A Witness to Our Isolation

Before his nap this afternoon, Ben and I read a sweet story about Joshua, a crippled lamb who feels left out because he cannot run and play with the other lambs. In the end, Joshua's handicap, which forces him to remain behind at the stable while the other sheep journey to a far away field, gives him the opportunity to provide warmth to a special baby born in the stable that night. It's the fruition of the promise his cow friend, Abigail, makes throughout: there is a special place for those who feel left out.

As we read about Joshua's tearful disappointment, Ben said, "It's just like Papa sometimes feels sad when we all eat breakfast and Grandma does, too, and he only can have his shake." My dad was recently diagnosed with type 2 diabetes and has taken on significant dietary restrictions which prevent him from indulging in my mom's famous french toast, a meal served and enthusiastically consumed every time they visit. Generally, my mom adheres to my dad's lifestyle change, but even she can't resist the french toast. While I've never heard my dad complain about having to sacrifice this yummy breakfast, I'm sure Ben--who looks forward to french toast almost as much as he looks forward to playing with Grandma--was projecting how he would feel if he were Papa.

It was fascinating to see him make this connection, to see him empathize with and testify to my dad, who disciplines himself to choose the healthier options when everyone around him is enjoying sugary treats. And it made me wonder if, even in our most isolating experiences, there is someone, somewhere, who sees and acknowledges our struggle--who, even if powerless to change it, gives our situation meaning beyond what we may understand in the moment.

Perhaps our plight is not in vain...

Exceeding Expectations (& Allowing the Process): More Adventures in Parenting

At the Farmer's Market yesterday, we chose to eat lunch at Camp Grounds, the family-run coffee shop situated right in the middle of the Bergen Village marketplace. The Tuesday morning fanfare must do them well, as they were packed when we went in to order. Every table was occupied. So I figured we'd go ahead and eat at a picnic table on the adjacent patio where we could enjoy the sun, the mountain vistas, and the general merriment of the market.

We settled in at our table, waiting for our food, and talked about the electric violin at a nearby stand. We chatted empathetically with an older woman who had lost her cell phone and thought perhaps she had left it at the table where she'd eaten lunch. Ben asked if she had looked under the tables and then proceeded to check under ours for her, to no avail. She smiled warmly at him, remarking at his helpfulness. A minute later, having given the situation some thought, he suggested sincerely, "Did you check down between the seats in your car?" This location must have been fresh on his mind since I had accidentally dropped my keys between my seat and the console when we arrived earlier. Again, she looked at him warmly, surprised but charmed by his participation in her crisis. I offered her my cell phone so she could call her phone and listen for the ring, but it sent her straight to voicemail. Eventually, she gave up on the lunch tables and wandered off to retrace her route again, chiding herself for her atypical carelessness.

Our food arrived, and the kids ate sparingly, full from the fruit smoothies we had bought as a treat from another stand. Ben commented that he was thirsty, so I suggested he go into the coffee shop and ask for a cup of water.

I should note that this kind of task is very familiar to him. He loves being the one in restaurants to walk to the counter to ask for a take-out box, an extra cup, a lid, or whatever else we may discover we need in the course of a meal. He's happy to walk into the library by himself to drop the books in the slot or to pick up something we've requested from another branch or to renew the books that he's still interested in, clutching his own little library card responsibly, proudly. I generally station myself in close proximity or eyesight so that I can help if necessary (though I've been unnecessary thus far), but I happily allow him this independence and the subsequent sense of accomplishment he clearly feels--emerging from every situation with a grin and a confirmation that, yes, he used his manners. These little successes, I trust, are building a foundation of confidence, self-reliance, and poise as he learns how to wait his turn or wait for a pause in the exchanges at the counter before politely saying, "Excuse me," and then making his request.

In this instance, he was concerned about getting the heavy door open, but I assured him that there were plenty of people walking in and out who would be happy to help him if needed. And if he did have trouble, he could just wave to me, since I had full sight of the door and the interior from our table.

He walked over to the door and did struggle to pull it in a David vs. Goliath sort of way, his hands gripping the handle, his body leaned back to offer the full force of his weight in his efforts. He pulled with all his might for less than five seconds when a different older woman, who must have seen my son's futile attempts from her place in line, opened the door for him. I started to wave a thank you when I noticed her slightly scowling and perturbed face. For a moment, I thought she didn't realize that he was with me or that I was fully aware of his whereabouts, so I gestured that I knew he was there, flashed her a thumbs up, and smiled reassuringly. She kept looking at Ben and talking and then looking at me questioningly, perhaps even disapprovingly, so I even tried to say over the din of the market, "He's just going in to get a cup of water." Her demeanor didn't improve but they went inside, and I hoped she didn't feel obliged to help him.

A minute later, Ben walked out empty-handed. As he got closer, I could see he looked confused and a little sad. "She wasn't nice," he told me, a bit teary. I sympathized and rubbed his back and asked what had happened. "She said I couldn't get a drink there," he relayed. "Why did she say that?" he asked, searching my face for an explanation, wondering, I'm sure, if I had been wrong.

I told him I didn't know but suggested that perhaps she was confused: "Maybe she didn't understand we had bought lunch there and you were just going to ask for some water." I waited to see if that explanation matched his experience.

"She said I needed money and couldn't get a drink here," he expanded.

"Oh, it sounds like she thought you wanted a special drink. I think she didn't understand what you were doing," I offered, hoping to relieve her of her mean girl status in his eyes and also hoping to salvage his confidence in my judgement. "Why don't I walk over to the door with you, and you can go ask for water. Since we ate lunch here, it is perfectly okay for you to ask that."

So we walked over together and Ben went in to ask the man behind the counter for some water. This time, he returned to the table with the problem of his thirst solved.

The problem, I realized, is that this woman's expectations of a little boy (and his mother!) were so low. At no point in the exchange did she seem to consider the possibility that he actually knew what he was doing, that he may have had my endorsement of his endeavor, or that he had every ability--and right--to walk into this shop and take care of himself, save his need for a little help with the door. And what if he had been going in to buy something? Ben has his own dog wallet with his own allowance money which he most frequently chooses to spend on "special milk." "A kid's milk with one pump of raspberry syrup" is what he orders at coffee shops and then proceeds to pour out the change from his dog to find the requisite number of quarters, dimes, etc. for his purchase. When asked, he chooses to accept a receipt, this finishing touch adding authenticity to his experience.

Inside, I was furious with her discouragement. Most people are pleasantly suprised, or at least amused by this little guy asserting himself so willingly. But she was certain he could not possibly know what he was doing.

I realize we are raising Ben and Abby a bit differently, perhaps, than some children are raised. We have given him the freedom--nay, the encouragement--to speak up, to set boundaries for himself, to communicate his desires, frustrations, or requests to the people around him, whether they're younger like Abby or peers or grown-ups. Our fundamental belief is that children are people--little people--but real people nonetheless. This does not mean that they are licensed to have or do or say whatever they want, but this is where the normal learning curve of childhood comes in: learning to communicate these things respectfully, learning how to consider the needs or desires of the group in addition to their own, learning to live with disappointment when the answer is no.

This, of course, is a work in progress. The other night, Ben was sitting on the couch with our dear friend when he began drumming with his drum sticks and making quite a racket. She asked him nicely if he would please stop since it was loud, which he didn't like as he's usually permitted to drum. Immediately, and not too nicely, he asked, "Why?", his standard response to almost anything. She explained that she had a headache and that the drumming hurt her head, and this satisfied him so he moved on to a less noisy activity. A bit later, Ben said to her politely, "You can go in the other room."

Her first reaction was to be shocked and appalled at his disrespect, but she soon realized his intention was innocent: he was merely parroting language he's heard us use with him on a daily basis: "Feel free to _____ (yell, bang, pick your nose, speak that way, play with that noisy toy, etc.) in the other room." In fact, my dad still chuckles over the memory of Ben walking to another room when he was two to loudly shout "No" in every intonation imaginable; it had nothing to do with defiance and everything to do with experiment. So Ben gets the concept of communicating an acceptable alternative, but we're still working on the execution. As with any childhood (or adult) skill--drawing, playing an instrument, writing a story, carrying a conversation--it's a process.

But it's a process I'm committed to because one day, ten to fifteen years from now, I hope he'll have the confidence, self-reliance, and poise to say, "Feel free to _____ (open that beer, smoke that cigarette, experiment with those drugs, make that choice) at your house." And I pray that, unlike the disapproving woman at the coffee shop, those around him have the patience to respect the process and the wisdom to come alongside him in grace to help him refine those skills along the way.

That Abby Would Have a Big Bunk Bed, Too

I stumbled into a moment of sweetness tonight so pure, so tender, it took my breath away.

It was made all the more remarkable by the contrast of the minutes before. I was on my own with the kids tonight, and as I herded my clan upstairs for bedtime, they both managed to earn time outs in the loud, irritating, let's-take-our-frustration-with-the-day-out-on-mommy kind of way. Once I had them both placed in their rooms for a little cool-down time, I hopped on the computer to check my email, wondering just how long the next twenty minutes would be.

Fortunately, the few minutes of alone time seemed to settle us all down, and the pajama and toothbrushing routine carried on uneventfully. My agreement with Ben anytime I'm in charge of putting them both down by myself is that we'll have time to read books if he's ready for bed by the time I'm done putting Abby down. This time, he was ready before I even started reading books with Abby, so he grabbed his Teddy and blankie and joined us in the oversized green rocking chair in Abby's room. Thus began a few moments of parental bliss.

We read "Kih-ess," as Abby pronounces Kisses, both kids finishing the sentences before I could read them. Abby was sandwiched between me and Ben, and the air was filled with alternating giggles, exclamations, and small gestures of affection. Then we read Cow in the Cabbage Patch, with Abby repeating all the animal sounds throughout and Ben imitating all of Abby's animal imitations. When we finished the books, I turned off the light and asked who wanted to pray and sing.

Ben said he did, and so he prayed, beginning with our customary "Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep" prayer as inherited from Uncle Sean and Aunt Lisa and then leading into "Dear Jesus...". He thanked God for all of our family, immediate and extended, for our yummy dinner earlier, for Abby again, and then prayed that Abby could have a big bunk bed, too. This must be the penultimate request for a four year old who adores his own bunk bed, and I was moved by his generosity toward his sister.

Then he began to sing, and the room grew quiet except for his strong, confident voice which, though lacking pitch, did not lack soul. We rocked in that green chair, the three of us content to share those precious, snuggly, end-of-the-day moments together, listening first to "A Simple Song" followed by "You Are My Sunshine" and ending with "Jesus Loves Me." At one point, Abby crawled onto my lap and laid her head down on my shoulder, perfectly stilled by Ben's music. My eyes grew moist with gratitude.

When he finished singing, they exchanged precious "night night"s in their little voices and snuggled a minute together in the chair, Abby's head next to Ben, arms wrapped gently around each other--neither looking particularly comfortable but both happy to stay there indefinitely. They adore each other--they really do. In each other's eyes, they are the sun, moon, and stars. I let them snuggle for longer than I normally would, reveling in their love for each other.

When I finally lifted Abby into my arms to carry her to her crib and Ben walked to the door, they both started singing "You Are My Sunshine" again, independent of each other. Ben continued singing into his room; Abby sang in the endearing way only a baby on the brink of girlhood can--in round, soft words, rising and falling with the melody of the song, some syllables indistinguishable from the next. I kissed her, laid her down, and quietly closed the door behind me.

Few things fill my heart like their genuine affection for each other. When I see them in those moments of pure love, I get a glimpse of what I think God must feel, and desire, for His children. There's a reason that all of His commandments--all of Scripture, really--can be summed up by the simple yet profound command to "Love your neighbor." When I see Ben and Abby enjoying each other so completely, loving each other so unselfishly, with no regard for themselves, my joy is unspeakable. Everything is as it should be. It is the fulfillment of every hope I would have for them.

It is what God the Father must long for from us: to put away our agendas, our religion, our politics, and our fear of losing our toys to actually see, know, and love each other. To pray that we'll all have bunk beds, not in spite of our differences, but because through our differences, we can actually know Him more fully, more completely.

I stumbled into a holy night tonight. And it was very good.

"Abby Wet": A Tale of Mud, (Un)Preparedness, and the Making of Memories

This morning, Abby fell in the mud--not just a brief tumble into a little patch of wet dirt but a full bodied face-plant into a sopping wet puddle of brown, sticky sludge. So absolute was her plunge that she could not pick herself up; she merely wailed, in shock and in panic, as she realized the extent of her tragedy. She was covered in ooze, from her chin to her pink baby Converse: her shirt, her shorts, her diaper, her knees, her shins, her elbows, even her cheek managed to participate.

To complicate matters, our unpreparedness was absolute: we were at a newly-opened park on a bike trail we've ridden a few times, several miles from our car with nothing to clean her up or change her into. Before our bike ride, we had dutifully checked our tires, packed extra tubes, tucked toys into various pockets of the kids' trailers, applied sunscreen, and ensured an adequate supply of water and snacks. But somehow, we had neglected to bring a diaper and wipes, a staple we generally don't leave home without.

This left us in quite a pickle, as we attempted to comfort our sobbing daughter and figure out how on earth to get her back to the car in relative comfort. Fortunately, patches of her shirt were dry, so we stripped her down and used those sections of her shirt to remove the biggest splotches of mud. We were quite a sight: Josh and I in our bike shorts and helmets, Abby standing in the grass nearly naked, Ben sporting his helmet and sunglasses and asking when he could buckle into the Weehoo again. Our large audience looked on in mild amusement and relief that it wasn't their own child while we scrambled to redeem our otherwise delightful ride.

I managed to find a kind woman who gave me a diaper just one size too small for Abby, but she didn't have any wipes. Thankfully, she did offer me two small napkins, which I wet in the splash fountain when it finally turned back on. These two napkins managed to clean Abby enough that we could buckle her back into the trailer, where she enjoyed the rest of the ride in the unencumbered glory of her freshly diapered birthday suit.

I tried not to think about what the other cyclists passing us must think of our clothes-less child or the fact that her round, pale belly was unprotected by sunscreen. I tried to push the self-deprecating thoughts of our carelessness and disorganization out of my mind and tried not to have the internal debate of whether it's really necessary to bring a change of clothes on a fifteen mile bike ride. I mean, 99 times out of 100, our kids are going to get back in the car in the same attire in which they exited, right? I was only partially successful.

All the while, I pedaled, announcing the small bumps in the path so she could brace herself, slowing down so we could enjoy the field of prairie dogs darting in and out of their burrows, pointing out the wildflowers still in bloom.

When we reached our car, I got off my bike and turned to get Abby. I found her completely relaxed in the trailer--legs splayed to either side, shoulders slumped, arms resting still on the seat, eyes nearly closed. She was the picture of utter contentment.

As we drove home, she jabbered away in the back. At one point, she pointed to herself and said, "Abby wet." Josh and I laughed and confirmed that yes, she had gotten very wet. Already, the disaster was being transformed into a story, into a common history. Already, the mud was adding layers of meaning--and comedy--to the otherwise easy fun of our morning together. In the end, her misstep did not take away from our outing but added to it, turning our average bike ride into an adventure. Redemption.

But I'm certain I won't forget the diaper again.

"Is She Gonna Die?"

On Wednesday as we were driving home from a lovely play date at the park, I realized my gas light was on, so we pulled into the tiny gas station in Morrison to fill up. I rolled the windows down before I turned the car off to prevent my little Flowers in the back seat from wilting in the heat.

While we waited for the tank to fill, the station attendant walked onto the porch a few feet from our car. She was tiny--barely filling her blue jumpsuit--but strong, scrappy. It was difficult to gauge her age: fifties? She could have been older or younger. Her skin had the weathered tone of a smoker, but her hair was lovely: long and blonde, if a bit dry. She looked like a woman who had been beautiful in her youth but who had seen enough of life to know she'd better hold her own because no one else would do it for her. I watched her pull out a cigarette and wondered how she had ended up here.

I also wondered if Ben had noticed her and if he'd have any comment about the cigarette.

A few weeks prior, he had asked me about the "white sticks that blow steam out of your mouth." He must have seen someone smoking somewhere when we were out. I explained that they're called cigarettes, that it's actually smoke that comes out them, and that they're not really good for our bodies. This statement, of course, led to a barrage of "why" questions (his favorite kind), so I gave the preschool explanation of cancer: "Well, when people smoke cigarettes, it actually puts smoke in their lungs, which isn't good for lungs. Sometimes, the smoke causes things to grow there that aren't supposed to, and when enough of these things grow, they can make us very sick. Sometimes, people's lungs get so sick they have trouble working and breathing properly."

I was content to leave it at that, but Ben was not. "What happens if they don't work anymore?" he continued. I figured a direct, honest answer was best. "They can die," I said simply. He has a basic understanding of the concept of death from watching the cycle of life in our yard: the flowers, the bugs, the many animals that entertain us with their presence throughout the day. They appear and disappear, protect and attack, move and lie still. I hoped this answer would satisfy him.

"And they can make Jesus smoky," he added earnestly. Like I mentioned in a previous post, he has this visual of Jesus hanging out in his stomach. He does have a point, though: if our bodies are God's temple, then whatever we do to ourselves (and more importantly, each other), we do to Him. "Yes, they can make Jesus smoky," I validated. The conversation ended here and hadn't come up since.

So we sat in the car in the gas station in Morrison, enjoying the sun and the breeze as we settled down from our morning of play and headed home for naps. I looked back at Ben and noticed he had, indeed, seen the woman and was watching her intently.

Which is when he asked audibly and matter-of-factly, "Mommy, is she gonna die?" He was still watching her; in fact, he hadn't even looked at me when he asked it.

Glancing at the woman, I quickly responded in a low voice that if we want to ask questions about people, it's probably best to do it quietly or after we're not around them so they don't get embarrassed, and then I promised to address his question as soon as we left the gas station. As I finished this instruction, she coughed, as if on cue--a long, low, gasping kind of cough, a smoker's cough.

So as we pulled back onto the street and headed up the Canyon, I addressed as honestly as I could his questions about mortality: "Well, Sweetie, we're all going to die eventually, but if you're asking if she's going to die sooner because she's smoking, I don't know. Did you hear her cough? It sounds like her lungs are pretty sick."

"Am I going to die?" he asked curiously.

"Someday," I responded casually.

"Are you going to die?" he continued, un-phased.

"Yes, but probably not for a long time," I reasoned.

"Why?" he continued.

Always with the why! So we talked about life, and heaven, and Jesus, and how Jesus can be in heaven and in everyone at the same time. Mortality and divine ommipresence in a fifteen minute drive...I need more degrees for this job.

At some point, from the other side of the back seat, I hear Abby's sweet little voice say in complete naivete, "Mommy die?"

I navigate uncertainly through these murky waters, daily: desiring to be as forthcoming as appropriate without alarming them; reassuring them they're safe while teaching them about danger; discussing other people's decisions and consequences candidly, hopefully without judging; giving them the information they need to make their own choices without lecturing or preaching.

Someday he may be offered a cigarette, or something worse, and I want him to think about his lungs and his body and his valuable life and the lady at the gas station, not my voice saying, "You shouldn't smoke."

A few minutes after our conversation, the car swaying with the twists and turns of the mountain road, the strings announcing Peter's presence as we listened to Peter and the Wolf on the iPod, Ben said, "Mommy, when I grow up, I'm not going to smoke cigarettes." "Okay," I replied neutrally. Inside, I smile slightly and say a quick prayer that he remembers this in ten years. "And I'm going to drive a motorcycle." Well, at least he's a firm believer in helmets.

This is his life. These are his decisions. I won't be able to make them for him, so I pray I equip him with the confidence, the experience, the information, and the love he needs to make these choices wisely. And I pray that we get to share a lot of years of life together before we greet our own mortality, because without doubt, we're all gonna die.

Ten Years Ago

Ten years ago, I was studying furiously for the Medical College Admission Test (MCAT) while trying, unsuccessfully, to deny that I was falling in love with the man who would soon become my husband. Ten years ago, I was still uncertain of who I was, still trying to prove myself through my accomplishments, still seeking my identity in the approval of those around me. Ten years ago, I needed to be able to say I was pre-med in order to feel like I was somebody, believing I would only enjoy life if I was doing something that other people validated was important, impressive. Even though I think my heart knew all along that my most natural aptitude, my most passionate endeavors had nothing to do with chemistry, physics, calculus, and biology, I pressed on until life circumstances gave me the freedom to be honest with myself--and what a relief that was.

To let go of the pressure. To let go of the nagging questions of whether this was really what I was made to do. To enter fully into the life I knew with certainty I was called to, with Josh.

I took the MCAT and scored a decent score overall: it certainly wouldn't ensure my entrance into medical school, but it wouldn't eliminate me from consideration, either. A closer look at the score, however, spoke volumes. Of the three equally-weighted sections of the test--physical sciences, biological sciences, and verbal reasoning--I scored the maximum points possible on verbal reasoning and squeaked out a barely respectable score on the other two. As a pre-med English major, I was competent in both, but it was clear which one was in my bones, which one I was designed for. And let me tell you, it isn't chemistry.

My husband, however, is a PhD chemical engineer with an education from a world-renowned university, brilliant beyond description in the hard sciences, creative beyond measure when it comes to fixing, rigging, or otherwise MacGyvering his way through a problem (and here he grows terribly embarrassed by my gushing). So my science background isn't for naught. It's nice that I have a basic understanding of the sciences, that I generally know what an oligomer or an isomer is, that he can describe at a semi-technical level the experiments he's conducting at work without totally losing me, and that we can converse in science speak over breakfast, as in, "A bike ride with the kids sounds fun, but I'm not sure I can muster the activation energy to make it happen."

And I'm still wholly fascinated by the body. I've studied a bit of nutrition and exercise physiology over the last year as I've trained for the MS150; my understanding of the nervous system has been useful as I've sought to understand the pathology of multiple sclerosis since my sister's diagnosis four years ago; and I love teaching Ben all about the systems of the body, from the way his digestive system uses the different foods he eats to the reason Auntie NetNet sometimes has trouble walking to the important job our respiratory system has in supplying the oxygen our body needs to live.

Nothing in life is wasted--no experience, no relationship, no knowledge, no belief, past or present, even when it comes from a place of vain, selfish glory.

In late August of 1999, Josh and I drove my parents' little black Honda Prelude from my hometown in California to my home in Boston over four 16-17 hour days in the car. This trip solidified our suspicion that we were meant for each other, and I no longer bothered trying to deny that I was wildly, madly in love with this man. In the fall, I set in on my honors thesis on the role of medicine in Jane Eyre, in June I unreservedly accepted Josh's proposal of marriage, and seven months later, I walked down the aisle with more certainty and conviction than I'd had about anything thus far in my life. I had completed the pre-med curriculum and the MCAT, and that was enough for me: to prove to myself that I could, and then acknowledge with relief and a bit of trepidation that I wouldn't, pursue medical school.

Ten years ago, if you had asked me what I would be doing in ten years, I could not have conceived of the place I am now, neither of the events that have transpired nor of the peace and fulfillment and confidence I have--wholly apart from my accomplishments (or lack thereof). This is a gift of grace, and one I could not give myself.

I imagine I will feel much the same in another ten years.

Baby Shampoo and Mama Lovin'

There is something about the minutes right after bath time that makes my heart ache with contentment. After splashing, scrubbing, pouring, squirting, and giggling with the energy only kids possess, my little cuties stand before me dripping and wrinkled, waiting for me to cocoon their unselfconscious bodies with their towels. Once snugly wrapped, they grow momentarily still, the rush of their water adventures giving way to the calm of their surrender to my gentle drying pats and squeezes. They are clean, fresh, smelling of innocence and purity and baby shampoo.

Then Abby, who normally bounds and careens and prances through life like a puppy, insists that I pick her up. When she's folded securely in my arms, she lays her damp head on my shoulder and snuggles in, content to share this moment of communion before racing off into her next thrill. For these brief, wondrous seconds, I get to hold her and squeeze her and coo sweet nothings in her ear, washing away any residue of hurt or frustration from her day so she can begin again, her spirit refreshed and clean with the reminder of her truest self.

Rinsing away the dirt of the world, the sweat of their labor, and the trace of the messes they've made reminds me poignantly of the more important role I have: to whisper to their souls who they really are when the world sullies their spirits with its judgment, to remind them that needn't strive and work and try so hard to earn my love, and to gently encourage them as they face the hurts they've caused and wrestle with how to make things right.

Baby shampoo and Mama lovin': powerful antidotes to the mud and mire of this life.