In the Middle

I turned 33 this year.  The definitions of age are shifting in my generation, so that "young" is different than it was for my parents or my grandparents, and "old" has moved further back than it was in the past.  People say things like "40 is the new 20!" which I think means that people hitting their forties are still as youthful and exciting as twenty year olds.  Not like my parents, who were packing their children off to college and preparing to be "empty nesters" when they hit forty.

So maybe 33 is still "young" and maybe (given genetics) I'm only a third of the way through my life, but I feel like I have hit the "middle age".  Not just because my knees click when I climb stairs (which they never used to do) or because I started wearing a swim skirt (the better to hide my lumpy mom body!), but because the time to figure out who I am seems to be over.  I can still try new things and experiment and fail and pick myself back up, but I have to do this in the middle of a life being lived.  I can't change course quickly, because I have a family that goes along with me, and I have to factor in everyone's needs, not just my own.

At 20, I could try a new hobby and decide if I liked it or not.  I could spend all day reading or watching tv with no guilt.  I could move to Tennessee and then back to Ohio when I felt like it.  I could eat an entire bag of chips or stay up all night or suddenly decide to bike 10 miles with no consequences.  But now?  Now I'm in the middle.  Now the consequences of disengaging from the world are cranky kids and huge laundry piles and late bills.  Now I feel the effects of what I ate or how I slept or what crazy thing I tried to put my body through for days.  All of this leads me to believe (no matter what the magazine covers say) that I have transitioned into the middle of my life.

So all of this is well and good, except I've heard about this thing called a "mid-life crisis".  Those never go well.  That's the time when people spend crazy amounts of money on sports cars or leave their spouse for someone else or travel to India to prove they can still have adventures.  But I'm wondering what has to happen to go from realizing and accepting that my life has reached the middle to a full-blown, poor decision making crisis.  I mean, I love my minivan.  I love my husband.  I love staying at home and not contracting some flesh-eating virus from, I don't know, dirty ashram water.  Maybe I'll be lucky and miss the "crisis" part of aging.  Wouldn't that be nice?

I was listening to "Coffee with Christine Caine", my new favorite podcast (because, hello, Christine Caine, and also they are about 10 minutes long which is about how much time I have to do anything for myself this summer), and she was talking about embracing new things and being innovative in our thinking.  She said something interesting, which is that being old happens when you get stuck in your ways and close off to new thinking.  According to Chris, there is no numerical age when you get old; a 26 year old can be old if he refuses to accept change and adapt to new circumstances.  Likewise, an 80 year old can still be skirting the young side if she is willing to try new things.  I witnessed that this past year when I signed up for a women's Bible study at a local church.  I joined my group the first day and was a little surprised at the white haired woman who announced herself as our leader.  She said, "My name is Betty and I've never done anything like this before, but I was asked if I would be willing to lead a group and so here I am."  Over the course of 25 weeks, Betty challenged my ideas about age and what people are capable of.  She doesn't drive after dark and she gets nervous when the sidewalk is icy, but she did her research each week and she kept our group on topic as we discussed the Life of Moses together.

Here I am, in the middle.  No longer an untethered young woman with the world at her feet and opportunity hanging like fruit from a tree.  Not yet a grumpy old lady shaking her fist at kids on skateboards and bemoaning "the good old days".  I'm navigating the middle of life, finding time to try new experiences between the demands and responsibilities of all I've been given.  To accept the limitations while continuing to dream.

Am I a Good Mom?

When I became a mother eight years ago, I was kind of obsessed with this one question: Am I a good mom?  It's something people would say when they saw me playing with my sons at the park or comforting them when they fell.  "You're such a good mom."  But I doubted them.  They didn't see me sitting at home, holding my new baby and wondering if this was all there was.  They didn't see me lose my temper at 3am when my toddler woke me up wanting to watch cartoons.  They didn't see me in the midst of crying children wishing I was anywhere but there.  Those moments made me feel like I wasn't doing it right, like I was a defective Mommy.

There are so many aspects of raising children to cover.  We want them to develop physically and spiritually and emotionally.  We want them to have good manners and make good grades and find good friends.  We worry about their health and what they eat and whether today's sunburn will turn into skin cancer in 20 years.  And I'm willing to bet (based on my own personal experience) that at any given moment, moms feel like they are getting it all wrong and ruining their children's lives.  No matter what other people tell us, our friends, husbands, even strangers, we don't feel like good moms because we know we are dropping the ball somewhere.

Here's the thing ladies...none of us can do it all.  We are all choosing to prioritize a few things over the rest.  I choose to focus on what my kids are learning and their emotional development, while my friend does great at feeding her kids healthy food and strengthening the family bond.  I know another mom who creates beautiful experiences for her children, who is dedicated to creating memories and protecting the purity of childhood.  There are other moms whose children have chronic health issues, and they choose to combat germs and research surgeries and hold vigils in hospital rooms while their children receive treatment.  And every one of us is doing a great job.

Instead of asking myself if I'm a good mom, and comparing myself to all these amazing women I know, seeing all the ways that I fall short of their mothering abilities, I've found a new question.  At the end of the day, as I am falling peacefully to sleep (...or passing out in the middle of a Gilmore Girls episode), I ask myself if I did what was best for me and my people.  Did I give my children what they needed--food, hugs, attention, correction?  Did I give myself what I needed--food, quiet, hugs, contentment?  Is my house still standing?  Is everyone still breathing?  Then I can hang my hat on a day well spent.  If I was able to control my temper or finish the day with a glass of wine, that's a bonus.  If I managed to transform dirty clothes into clean ones, I give myself a pat on the back.  If I carved out time to have a conversation with my husband, and maybe some kisses or whatever, then I am killing it.

I was never meant to do everything perfectly all the time.  That's just not reality.  I am meant for this life, for the people in my home and the ones who cross my path.  I am not supposed to imitate the awesome mom down the street or mold myself into some societal image of womanhood.  And neither are you.  So stand tall and with a loud voice proclaim: Today I took a shower! I rule!  I went to the store and didn't lose a single kid! I'm awesome!  I played Candy Land for the 8th time and didn't check my Instagram feed! I am a good mom!  I went to work and provided for my family! I'm freaking amazing!

And when you see the other moms in your life sweating as they push that double stroller to the park or fumbling in her purse for the thing her kid is screaming for or sitting at McDonald's Playland feeding her baby while the older kids run around, tell her she's doing a good job.  Even though she won't believe you.

Adapting

A few years ago, we were sitting in a doctor's office hearing our son pronounced "autistic" for the very first time.  The diagnosis didn't change anything about our child, but it changed everything about how we parented him.  It was the dreaded label that made us stop trying to push our square peg child into a round hole, to look around for the square hole where he fit.  We tried the team sport thing, signing him up for soccer.  He loved to kick the ball around our yard and could score goals, but once he got on the field with 15 other preschoolers, he wanted no part of it.  Now he goes bowling and is taking adapted swim lessons.  We tried to get him to say the words we so desperately wanted to hear. Then we posted pictures and visual schedules all over the house and relied on the form of communication he was comfortable with.  (And now he uses words more than ever; nothing delights me more than hearing him argue with his brother about who put their seatbelt on first or when he tells me he loves me.)  We adapted, because that's what people do.

It happens in a million small ways every day.  You make little changes because of your husband's allergy.  You change your schedule to fit another person's availability.  You stop doing certain things to support the health of someone else.  We were shocked when we met a couple whose kids had severe peanut allergies.  We wondered what they ate, since I am currently making 5 or 6 PB&Js a day now that the kids are home.  They just shrugged and said, "Not peanut butter?"  We adapt for the ones we love, and we don't even give it a second thought.

I certainly hadn't sat down and catalogued all the ways we have changed to suit our family, to make sure our son is successful.  Not until we heard Dan Habib speak about inclusion earlier this spring.  Because, well, our son doesn't attend the school closest to our house; he attends the school with the best program and teacher to meet his needs.  We don't go to the library closest to our house, where we'd signed up for cards and attended story time when he was a baby.  Not after being discouraged from bringing our child with special needs there and "disrupting" the employees and other patrons.  (Don't worry, a letter was written.)  Now we go to the library one town over whose employees smile when they see us and don't bat an eye at a little excess noise from the child flapping in the middle of the room.  And on and on, the places we don't go and the people we don't see and the things we do now that we didn't used to do, all for the sake of making life easier for our son and putting his needs first.  All of which I would gladly do over and none of which is meant to sound like a complaint.  (Except the librarians.  They were jerks.)

But there is one thing we haven't had to compromise and adapt, and that is church.  We go to the church we want to go to, the church we chose over the big one nearby with the special needs ministry and the air-conditioned sanctuary.  I'd like to say that it was the pastor's terrific sermons or the music (that is sometimes a little too loud--but that's what noise-cancelling headphones were made for) or the programs....but it's not.  It's because of the people.  It's because the first person I met there, as I nervously accompanied my son to the children's class, was a woman named Carol.  And there are some people who really try to be accepting and accommodating (which is FINE by the way, because it's infinitely better than the people who reject and ridicule) but Carol is one of those amazing people who just accept what is.  And she taught the class and she included James when she could and then the children played and she sat beside me and talked to me.  She asked me about myself and my son and she told me about the kindergartners she'd taught and I just felt so completely welcomed.  There are people who teach children and get the job done, and then there are people who are so obviously gifted at what they do, and she is one of them.

Soon we met other families and they all took one look and wrapped their arms around our family.  They asked how James could be included and what we needed, and honestly, I didn't have many answers, because I had no idea what it would look like for him to participate in a lesson or enjoy going to church.  And one time, I was telling a dad named Jay what is hard for James and what he doesn't like, and Jay said, "So what does James like?"  And I felt a surge of gratitude for the chance to focus on the positive for once, something that seems rare for families with special needs.  It took some time and it took some adjustments, but James loves church now.  He is still different, he still stands out from his neurotypical peers, but as far as I know, he is accepted by the other kids.  I try to take the chances that I'm given to explain his behaviors and his peculiarities to them, to demystify why it's okay for James to leave the room or bounce on a ball when everyone else is expected to sit and listen.

This is what the world should be like.  Especially at church, people should be embraced and accepted no matter what their differences and limitations.  We shouldn't pause for a moment to make changes and adapt, because love should govern our lives.  And when we love people, nothing seems unreasonable or audacious.

On Planting and Sowing

A garden has two kinds of growth.  The first is the kind I like: plant a seed in spring, reap a harvest in summer, and the plant dies in the fall.  This happens with herbs, with vegetables, with tomatoes.  Sometimes a plant springs up the following year (my friend calls these "volunteers") when a seed from the previous year has fallen on fertile earth and creates something new.  I like it because you put in a little work, you get a pretty quick yield.  In only a matter of weeks, you have plump tomatoes and zesty herbs ripe for the picking, and you get to cook for a few months off this fresh produce from your own yard.

The second kind is harder for me, not because it's more work, but because it requires patience.  See, the second kind, generally fruits and flowers and trees, takes years to produce.  You drop a seed in the ground (or an indoor container) and the first year you watch it sprout and grow up.  I did this with strawberries.  The next spring, you have a plant, and that summer you might be lucky to get some produce.  Maybe 3 strawberries.  After the first year, I pulled the strawberry plants out the same as I did for the tomatoes, thinking I'd had a bust year.  Then my farmer grandpa told me I needed to leave them in the garden.  To let winter come and wait.  Now the following spring, the third, or even fourth year that you have been tending this plant, you start to get some good yield.  You get pints of strawberries, you get bushels of peaches.  And with a little work, some pruning, some watering, you will continue to reap from this plant that took so much more time to grow.

I went out in the yard and picked 25 strawberries today.  That's in addition to the 20 or so I picked yesterday, the 15 I picked the day before that.  And there are still more growing on the plants.  I don't like to wait, to tend something that isn't immediately producing.  Yet I am reaping the benefits of long-term gardening this summer.  This analogy fits more areas of my life than I care to admit.  The visible, short term results are the ones I like.  The steady praise of a paycheck and a job with a definite start and end...so much more preferable than the daily work of raising children and developing a marriage, which pays nothing and only shows results after years of hard labor.  The work I can do on my own, whose gain is mine alone, I would choose over the efforts of a group, helping the ones who are straggling.  The thing I already know I can do, rather than the new thing that I will fail at before I get better.  What is safe instead of what requires risk.

There is a passage of Galatians which is very popular to teach to children about the Fruit of the Spirit.  Sunday school teachers use construction paper images of fruit and write them out: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, faithfulness, and self-control.  No matter what your religion, we can all agree that these are admirable traits.  But note that they are called "fruit", implying that these are things which do not grow overnight, but must be cultivated year after year in order to be present in our lives?

I set a goal for myself this year, to develop better habits.  Most of it boils down to this quick turnaround, the easy out, the candy bar instead an apple, the evening spent in front of the computer rather than face to face with another person.  And yet my pastor keeps repeating this verse from Isaiah-- "Behold I am doing a new thing!  Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?  I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland."  God is all about breaking old patterns and making things new again.  So I need to be as well.  There's been lots planted in my life, gifts and privilege and accessibility.  I need to look for long term fruit, for the berries that don't come quickly and easily.  I need to tend the plants that take many seasons to produce.

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.