Parenting with a skinned knee

Recently our teen son made a big mistake.

The kind that he will remember forever.

Luckily the consequences of his mistake only impacted him, and didn’t immediately hurt others.

And I watched it all from the passenger seat.

As it was unfolding, I thought to myself “Oh damn. This is not good.” and, also “This is the best thing that could have happened – these natural consequences” and “Crap. This will impact his life and my life for months to come.”

And then we went home, stewing in our own suffering. My son, mad at himself for making this mistake, and me, watching him suffer and second-guessing myself – wondering if I should have been more diligent in helping him avoid this painful moment.

Licking my parenting wounds.

Despite knowing that the natural consequences were upon us, and knowing, indeed, that this was something that will help shape him into the man he will become, I had to go home and lay in bed for a couple of days.

Parenting is hard work.

Parenting can also feel crappy, even when we’re doing it right. Or more specifically, especially when we’re doing it right.

There’s a saying that we are only as happy as our unhappiest child.

Our culture tells us that the highest and best parenting is making sure our children are “happy”. This is code for avoiding any suffering, and making their path free of fewer obstacles.

I can see the appeal in that.

It’s partly why we moved cross-country, and why we’re now living in two houses. Watching our children suffer is excruciating. We will go to great lengths to avoid it.

But it’s also necessary at times.

What folks don’t talk about is that to experience this suffering as a parent feels like its own form of torture.

One of my favorite parenting books is “The Blessing of a Skinned Knee”. It’s beautiful because it’s timeless – still relevant now, during a pandemic and war on the other side of the world, as it was during more settled times. It speaks to the values we want to cultivate in our children, and the suffering we must let them experience to do so (as well as the work, chores, rituals).

But I don’t remember the author calling out a fundamental truth:

That to watch them suffer, means we, as parents, will suffer, too.

Tomorrow, we will watch our children grow into adults.

Today, we parent with a skinned knee of our own.

You’re not the only one

In the small town where we now live, there is a restaurant named Fayes. It only serves 80 people a day, and then it closes. It’s also only open Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday.

If you get one of the 80 seats for the day, you don’t order off a menu. Instead, you tell chef Sarah (or her kind server, also named Sarah) a few words that will guide her culinary creation – perhaps “enchiladas” and “bacon” and “tomato” or “cinnamon” and “eggs” and “greens”.

It’s a bit unnerving at first to enter this space – what DO I feel like? Given no constraints, what does it mean to show up, and put myself in the creative hands of someone else?

It tastes amazing.

Some day I will ask Sarah what her intention is for running the restaurant.

But today I look around inside – and see the letters L-O-V-E spray-painted on the window shades, facing out – and a sign that reads:

I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.

Creative energy is not linear. It’s the fabric that connects us together. And if creativity is the foundation for creation, then it’s where dreams get their roots, too.

What are the moments of your day, and your life, when you create?

When being rooted means moving to a new pot

Last year, despite knowing that we were moving to a different part of the country, I choose “grounded” for my word of the year. (If you’re curious what choosing a word of the year vs. making resolutions looks like, and you want to go down a rabbit hole of looking at RV remodel photos – check out this blog).

I wanted to feel more grounded, and remind myself of that intention.

And it’s been a curious and amazing and joyful (and sometimes lonely and frustrating, too) journey – choosing both the feeling and mini-actions to pursue groundedness in the midst of change.

This year, 2022, I chose the word “rooted”.

I desire to dig into this place that I’m in now – both physically, in the geography of my new home, and spiritually. The curious thing is that I know that this time may be laying down roots for the future – but I may not need to see it all bloom this year. That’s a pretty big shift for my Type A, call me if you need to make something happen self.

During the move I carefully brought two our of houseplants with me in the car. One of them was given to us from a friend many years before when she moved overseas. There was history in these green beings! And during the course of two weeks when I was between homes and traveling and staying in hotels, the plants suffered the temperature fluctuations of being in the car.

They died during that move.

I tended to them for weeks following, hoping that if I trimmed off the dead branches the roots would grow again. I felt guilty that I didn’t do more to protect them in the transition.

I finally threw them out.

One of them was a “money tree” plant. This didn’t bode well for the feng shui of the household.

Many months later I saw a money tree plant at Target and decided if I couldn’t revive the plant of old it was time to buy a new one.

And wow, this plant has grown!

Grown so much that it has filled its cute little Target pot.

This week I bought a new pot to transplant it. And in a moment of inspiration, a second small plant to put in the former pot.

Life will never take the route we predict.

And sometimes the things we care for and try our best to tend will die.

And astonishingly, new life will come.

But it, too, will stagnate if it’s not given room to grow.

So.

May we pay attention to the precious things in our lives. Release and grieve those that we need to. Risk caring and tending something new. And find new pots to thrive when our growth requires it.

Serial Focus & an Air Fryer Obsession

We don’t have a stovetop or an oven at our new home. The why is a story for another post. But we DO have an air fryer toaster oven. And I am so in love. And like any love affair or fad diet, if we’ve spoken lately I might have mentioned the sheer joy and life-changing possibilities of the fryer!

Bacon, chicken wings, roasted potatoes.

Brussels sprouts, sweet potatoes, toast.

Sausages, chicken thighs, broccoli.

It’s been love since first fry. I mean I can literally cook anything in this powerhouse. Anything!!

But only

one

thing

at

a

time.

So dinner can take a while.

First, roast the potatoes (only eight minutes and they’re done!!!).

Then, the broccoli.

Then, while the chicken is cooking, figure out a way to keep the other stuff warm.

And don’t walk away. The air fryer is notorious for quick-cooking and easy burning. Try to stoke your fire in the fireplace? Bacon burned. Answer that phone call? Chicken charred.

The air fryer requires serial focus.

There’s been a myth that I’ve swallowed in my past life, before my beloved air fryer. (Shall we give the fryer a name, already?) That of multi-tasking. Or more specifically, multi-attentioning.

I’ve found recently, that I have a hard time starting a new big project before the other one is finished, or mostly so. Like moving across the country and starting a new big project at work.

It turns out that it’s tiring to try to mentally focus on multiple “big” things at once. Or even small things!

Productivity experts are starting to speak to time-focused blocks – as the key to not stress ourselves out nor lose the 22 minutes it takes to get back into whatever it was we were working on before.

For me, I’m trying to clear the brain by doing the following:

• setting aside my most importants for time blocks in the morning when I have the most energy (and try not to check email or look at my phone before then) – mostly “long” thinking or writing or coding work, or exercise or house cleaning that I will be too tired to do later
• identify any open loops (open items that my mind keeps returning back to – whether home, personal or family care, or work) that I can do quickly
• write down what I’m not going to do (and when I will do it, so my brain doesn’t have to keep looping around – like review our finances in detail next month)
  

We humans are fantastic at many things. But perhaps we’ve never been fantastic at doing multiple things at once. And instead of faulting myself for my inability to switch – I’m gonna love on this powerhouse self, one fifteen minute block at a time.

Some days I’ll still burn the bacon.

But I’ll come back, give myself grace, and hold lightly to this next present moment, and give it the focus this fryer deserves.

A Year to Live, Traffic is Moderate

Back in the days of yesteryore, we did a puppy share with the grandparents. It was just as delightful and ridiculous as it sounds, and made dealing with puppy energy and trips out of town so much easier. We had a shared calendar with the grandparents then, and one of their events would show each week – a class that they were taking called “A Year to Live”.

And their phone would helpfully add traffic conditions to the calendar event. So each week, without fail, my husband and I would get the following notification:

A Year to Live, Traffic is Moderate.

Oh, how we still laugh about this! An unknowable journey about our time on this earth, coupled with our desire to control and anticipate what’s in front of us.

Grandma told me about some of the exercises they did in the class. If I’m remembering the details correctly they wrote down things they savored or enjoyed, and then some of those things were taken away. Now what if you were bed-bound? Then what would this last year look like? What would you enjoy and how would you find meaning?

Now before I go any further, I want to address the real issue of mental health. I heard someone say recently that we don’t expect a person to fix their own way out of a broken leg, so why do we then expect ourselves to right any mental health moments on our own? I’ve benefited from therapy over the years and most of my family has been on an anti-depressant at some point or another. The following isn’t meant to fix a broken leg. Broken legs need doctors.

This is an exercise in curiosity.

Most days, I feel all the emotions – energetic, joyful, bored, lonely, engaged, sad, content. During one of my more bored and pensive moments – plans to ski with my son had been cancelled, and I was mourning yet another unmet expectation – I thought of the following:

What if my life consisted of only this room (no calls or contact with others) – what would I do to stay engaged and alive? So I make this list:

• write
• dance for 5 min every morning
• sing
• care for my skin and bathe and brush my teeth
• feed this body roasted vegetables and tender meat
• drink coffee and eat chocolate, but not too much
• stretch and try to work up to handstands
• pray
• read novels and nonfiction
• care for and tidy my space, vacuum and dust and organize
  

And of course, I know I could start doing some of these things, perhaps all of them, today.

And then I allow myself to travel beyond this room to this neighborhood, where I can travel on foot – what else would I do to stay engaged and alive? So I make this list:

• Stand in the sunshine for 15 minutes a day
• Walk around the neighborhood and smile at dogs and birds and kids and people
• Listen to the delicious crunch of the snow under my feet
• Ask my neighbor about her life
• Marvel at the sunrise on the mountains
• Watch the sunset against the clouds
• Go out in the dark to see if the stars have appeared

And of course, I know I could start doing some of these things, maybe all of them, today.

Perhaps there are habits to reinvigorate, to give more meaning and ritual and caretaking to this body, and home, and neighborhood.

What would be our your list? Confined to one room with no contact, how would you find meaning and energy for your days? Now what if you allowed yourself to emerge into your neighborhood?

There’s one thing important thing left. Meaning-making can be found in one room, and one neighborhood. But there’s something fundamental missing:

Connection.

The glue that we can live without for a bit, but we know after being on our own for so long in these pandemic years this is a life-force we need for happiness.

There are people – family and friends – in our life now. And there are those that will come into our life soon with the intention and energy we put into the world. And it ain’t the same to talk on the phone, but it can be enough to tether us together. And those in-person connections – no longer taken for granted, nor energy drained and scattered for just anyone – but that spark, positive relationships nurtured for what they are and might become – friendship.

So this becomes the third and most important list.

What are the relationships we treasure, and how will we nurture them – confined to this room, or free to roam the world? And how are we risking vulnerability, to find new connections that will feed us in a positive way?

Hope and Control

Last night I put a few thousand dollars down on a backup plan.

It was clear to me that in a world full of uncertainty, I wanted some semblance of control.

Perhaps throwing money at it would render the unknowable more certain.

It’s a fine line to walk – staying hopeful while hedging our bets against the future that is always uncertain. In fact, it always has been. The past decades we’ve built our own false god of certainty – if we take the right steps, stay positive, and do the right things, then everything is within our reach. That certainty allowed us judgement – of others, certainly. But more fundamentally, of ourselves – the not enoughness that permeates living. The non enoughness that in its most benign and toxic – a constant barrage of unsolicited advice and feedback, to others, and then quietly, in those dark places in our hearts, to ourselves.

So, here we are.

What is the gift of this day? Of the spirit that reside within us. Not the one of fear, that manifests in control. Or the one of judgement, that shows up in imagined conversations and debates with our neighbor, replayed over and over in our heads.

No. This moment.

One where we choose to embrace this lightness in our heart, and also, the longing.

To name the emotion – loneliness. Pain.

Then, to hope.

Perhaps to throw down a thousand dollar deposit, or to take the risk of calling a friend and extending an invitation.

Or. The risk of unearthing what is most true inside of us, the needs that we have that are true and lovely and worthy. And cleaning out the inbox of the rest.

So. I dance in this cold, open room, for just a moment.

I praise the one who is unknowable and I thank this One wild spirit for the sun drenching the world outside my window.

I unclasp my hands of certainty while giving myself permission to dream for moments – moments this summer, and beyond.

And I honor the person and the task which is in front of me, starting with myself.

Snow!

Clumps so big

I can hardly dance between them

And the Quiet.

When I stop

it puts a hug

around my tune of delight.

And the dog wants to play

Pawing at the door

toe-stepping in the sky confetti.

Now we wait

for the joy to accumulate

or, perhaps

to melt.

Still,

this moment,

enough.

What does it mean to plant a seed?

Some years ago, I attended an event that gave wildflower seeds as a take-home gift. The packet sat on my shelf for some months (a year?) until finally I scatted the seeds on a slope near our home, following the directions as best I could.

I don’t remember the explosion of color I was hoping; in fact I don’t remember any growth at all. Perhaps it was the soil – full of eucalyptus oil from the trees above. Or the fact that the seeds had sat so long in the packet.

Earlier this fall, frustrated with some of the mechanics of his football team, our son expressed a desire to play rugby. It was the sport both I and my husband played so he’d grown up hearing about it. I agreed that I thought he’d have fun doing it. “But there’s no team here for high schoolers,” he bemoaned.

During football games I got to chatting with some of the other parents, and met someone who played rugby on an adult team in the area, as well as a grandpa who used to coach the sport in Australia. “My son is really interested in trying the sport,” I said. “What do you think about a spring high school team?”

I told my son I was “planting the seed”.

I don’t know if a high school rugby team will materialize for my son this spring. Or even next. If he really wants it to happen it will take some effort on his part. My job launching him into adulthood is to show him what’s possible, support him, and then take a step back.

But I do know this. Life tells us to be everywhere at once. To scatter our time and energy broadly and wildly. To not miss out. To make sure we and the people we love have all the chances possible. To respond to all those notifications. To give our brains the dopamine hit of a reply, and a like, and the thought that we are doing something. We feel productive working and sowing and opening packets of possibility.

But what if we’re really just scattering seeds?

All those big dreams we have? I know this: They don’t grow under our divided attention.

And the biggest risk to making them happen is often our focus.

I’ve learned that to really manifest something means to focus my attention and energy. I’m always chasing big dreams. It’s part of my charm. And my downfall too – feeling the pressure and opportunity of so many things: for myself, my family, my work. So I’m trying to think about those big dreams sequentially. Still write those wild ideas down, and then, softly, with intention, scrape the soil of one plan and drip moisture there.

My heart is smiling from what happened this week.

My son told me he wanted to go back and visit our old hometown and connect with some of his friends during his upcoming break. I researched flights that matched with his break schedule, and sent him some options. “But you’ll need someone to get you from the airport, and bring you back. Maybe your friend’s mom or dad could help.”

Last night he initiated a group video call with his friends from our old hometown. They chatted about all things and then I heard him talking about a potential upcoming visit.

As I wished him goodnight, my son said something sweet.

“Hey mom, I’m planting the seed.”

Amen to that.

And you: beloved. May you also plant a seed. And with love and intention, and also risk, scrape the soil to watch it grow.

The Sound of Hope

and these mountains

scream Crazy

as all wild ideas seem

to those who can’t imagine the impossible.

Like speaking to God.

and sometimes, on a quiet night

or a restless morning

Hearing an Answer.

like a bell rung

fuzzy around the edges but clear in its tone.

God, here, you,

author of this one wild, crazy life

and my heart may burst

in its pursuit.

but I will begin the journey

anew each day

with this single step.

The Unearned Gift

A true story!

July 2016, Minnesota

The texts flew as six of my old high school girlfriends decided to convene at the “old Sunsets” for dinner on a Tuesday night. No matter that it wasn’t called Sunsets anymore – the inside décor might have changed, but the setting near the lake, railroad tracks, and ice cream shop was the same.

Once we sat down we slid easily into laughter and conversation: which of us looked the most hip despite being 40; which of us re-met the other’s old boyfriend at the last reunion. We drank wine and cocktails and ordered fancy pizzas and arugula salads with goat cheese that we could have never afforded at 18.

And then the unexpected happened. A man sitting three tables down and dining alone sent the waitress over to buy us a round of drinks. He said, via the waitress, that I looked beautiful and we were all enjoying ourselves and he wanted to do something nice.

We laughed a bit uncomfortably. Said no thanks, we were driving home soon, but so sweet, and thank you, and gave a wave. “I don’t have cancer,” I told the waitress. “I have alopecia, that’s what has made me lose all my hair.”

Actually this happens to me all the time. I get to the front of the Chipotle line and the cashier says my lunch is on them. I get handed t-shirts and free gifts and drinks and dessert. People think I have cancer and when asked, I tell them the truth, and then ask if they are a survivor (they usually are, or they’ve lost someone who is).

I’ve had to get comfortable receiving gifts. It’s really hard most of the time. Especially because I feel like I don’t deserve them.

 

Back at the restaurant we resumed our laughter about trying to rein in our competitive nature at our kid’s sporting events, and then the waitress dropped some news on the table.

 

The man, not to be dissuaded, had proceeded to buy our entire dinner. $280 dollars worth.

 

My good friend wrung her hands and protested. “It’s not right, it’s too much.”

 

And it was true.

 

And yet this is the lesson I’ve had to learn, kicking and screaming the past few years. God’s grace – bigger and more encompassing than we can ever imagine, a forgiveness of our wrongdoing, a love all-encircling, a promise that we will be held through it all – is never earned. It is only received.

I’ve had to practice receiving gifts these past few years. It hasn’t always been easy to accept what is offered. To know that I am undeserving, and yet. To see others suffering, and be given abundance again, and again.

 

I am practicing.

 

May you open your heart this holiday season to the unearned gift. May you unclasp your hands to receive it. And may you gift someone else with light and hope.