Tuesday, January 23, 2018

Shoots

I stop him just before he charges into the garden. Just before his little shoe tramples what looks to be a hint of green. I bend down closer to look, figuring it might be just a blade of grass as my preschooler careens off in a new direction, content as long as he is allowed to run.

And there it is. A shoot. The first sign of spring. On January 21st. Some days I really do love Virginia.



We have actually had a winter this year. A cold and snowy one, though not a long one. And because I love my garden, I welcome the winter. I welcome the months of moisture and quiet that prepare my plants to rise again from the soil...stronger, prettier, fuller, more vibrant. Maybe even large enough to divide and transplant, giving life to another part of the yard or a neighbor's garden.

And this little shoot is proof of what has been going on under the surface. The bulb that leads to this daffodil has been soaking in water and nutrients for months. You couldn't see any of it happening, but the shoot is proof. Life goes on. One season ends and another begins in faithful cycles.

Last week we had a lot of snow days. The few mornings that I usually get to myself when all three boys are in school didn't happen. I felt completely full of what I could handle. Exhausted, really, but functioning. Cheerful, even, at times.

A month ago if that had happened, I would have retreated into full, collapsing survival mode. We would have hunkered down and never left the house. I would have said words of defeat over and over to myself. There would have been nothing in me that would risk a public fail.

But last Friday, something happened. What has been hard and dry and worn out and fearful produced a tiny shoot of green. I felt ready for something. I felt hopeful.

I piled my 2 and 4 year-olds into the van and drove over to the Y.

That alone, is a bit of a miracle. I haven't had the energy in months to head over there and we'd been stuck inside for days due to the snow and their particular disdain for all that is cold. (The oldest would happily live in Northern Canada and has to be practically bribed to come indoors in the winter but the middle child believes cold is a personal affront to his happiness.)

After my workout, though, after they had played happily and without incident (thank you, Jesus!) in the Child Watch, we went to the pool.

THE POOL.

Confession: I have never once been willing to take both of them to any pool by myself. Not one time.

When you have one nugget in the throes of the terrible twos and the other one who lives his life in the land of the imminent, show-stopping meltdown, you get used to public humiliation. You still venture out to Target because sometimes being a public spectacle is still preferable to losing your ever-loving mind stuck at home. But mostly you stay home. Or in the backyard. I fully believe every person in our neighborhood recognizes us because we are always outside. Making lots of noise.

But the pool?

The pool takes a lot of energy. Yes, physical energy, but that's not what I'm talking about.

I'm talking about the kind of oomph you need to pull your mind and heart around being in a public space where one or both your kids could go off the rails, where you could have to wrestle a wet screaming child and lose, where it's very possible that one could run away while the other refuses to get out of the water. And where you know there's the very real possibility that you'll have to rely on the kindness of strangers to keep someone from drowning.

I haven't had that oomph in awhile. I haven't wanted to risk the emotional chaos of failure.

But we went. And they played and smiled and laughed and jumped in a hundred times and made the older women who were doing their water aerobics smile. They spread joy.

JOY.

And yes, it could have gone badly and I would still have had to process that. It didn't this time, for which I am grateful. I needed that win.

Because here's the thing. I've been learning something new about myself.

This fall was incredibly challenging - and it didn't come after any kind of easy season. We were going through some really hard stuff with our middle child. Things that were beyond our control. Nothing I did was making it better. Not my advocacy. Not my research. Not calling a billion different people. Not lost sleep. Nothing.

I was powerless.

And what I am coming to see is that powerlessness is my own version of personal hell. I am a doer. I make lists, I check them off, I get things done. Everything I've ever tried to do or really wanted to do, I've pretty much done. I am an ISTJ on the Meyers-Briggs and a 1 on the Enneagram. I DO. I FINISH.

But I couldn't do anything to make it better and had to watch my son suffer.

That led to me feeling like a big, raging failure in my life. It didn't matter that someone might tell me I am a good mom and doing my best. To me, it wasn't my best because nothing was changing. And the inability to accomplish anything took me down, friends. I felt exhausted. Overwhelmed. Useless. Sad. Depressed. Confused. Alone. Angry.

Somehow, somewhere and with the encouragement of some dear friends, I dug deep and realized I needed counseling.  Needed help. I wanted my boys to see their mom smiling again.

It's funny what happens in counseling. Someone asks you a question. You answer. They tell you what they hear you saying. You clarify. They clarify. And things begin to emerge. (Well, at least after that first session during which you just sob uncontrollably because apparently when you feel all the aforementioned things but don't let it out, your brain and heart explode when someone says "tell me about it.")

And just being able to see something about yourself, to learn why you feel so out of control, to say it out loud. Well, that's a huge part of the healing.

And then to finally, after months of effort that you've made, to see things start to happen for your son. To see what comes of the prayers and the phone calls and the appointments and the asking of questions.

That's the shoot, friends. This little spot of green that says something is happening. Something is changing. God is at work. Your work alongside him is not in vain.

The shoot is not a daffodil yet. There is still much to be done. There needs to be more water and sunshine and fertilizer and time. For me, there needs to be more counseling, more prayer, more risk-taking, more phone calls, more letting friends in on the process.

But slowly, sometimes uncertainly, the oomph is coming back, will come back. And knowing what takes me down frees me up to fight it. To look the feeling of failure in the face and say "Not today, Satan." Just because I feel powerless doesn't mean I am a failure and that is the darn truth.

Friends, all we can really do is the work in front of us. The next phone call, the next meeting, the next mountain of paperwork, the next prayer, the next counseling session, the next moment with friends or family who are loving us through it - even when we don't see that shoot yet, we water, we till, we fertilize and we pray for sunshine.

We stay in the fight and wait for the shoot.

Saturday, January 20, 2018

The Kitchen Cart

One of the things I discovered during my sabbatical way back in 2009 is that there is a certain peacefulness and healing that takes place in my soul when I work with my hands. And a certain chaos in me when I don't feel like somethings looks or feels the best way that it could.

Let me introduce you to the kitchen cart.

Original Cart

Tons of dings and scratches

Towel rod and grate
When we bid on the house, we asked that we be able to keep it. At the time, I didn't look too closely at it nor really mind it's appearance. It fit with the decor of the house and was sturdy and practical. I love sturdy and practical.

But as I've slowly repainted the interior of the main floor of our home, it has increasingly felt out of place. The sliding bins stopped working well and it became a dumping ground for all the papers and "stuff" that really belonged elsewhere. It's also looking decidedly banged up. I hit the point recently where any time I came near it, I cringed. It just wasn't working anymore.

As many of my projects do come at me out of the blue, one day I realized this would be an incredibly easy fix. A little paint, maybe some creative touches and rather than spending hundreds of dollars on something that might match, I could have something cute AND the distinct pleasure of having used my nail gun. That is always a win.

So, I began to take it apart. Pulled out the rickety old towels holders. Punched out the wicker side grates.

I filled in the holes left from the rods and sanded the whole thing down

Holes filled in








Whole cart sanded and ready for magic
Of course, gave it a fresh coat of paint on the bottom.





























I decided that for the top, I would go for a hazy, distressed type of look. I sanded off all the old stain which left me with a soft, yellowish pine. I treated it with some wood conditioner and then put two light coats of dark grey stain on top. Then I used some gray paint and a rag and just lightly covered all that followed by two coats of poly. I LOVE the finished product. (You can see it at the end!)

Once all the paint was done, I had to fill in the missing side grates. I had a picture in my mind but wasn't actually sure what I was looking for until I ran into it in Home Depot. Aluminum sheeting. Yes. Looked around a little more until I found just the right design and with some careful measuring and cutting with Tin Snips and then some tricky arm acrobatics to get in there with the staple gun, I had new grates!

Aluminum Sheeting

Measured piece of cardboard

Tin Snips

Staple Gun

Cut and ready for the cart

Installed
I pulled out some candles I have and an old vase I had painted a few years ago, filled up one of the slots with cookbooks that have been hiding (unused) in the back of the cabinet, repurposed a basket to hold diapers and found a cute little pop of color at Target to hold my kitchen towels.


I am thrilled with the results! What used to feel like an out-of-place, somewhat functional cart now feels bright, cheerful and useful.


LOVE the top now! 

Wednesday, January 17, 2018

That Deeper Story

You don't always know it when you look at them.

They smile. They pick their kids up and cover them in hugs and kisses. They read them books before bed and help them build towers and tell them to dream dreams.

Most likely, they are exhausted.

If not from today, from yesterday or last week or from years and years and years.

From the 20th phone call this week with a teacher or a therapist or a doctor or someone from the insurance company.

From the long lists posted on their pin boards or kitchen cabinets or fridge. The lists of forbidden foods, of rigid schedules, of sensory diets and supplements. The food logs, the oils, the salts, the reminders to pull out the theri-putty or weighted blankets and to never, ever forget to go over tomorrow's schedule before bed.

From "divide and conquer" parenting that protects siblings from the chaos but can wreak havoc on a marriage.

They might look unflappable or they might have eyes welling up in tears.

And you might not know why. You might look at their children and not know there is anything different.

Or you might look and judge- why is that child screaming, don't his parents know how to discipline? Can't she act her age - spoiled brat. You don't always see the child, you don't always remember to believe there could be a deeper story. Everyone has one, though.

Don't you?

But what if you met that child's eyes and smiled. What if you squeezed that mama's hand or offered real words of encouragement to that exhausted dad?

No, not the empty kind. Not "you are a good mom" or "hey, it gets better."

Sometimes being called a good mom comes up empty. Who decides that definition, anyway? And to be honest? Who really knows if something will get better, easier, less intense?

No, say something real, for goodness sake.

"That seems so hard. I would love to help. What do you need right now?"

"Hey, I'm bringing dinner tomorrow night. What's that allergy list again?"

"It's ok to feel like this is impossible. I love you and you're not alone."

They might not have much energy to be a great friend right now or to even return phone calls. (In fact, sometimes the sound of those phone calls makes them cringe. Is the school calling? What now?)

They might be just hanging on by the skin of their teeth, fighting each day to give their kids the best of what they have left.

But fight they will. They are warriors. They see the deeper stories of their children and they won't give up. 

And their kids? Their kids are amazing.

They might not always look or act like yours do. But they are beautiful. Passionate. There are things that move them, that light them up. Sometimes their smile can totally change a room. Sometimes their screams can stop you in your tracks. But they are precious. Loved. Worth fighting for.

Next time you see one of them, take pause before you judge. Before you dismiss or assume. Before you cast words of shame upon them or their parents.

There's a story, there. And it's worth sticking around for. I promise.

Good Enough

  Having to actively fight the perfectionist side of myself while I take these three classes is a true battle. I want the A. Gosh darnit, I ...