need, as they navigate their worlds with out me.

i just finished gifts from the sea.  anne morrow lindbergh writes a postlogue 20 years after the book was first published.  it was fascinating.  the book is about the stages of life for a woman, as a mother, a worker, a thinker and writer.  she writes using different shells as analogies for each stage.  in the epilogue she writes that she'd missed a stage - the stage of the empty shell.  the quiet, lonely season that happens after the children have gone, before the exciting, re-self discovery, definition phase.  a season she didn't anticipate- but would have been very helpful to have thought of  - during the crazy, busy, time-less, days and hours of child rearing.  it's so easy to be tired.  it's so understandable to want a break, to jump for joy when school starts, to roll our eyes at the whistling, or the whining, fighting, and yelling.  it makes sense that we are sick of stepping on legos and looking for tiny lego guys hats late at night, and changing wet beds, and reminding people to wear deodorant.  but.

how quickly it goes!  how soon we will miss the very things that drive us nuts.  we will long to wake up to the sounds of their feet on the floor - to hear someone ask "what do hives look like?" and "what does confluent mean?" and "are those good questions?"

i've enjoyed this silent cup of coffee and uninterrupted time outside on the porch.  but already it seems too quiet, already i'm missing their voices and  laughter.  already i'm wondering how their day is going, what questions they are asking, how they feel about their desk placement and if they like their snacks.

and that is love, i think.  loving being with them, and loving letting them go.  enjoying alone time, but eagarly anticipating reunion.  yin and yang.  there is balance there.  i want to hold it- the awareness of the empty shell in my future.  so i can treasure the fullness of today. 

almost

it's 'almost' lots of things.

almost the one year anniversary of our move here.
almost the 19th anniversary of our wedding day.
almost time for school to start (okay already time, but it will come soon).
almost have rose's birth certificate.

and these things, these almost's, bring reflection.  what have we done with this year?  what have we done with these 19 years? when will these children go back to school? will we ever get roses paperwork together and be able to get home for christmas?

reflection is good and sometimes bad and always different for different people. mike and i are reflectively different.  i have high frequency and amplitude and he has low.  i have quicker peaks and valleys and steeper and deeper ones- he is steadier- more gradual - basically less manic. 

we've come to realize that both ways have their strengths and weaknesses and thank God we balance each other out- we compliment each other. 

my reflections are quick and change quickly- his are thought out, held on to and reprocesses- i'm like ping pong, he's more like cricket.  so in the season of almosts- he's reflecting in his way- and the stretched-out-ness of it, makes it seem big and encompassing. 

today i went into kampala with the 4 kids to meet a friend and do the grocery shopping.  i had spent the first few hours of the day hearing about mikes reflections and then walking with a friend and hearing her reflections and when i got in the car for the hour long drive, i just wanted to think and process all of it- while listening to music of my choice- but with no kid talk.

"mommy?"
"yes bryn."
"why can't you tickle yourself?"

"mommy?"
"yes jude."
"do you think a car could run over a giant turtle?"
"i don't know maybe."
"what about 17 giant turtles?"

oh. dear. Lord.

"mom!"
"yes zoe."
"how exactly do our noses smell things?"
"ummm..."
"mom, you're a doctor! you should know that!"

do i really have to go there? can't we just listen to the soothing voice of adele?

so i called upon divine intervention.
and this time i didn't say 'help'.  this time i was specific.

"God? if you can shut the mouths of hungry lions and protect daniel- surely you can shut the mouths of my children for the next hour, and protect me, or them from me. please??"

and if you ever thought God doesn't care about the small stuff? you are wrong.  because for the next hour, nobody said a word, and they weren't sleeping. nobody spoke. at. all. and i hadn't even told them to be quiet.  they just were.  not even to request for a different song- or to repeat a song, or to complaint, or to ask if i had any food.  they were silent. 

it was unheard of.  it was delicious.
it was surely a miracle- an early august almost anniversary miracle.

amen.

'good night i love you'

i wanted to start with this- the amazing sky.  that ball of bright hot pink, the paleness of the surrounding sky, the dark edges of the leaf silhouettes.  it called me outside to stop and remember a bigger place than my noisy living room at 6:35.  it spoke of the huge world- the millions of people who look at that same ball in the sky- from their rooms where ever they are.  it spoke of the stillness and consistency of God.

that hour, that time, the end of a long day- even a great day, can be crazy.  kids are hungry and tired, parents are too, and dinner is being cooked and tables set and hands are asked to be washed.  then there are vegetables to be eaten by people who don't like vegetables, and meat by people who don't like meat.  there are napkins to be put in laps, and mouthfuls to be finished before questions like, "why are parents so bossy?" can be asked.  there is milk to be spilled and interruptions to be managed and dessert to be lost for being mean to siblings.  there are tables to be cleared and dishes done, baths drawn, teeth brushed, stories read, inhalers inhaled, and pampers put on (because last night somone wet the bed).  there are songs to be sung, and prayers prayed, and snuggles always, and 'goodnight i love you's' to be said- because that is really it.

after those crazy, spinney two hours of the sprint parenting- 'good night i love you'- and i really mean it even if i raised my voice or brushed your teeth too hard- is what matters.  'good night i love you'- even if you can never remember to lift the toilet seat before you pee (although there is now a sign).  'good night i love you'  - even if you're almost 13 and sometimes you really don't like me and i don't even know why. 

'good night i love you' and i always will- you can't out run it, out interrupt it, out sticky thought it, out spill it- i always will no matter what.  just like that sun set, it's still and constant and always.  some nights it might look different, or sound different- but no matter what- that is really it.

tonight God said it too with that sky.
'good night i love you'- and i always will.

entropy, expectations and monkey poop

i should have know where this day was headed, because i had only been awake for about 10 minutes and was meeting my friend for a walk, when i was pooped on by a monkey. a big monkey in a very big tree. i stood under this great tree and actually heard it coming- like a whistling sound- thank God i didn't look up- but the whistle ended in a splat- which actually hurt.   this was the introduction to the day.

expectations are what we think should or will happen


this was unexpected.
my friend suggested that i'd gotten all the 'crap' of the day over with at once- literally. i wasn't so sure.


because i was away all day yesterday learning how to be a farmer, i felt i should spend a day focusing on the kids, so i cancelled a meeting, and the kids and i decided on the pool.  i corralled the 4 of them into the car, with water bottles, towels, snacks, toys, sunblock and water wings.  i was having visions of my idyllic day with my four lovely children.  with the monkey poop behind me, i was ready. bring it.


we arrived at 11- and people were excited- for about 10 minutes - and then began the choir of "i'm huuunnngry!" but i was prepared and pulled out the crackers. two people were satisfied, one chimed in with "is that all you brought?" which promptly resulted him losing the privilege of  snacks, probably forever.  to preempt the second grumbling of hungry stomachs, i flagged someone down to order lunch.  everyone was excited by the prospect of food for about 10 minutes- until the cacophony began again, "this is taking forever!!  when is the food going to get here?"

as if i know.  as if we made this outing to eat here, instead of swim. as if they hadn't had breakfast and snacks.

i tried to be patient with them- to find humor in it.

but i wanted to wring someones neck.
i reminded them that we were at the pool so why didn't they jump in and swim, and that we live in africa where things always take longer but really it had only been 10 minutes since we put the order in. i also wanted to read the end of the most addictive and inappropriate book i've read in years.  i especially wanted to read it then- to instantly retreat to a completely other reality- one that really couldn't be more different than mine- especially with my 4 kids in the middle of summer vacation.

this summer vacation i realized that we needed some order: places for things, closets to be cleaned out, broken toy parts to be discarded, and too small clothes to be given away.  so periodically i've attacked a room and created a satisfactory level of order.  which i've noticed lasts for about 12 hours.  then entropy takes over. 

entropy- a gradual decline into disorder, the steady deterioration of a system, a measure of the disorder or randomness of a closed system 

As a physical system becomes more disordered, and its energy becomes more evenly distributed, that energy becomes less able to do work. 
this is the way of the world and certainly the way of my house.  as it becomes more chaotic, as the scraps and caps and snippets climb out of their ordered place and evenly distribute themselves across the floors of my house, those people who those things belongs to, become less able to do work. those people become like beanbag chairs- distributing themselves around the house evenly- also on the floor, often in some upside down fashion- able to do not much more than complain. 

so given that entropy is actually a thermodynamic property, why am i surprised by it? why do i expect the opposite?  why am i disappointed when items are magically sprinkled about the day after i gave them a proper place on a shelf?  why am i perplexed by the bean-bag-ness of my children?


today at the pool, it was more than the random distribution of things, but the disorder of the system at large, that seemed to astound me.

finally the food arrived.  again, people were happy for about 5 minutes during the chaos of 'pass the salt' and 'she took my lemon!' and ' i want to sit at that table'.  then entropy took over further.

"my fish sticks smell like a cow!" jude said.
"mine too!" said bryn.
"rose fish sticks?" said rose.
"no, honey, you have an egg sandwich." i pointed out.
"i wish i had an egg sandwich." said jude.
"yeah- not these disgusting fish sticks!" bryn said.


i wanted to tell them what  they could to do with their fish sticks,  but really i just wanted to read. i just wanted people to be thankful and enjoy the pool.  i wanted the system at large to run smoothly for once and not fall into full chaos.  i wanted what i'd envisioned, what i'd expected- i did not want entropy.


but

i did have to laugh now.  because i remembered that we've had times when i would have given all my limbs to have "normal" entropy.  when zoe was so much the center of any outing- when entropy was such a given- when we fell to bits all day most days- when i wouldn't have dreamed of bringing a book to a pool, when i would have over heard the conversations about cow smelling fishsticks with great envy. i remembered.  how quickly i forget.  how dare i forget? how fortunate i am to be in place where forgetting is possible.

entropy in what ever form, is to be expected and i'm the crazy one for thinking anything else is even possible, let alone probable!

the reading this morning, was about finding the joy in life by letting go of our control, by accepting God's control.  it was about remembering that our well orchestrated plans are easily thwarted by a phone call, or the unexpected- so we should be more flexible and chill and be open to discovering what has been prepared for us in our day.

i'm not sure why mine started with monkey poop.  maybe it was a literal and metaphoric heads up. an early reminder to respect entropy and let go of expectations. will i be able to do this? can i accept the promise of change, movement, disintegration?  can i allow the natural disorder of life to re-equilibrate me? the beauty of entropy is that often the thermodynamic goal is to move toward unity- to bring two systems to balance - with the initial cost of disruption - and that is beautiful.


i can live with that theoretically- sacrifice order for unity - can i live it out in my entropic home?
i think i can, i think i can.

freedom behind the boundary

the other day zoe was perched on her bed, in the nicest and largest room in the house that is now her own bedroom.  the one separated from the rest of us- by the living room and kitchen. she had just lost her computer for watching youtube homemade videos of kids playing LPSs (littlest pet shop pets).  i just find homemade videos online creepy- or potentially creepy or at least difficult to closely monitor, so that's my rule. and i've told her a thousand times- no youtube homemade videos!

this was her response
"ugghhh mom! i have NO FREEDOM!!!"

as if.

as if i hadn't just given her her own room.

as if i hadn't spent the last two hours picking through large baskets filled with silly bands and hair elastics and miniscule lego pieces and tires of small toy cars and felt-board characters and coins. sorting which parts of things should be kept, because they will be requested at some point soon (moms always know which random broken items have become treasures), and which can be thrown or given away.

as if i hadn't then lugged everything into the new room and found places for all the random treasures.  that is true love.  that was done FOR YOUR FREEDOM!! i wanted to yell back.

but.

you are almost 13.  i'm annoying.
you couldn't resist watching the videos.  you don't like consequences. you don't like punishments.
i don't get you- you say.  you're right. i often don't get you.
but girly- i'm trying to give you some freedom.  and space. and independence.
i want so badly for you to know these things- to be your own- to separate- to make your own choices- ones that won't hurt you. 

freedom: the power or right to act, speak, or think as one wants without hindrance or restraint. (google def.)

is there such a thing? without hindrance? with out any restraint?

i don't think so.

i grew up with a brother and a sister and i understood my freedom in the context of my family.  i heard my mom clarifying the definition of freedom a lot - "your freedom ends where his nose begins".  it was really in the safety of the boundary that we found our freedom.  when the venn diagrams of our lives overlap- the rules of freedom change in that shaded area.


boundary- something that indicates the farthest limit of an area. (google def)
boundary- the edges, the clarity, the perimeter, what hems us in behind and before, the limit that creates the space for full freedom and also gives safety- protection- care.

with out the rules, the edges, the limits, we can become unwound. overwhelmed. unfocused. 
today i read psalm 16- "the boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places".  i love this. that they are there- those boundary lines- because they provide direction and guidance and i need to be hemmed in.  i choose containment- because i trust the one who sets my boundary. 

the thing is, sometimes those lines aren't pleasant, they feel constricting and we feel claustrophobic and stuck and they are leading us straight up a high mountain pass.  sometimes we feel tired and we long for a giant open space- a flat field.  but we don't live on those hard trails forever. we do come to places where the stones roll back and the fences spread out and we can shed our packs and our heavy shoes and we can dance barefoot- and in that dancing our freedom explodes.  as we feel the grass under our feet, we can look back and see what we learned along the way- that now we are able to dance out of a deeper level of graditude, with more passion than we ever had before- that He who lead us up that winding road- has turned our brokenness to fullness- our wailing into our dancing- our bondage into freedom.

i want this for my children.  i want them to understand where their freedom lies.  i want them to live life fully- to embrace guidance but to make their own choices- to transition to the natural consequences of their decisions.  i want them to be prepared. to have the word in their heart- to know the one who guides them-to accept that boundaries are good, to trust them, to learn to set them for themselves sometimes.  to act and think and speak in ways that bring freedom to many, not just themselves. 

and oh, i so badly want them to dance.

what four means

here is what four means.  four rhymes with more for a reason.  there is a lot more of most thing- more mess- more noise- more opinions- more laundry- more fighting- more crumbs- more spills.  there is also more singing, more laughing, and more 'i love you's'- and those are worth much more.

i've come to realize that whenever there are more of somethings- there are less of others.  it's a bit of a closed system.  so now there is less quiet- less organization-less toilet paper- less alone time. actually maybe no alone time-for now.

we are all in equilibrium as we adjust to four.  i'm working on being okay with more mess- in whatever form that is- crumbs, forts, spills, toys, paper, clutter.  i'm remembering to dissect the noise- to listen to what is hidden- what is being said- or shouted- or sung- those little clues into my children and their process.  i'm trying to help with what is behind the fighting and yelling- because often it's someone hugging someone too hard- or giving an unrequested kiss- because learning to share is really important- and knowing that someone is there to hear you or defend your cause is important- because knowing that the rules don't change when you add another player, and that the rules are the same for everyone is essential.

and i'm learning to SAVOR the few quiet moments when lunch is over, rose has finally gone down for a nap- and the other three are off playing elsewhere and the dishes are done and the brownies are out of the oven- and i can just be still.  take a breath.  and be thankful for four and all their more.

part-time

i'm such a bad mother.
well, today.
and while i know it's my fault, it's also because it's tuesday and tuesdays are the worst type of day.  the day i'm part-time work- part-time mom.

tuesdays start at 5:30 am when i get up before everyone to try to make their day better.  i get up and make coffee and hot chocolate and nutella toast and set the table and get the backpacks ready.  then i do the dreaded task of cheer leading my boys out of their deep sleep and into their school uniforms.  then i spend the next 30 minutes corralling them through the simple and basic and routine tasks of eating, teeth brushing, and putting on shoes- crocs none the less.  then we get in the car and drive an hour to school.

by 8 am i'm at work.  then begins the next chapter of the day.  listening to sick people tell me their symptoms so i can try to help them.  i'm sure it sounds simple.  but there are some tricky parts.
like what does "hmmmm" mean as a response to a question.  
"has your pain been going on for while?"
"mmmmm"  i'm guessing that means 'yes'.
"for how long?"
"mmmm"  i'm guessing that means 'i have no idea what you're asking me.' which then makes me question their first answer, so we're back to the beginning.  there are many circular discussions.  then if i've figured it out, and know what is wrong and what to do, i have to hope we have the medicine, or that they can go to the place to get the test.  by 1 pm, i'm feeling mildly panicked and very rushed because i need to finish and get the boys.  today at 1, i had an old lady with an eye emergency- really- and i'm pretty much it for the closest thing to an eye doctor that she'll get - at least until tomorrow.  i also had two nurses who needed help with their patients- someone with difficultly swallowing and some one else with chest pain and persistent cough and fevers.  in other words- not just refilling HIV meds.  so i left doing the best i could- but wishing i could stay around to see the chest x-ray i'd ordered and to write the referrals myself.

then i rush to get the boys.  i'm greeted first by bryn who has something to tell me.
"i was put in time out today at school."
"why, what did you do?"
"well, i was with some kids and we were spitting on someone."
LOW.POINT.
"why?"
"i don't know"
"brynnie- you know that is wrong.  what was your heart telling you honey?"
"that i shouldn't do it."  teary and wobbly voice.
"you need to listen to that voice inside bryn.  it's put there by God to tell you what is right and what is wrong."
"who were you spitting at?"
"mikey."
"who's mikey, was he being mean?"
"no, he's a big boy."
suddenly i knew who mikey was and my heart sank.
my son was spitting on a child like his sister- a child who is a bit different.  ouch.
VERY LOW POINT.
"bryn.  i'm very sad.  i know who mikey is.  mikey is different." he was again, teary.
"bryn, this isn't who you are.  this isn't what you were made to do."
"i know, but i forgot all those things you tell me.  i knew in my heart, but i did it anyway."
how well we all know that feeling. knowing and doing- similar but different.  i too struggle with the 'doing' part.
"honey i love you. we all struggle with this.  you need to learn from it.  you need to remember that feeling- listen to what your heart is saying- do what it says.  and remember this feeling- how bad it feels when you do the wrong thing."
"i will.  i'm sorry."
"i forgive you."

then we got in the car for the hour home (fearing because yesterday it took two hours).  bryn fell asleep; i worried about the old lady with the eye, i worried about my son behaving so badly, i worried about what mikey had to tell his mother; the other two kids ate oreos.

then i get home to hungry, whining, homework, soccer practice, dinner and mike away at meetings.  and after a few hours i just lost it and instead of giving myself a time out- i yelled at people.  i let all the annoyance of everything fall into little ears that don't need to feel the crap of an exhausted part-time working mom.  they don't need to suffer my early waking, my resentment at cheer leading, my traffic fatigue, my fear that i've made some lady blind, my intolerance of whining.  and my annoyance at that final straw of a liter of milk landing all over the counter, and inside cabinets, and on the kitchen floor,  mixed with glass shrouds from the pitcher when jude placed it gently on the tile counter (does pyrex have a specific expiration/explosion date?).  they didn't need that.  they didn't deserve that.  because they are little and should be allowed to whine sometimes.

so.  i did the only thing i could do.
i calmly cleaned up the milk.  i told them that i was sorry for being mean and yelling.  i told them that i was tired but that i still shouldn't behave that way and i hugged them and told them i loved them and that they were special even if i was a crabby jerk. i told them God had a special plan for them (as i silently prayed that i wasn't globally messing it up).  i told them we should eat dinner and read stories and snuggle and we did.

now the sun is gone, and the light is following, saying it's last farewell. night is coming.

part-time work is hard.  you have be fully on both games.

Mondays are easier. because even after a full day of clinic, and in two hours of traffic, i come home and it's just dinner and bedtime.  because i come home and i'm so desperate to smell their little heads, their sweet outdoor smell and hear their stories.  because when i come home after a full day, they've had a snack and  they've already finished whining with some one else.  because i've seen all the chest x-rays and finished my own notes and written my referrals and i've had at least an hour 'time out' in the car to process what i couldn't do for the people who only said 'hmmmm' or those who have only me instead of an ophthalmologist.  when i come home i'm just so happy to walk in that door.

because i love them. so. much.
because i want to show them that every minute of every day.
because they should have that.
but.
really, they have 'real'.  and i guess that is okay too.
let grace rain down on me.

space

what is it with needing space?  and a space to have that space.

i'm sitting out on my porch and the kids and their friends are playing nicely inside.  currently no one is yelling, no one is even being that noisy, but i can feel them.  i can feel the potential. that while all is well now, at any moment, all could all fall apart into a chaotic, loud mess that will require my intervention.


i love my kids, i do. they're smart and interested in life and so they talk all the time, and they ask questions and then argue with each other and me about the answers.  this can get tiring- especially in the car- especially in traffic.  in the last two days, i've spent 5 hours in the car with them driving in traffic.
i try really hard to be that fully engaged mom who calmly answers their questions by reflecting them back, "well what do you think the cow is doing in the middle of the road?" or to engage them in their environment, but after sitting in that traffic, being passed by matatu after matatu in their own created lane,  i inevitably end up telling everyone to please be quiet so we can just listen to music and drive!
except sometimes i forget the please.

the saving grace is that i'm usually in the car with my kids and their friend - so i have to behave slightly better than if he weren't there.  (note today after we dropped him up the dirt road- i couldn't even make it the 1/4 mile home with out telling my kids to 'please shut up!'- at least i said please?)

this is the hard part about being a parent.  you get tired, or crabby, but you're still on display.  you're still surrounded by little minds tape recording the words and the tone of voice. these little people are always watching, and then mimicking what they see.  and then perhaps the hardest part of being a parent,  is hearing  them sound like the part of yourself that you're trying so desperately to reign in, to contain, to change.

i once read this quote about parenting that terrified me.
"Don't worry that children never listen to you; worry that they are always watching you." ~Robert Fulghum
it reminded me of how i'm always setting an example of something.  i can get all bent out of shape about them not listening to me, but what am i modeling for them?  

having 'space' is like having a grown up time out. i need this time.  to regroup, reset the clock, step back, get some perspective and prepare to re-engage and do it well, do it lovingly, kindly, patiently, and in a way that i would want them to repeat.

in atlanta i had an easier time getting space. i had my back porch. it was on the second floor, up high enough that i was in the trees, but the best part was the isolation.  i couldn't see people.  just leaves, or bark if the leaves were gone.  and if i shut the door, i couldn't hear people.

in uganda, there are more people in and around my house.  there are people raking, and mowing,  or doing dishes or laundry and while these things are helpful and good, and i value the people doing them,  they are also in my space.  that is the trade off.

today florence went home early, and the yard is done being raked, so i've found 30 minutes of space.  right now, the kids have gone outside.  i can hear them stomping back this way, but that's okay, the time out is over, i've regrouped enough, i'm ready to begin again. but i do miss that porch!

                       zoe reading to jude and bryn on the porch

you catch more flies with honey...

i have had my head deep inside a book for the past few days- it was consuming me- but i've put it down for a moment.  i'm back.

lately i've been having some parenting issues.  issues with my kids, issues with my response to my kids, issues of parenting.  part of it is that parenting zoe is a completely different experience than parenting jude and bryn.  she just has different issues- strengths and struggles.  so unlike most parents who can get to child number 2 and at least have a reference from child number 1 about how most 6 year olds act, we don't.  it's new territory all over again, aside from certain physical milestones like when to begin solid food and loose teeth.

with the boys right now, i'm struggling with the balance between setting them up for success and punishing them when they misbehave.  let me explain.  every morning we have to get up reeaaaallllyyy early to drive the boys to school.  we get up at 5:45 and get their juice and breakfast and lately, hot chocolate, all set up.  their clothes are laid out on their floor the night before, and their bags are already packed and by the door.  we let them sleep until about 6:10 and all they have to do is slip on their clothes and come to the table where a meal awaits them.  now.  i would consider that setting them up for success.  how hard is that?  the only thing better would be breakfast in bed!

today this is what i got,  "MAAAAMMAAAAA!!! i SAID i wanted you to put my clothes IN my bed so i can get dressed under my COVERS."  bryn.

or "MOMMMYYYY!  i didn't want the bread TOASTED with nutella, i just wanted REGULAR  bread with nutella!!" jude.

i almost grabbed them by the hair and knocked their little whinny heads together.  are you kidding me?? now i know that they are tired and that they are 4 and 6, so one possible response would be to just love right through- to use some version of ' you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.'  i could attempt to diffuse the situation with, "oh king bryn i'm so sorry! here your royal highness, here are your royal clothes!"  at which i know he'd laugh and probably get dressed.

but somehow it was all so bratty, and so assuming, and so neglectful of the fact that we got up much earlier and puttered around to make their life easier, (mom i'm sure you must be totally laughing right now), that i couldn't do that.  i ended up in punishment land.  i ended up explaining to a 4 and 6 year old that i am even more tired and i'm not whining (of course at that point i kind of was).  i ended up asking them which of their ugandan friends even gets breakfast let alone hot chocolate?  and then i ended up taking  away the hot chocolate- resulting in even more whining and many tears - causing me to say things like 'oh i'll give you something to really cry about!'  as if i'm on "leave it to beaver"- although those kids never back talked to their mom.

the thing is, on paper, i'm a big believer in diffusing the situation when you can (especially with the young ones).  but i'm also a big believer in children being polite and respectful.  on paper i'm a believer of parenting out of a calm and mature and non-reactionary place- but ohhhhh do i struggle with this!
i get so angry.


as we drove school, after a hot chocolate-less morning, i realized we need a plan. 
maybe it needs to be having them go to bed even earlier- although that is nearly impossible.  or maybe the opposite.  maybe they need to get up earlier and get their own clothes from the closet, get their own bag packed.  or maybe i should feed them grool for a week.  i don't know.

but one thing i believe in more than the method of diffusing or punishing, is that children simply need boundaries. they crave them, and will push and pull until they figure out where the buck stops,  where the line is really drawn, until they figure out exactly who is in control- and they don't want it to be themselves.   parents who are in control and consistent- parents who set clear boundaries, give their children 'the safe feeling'. and children who feel safe are better behaved.

so looking back on our morning, or our mornings, i'm realizing that we may need to set clearer, and better maintained boundaries.  why i struggle with this is because i love to give my kids things that make them happy.  but boundaries will lead to long term happiness much more than even chocolate.

and although i'm in the business of growing boys into respectful men and not catching flies, perhaps i'll put some honey on their toast tomorrow and see what happens....

life is beautiful

it's been a day of ups and downs and kids struggling to just 'be' in the midst of craziness.

yesterday clover went to her new home.  it was sad- really sad.  after she left- zoe bawled on the couch- bryn tried to cry but kind of couldn't and jude said he was crying in his heart.  i cried because i felt so badly for the kids losing their dog- especially zoe, as it was mostly her dog- and for this monumental step towards our move- our new lives- and because i'll miss clover too.

so i guess i expected that today would be out-of-sorts and it has been.  everyone is mildly giddy and picking at each other and whiny, all at once.  today the boys went to 'vbs' (vacation bible school) and zoe and i had 3 hours to ourselves- just us- like old times- it was nice.  recently i've started decreasing the doses of her medications.  i did this for two reasons- one was admittedly financial.  her medications are expensive and hard to get in uganda and so when i realized that we could leave here with a years supply if i cut her dose down- i thought it was worth a try.  also, i'm curious.  she's been on them for two years - there is not a lot of data on these medicines in children- maybe it's time to try lowering the dose.  the problem is- i feel like i'm looking at her through a microscope again- i'm in data collection mode- science experiment land- and that doesn't feel good when it's your kid you're examining. 

is she stickier than normal?  is she struggling to regulate?  it she better? 

and really who knows?  because life happens.  kids get older- they mature- they change- they have pre-teen hormone drama- and i've been lax about gluten- and dairy- and we are moving to africa and losing the dog and pretty much turning things upside down.  i guess it's not a great experiment after all- too many variables.

but i was impressed with her letting go of clover.  i was impressed with her ability to allow herself to feel it- to cry- to be sad- to not just turn it to anger. this was big- this is progress. 

and it's these times that i realize that it's all so subtle and variable, and out of my hands and we just do the best we can- but really, that is all. we just try.  we do our best.  and hopefully in all of it- we try to love each other- hold each other- protect each other and be gentle.  then we mess it up and start again. 

i think that is why i struggled with the movie 'the tree of life'.  i think i felt the danger and the subtlety of all relationships. i think i saw myself in both the character of the father and the mother.  i saw my potential for abuse and passivity.  my ability to be a victim of my nature and my attempt to embrace the grace.  life is big- i am small.

that is it.  but- life is beautiful.

carve the bird

last night, mike and i, accidentally and thankfully got our date.  my mom, bless her, took the kids.  we were able to regroup, focus on each other and enjoy a good meal with no preparation and no clean up- and no interruptions.  it's the little things.

the whole weekend we'd felt like we were losing the battle with the kids.  too much negative and not enough positive. we were questioning our expectations and their obedience.  we were questioning our ability to raise people who will contribute to to humanity, or even just live independently and say 'please' and 'thank you'.

while we were out- i read a story forwarded to my email by my sister.  it was beautiful and poignant and full of wisdom about parenting- but also, life in general.

so much of what we do, especially as mothers, goes unnoticed, un-thanked and even unappreciated. if the meal is acknowledged, it's because it's too spicy, or someone 'hates' chicken.  we try to get them to a birthday party for their friend and it's a problem because they want to finish building the lego house first.  it can feel like all we do is listen to complaining, answer questions over and over again, say "no", and never finish a sentence, a phone conversation, or a trip to the 'potty', with out being interrupted.

in the story a woman, who was tired and feeling 'invisible',  who was feeling lost in the caring of others, is given a book about european cathedrals.  the inscription is about how much the book's giver values what this woman is doing as a mother, behind the scenes, when no one is looking.

and this mother, as she reads this book, comes to see why it was given to her.  no one knows the names of those who built the great cathedrals.  the builders spent their lives working on something they'd never even see finished.  they made great sacrifices and expected no credit.  the passion for their building was fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw everything.

and she remembered that the things we do selflessly can create everlasting beauty. the sacrifice for a greater good can transcend time.  process matters.  trusting the final outcome- when you can only see one small piece of the wall- allows completion.

in the cathedral book, it tells of a man who was carving a bird into a beam, high up in the roof area.  someone asked him why he was spending so much time on a detail that would be covered up, and hidden.  'because God sees it' he said. 

and the woman realized who her audience should be.  she realized the smallness of each builder- yet the magnitude of the work they did.  and in this, she was renewed, she saw her passion ignite.  she realized she is building cathedrals. it's not about being thanked for the meal, or the ride to the birthday party, it's about investing in the character of her children.  it's about them feeling loved and valued. it's about who they are becoming- how she is carving them into the men and women that God wants them to be.

mike and i read it and were moved.  we were stirred by the notion- perhaps most of all- of carving the bird.  of doing what you do, what ever it is, because it is pure and beautiful, because you are creating something that if no one else sees it, is seen by God.  because it's not about product, but process.  because the small things do matter.

it was exactly what we needed to remember.  these gifts given to us deserve our faithful attention, our endurance, our full effort, our patience.

so, find your cathedral, and carve your bird. and as the email concluded,  remember-
"The Will of God will never take you where the Grace of God will not protect you." 

a really good day and some other things

it's delicious out.  and to make it even better, it has been a truly delicious day.   last night no boys woke us up with growing pains. this morning zoe not only came downstairs dressed, but with out being asked she made herself (frozen) pancakes, poured her own drink, even got out her medicine and sat down to eat.  in this process, she didn't yell at her brother, or get frustrated by how to work the microwave, it was, a moment.  i was amazed and thankful.  because for zoe, this task requires high levels of motor planning, focus, patience and initiative- i am so proud of her.

for me, that was enough- before 9:30 am we had accomplished enough.  even if the rest of the day was a scholastic disaster- i was going to be happy.  but, that was only the beginning.  she told me that she'd finished her book 'charlie and the chocolate factory' yesterday (again, on her own) and then gave me a summary of the book.   she quietly did her copy work, she motored through fractions of all things- and got it!

all i can think is, who ate zoe and left this child in her place?

we've been reading 'good queen bess' about queen elizabeth I.  she loves it, because she loves stories- and that is what history is.  today it led to all sorts of great questions- what are small pox? when did they discover germs? how did they discover them? what about microscopes? then onto the geography of great Britain and europe; then some grammar, defining parts of speech, discussing vocabulary words, even breaking down metaphors: "Walsingham's net caught many fish" when speaking of elizabeth's secretary's trap to catch mary queen of scots in treason. we discussed the nuances of 'good and evil' and tried to expand on her dichotomous, disney-esque  approach to all stories.  we talked about the layers of history and that there are different perspectives-different motives - different sides.  we talked about religion and war and violence.

it was home-schooling at it's best- organic- minimally planned- student led- really, all i did was facilitate, let her sit on my lap, and be available.  all i did was quiet my crazy mind and be still.

there is a quote from an american indian-
 "the busy mind is sick, the quiet mind is good, but the still mind is divine."

oh it would be divine to have a still mind.

zoe was off to play with her "friend with autism" and then to her social group.  so i went to get my youngest and run the dreaded 'target' errands. Target must be another name for "how to always spend  $100 when you go for household paper products".

so bryn and i are walking around finding all the things that we'd forgotten we "needed" - like spiderman socks in the dollar bin- and scotch tape.  we were in the boys section because jude's birthday is next week- and i'm noticing that pretty much everything is covered in skulls.

OK- my boys are all about them too- because of pirates- but do we really want our kids covered in creepy? i started flipping through the 75% off section of winter clothes and i'm seeing all these shirts with writing on them (and skulls- usually mixed with guitars).  the phrases on these shirts are all flip and glib and sound like they'd come out of the mouth of bart simpson.  i'm thinking how fascinating this is from a sociological perspective.  and then i come across this one, scribbly writing between drawings of skulls and roses and guitars, saying:  "not here for a long time, only here for a good time."  what? you're in kindergarten.  i hope you're hear for a long time.  and i know you don't know that huey lewis song.

and i'm thinking about my generation as parents and how we dress our kids and how it's still really all about us. i mean is there such thing as a 'cool' two year old? sometimes i want to go up and ask the decked out kid in the pink floyd prism shirt what his favorite song is on 'dark side of the moon'.  it's like our little kids have become bumper stickers- carriers of our image-they're part of our 'brand'. 

what's funny to me is that our generation plans to raise true individuals- kids who aren't just little versions of us- we're OK if they don't want to do what we do or share our views or play the sport we played- but God forbid they want to wear elmo and not the rolling stones.

we all want our kids to look good, i get it, i do too.  and if we wear concert t-shirts than it's not that weird that we'd put them on our kids- but it is amusing to see someone dressed like an 1986 burn out, toting a sippy cup and whining.

the only kid of mine who has any interest in fashion- if you can call it that- is my 4 year old.  he currently has 4 shirts that he will wear- batman, a gray north carolina outdoor store shirt, a plain navy shirt, and a grandma-found-it-on-sale nerdy gray, turquoise and red stripped long sleeve polo shirt.  i don't like any of them- but i love that he cares- that he has his own opinion- that he's differentiating.  because that's what he's supposed to do.

personally i'm a big fan of the hand-me-down.  not just because it's free- although that is definitely a plus- but because it's funny.  jude wore a shirt all summer that said "go uncle jake!" and he doesn't have an uncle jake.  and bryn got attached to a shirt covered in camels that said 'jerusalem' across the bottom- but we've never been to israel.

zoe's fashion is all about comfort- no seams in the shirts, no jeans, no tags in clothes- and the less fabric touching her skin the better.  "Zoe, you're shivering, are you Ok?"  "i'm fine."  " you do realize that you're wearing shorts and it's snowing out."  "mom! i'm fine!"

but really, what do i care who wears what- we are so lucky we have options- and it was a good day! 

i leave you with my line of designer kids shirts- images on the front- writing on the back.

                   "i'd rather be wearing elmo- but i'll take one for the team."

     
"my parents think this shirt is cool, but they don't even own the album"

                                               "i'm scared of my shirt"

a belated happy MLK day

this is belated because it's been sitting with me for a while- partially written- partially talked about- partially processed.  it's been with me because race is complicated, history is complex, and stigma is real.  because things that happened generations ago- still color our lives.  because while it seems so utterly absurd that skin tone should affect anything- it has, and it still does.  we've come so far, but we have farther to go.  and i've realized that it's never going to reach a fully processed place for me- because it's a dynamic issue- it's in motion- evolution.

martin luther king, jr. day is a day that moves me.  and living in atlanta- makes it even more moving- more real, more intense. we live about 5 minutes from Dr. Kings birthplace, and his center.  we are in the land where slavery was real- where great-grandparents were not free- and where the fallout of this is still visible.  where half the population's identity is cloaked in this history of devalue and indignity- turning from a sense of unwarranted shame.

this year, i had all the kids home- mike was doing a project with our church fixing elderly housing.  i was trying hard to be in my life.  i was wishing i could be in someone else's or at least, building someone else's house.  i was tired of being cooped up with my kids.  tired of saying no. tired of too much media and not enough learning.  zoe's homeschooling had become un-schooling all week with the boys home.  so i decided to get it together and do some organized teaching.  i sat them all down and decided to talk to them about martin luther king jr- about civil rights- about injustice and about freedom.  then i read them the 'i have a dream' speech- and i cried- through the whole thing.

zoe asked if i was happy crying or sad crying.  and i didn't know how to answer.  it's complicated isn't it.  it's both- grieving and rejoicing. it's the shame of our history and the pride in this man and what he helped our country do.  i cried because mr. j, painting our kitchen, in the next room, was a black child in the south when martin luther king was giving speeches and challenging a nation; and now the first president my children will know is Obama.  that while it's hard to wrap our minds around separate bus seating and store entrances- it's undeniable that the police were called by our neighbors twice the day before to check out mr. j- largely because of his black skin.  i cried because i didn't want to tell them about it- i didn't want to poison their minds with any idea that skin color mattered once. that unfortunately- if often still does.  and i wanted to tell them the story of victory and change- that it's still in process and to be mindful and attentive- that color doesn't matter, but history does.  and we need to think on these things.

my friend kim (amazing person and doctor blogger-see gradydoctor.blogspot.com) talks often about the older african american generation at Grady Hospital, and how they look at her- a beautiful, successful, doctor- with such connection and pride- in a knowing way- they are thankful for her accomplishments- they respect her for her achievement- it's covered up and down in feel good.  i love Grady. i especially love that older generation of wise folks, those 'grady babies' who've seen it all- really-they have such dignity and character- but they don't look at me that way in the elevator.  there is a disconnect. and it's almost in reverse.  i want to say 'thank you' to them- for living through hard hard times in the south- and still smiling at me as we ride up together to clinic.  i want to make sure they feel respected and first and valued. i feel a sense of shame- for what my skin color could represent.


today i began planning my barbara inspired field trip approach to zoe's education.  i went to the MLK website to read about the King Center, visiting hours, tours etc. and was again so moved by this man and his words.  this quote from his speech 'the drum major instinct' plays when you enter the site:


If you want to be important—wonderful.
If you want to be recognized—wonderful.
If you want to be great—wonderful.
But recognize that he who is greatest among you shall be your servant.
That's a new definition of greatness.
And this morning, the thing that I like about it: by giving that definition of greatness, it means that everybody can be great,  because everybody can serve.

You don't have to have a college degree to serve.
You don't have to make your subject and your verb agree to serve.
You don't have to know about Plato and Aristotle to serve.
You don't have to know Einstein's theory of relativity to serve.
You don't have to know the second theory of thermodynamics in physics to serve.
You only need a heart full of grace, a soul generated by love.  And you can be that servant.


grace and love and servanthood are enough.  they are the tools that will bring the continued change.  that will help to overcome histories of oppression and injustice. these are what we need to teach- to remember- boiled down, it's not so complicated and it gives me hope in all the areas of my life.  we are all born with the ability to make a difference- big or small- learning disabled or not- black or white.

the next MLK day we celebrate will be in africa.  we will stand out, we will be the minority.  my kids will wrestle with their identity- their skin color- probably wishing it were darker- so they'd fit in- belong.  and we will continue to teach them their value and the value of everyone - whatever their size, or shape, or color or nationality.  but most of all, we'll strive to grow their hearts full of grace, and love.  and to practice servanthood.

listening to our words

yesterday at work,  i got to see one of my favorite guys- (kevin it was mr. w). he has spent most of his life living in the fringe- on the edges- homeless for years- a drinker- a smoker and other things too.  he's a guy who wasn't surprised when he got lung cancer- well, until he actually got it and found out it was incurable.  the lung cancer wasn't the shock- the incurable was.  there is something about endings.  he had lived hard- and this diagnosis was a turning point- a chance for reconciliation- for redemption- and that part he has embraced wholeheartedly.  i've watched him go through this process - i've seen his regrets and his acceptance and his outreach to family - his making lemonade with his lemons.  he has a beautiful soul- and i'm reminded that most people do, underneath it all.

he was really late for his appointment - which always makes me nervous- but i found him downstairs finishing his oncology appointment.  i was getting directed to his exam room by one of the oncologists- who said to me,
"oh mr. w is doing great!".
"really?" i said, knowing he is losing weight, that he has a growing mass in his abdomen that terrifies him, and that he is on a third line chemotherapy and his disease is continuing to progress,
"what do you mean?"

"well, his pain is controlled and he is able to a lot of things for himself."
this is true.  but he is also dying.  he has a few months left to live. 

what do our words mean?  and what is the relationship between the words themselves and who is speaking them?  because if mr. w's friend said that to him, it would mean something different than if his cancer doctor says that to him.  we assume that context is relevant. and it should be.

i've spent many hours with mr. w- i've been to his home.  he has really struggled with wrapping his mind around facing the end of his life.  he's only 53.  

we need to be careful with our words- in both directions.  we need to tread lightly.  to listen before we speak.  to know the heaviness and not just pour syrup on it.  to know the heaviness and help make it lighter with honesty and hope.  to face the music.

the man right before mr. w- is another tough one. diagnosed only a few months ago with bad disease- no time to process.  he came into clinic sick- kidneys failing- in pain- not functioning- and looking bad- bad like i wouldn't be surprised if he died during this hospitalization.  we had only seen him in clinic once before and we hadn't had 'the talk'.  we hadn't talked about what he would want in the end- how he sees the last chapter.  and it was clear that he didn't believe his book had an end.  i sat with him and held his hand and said i needed to know who he would want to make decisions for him, if he couldn't make decisions for himself.  he told me he wasn't going anywhere- he told me he wasn't going to die.  i told him that we were going to do everything we could to help him feel better and get better.  but i told him we are all going to die.

i've seen what happens when you don't talk about it.  the default.  one of the first times i really knew that i was going to struggle with certain aspects of medicine was during my ER rotation as a senior resident.  i was in "zone one" the high acuity area and we'd just received a call that an old man was coming in in v-fib arrest.  this is bad.  the ER attending physician was all pumped up.

"this is great! you'll get to run the code."

did he just say 'this is great?'  all i could thing was how awful it was.  that his poor old man was dying- and that he was going to die on a cold table in an overly bright emergency room, surrounded by strangers who will descend upon him in full protocol mentality, without knowing what he wants or who he is.  and that if  he survived- he will not have much left upstairs- and he'd be stuck in some new reality- the in between zone- not really dead, but not really alive.  i felt sick.  he rolled in- and we heard the report from the EMTs.  man found down- resuscitated in the field- had a pulse-but lost it- some electrical readings on the monitor of his heartbeat.  he was in trauma room 2  - his "name" was trauma elk.  that means that no one knew his name and he'd been letter E on the shift (the 5th pt) with no name.  i began the algorithm for a PEA arrest - pulseless electrical activity.  it wasn't cool, it wasn't exciting, it wasn't good practice. it was someones dad.  since i was running it- i asked how long it had been since he'd been down- at least 20 minutes.  enough. i said.  i'm calling it.  time of death- 2:15 pm.  i still didn't know his name.  i found his wallet in his pocket and it had a number in it.  i went out to the nurses station to call it.  it was  an answering machine, " hi you've reached earl, i'm sorry i can't take your call- please leave a message after the tone."  it was weird to hear a healthy sounding voice coming from a dead man.  i felt like i'd done him a disservice.  i saved his  'trauma elk' sticker, and when i came home, i put it on a small canvas and painted it orange (above).  i wanted to do something to honor him.  and to remind me of the life behind each person- of respecting each individual in both life and in death.  and to remember the that the words we speak matter- to remember this when i'm the attending physician- when i'm the teacher.

our words reach out to each other everyday.  what we say matters- not just as doctors- but as people.  friends, parents, spouses. neighbors. we can hang on to words forever- they live with us- bring us joy and sadness- and who speaks them matters.  the word is linked to the mouth, mind and heart who spoke it.  powerful.

so i'm reminded to be careful- to tread lightly- to be gentle- and to pay attention to which hat i'm wearing-and to who is listening. that words can be magical or harmful and they stay with us-playing over and over- shaping our days.

looking up

yesterday i had coffee with zoe's math tutor.  but this woman is so much more than zoe's math tutor.  she is a teacher of life and a friend.  she is a neighbor, even though i don't live near her.  she has perspective and wisdom and she focuses on the big picture.  yesterday, she reminded me of that.  she gave me permission to do that in teaching zoe.  to let go of the little rules, the check marks, and to look up at the sky.

she has known zoe for three years.  she knows how she learns.  what her buttons are.  what upsets her and what drives her. and she knows me.  that i am not a trained grade school educator, not a special education teacher, and that i'm way out of my league in the realm of teaching zoe.  but, she's also a big fan.  an encourager of this attempt at helping zoe by homeschooling.  and i think yesterday, she wanted to remind me of that.  to support this crazy notion that: stopping work (well, almost) and spending hours muddling around in the darkness to try to understand my daughter and how she learns and then teach her, is actually a good idea.

and then she gave me an assignment.  she told me to write down what my goals are for my children.  as a unit.  what is it that i want my children to understand in life, do in life- to be in life.  not by gender, or even by personality or by apparent skill or difference- but just as people.  then she said, when you are stuck with zoe, on math, or writing or anything else, go to your list of goals and see if what you're upset about, what she's stuck on, is related to those goals, and if it's not- let it go.  the 30,000 foot view.

i want my children to know that they are loved by God and because of that, they have inherent value and worth.  i want them to know and give love to others.  i want them to know God and to search for his/her purpose for them in life. i want them to make good choices.  choices that will keep them alive and healthy for a long time. choices that won't bind them.  that when sorrow comes their way they will choose faith, and grow; not anger and retreat.  that they will find deep joy and not just search for the next thing to make them happy.  i want them to know that no matter what they choose to do with their lives, no matter how much them mess up, they are loved- there is redemption-beauty can be born out of pain-they have something to give.

most of what we're "studying" isn't directly related to these goals.  but how we study it is.  the environment that i create or encourage affects her sense of value and worth. it contributes to her feeling loved or not, it models this love, or doesn't.  how i approach the day, the learning, the joy or the stress of it, is more important than the work itself.  this is true for all the kids- the boys who go to school too. it's how i make breakfast and how i ask them to get dressed. it's how much i laugh and how much i smile and how much i don't yell.

the problem is that sometimes the overwhelm of the learning, of the schedule, of what we didn't get accomplished, gets right in the way of living and teaching the real goals. it brings on the yelling and takes away from the laughing.  so her advice was so needed- but more- it was so freeing.  take off the self imposed pressure - and align with the right goals- find your days in the big picture.  look up. see the night sky and the moving clouds and let go.  she told me to follow zoe's lead more- peel away the little agenda and replace it with the big agenda.  un-school more.  sometimes you need someone else to give you permission to move in the direction you think you should but fear might be wrong.

so barbara, i thank you. again. of course it's easier to write this out, then it is to do it.  but- bit by bit- and it starts by remembering to look up.

happy new year

i hope this bleak day is no indication of the sentiment of 2011.  it's been nasty outside- pouring down rain all day- warm, but inaccessible, depressing.  the sky saying- just let me have this day- let me water the earth- let me pluck the last of the leaves off- let me make mud and wash things.  so i said OK, and baked cookies, cleaned out closets, wore a big, warm poncho and listened to good music.  the house has been surprisingly peaceful- despite no one going to bed before 12:30am, despite me having a horrible migraine all night, despite 5 people being cooped up all day inside together. the kids are playing legos with mike - no one is fighting- i haven't been yelling- moments of peace-moments of pause, of joy, of stillness, and i'll take them- rain and all.

the in-between time is over.  it's officially January 1, 2011.

i decided to ask the kids what their resolutions were for the year.

bryn said "to draw".  he has an artists soul- he might well be doomed. he can draw and write his name better at his age then either of his siblings could at 3.  but he is a perfectionist- he still holds his pen in a fist grip but gets so frustrated when what he draws doesn't look like the picture he has in his mind.  he destroys his art if it's not right to him- no matter how good it really is- no matter that this elephant looks just like his 5 year old brothers, and his 11 year old sisters- it's in the eye of the beholder.
i told him my goal for him was to be kinder to himself.  to be gentle and patient and thankful for his talent. and i told him my story of the kelloggs stick-up for breakfast contest.

when i was six and my mother was pregnant with my little sister i decided to enter a drawing contest. but really, i had decided to win a bike.  i saw it on the back of my sugar smacks cereal box and i wanted to win. the grand prize was a bike- either a red,white and blue 10 speed or a big, green, motorcycle-esque bike.  i wanted the motorcycle one.

let me pause.  the '70s were fantastic. it was a great time to come of age.  and my childhood was full of sugar cereal and oreo's, knee-high sports socks with short shorts, iron-on decal tee-shirts, feathered hair, and large combs in back pockets.  we grew up watching the brady's and the dukes of hazard and sneaking 'eight is enough' (the family with more risque values).  i loved the kinks and and wondered what "a red, under my bed" meant.  it was the end of the 8 track cassette player, the decade of the boom box and the beginning of the walkman.  i learned to ride a bike with a banana seat, and rode in the the way-way back of large, fake wood paneled station wagons.  it was pre- transfats, pre- anti-suv, pre-politically correct- BUT- we were the generation who was raised with strong moral opposition to littering. raised on school house rock and the crying american indian commercial.

the contest was to draw a picture of a kelloggs breakfast cereal character eating breakfast.  i decided to draw a camping scene with tony the tiger eating breakfast outside beside his tent.   the picture came out pretty well but i had accidentally drawn him with this gigantic thumb.  i remember thinking that surely that would be my demise.  that thumb might cost me the contest, but the rest of it looked pretty good, so i submitted it.  and then i waited.  it seemed like forever.  during the months leading up to the end of the contest, i became increasingly convinced that i would win, my mother became increasingly fuller with child, and my parents spend an equal amount of time explaining that thousands of kids entered this contest from all across the country and that the odds were against me. i remember being surprised by their lack of faith and aware of the apparent contradiction that they told me i was a good artist, but seemed to think it impossible that anyone else would think so too.  on september 11th 1977 my sister was born, but i didn't care.  because on september 11th 1977- i opened a letter from kelloggs explaining that i had indeed won.  i remember thinking, " i knew it!"- i don't know where that confidence came from- it wasn't even confidence - it was more a knowing feeling.

the point of the story for me at age 6 was that nothing is impossible.  that you should take risks.  that you should believe in yourself.  the other thing i took away from the experience was to remind myself that as a parent, when someone wins a contest, they get to pick the prize. you see, i ended up with the red, white and blue ten speed- not the green motorcycle bike- because it was more practical.  but practical doesn't matter when you drew the picture- when you won the prize.  not only did they not think i would win, but when i did win, they trumped my choice of prize. and because it was practical- i had that bike until i went to college- the seat jacked up higher every year.

the point of the story for bryn was to tell him that if i'd destroyed the picture because of that absurdly enlarged thumb- i surely wouldn't have won the bike.  but further, that it was that enlarged thumb that probably won the contest- because the drawing accidentally emphasized  tony saying "they're ggggrrrrrreat!" with his giant thumb. i don't think it sunk in because he cut up the next picture he made. 

at dinner we finished sharing our new years resolutions. they were impressively insightful.

zoe said she wanted to work on her sticky thoughts, to be less stubborn and less rigid.  wow.  i was thrilled.  those are exactly what i hoped she'd say.  hopefully she's more determined with hers than i tend to be with mine.

jude said to not whine. again- right on the money!

bryn changed his to "set his bed"which i think means, make his bed.  i was hoping for being less argumentative, but i guess that would cheat him out of a necessary developmental stage.

mike said to be home more and at work less.  loved it.

i boiled my 1000 things down to laugh more and yell less.  and i think everyone was happy with that.

last day lessons

it's a really good thing that today was december 31st and not january 1- because of all my thousand little resolutions- i broke most of them before noon- and had to lean heavily on practicing forgiveness (for myself), and then out of pure desperation- i went for a run.  i ran because my engine was out of whack. because i was being mean and setting a bad example.  because i was asking everyone around me to do the things i was incapable of doing- which was being kind and loving and patient.  it was the first run in a long time- and as usual, it felt really bad for a while and then it felt good and then my knee hurt, but i kept going.  and it worked.  i came home- reborn- ready to try again- i apologized- i smiled- and went outside with jude.

having children makes me realize how hard it is to live the way i want.  it's easy to be nice to adults- they don't whine. they don't hit each other, or call each other 'stupid' and they can entertain themselves for long stretches of time.  they don't walk in on you when you're going to the bathroom.  they shut the door when they come in from outside.  and they generally want to be helpful.  at least most adults i know.

my children right now are inside fighting- i can hear them - someone is screaming and some one else is crying.  they need to work it out- i'm not going to jump in- it's an important part of the process- learning to make peace.  sometimes i forget that my job is to focus on setting the example and then retreating.  live it and pull back.  be the backdrop in their lives.  the safe haven to run to.  not the ring leader.  not the entertainer. not the constant intervener. this is hard for me.  anger comes quickly and so do words.  being quiet, being still- takes patience and purpose.  i will try.  i will.

right now i'm in the middle of 4 books. i seem to need choices.  i seem to not finish what i've started before beginning something else-and it takes a while for me to get fully engaged in a book.   zoe does this too- but she often doesn't ever finish the book- and then she'll go back to it and re-read parts of it- her favorite parts- which drives me crazy.  i don't know why. i should be happy that she's reading- that she likes to read- i didn't when i was 11.  i'm  so tolerant of my own idiosyncrasies and so intolerant of others. i see it as another manifestation of her distraction and assume it contributes to her inability to grasp the big picture. i fear she sees little snippets of life and misses the context- so i want her to just finish the book she started.  it will happen- i need to trust her more and live less anxiously.  

right now i'm slowly reading 'the poisonwood bible' and 'third culture kids'. both are in preparation for living in east africa with kids. this is my second stab at the poisonwood bible- so i'm determined to finish it.   i'm almost done with 'the dirty life' that mike gave me for Christmas (it's about love and farming and life changes).  i'm waiting to hear more about her love and struggle with this man who she left manhattan for, to wake up at 4am and shovel manure with; and less about the difference between types of cows and how to build a pigpen.  and i just started re-reading anne lamotts 'bird by bird'- about writing and living.  i love her.  she's not afraid to be honest- and if she is afraid, she chooses to be honest anyway.  it's inspiring.  i love these pieces i read last night, "writing can give you what having a baby can give you: it can get you to start paying attention, can help you to soften, can wake you up."  "writing motivates you  to look closely at life as it lurches by and tramps around you." 

these things are true. and i'm so thankful.  thankful for my children who do teach me to pay attention- to become a better person, to soften, and to grow.  thankful that writing helps me to process it,  learn from it and engage deeper in my life as it pitters and speeds by.  

thank you for listening this year.

transparency

the other day i chased down an old man in the hall of the VA, because i thought it was malcolm.  it wasn't.  malcolm is a older gentlemen who i met last month while waiting for the elevator after i finished my morning clinic. he spoke to me in french and had sparkly eyes. he is 87 years old.  we were talking and accidentally went up before we went down.  he told me briefly about his life- his wife from buenos aires-where he'd gone to high school, how he'd learned french and then taught it most of his life, how he still carves wood, and reads and writes poetry, and that is how he keeps his mind going- how he keeps himself together.  he told me his name, and said in french that it was a pleasure to meet, and then there was an awkward minute when there was obviously no reason for us to keep talking.  the elevator ride was over. we'd reached the main floor. we shook hands- which seems strange, yet not enough.  i almost wanted him to ask me to dance.  none of it made sense.  we'd just met in the elevator. but i didn't want to let him go.  it was a moment when you wonder about past lives.  when you think about these quick connections and how they can possibly feel so meaningful when they happen in less than 5 minutes.  weird.  i kind of knew i'd never see him again.

it was also a moment that would have been ruined if it had another five minutes.  it was a scene. a snapshot.  that's what made it beautiful. brevity.

one of the ingredients that i think allows us to be in those moments is transparency.  openness.  willingness even. being in the moment- not so busy with what just happened or what happens next. being present.

this is something i like to teach the medical students because sometimes white coats come on and barriers come up. and sometimes the shorter the coat, the higher the barrier.  the sick/ well split, the doctor/patient split, the information holder/ information seeker split. and in it, people forget that it's also two people having a conversation. two people who share a lot more in common than not.  we are united by our humanity. by loss and joy, by illness and health, by sour relationships and life sustaining ones. holding on to this, remembering this- is essential to good communication. essential to being relational.

but sometimes i wonder if i practice this at home as well.  am i transparent with my kids? am i real with them? obviously this needs to be in an appropriate parenting way, but am i present with them. do i say, 'because i said so' or do i take the time to explain it? do i invest in the little moments? do i make myself available to them? they are the most important things in my world - do they feel that?  i hope so. i want to model that. i want to be that. maybe tomorrow i'll ask them each to dance.

the dancer and the old soul

it's weird to be back. jetlaggy and missing mike while he's at work after so much time together.

we've jumped right back in. bills and mail and messages and the georgia heat. and preparing for school- for work.

and today, my baby jude started kindergarten .  as i held his hand on the walk to school i felt the last five and a half years of connection all at once. recalling his birth - the snipping of the cord- his learning to crawl- to move away from me and return-our years in san francisco and the different quality of the northern light at the playground- the hours of waiting to hear his test results-wondering if he'd ever get to five- and if he'd be able to get to school-and i wanted to turn around and run back home, and run through time.

"it's only kindergarten" mike kept saying.
but not to me. it's more. it's the beginning- it's his life apart- it's his becoming more his own.  he is in many ways, my oldest, although he's five years younger than zoe.  he is someone with whom i can relate- identify with- in a way that i can't with zo.  his experiences remind me of mine- hers have always been so different.

i was teary on the walk- but knew not to be 'that lady' when we got to school. and so i'm teary now. because ultimately i'm so thankful. that he is who he is.  that his health is good.  that he will grow and go on and separate and be his own.

when zoe started kindergarten it felt more logisticy but less emotional.  she transitioned really well. she didn't cry and neither did i.  maybe because she'd been in all day childcare  and i worked full time,so the transition didn't seem as big.  but i think it's also the difference of our experience-our intake.  the way she sees and interacts with the world is different. this is a source of interest and fascination- a chance to learn from each other- but it's also a loss.  today with jude, i was reminded of the difference- of that loss.

for years i felt too guilty to utter the word 'loss' in relation to my child.  how could a mother feel that? but it has been an important piece for me to come to terms with.  the loss of certain things- the gain of others.  the sadness- the greater joy.  it's OK to be honest.

when we were in Uganda- zoe had a moment of pure shine.

we were at a safari lodge, way up north, and a local tribal dance band was playing outside the lodge.  they were in their traditional attire with hand made instruments - gathered around a bonfire.  no guests had come down to watch- so we headed down.  zoe- in her unabashed- unhibited way-with her love of song leading her on- headed down to the dancers and began to shake her little muzungu booty to the drum beat.  she just danced and danced- the little blonde head and the african dancers- no common language- no need to read facial expressions- just the communal love of music- and the common desire to move to it.  slowly people began to gather and watch and participate and after she wore herself out- she went up to bed.  that is zoe in her glory- bringing people together-her love of life.

as i walked with jude to school he asked where zoe was.  i'd left her at home.  he seemed disappointed- and i realized it's because she's his wing man.  he relies on her for those ice breaking moments- to introduce him- to pad the way- to dance the first dance when no one else will.

i'd left her, so this morning could be about him. so that he could have his time- with no competing sticky thoughts- no diversion of attention- which i worry he gets cheated out of.  but i realized that wasn't what he wanted- i'd removed his safety.

"can she come with me tomorrow?"

"yes- absolutely!"

and they can both shine- the dancer and the old soul.