The Decisions We Must Make...

I’ve been thinking about parenting dilemmas these days. I’m confronted with them on a daily basis – minor things here and there…  and now that the girls are getting older – bigger and more complicated ones as well. One funny matter that has been replaying itself in my head was a conundrum I faced a while back when travelling home to Seattle from Southern CA.

Have you ever traveled with children? With a baby? With a toddler? With OWEN? It’s not fun. Or easy. If ever you had the time and ability to watch a family of six traverse the obstacles of an airport, you’d probably laugh. Or sigh and think, thank everloving God that’s not me. John takes the majority on his shoulders. Literally. He carries a carseat on his shoulders. He carries a backpack on his shoulders. And in addition, both hands are carrying and/or wheeling other items. The girls zig this way and that with their roll-on suitcases. And Owen gets wheeled at top speed in his stroller. By the time we make it on to the plane, we have already gone through security, which requires breaking down the stroller and putting it back together, taking 12 shoes off 12 feet then getting them back on again, making sure 75 different items get on the conveyer belt and back into our possession… all within 25 seconds. After that ordeal I’m already sweaty and want a nap. But that is merely the warm-up for what’s in store… After waiting around and exhausting the attention spans of each child while the plane gets prepared to board, it’s then time to get on the plane. They let the families with small children board first because they know what a circus it is and they want to spare the other passengers the risk and reality of being whacked upside the head with a carseat being carried on somebody’s shoulders, who is also carrying at least 47 other items. For some reason they always put us in the very back of the plane – our party of six… There must be a little box they check when we come to the counter to retrieve our tickets that says: Code Red - This Family At the Back of the Bus. They Look Loud and Frazzled. Repeat: BACK OF THE BUS.  Once we pour ourselves into the entire row on both sides of the aisle and get settled, the fun part is watching the expressions of the people who have to sit directly in front of us. Because they know in short order what their flight will entail. And I know, too. I give them apologetic smiles.

The return flight is much more difficult than the arrival flight, usually. This is because at this point we have already had a fun-filled and exhausting week – a week of long nights, many activities, and missed naps. Tempers are running high, and our little family is a delicate bomb just waiting to detonate.

This was the predicament we were in on one of our recent trips home from SoCal. We had made it on to the plane. I was attempting to occupy Owen with tasty snacks until the plane took off. We burned through cheddar bunnies, yogurt melts, and fruit snacks in what felt like 4 seconds. I went on to phase 2 from my entertainment bag of tricks: toys. He threw the play phone on the floor almost immediately, shoved the soft book with the stimulating textures right back in my face, and wouldn’t even so much as look at his fire engine truck. I went directly to phase 3, which I’ll admit is more of the emergency phase which involves picking random items from my purse and trying to make them seem enticing. He played with my keys for a quality amount of time. He also had some fun sucking on my phone and whacking it against the window shade, which you could tell in his estimation, made a pretty sweet loud/obnoxious sound that he fully appreciated. But then nothing would amuse him… not the empty gum package, not a return play session with the keys, not my comb, and certainly not any of the in-flight reading material. We hadn’t even taken off when the fussing began. The fussing quickly escalated into ticked off wails. And everything went downhill from there.

Time takes on a different quality when you are in the air with a ticked off toddler. When the pilot came over the speaker and said, “we will be touching down in Seattle in just about 2 and a half hours,” he may as well have said, “yo Kim…you will be up here in this claustrophobic vessel for eternity.”

Owen was buckled snugly in his carseat, which gave him the perfect distance to take his baby nikes and fire off a steady stream of kicks onto the upright tray table in front of him. I held his feet and told him to stop, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. I figure I intercepted 50% of the kicks he dealt out… which meant the passenger sitting directly in front of Owen felt the other 50.

When the lady came by with the drink cart I heard the poor soul sitting in front of Owen ask for a scotch. And then he changed it to a double scotch.

“I’m so sorry,” I said between the seats to the back of his head and thick neck.

“You are so patient,” I offered.

 I didn’t know how this would be received. I’ve had people look at me with a quite a lot of irritation and disdain in these situations. I’ve had people look at my rascally babies like they were the spawn of the devil. I’ve also had people who were wonderful – who have smiled and told funny stories about “their kids when they were that age.” At this point I didn’t know what I was dealing with.

The man’s head turned to the side and I saw a big smile through the space of the two seats. “Hey,” he said, “Get yourself a drink – you need one more than I do. It’s on me.” To emphasize this point, Owen cried a little harder and gave the man’s chair a few good kicks.

I told him no thanks, but was so grateful for his kindness and patience. I always make a vow to myself when these things happen. That I will always try to be *that* person in the future. The one that will turn around and smile at the mom with the kids that are going haywire and say, “you got this mama.” And I’ll offer to buy her a drink, too.

I checked the time on my phone, which seemed to be dripping off the minutes in slow motion. When I realized we still had a good solid hour+ of airtime, and Owen was nowhere near ending his fussing/crying, I decided to do the final thing in my bag of tricks: nurse him. This is usually a surefire way to comfort him, so I pulled him out of his carseat, got him all ready… and then realized I didn’t have a blanket or cover. I’m always impressed with the moms who will nurse anywhere anytime without covers or concern about what other people see or say or think. I’m the mom with the big ol’ tarp – the “hooter hider” it’s called. I’m the one using the hooter hider in the sweltering summer heat, and I’m the one who was really wishing I had packed it for the plane because I had nothing. Owen knew he was about to be nursed, so there was no turning back. And so I went for it. Boobs went flying this way and that, despite my efforts to keep everything concealed by my cardigan sweater. And then something lovely happened… Owen fell asleep. Quiet descended on the plane. Peace permeated into the tray tables and window shades and airplane seats. A collective “thank you Jesus” sigh could be heard throughout the rows and aisles. No matter that he had fallen asleep nursing and I felt exposed to each passenger that walked by to reach the bathrooms behind us. I wouldn’t dare or dream of moving him while he slept for fear that he’d wake up and the crying would begin again.

And so we flew through the air for some time just like that. In joyful sweet silence with Owen attached to my boob. And here comes the crux of the story – the true conundrum. For some reason that I will never know, in his sleep Owen clenched his jaw and bit my boob so hard that I thought he had bit the whole thing clean off.  Have you ever had your boob bitten? If you have not, I will tell you – it hurts really really badly, as I’m sure you could pretty well imagine. Did I scream out? Did I yank his clenched jaw from my body? Well hell no I didn’t because that would have woken him up. In that short amount of time it took for me to process the pain, I made a very quick and important decision: do not move a muscle, or he will wake up. I took a deep breath and waited for his little mouth with the razor sharp teeth to relax without making a peep, or flinching a muscle.

And that my friends, is parenting in a nutshell.

My Runner Girl

Oh look!! That’s my 12 year old daughter leading the pack at her first cross country meet!

 

Looks like it, huh? But that’s not really the case. Though you cannot tell from the picture, she’s actually coming in last. Well, third to last to be fair. Out of a group of what appears to be 40ish pre-teen running girls, she is clearly one of the very last.

The race starts off down the track so I’m craning my neck over the fence to get a look at the scrambling legs, pumping arms, and determined faces as they go by. They pass quickly but I don’t see my girl. So I follow the group with my eyes and think, darn… how did I miss her? But then I see that I didn’t miss her at all – there is a significant distance between the group and her skinny galloping legs as they finally chug pass. “Go Peyton!!” I yell loudly to her. She smiles sheepishly at her feet, and I can’t help but think of her toddler-self, running through the park in this new cotton shirt she had with the buttons in the back, and these delicate little embroidered flowers. Back then she ran everywhere because it was fun. Her cheeks would turn bright pink, and her blonde hair would trail in wisps behind her. Very much like now, I think.

In all honesty, I was surprised she wanted to do cross-country. Because cross country running is HARD... And she’s never done a running sport before. Personally, I had no inkling or desire to run for fun until well into my 20’s. In middle school I wanted nothing more than to eat Funyuns and watch the A-Team when I got home.  But Peyton is ambitious, and a little renaissance lady to boot -- she likes to try it all. Last year she went out for drama, orchestra, track, swimming, and managed to keep up with Taekwondo. It doesn’t matter to her if she’s never done the activity before. She bravely shows up and joins.

The girls are making another loop around the track. The big group zooms by, breathing hard now…  Peyton makes her way around in what seems like 45 minutes later. “Go girl!” I yell again. She looks like she is running her heart out and believe me, I know it’s my mom pride, but I’m feeling like she looks just as fast as the other girls. The distance between her and the pack is growing though, and so I begin to think of the pep talk I will need to give my girl when this race is over. I know she will be crushed. Because it is one thing to bravely join the cross country team with no running experience…  But it’s another thing entirely to come in last place (third to last) with a significant audience bearing witness.

It’s important to come in last a few times in your life, I will tell her… I find I’m reminding myself of this, too. Because it is hard to watch your kid eat dust. Let’s make one thing clear; I am no stranger to defeat. But each loss I’ve experienced has fueled my desire to come back stronger. Losing is a very valuable lesson – sometimes more valuable than winning… This is what I’m thinking I’ll lead with on the ride home. I’m formulating a kick-ass pep talk as the girls run off the track and onto the road for the second part of the course.  I’m also thinking that probably Peyton will catch up a bit while they’re completing the off-road portion of the race. She will maintain a steady pace while most likely the other girls will have to slow down a bit. But as they start to trickle back on to the track for the final lap it becomes clear that my theory doesn’t hold any water. The big group flies by and then duke it out for the finish.

Then, crickets.

One-one-thousand.

Two-one-thousand…

A few more girls make it back to the track. But no Peyton.  Just when I’m starting to get a little worried, I see her – her ponytail swishing behind her, her arms pumping and her legs turning. Really… say what you will, but for coming in almost dead-last, she looks great.  “Go Peyton, go!” I cheer over the fence. “Finish strong!” And I see the determination in her eyes as she picks up her pace and finishes with a kick that would make Prefontaine proud.

“Well I think it’s just GREAT,” a Dad next to me says. “You know, when kids do things that they’re not good at? Because my kids will only do sports they know they will be successful at.” He stands there smiling and nodding as I am mentally putting the final touches on my Losing is Important Pep Talk. And I sort of want to tell him to shut up. But I know (or at least I hope) he means well so I smile and say, “Yep.”

Peyton finds me on the other side of the fence. Her shoulders are a bit hunched and as I suspected, the disappointment is evident on her face. I smile and say, “I’m so proud of you.” I whole-heartedly mean it, but I feel like it sounds canned. “My foot hurts and feel like I’m gonna throw up,” she offers as we walk to the car.

The truth of the matter is, I am very proud of her. I’m proud that she wanted to do cross country in the first place, that she goes to practice each day, and that she finished her first event without quitting.

“You know,” I begin. “Losing can be more important…” But I can see she doesn’t want to hear my orchestrated pep talk, so I stop. What she really wants is some ice cream and a hug. Both of which I’m more than happy to comply with.

falling toward fall

It is hard sometimes to accept what is coming. Especially when you’re not ready, or prepared. Or when you want the moment, the joy, the light to linger just a little bit longer.

I realized with a slight sinking feeling the other night as I drove home from yoga that it was dark – not merely “the-streetlights-just-came-on-dark,” but completely and fully dark… Only a few weeks before the drive home had been in the deep goldeny pre-sunset light. I remember distinctly because I had admired the bright peach and orange and yellow that played on the tall trees along the road. ..This seemed to catch me by surprise – the new darkness, and remind me that summer cannot stay forever. The sun is stepping back into the shadows… slowly. The light season is dutifully edging its way out of the forefront. Leaving the party, as it's scheduled to do at this time. I had this weird desperate feeling like, no! that was not enough time…

It happens other times too. When I look at my kids and realize they have gone through a growth spurt right before my very eyes. Brooklyn got her ears pierced this summer and sometimes I’ll look over at her as she’s standing there the way she does with her hip out, and she’ll look so big. I want to slow her down. And then there’s Owen. Last summer he mainly wanted to nurse and sleep in my arms. It seemed very challenging at the time, because parenting three other children from the couch with a sleeping baby poses some difficulty. But it made for a slow leisurely summer  -- watching the kids in the backyard and seeing the sun set below the maple trees night after night. This summer Owen is walking. No, Owen is running. And so I am always running too. Everything feels fast and rushed. Trying to get here or there, and trying to prevent Owen from throwing himself down the staircase, which he seems hell bent on doing… And Quin and Peyton. Both girls grow grow grow… And sometimes I look at myself and realize that, I too, am getting older.

As a sidenote… Brooklyn has an amazing sense of smell. If ever she wants to know if an article belongs to someone in particular, she smells it. A stuffed animal, for example. Or a sweater or shirt. She will bring it closely to her nose, close her eyes and deeply and carefully inhale, then declare the owner. She’s always right. I love that she does this. I do it, too. I associate people and places and even certain times with smell. Sometimes I can even smell change coming. It’s in the air right now. In the morning it’s the most clear. A wet and dark smell, like the deepest part of a lake.

I think the trick is believing the change is right. Even when it feels scary. Losing the summer comes with a bit of grief. Watching youth fade is terrifying to most of us. I won’t lie and say I’m altogether comfortable with it. I’m not. But I’m trying to accept that there is a wisdom to it all that I can only just begin to understand.  

Fourteen

Tonight I sat with Owen in the dark listening to the rain and hearing the thunder break in the distance. I was thinking about my young self… The me in Peyton’s age-range – 12 to 14ish. I vaguely remember that girl. She had long blonde hair and a red phone shaped like a hexagon that plugged in to the wall. She talked on it well in to the night, buried under her blankets. She knew everything.

If I could go back in time and talk to this young me, what would I say? What would I tell this girl who truly believed she knew everything?

For starters, I would tell her not to crash her car in to that tree. I would tell her the tall blonde guy her freshman year of college is gay, so don’t bother. I would tell her to avoid the whole hair crimping phase because that style really looks stupid on just about everyone. I would tell her to appreciate her young flexible hips, and if she ever wants to run a marathon maybe give it a try before 4 children come shooting through her body. I would encourage her to learn as much as possible, read as much as she can, and pay extra close attention in math class. I would ask her to be gentle with the feelings of others, and especially her own. I would tell her that relationships should not be THAT hard, and if they are it’s best to walk away and never look back. I would convince her that she is not fat. Her body is strong and fantastic and magical and she can just quit staring angrily in the mirror at the slope of her belly and the curve of her outer thighs… I would show her that the best beauty is the kind that radiates from the inside. That with time and age this beauty grows, not fades.

But she wouldn’t listen. Her eyes would glaze over and she would look bored.

What’s more, I did have somebody tell me many of these things. My mom was there always whispering, and sometimes shouting these things into my life. Often times her wisdom and advice trickled in, and was immediately ignored… But it remained there, lodged in the deepest parts of my subconscious… And wouldn’t you know it, her words, her story, her truths rode up like waves as I grew older -- teaching me, reminding me, edging me in the right direction.

Remember in the movie Superman how he had a secret ice kingdom deep in the snowy mountains? There was a special part of that home that his father had created. Ice crystals of all different shapes and sizes that when placed into a special device would play all the many life lessons his father wanted his son to learn. I feel I learn in this way, too… In increments, and sometimes retrospectively. Little crystals of knowledge stored and then played when the time is right.

Unfortunately, part of growing up is stumbling. Part of growing up is falling down rabbit holes and getting lost deep deep in the woods… Then finding the way out. Part of learning is making mistakes and regretting.

There is a young girl I watch carefully now. There is a young girl I want desperately to listen to me. I wish I could tell her everything. And I try. She has long blonde hair and curls up on her bed with her phone. She knows everything. But I am whispering, whispering, whispering into her mind… And though I know she will sometimes fall, and though I know it will be painful to watch – I hope and pray that I am everywhere in her mind to catch her, ease her, and edge her in the right direction.