On Breaking Things

I never knew just how breakable the world is until I became a mother of boys.  It began with their births, the way my body had to break open to get them out, the stitches and staples and other random office supplies used to piece me back together.  There were a few months to recover, with noisy and greedy nursing being their primary activity each day and the occasional diaper blowout the only mess I had to clean up.  But then they got mobile.  Before their first birthdays they were pulling down the Christmas tree and chewing on books, throwing toys and falling down.  Then there were the shoes that went missing, never a whole pair, but just one shoe gone.  There were toothbrushes flushed down the toilet and bars kicked out of the crib.  There were broken dishes and broken furniture and makeup that was chewed and spit out.  I fully expect that one of these days our house will just collapse in on itself like a dying star from all the breaking.

What a shock to the woman who still has clothes from high school (and middle school), whose books appear pristine after decades of reading, who tenderly places photographs in albums to preserve her memories.  What unexpected chaos and destruction when we added these little monsters people to our family.  We agreed on a saying, "Nothing we buy is worth more than our kids," (also "Never be worth more dead than alive" see A Perfect Murder with Michael Douglas and Gwyneth Paltrow.  These are words to live by, people.), but sometimes I forget that when I see them throwing toys near the tv or playing with my computer.  Money is tight from replacing the essentials, not leaving much to replace our grown-up toys.  Or when a carton of eggs accidentally (or not so accidentally) gets broken on the kitchen floor and I find myself on hands and knees mopping up goopy membranes and multicolored shells.  Or when a body slams into a wall and a picture comes crashing to the floor, shattering glass and ruining the frame.  Then it seems harder to remember that these little people are the greatest blessing in my life and raising them will be my greatest accomplishment, hands down.

Jesus teaches his followers not to store up treasures where moths and rust can destroy, where thieves can break in and steal.  He should have added a special note for parents:  just don't love any thing because your children will break it.  This includes your body.  This includes their bodies.  Because they are just as careless with themselves as they are with everything else.  They run into walls and trip over imaginary obstacles.  They come within an inch of death on a good day just by moving around and living in this dangerous world.  Perfection and wholeness are not going to be part of our lives as we parent our sons.  There has to be something else, some other treasure worth building.  "But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven....for where your treasure is, there your heart will be also." (Matthew 6:20-21)

What is a heavenly treasure?  How can I acquire something in this life that will be waiting for me on the other side?  That's all Jesus has to say before moving on to other instructions.  He warns people to serve God instead of money and not to worry about what you wear or what you eat.  So here's what I think:  it's not about our stuff, it's about our people.  The purpose of life isn't to build a great house and decorate it with the fashionable and expensive things money can buy.  The purpose of life is to build a home, a place of refuge and protection, a welcome to anyone who passes through the door.  I shouldn't focus on accumulating more stuff, better stuff, because stuff will go out of style (if my kids leave it alone long enough).  I should be collecting people, seeing the hearts beating underneath the clothes and loving the crap out of them.  I should be inviting them over, not worrying about wear and tear on the couch or how much food they will eat.  And I should start with my boys.  Nothing they can break will cost as much as breaking their hearts or breaking their spirits with harsh words and hurtful hands.

So go ahead.  Jump on the couch.  Spill your drink.  Slam the door.  Break a toy.  I will roll my eyes and be thankful that you are here, thankful for each reminder that none of us is perfect.

What I've Learned (About Writing)

I am a writer.  (deep exhale)  That's not something I say out loud, like ever.  But I'm finally starting to believe it enough to think it.  I am always quick to encourage someone else and also quick to discount my own gifts/talents.  I tell myself that anyone can do what I do.  Maybe that's true, but I'm beginning to see that, although others can, not everyone does.

Getting lots of writing done

So, my beautiful writer friends (Amber and Deanna!), here is what I've learned...

1. Writing is a way of life.  As soon as I learned how to form letters, I began to write.  I have kept diaries and journals, written short stories and term papers, love letters and bad poetry.  Writing has always been part of me.  Then, five or six years ago, when I found myself without many friends and with deep, dark thoughts bubbling inside me, I grabbed a pen and a half-blank notebook and I began to write all the things I couldn't say.  So, while blogging may be relatively new, writing has always been there.

2.  Writing is solitary.  This is good news for those of us who are beginning something, learning and honing our craft.  No one else will read what you write.  The only critics are the ones marching around in your own brain.  You get to take years to get better, to get to the point when you want to share your writing.  And all that time, your writing is evolving.  This can also be bad news for those of us who listen too much to our inner critics, who tremble at the blinking cursor and turn off the computer without entering a single word.  There is no one else who will do the work for you, there is no one to point out the obvious (stop listening to the voices that say you suck), there is no one to congratulate you on finishing your latest piece.  Write anyway.

3.  Writing brings community.  That's right...it's lonely work and it will bring you closer to other people.  Other writers who will edit and encourage, who will share their knowledge and commiserate with you.  Readers who will connect with your words and get to know the YOU that is sometimes hidden in everyday life.  And, of course, the external critics who don't like you or what you think or how you see the world.  Yay!

4.  Writing is therapy.  Before I can say it, I can write it.  All those deep, dark thoughts I mentioned in #1?  I wrote them down to get them out and begin to process.  Then I showed them to my husband because I couldn't tell him how I was feeling but I could write about how I was feeling.  Only after I have come to terms with what is happening, once I can stand on the other side and admit the truth do I share it with everyone else.  What if I'd never found writing?  Good Lord, can you even imagine the kind of insanely crazed woman I would be today?  Thank you paper, for being readily available and infinitely cheaper than a psychiatrist.

5.  Writing is an escape.  I spend all day with little people...have I mentioned that in the last five minutes?  Writing during nap time, after dinner, on weekends, in the car line, etc lets me leave this sometimes chaotic life and disappear into a world of my own creation, where there are no messes to clean and no homework to check and everyone does exactly what I want them to do (or else they get deleted!).  Writing is a mini-vacation that happens inside my head and pours out onto paper.

6.  Writing can't be everything.  Even as I bemoan the people who interfere with my writing and slow down my work, I have to point out that I had nothing worth writing until those people came into my life.  If I was some single lady writing at Starbucks after work, I would be staring at a blank screen.  So there has to be life beyond the words.  There has to be some real living going on to provide material and inspiration.  There have to be books in hand and tickles freely given and walks in the quiet spring evenings and endless loads of laundry or there would be no words.  I've also learned that some men don't like falling asleep with their wife and her notebook.  So live first, write second.

7.  Every writer requires her own fuel.  When I sit down to write, my favorite things are a quiet house, Hot Tamales, Suri's Burn Book (surisburnbook.tumblr.com), Pandora Love Songs, and Cinnamon Dolce lattes.

Caffeine and Sugar!!

A Safe Harbor

Nine years ago, I was studying.  It's kind of my go-to thing, when life is changing or a big test looms. No wonder Hermione is my favorite Harry Potter character; her motto is "When in doubt, go to the library."  Nine years ago, life was changing and a big test loomed.  The biggest test, maybe.  I found out I was pregnant and expecting a baby.  And so I turned to books, which had helped me so often in the past.  Except for that blip my first year at college (when I made what my dad likes to call "the Dean's Other List" aka academic probation), I was an honor roll, AP class, straight A student.

Of course studying for motherhood didn't quite work as well as it does for French class, but it didn't hurt.  Most of raising children seems to be hands-on, learn-as-you-go kind of stuff.  But I remember many things that stood out from my reading.  There was some good stuff about mothers and fathers working together and celebrating their different approaches to parenting while agreeing on an overall vision of childrearing.  There were some memorable phrases like "Back to Sleep" and "Breast is Best" that became battle cries over the following year.  And then there was this:  "A mother is like a safe harbor to her sons."  I remember reading it (although I can't remember who wrote it) and turning to my husband, who grew up with only brothers, and asking if that's how he felt about his mom.  He thought about it for a moment and said, "Yeah, I guess that pretty much sums it up.  I know my mom will always be there for me."  So I tucked it away for future reference.

As it turns out, I am now a mother of three boys.  I had a daughter for 8 months last year, but for the long haul testosterone is king and all my kids stand up to pee.  And I have heard that phrase reverberating through my mind over the past nine years.  A safe harbor.  A place of still waters and docks for boats to anchor.  A place where sailors can rest and refuel and restock before heading out again.  I am finding it to be a very true picture of my role.

The goal of parenting (or a goal, or maybe my goal?) is to raise little people to send into the world.  If we do it right, our kids will head out and start lives of their own and live in their own homes and start their own families.  Some day it will be just Chris and I in this little house, with no fingerprints on the windows and no Hot Wheels under the table and just two toothbrushes in the bathroom.  Our boys will be like ships in the ocean, or perhaps little canoes exploring mountain streams.  They will set off to seek adventure and fortune and love, and I hope that they find it.  And I hope they know that they are always welcome to tie their boats up at my dock, to come home for rest and food and hugs.

But even now, I see how I am functioning as their safe harbor.  Each day they go out in some way, they go places I can't follow.  They go to school and church, they play with friends and visit family.  We get very few guarantees in life.  What is that expression, death and taxes are the only two things we can count on?  Happiness isn't guaranteed.  Neither is safety, or friendship, or comfort.  I can't promise that they will find good things when they head out our front door.  I can only be there, waiting to welcome them home, ready to love them and listen to them and reassure them that they matter.

I had no idea when I read about being a safe harbor that I would become the mother of a son on the autism spectrum.  I didn't know the challenges he would face, the barriers he would have to break, the tests and the evaluations and the meetings we would endure.  I had no idea how much work was in store for both of us.  And I had no idea that through it all, when the speech therapists were asking him questions he couldn't answer and the doctors were looking into all the nooks and crannies of his body and the world was just so loud that he would come to me.  I had no idea that my arms would be his source of comfort, that my whispered words would make him safe, that my hands placed just so over his ears would protect him from it all.  I do it all, gladly.  But boats aren't meant to stay docked.  They are meant to sail through the waters, whether they are stormy or calm.  So I am a refuge and a push forward as needed.

I had no idea when I read about being a safe harbor that I would adopt a little boy who didn't grow inside my body.  I didn't know that I would go to the hospital and bring home a baby whose other mother had gone home empty-handed.  I had no idea that I would fall deeply in love with someone I'd never met, that just looking at him asleep in that plastic bassinet would bind my heart to his, that our family could grow from 4 to 5 in a matter of seconds.  I had no idea of the feelings that followed as our son's fate was decided by judges and social workers, the uncertainty and the fear and the hurt.  And I had no idea that we'd journey down a path that still seems to be shrouded in darkness, the choices we would make about finding his first family and reaching out to his sisters and grandparents.  I had no idea that there would be so many people who loved our baby and reached out to hold him, and that always he would look back to make sure I was there.

I have no idea what the future holds for my sons, no way to divine whether they will find love and acceptance outside of our home.  All I know is who I am, who I will always be.  A safe harbor.