The Ones Who Kept Me Warm

I often wonder if everyone suffers from nostalgia to the same degree that I do.

I don't know what it is about me and the past. For some reason I have a difficult time letting go of people, places, periods of my life. I don't like to admit that certain friendships or experiences are over. "Over" just seems so final.

With every transition in my life - from my childhood in upstate New York to Trinity College in Connecticut to my post-graduate life in St. Louis, and finally to Anderson, South Carolina - I left behind people that I had at one point laughed with, confided in, leaned on. High school teammates. College roommates. Colleagues. It wasn't necessarily anyone's fault that we eventually lost touch, and let's face it, who really has room in their life for EVERY person they have ever cared about? It isn't realistic. In fact, it's kind of insane.

The thing is, my memories, though they may be slightly rose-colored by nostalgia, are attached to people, and I hate feeling as if they lose some of their joy because the co-stars of those memories are no longer in my life. Memorizing the security code to one of the fraternity houses so we could let ourselves into their kitchen after-hours. Workshopping poems while eating apples from our professor's orchard. Living in a communist-era dormitory in Prague and learning how to navigate the language, the city, the culture. Singing karaoke. A lot of karaoke. (Because Lord knows it's no fun to sing "I Would Do Anything for Love" alone.) Teaching on a team in which every other member was old enough to be my parent but none too old to be my friend.

Back in 2006 I was teaching part-time at John Burroughs, an independent school in St. Louis. One of the amazing things about this school was that it included a wilderness campus in the Ozarks, used for team-building as well as for science classes. As a first-year teacher I was sent away on the 7th-grade orientation trip and assigned a small group of 7th-graders to take out on "Solo".  Students were placed at intervals along a trail in the woods, and they would wait, by themselves (hence the name), for night to fall. After four hours or so in the freezing Ozark night a teacher would collect them and march them to the lodge to be rewarded for their bravery with hot chocolate and a fire. This was a rite of passage at Burroughs, an opportunity for the initiate class to face their fears and, hopefully, find some time to reflect and meditate.

As group leader I could choose whether I wanted to return to camp, checking on my students periodically, or conceal myself in the woods nearby, just in case anyone had a major panic attack. I chose the latter, partly because I wanted to see for myself what these kids were experiencing. I couldn't imagine being asked to do this at the age of twelve, but as an adult I could see the value in taking on such a challenge. I, too, would go solo.

The dark was bad. The cold was worse. Every so often I checked my watch, sure that it would be time to take the kids back to the lodge, but time didn't pass the same way in the woods as it did in civilization. So, to survive my own Solo, I made up a game. I would think about people I cared about, some of whom were currently in my life, some with whom I had already lost contact, and they would keep me warm. The friend I worked with at the pizzeria who cooked me his own creations during our shift because I needed "to put some meat on my bones." The guy in college who I thought might be a love interest but ended up just being really, really nice. I visited him in his hometown once and we ate chicken patties with his dad while watching Jeopardy, then I drove back home without him ever trying anything. I thought about friends who would talk me through my problems until the sun came up. I thought about my sisters, who both went to Boston College and made sure, when I visited, to tell every guy we encountered how old I was: "This is my sister. She's sixteen."

It sounds weird, I know- fuzzy memory bubbles radiating light and heat - but I swear to God it worked. I wasn't shivering anymore; my fingers and toes weren't going numb. These past friends and acquaintances, many of whom would probably have never guessed they made the list, kept the cold at bay.

I would name all of them if I wasn't a coward. It's just that I don't want to be that weird girl (strange that I still can't bring myself to write "woman") who somebody knew five, ten, fifteen years ago who randomly gets in touch and says, "You know what? You mattered to me, even if it was in some tiny, mundane way." I don't want to be someone who tries too hard to rekindle friendships that fizzled out long ago. I don't want to look desperate, overcome by nostalgia, caught up in a past that no longer exists.

I guess the next best thing is to start now, to let there be no question - in my work relationships, my friendships, my family, my marriage - when somebody is making a difference in my life, making it better. Maybe if I take care of that business in the present, I'll no longer need nostalgia.

So, on that note, if you are reading this, if you have supported this little passion of mine, thank you for being supportive. Thank you for helping me stay warm. You matter. Thank you.

A Distress Call from a Mommy Hostage

Is it just me, or is being a parent eerily similar to being stalked?

Seriously, think about it. The loss of privacy is staggering: in my own home, there is no guarantee that I will be able to use the bathroom, take a shower, get dressed, or sleep without some tiny person barging in and either a) interrogating me about what is taking place, b) attempting to join me, or c) inexplicably crying. There are people pulling my dirty laundry out of my hamper. Wearing my underwear around their necks. Going through my garbage. It's enough to make a person paranoid.

I'm reminded of a conversation I had with an old friend several years ago. We were catching up on each other's lives, and he had recently moved in with his girlfriend. "How's that going?" I asked. "It's okay," he replied. Then, after a pause, he continued. "It's just that… she's always there, you know?" Needless to say, the relationship did not last.

Obviously breaking up with my kids is not an option, nor is reporting their repeated violations of my privacy to the authorities, but I have to admit, nothing makes me grumpier than feeling like I'm being held hostage in my own home by two people whose greatest weapons are their lung capacity and their superhuman ability to resist my will.  Most days I feel like I work my butt off trying to create a scenario in which I will have two minutes to myself. (Oh, and remember how I used to want to stay at home? That notion is more hilarious to me with every passing summer day.)

Here's the other thing about having no privacy: My children are watching and learning during every second that we spend together. My three-and-a-half-year-old retains EVERYTHING. Anything I do or say may be repeated to friends, teachers, or other acquaintances, and most likely taken completely out of context. No moment of the day is off the table, from putting on my makeup in the morning ("What's this?" "Mascara." "Why you wear it?" "To make my eyelashes darker." "Why?" "Because I just like them that way!") to every ounce of food or drink I choose to ingest. I find myself sneaking candy to hide it from her rather than deal with explaining why mommy can have half a bag of gummy bears when I wouldn't think of letting her do the same thing. And if she walks in on me during my attempt, I invariably end up giving her a couple because I look and feel so guilty.

I try to put a positive spin on it by telling myself that my kids' omnipresence makes me more accountable as a person and a parent. I think, a day will come when they will be independent and won't want to follow their mom around like ravenous puppy dogs, and when that day comes I'll miss that feeling of being constantly needed, of having children hanging from my clothes and threatening to pants me every time I'm wearing a garment without a button or drawstring. Or I simply cheer myself up with the notion of waiting ten years and getting revenge, because after a decade of learning how to sneak away from them, I am going to be a boss at sneaking up and embarrassing the crap out of them.

Who Will You Be? (A Parent's Guessing Game)

When my daughter Maggie was only three or four months old, my husband and I decided that "sassy" was an apt adjective to describe her personality. She didn't smile easily, viewing all grown-ups other than her parents with unconcealed suspicion. And I know it sounds strange, but even as a baby she seemed to have a sense of humor, carefully watching those around her, picking up on what we thought was funny and then performing with an almost deadpan expression to see what our reactions would be. She wasn't sweet or cuddly; she didn't like bows and dresses. She wanted to sit on the couch with a pile of books and take in every page, or spend an hour working on a puzzle that children two or three years older would have found difficult. She was (and is) our smart, sassy little girl.

Within weeks of Cecilia's birth we could already distinguish differences in temperament. When Ceci woke at night she didn't cry, but would lay cooing in her crib until I went in to feed her. "She's such an easy baby," I marveled. Where Maggie had glowered at or quietly observed well-meaning strangers, Ceci grinned at them. She was such an agreeable child that we soon realized we could use her mood as a tool for diagnosing illness. If Ceci wasn't happy, off to the doctor we went to get treated for an ear infection or some other ailment. It seemed like sickness was the only thing that could wipe the angelic smile from her face, and often she smiled right through it.

These comparisons between my daughters went on for some time: one smart and sassy, one sweet and easy. I had summed up my children in just a couple of words each - how efficient!

On the eve of her first birthday, though, Ceci is refusing to stay true to the image I have created for her. There is more fussing, more complaining, more throwing of food and drink as she decides that she has preferences and a will of her own. Maggie, meanwhile, has become an open and friendly little girl. She makes friends on the playground and shows her "cowgirl boots" to everyone we pass in the grocery store. These developments remind me that as hard as I try, my children will not allow me to define them.

Let me, however, make something very clear. I do not wish to dictate who my children will one day become. There are parents out there who decide when their child is very small, "She will be a doctor," or "He will be a football player," but I assure you, that isn't me. They could be rodeo clowns or spokesmodels or professional hula hoopers as long as they are happy (and making a living). No, the reason why I constantly attempt to encapsulate who they are and what they're about is because I'm dying to know more about these incredible little humans who have been gifted to my care.

That's it - I'm curious. I can't wait to see if Maggie's love of music will bring her into theater. It isn't a stretch to imagine her singing and dancing her heart out in front of a large audience. Will her love of books lead to academic excellence, or will she be one of those readers whose head is in the clouds all day long? Will she be an athlete? A dancer? A martial artist? And at what point do I have to step in and take a role in steering her toward some of these possibilities?

(Clearly all of these questions apply for Cecilia as well, but since her interests at this point are confined to playing with Tupperware, tipping over her dog's water bowl, and repeatedly putting on necklaces and taking them off, I don't have as much to go on.)

Each time I learned I was pregnant, my husband and I decided not to find out the gender of the baby. "There are so few surprises in life," was the line we used to explain our reasoning. To be honest, those two moments when the doctor announced, "It's a girl!" are probably going to be the least surprising moments of our daughters lives. Every day I get to know them better, but I will never know everything there is to know about them. Some surprises will be welcome, others, I'm sure, less so. But as eager as I am to see what the future holds for my children, I wouldn't get into a time machine for a glimpse of what's to come. Not for a million dollars, though I'd be tempted. Because it's the process that's important, and I want to be there when it all unfolds. A lifetime of revelation- what's not to love about that?

My girls, my mysteries. Who will these kiddos be?

A Day Without Water

Last night a pipe at the local water system plant burst, causing our household and much of Anderson to be without water for about fourteen hours.

Luckily we had plenty of bottled water and a couple of gallons of distilled water on hand, so I wasn't terribly worried about it. The powers that be would eventually get the water running and life would return to normal. The water shortage really only affected us from the time I woke up around 7:30 until noon, when our taps finally began to work again. We remain under a boil water advisory, but that isn't nearly as alarming as not being able to flush the toilet. However, during the course of the morning I thought multiple times about the implications of this incident.

Mainly I realized how bitchy a lot of my posts would sound to someone outside of America. I'm complaining about how my daughter only wants to wear two of the twenty-five dresses in her closet, and how I'm just not as "fun" as I used to be, and how my house is too messy. Really? When there are moms and dads out there trying to parent without running water? And probably without disposable diapers? If my children didn't have this basic necessity my life would be a million times more inconvenient than I think it is now, and I wouldn't mind a bit; who worries about inconvenience when they are focused on keeping their family alive?

How much I take for granted. After less than five hours of catching myself in the process of trying to wash a dish or rinse off my toothbrush (and spending a portion of those hours swimming in my full pool), I am shamed and humbled. Being a mom is hard no matter what culture you're in, but we live in a country where, for the majority of people, the most important element of life on earth flows freely at the twist of a faucet. At least we've got that much covered- everything else is just details.

The Stupidest Struggle Ever: How I Stooped to My Child's Level

Today I spanked my child for the first time.

Now, I know that there are two distinct camps when it comes to spanking, and there's not a whole lot of middle ground. There are those who believe that spanking teaches children a definitive lesson about their behavior - don't do it again or here's what will happen - and there are those who see spanking as hypocritical and confusing, particularly when using it to reinforce a point about children exhibiting aggressive behavior toward others. While I have always belonged to the second group, my three-year-old has brought me to the verge of spanking more than once.

Those who are merely acquainted with Maggie in social settings express doubt when I tell them what a you-know-what she can be. In public she is generally a darling, acting shy at first but eventually dazzling onlookers with her adorable giggle and unusual perceptiveness. But in our home, especially when we are out of our typical school year routine, she is an expert button-pusher. (Quick aside: Not that I'm big into astrology, but October 7th, her birthday, is listed in this birthday book I have as the Day of Defiance. It's proven accurate even from the time she was about eighteen months old, when she was told that if she put her feet on the dinner table she would be removed and the meal would be over. She quickly figured out what to do when she didn't feel like sitting at the table anymore…)

Anyway, I thought our day was starting out pretty well. The kids slept in until 7:30. I managed to feed them breakfast quickly enough to usher everybody into the car and head to the gym so I could enjoy a yoga class. We came home and they played outside while I weeded the mulch beds. So far, so good. I had planned to take them to meet up with some friends at the small water park at the Y after nap time, but lo and behold, neither child was really in the mood for a nap. Despite my better judgment, I forged ahead. Quoting my neighbor, who had suggested going to Waterworks, "The thought of them hanging inside the rest of the day was giving me hives." I packed everything we would need, got the baby in her swimsuit, and focused on getting Maggie ready to go. If only it were that easy.

The struggle began over something completely idiotic. For about the past year, getting Maggie dressed has been the least favorite part of my day. The child has literally 25 dresses hanging in her closet, and while she has probably worn each of them at least once, it chafes me that she wants to wear the same stupid two every single day. It doesn't matter if someone she loves bought her an outfit or sewed it for her themselves, she cannot be convinced to wear something that she doesn't want to wear. As I have stated before, I am a woman of principle. I do not believe in wastefulness, and I have a problem with the fact that time and money have been spent on giving her things that she refuses to use. As a result, every day I attempt to steer her away from those same two dresses and try to get her to wear something she doesn't usually wear. This is the way it normally ends: she may agree to try something on, but after about five seconds she starts clawing at it, claiming that some very specific thing is wrong with it: it's too tight, too big, not long enough, she doesn't like the buttons or the way it feels. Then she goes completely boneless and basically can't function like a human being again until I remove the offending garment.

I understand that my ideals about clothing use are far beyond the ability of a three-year-old to grasp, yet I can't stop trying. So, today, in the midst of getting her changed into her bathing suit to go to the Y, I grabbed a tank top and skirt from her drawers and stared to toss them into the bag so she would have something dry to wear when she was done swimming. My precious child snatched them from my hand and threw them across the room, screaming, "No! Not those ones! I'm going to choose them!"

An hour later she was eating cookies
and kissing on her sister. Jekyll and Hyde much?

This was one of those pivotal moments when I could have changed course and avoided a fiasco, but no, I had to stand on principle. "Maggie," I said, "You may NOT grab things out of my hand. I am going to put these back in the bag, and if you take them out again, we will not go to the water park." You can guess what happened next. Out came the skirt and shirt, and I, the reasonable adult, responded. "Okay then. We're not going." I had to do it. I had made the threat, and there was no backpedaling. Either I was a woman of my word or I wasn't.

I knew it wasn't going to go over well, but I couldn't have predicted that my naked banshee of a daughter would pick up her (rather heavy) piggy bank and throw it at me, narrowly missing her baby sister's head. I mean, that kid put some muscle behind it. And with her naked bottom right there, I couldn't help myself. If anything warranted a spanking, this was it. One quick pop and down to time-out she went.

You know, I wish there were a moral to this story. Did the spanking make me feel better? Not really. Am I going to do it again? I don't plan on it.  If there is anything to be gleaned from this experience, it's that arguing with a three-year-old is pretty much the most unreasonable thing an adult can do. (But of course, I'm going to do it again - you know, being a woman of principle and everything.)

The Transformation of Loss

Two nights ago I went to see the movie The Fault in Our Stars. For those of you unfamiliar with the film or the book by John Green that it is based on, it is the love story of teens Augustus and Hazel, one recently cleared of cancer and one undergoing experimental treatment that has kept her alive years longer than anyone had thought possible. It is a beautifully written, sometimes funny, heartrending story, but it was especially poignant on this particular evening.

Ten years ago on this day, my friend Sean turned twenty-two. Two days later, on June 10, 2004 he was killed in a car wreck on his way to the Bonnaroo music festival in Tennessee. It was the worst day of my life. I have largely avoided writing about it, partly because I don't quite trust my memory to get the details just right, and partly because of the pain I knew it would cause myself and all of the people that loved Sean. You see, I was there that day. I just happened to be in the right car, the one that wasn't clipped by a tractor-trailer cab changing lanes at seventy miles per hour.

I have had ten years to mourn for my friend, the foul-mouthed musician with a heart of gold. He was my best friend's boyfriend, and as such he was a kind of brother figure- making fun of me for my crushes, handing out noogies, telling me that I needed to gain some weight, which I guess is why he forced about half of his breakfast on me when we stopped at a Hardees a few hours before he died.

Every time I see a dragonfly, I know that Sean is okay.
(That's a story for another day.)

For a long time, too, I mourned for myself. That day altered the course of my entire life. I was just a twenty-year-old girl on my way to a rock concert, wearing linen drawstring pants and a shirt that my mom sewed for me that tied in the back and told the world that I was young and carefree, bras be damned. Moments later I was standing stupidly in the hot, sharp grass by the side of the highway, trying to make sense of the scene that spread itself out before me. (I remember it, but I won't describe it. What would be the point of that?)

I do know that throughout the ordeal I repeatedly felt as if I were out of my own body, viewing the tragedy from afar, and the strangest thought kept entering my mind: Poor kids.  I stood apart from my traumatized self and watched as two young women, one of them me, embraced in the midst of burnt rubber and broken CDs and waited for a ride to the hospital. The helicopter carrying Sean had already taken off. The EMTs had stopped CPR. We were pretty sure we knew what we would hear upon arrival, but "dead" still felt impossible to process. And the whole time, that thought: Poor kids. We were nearly a thousand miles from home, about seventy miles from our destination. So close. And now we needed to function, to speak to doctors, find a hotel, get on a plane and face the rest of our lives. It wouldn't be easy. For the next year or so I would experience vivid flashbacks. I would break down at the slightest reference to anything remotely connected to Sean's death. I would return to college for my senior year and blame everyone in my path for not understanding, but how could they possibly? Slowly, and with the help of individuals that I truly believe God put in my path for just this purpose, I began to piece myself back together.

Grief and trauma lessen, but they don't go away. I felt it on Sunday night, ten years after the fact, watching this film about two teens who were, for reasons unknown, just dealt a bad hand. But I realized, as I crumpled up yet another tissue, that these tears were coming from a different place. I wasn't thinking about the loss of my friend, I was trying not to imagine the agony of losing one of my own children. 


At one point in The Fault in Our Stars the narrator writes, “There is only one thing in this world shittier than biting it from cancer when you're sixteen, and that's having a kid who bites it from cancer.” Since becoming a mother, ten-year-old memories have taken on a new pain. My grief will become fear if I let it. I could walk around, constantly afraid that one day I will be the one receiving the most terrible phone call imaginable. I could think, every time I look at my children, "This could be our last day together," which I guess would help me appreciate the little moments, but in all honesty, I don't want to have that in my head every day; it's too terrifying to even entertain. Terrible, tragic, unjust things happen all the time, but if I allow myself to think that they might happen to my child, I will be paralyzed by even the thought of that loss.

My heart has always been with Sean's mother. Now, as a mother's heart, it grieves with her even more. I hope it gives her even the smallest amount of solace to know that after ten years he is still remembered, he is missed, he is loved.

Just Say No

I fell in love with my husband for a host of reasons: his thoughtfulness, sense of humor, boyish good looks, spontaneity, ability to pair a button-down dress shirt with a tie-dye t-shirt. It was pretty clear from early on that we were compatible. However, I have found since having children that even if we shared every interest in the world, the most crucial measure of compatibility - and the one that will make or break a marriage - is our parenting philosophy. 

Thankfully (miraculously, even), Matt and I have very similar morals and values, and this has made our journey into parenthood a little less rocky. When my older child is working her hardest to push my buttons, he backs me up. (And just an FYI for the men out there, giving your wife a breather and taking over during a tantrum is worth SO much more than any romantic gesture.) If I had to give it a name, I would say our philosophy, when it comes to our kids, is "Just Say No." 

Children are going to want certain things. In the past couple of days I've heard, "Mommy, can I watch a show? Can I play on your phone? Can I have some candy? Can we stop at Dunkin' Donuts? Can I jump in Ceci's crib? Can I bring (insert random toy or object) to school? Can you buy me a princess doll? Mommy, why can't I watch a show? Can I not have a bath? Can we not wash hair? Can I have books in bed? Can you sing me another song? Can you read me another story?" And this is just one child talking. 

When Maggie was littler than she is now, my family thought that we were a little too strict with her. We used the southern reprimand "No ma'am!" whenever she did something naughty, which they thought was crazy- who calls a two-year-old "ma'am"? We offered her foods that were healthy and unseasoned while limiting those that were sweetened and processed. TV was a treat: one show a day. For Christmas and birthdays, we asked grandparents to give her ONE gift, not ten- and boy, do they still try to get out of that one!

To some, our parenting style became a running joke. One of my elderly relatives told my mom, "I'm going to say a prayer that Jenny lets Maggie eat a French fry." When we stated in our adult Sunday School class that we'd like to remain a one TV family, we were met with outright laughter. To me, though, it's really not funny. At some point, our society decided that childhood should be a time of gratification - what could be more endearing than the smile of a child who just drank his first Coke or opened his first iPad? 

Every time my child asks me a "Can I?" question, there are two possible answers. "Yes" is nice, and "yes" has its place, but will it make her happy? Healthy? Will it improve my relationship with her? Will it teach her to handle boredom and disappointment? Will it help her to be independent and think for herself?

So I stand my ground. I will continue to say no to my child. No, you cannot watch a show- go look at your books. No, you cannot play on my phone on the ride home from daycare - let's play "I Spy" instead. No, you cannot have some candy- eat a good dinner and we'll see. No, we cannot stop at Dunkin' Donuts- and I am trying desperately to break my own habit. No, no more songs or stories- it's time for bed, and don't you even think of getting out after that light goes out.

I'm human, and I have my moments of weakness, but when it comes down to it, I am a person of strong principles. I could spoil my children with junk food and gifts. I could teach them that they are the most important people in the entire world, and that they deserve everything in it. I could give them their way, give into their whims, let them get away with disrespect or disobedience. I choose not to do these things. I do not want my girls to take and take from the world, always expecting more, always expecting to feel good. I want them to expect less and be pleased with what they get, to live simply, to value relationships over material satisfaction. 

I know they're only little kids. I know I'm idealistic. But what can it hurt? Say no. Enjoy it, knowing that, in the long run, you are doing your child the best possible service. Then take a picture of your child crying about it, post it on Instagram, and have a good chuckle. Responsible parenting feels amazing, doesn't it?