Grace

The Uncrossable Swamp

When I was in sixth grade, a school unit on orienteering culminated in an afternoon field trip to a local nature preserve.  Both classes rode together on the battle-scarred yellow school bus.  When we arrived we were split into teams of two, each of which was given a laminated map and a compass.  Our map was marked with seven spots.  A teacher was stationed at each spot, ready to stamp the card each pair carried.  The winning team would make it to all seven spots and return back to where we started first.

My memories of the day are somewhat blurry – I don’t recall who my partner was specifically, for example – but what happened I recall with crystalline clarity.

My partner and I blazed through the first six marks and were, according to the teacher there, the first to reach it.  As the sun blazed its late-fall glory overhead, he and I discussed how to get to mark seven and assure our victory.  In contrast to the slurry of my memory of this day is how vividly I recall the cornflower blue of the sky and the quality of the late afternoon’s light.  We huddled together, heads touching over our laminated map, and saw two options.  The first was a long, circuitous path.  The second was much shorter, as the crow flies.  The only hitch was it was through an area of cross-hatching marked as “uncrossable swamp.”

There was very little debate.  We were sure we could cross the swamp.  Surely it couldn’t really be uncrossable.  We set off.  The reeds were tall, and it quickly felt like they closed above our heads.  A long time later a teacher, complete with flashlight and bell, had to come and find us in the swamp.  We emerged red-faced and embarrassed and came in last.

I never ignored the map again.

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I share this (the story of which was the first chapter of a long-put-aside memoir called A Country Without Maps) today because Grace is doing a seventh grade field trip that includes some work with a compass.  It feels awfully similar.  With a now-familiar sensation, time plays tricks and I tumble down the telescope of memory.

I have not told Grace about the uncrossable swamp.  If there is one, today or any other day, she needs to learn that lesson herself.

Excited and sad at the same time.

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A short-lived smile, by the flower garden next to her cabin.  Cosmos always remind me powerfully of my maternal grandmother, Nana, and given the proximity of them to Grace’s cabin, I like to think she’s watching over her great-granddaughter at camp.IMG_6039

Right before the final goodbye.  Right before I took this, he looked at me and said “after this you are leaving, really?” nervously.  I nodded, and we took the photograph.  I don’t know if you can see his apprehension in his eyes. 

Last Thursday we dropped Grace and Whit at camp for 3.5 weeks.  This is her 5th summer and his 3rd.  I know, I know, I’m a broken record, but seriously?  It feels like we just took her for her first summer a week ago, so how is this possible?  As usual, I drove away in tears, and as usual, my heart was heavy for days after leaving them at camp.  Not because I doubt they’ll have fun, not because I worry about their safety or joy while away from me.  Not at all because of other of those.  Not even specifically because I’ll miss them, though I will.

But, mostly, the sorrow is due to the realization that I am already here, already at this point teetering on the edge of something very new and very scary, already at the day that many more years with children at home flutter behind me, like prayer flags in the wind, than do ahead of me.

Grace was weepy at drop off.  Truthfully, it was the hardest camp goodbye yet.  Well, maybe not harder than the first time, when she was 8.  But I was a bit taken aback by how sad she was, and by how hard it was to walk away.  Part of that was because we were early and many of her friends hadn’t arrived yet.  Part of it was just because she seemed to be in a cabin without counselors she knew.  And part of it is probably just because of this particular moment in life, which is marked by closeness and intimacy which both makes me anxious (should I worry?) and glad (I am grateful for our bond).

Within 24 hours I had decided, though, that it’s all fine.  Maybe it is better this way.  Perhaps the benefit of camp is not in spite of her finding it challenging this year but because of it.  That was quite a flip of attitude for me and it felt like something heavy had been lifted.  Yes.  Precisely this: the discomfort may be what makes it so valuable.  The uneasiness and tears speak to the growth.

On Tuesday night before we left, I tucked Whit in. He was quiet and visibly wistful. I flicked the light off and climbed into his narrow bed next to him and whispered, “It’s almost time for camp. How do you feel about that?  Excited?  Sad?”  He swallowed and, staring up at the slats of the bunk above him, said quietly, “Both.” I looked at his profile in the faint glow of the Bruins zamboni night light Grace gave him for Christmas, and it occurred to me that’s how I feel about camp too.  And, actually, it’s how I feel about every new vista of this parenting journey.  It’s how I feel about life itself: excited and sad at the same time.

Excited and sad at the same time.  Always.  The goodbyes and the hellos keep coming fast and furious, inextricably wound together.

Previous posts about camp: 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014

Everything is changing

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Grace at my 15th year business school reunion on Saturday, sitting in my 1st year classroom, in my 1st semester seat. She’s closer to the age I was when I sat there than I am now.

I’ve long been a huge fan of Kyran Pittman‘s writing.  I loved her book, Planting Dandelions: Field Notes From a Semi-Domesticated Life, and I also follow her blog.  A few weeks ago she shared a Humans of New York post on her Facebook feed.  It was a picture of a man with his teenage daughter, and what he said was:

“I’m supportive of anything that keeps her focused and moving forward. All I can do is try to clear away as much bullshit as possible so that she can access her future. The older she gets, the less I can control, and the less I can protect her from. It’s a bit nerve-wracking. I did get her a Swiss Army Knife last week. Because you never know when you’ll need one of those.”

Kyran’s introduction was:

This is as great a teen parenting philosophy as I’ve ever heard. Getting them to adulthood with as many choices intact as possible, and the wherewithal to choose well–that’s what it’s about now for us.

And then she added:

Or as Asha Dornfest so aptly put it, we’re parenting with the end game in mind now. When they’re little the whole object is to keep them safe. And then one day it hits you, that was just a temporary assignment.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about these lines. Parenting with the end game in mind now.  Yes.  And the object is still to keep them safe, but the definition of safe has changed entirely.  It doesn’t feel accidental that I have this stop-and-go vertigo right now, that I feel a little unsteady on my feet, that the world feels like it’s whirling around me in a way a little more unnerving than usual.

Everything is changing, and the truth is it’s hard to catch my breath or find my footing.

Grace is sprinting towards 13, and her entire body and self are leaning towards the future in a way that I find both deeply reassuring and frankly terrifying.  She’s a young woman, and suddenly parenting feels different.  Of course I’ll be her mother until the end of time, even when we’re both gone, but the definition of motherhood has changed, and it feels a bit like an ill-fitting garment.  Certain things that I had just gotten used to are gone and others which I somehow thought I had more time to prepare for have arrived.

I’ve always, from my very first days of motherhood, believed that my children do not belong to me.  I’ve written that very sentence point-blank (as an aside, in searching for that link, I discovered that I wrote my daughter, who’s about to graduate from sixth grade, a letter on this blog on her first day of kindergarten – wow).  Grace and Whit are passing through me on their way to the great wide open.  They are not mine; it is my distinct honor and privilege to share these years with them.  But still, the realization that I’m in the second half – probably the final third – of this season jars me.  The losses pile one on top of each other. I’ve said before that while motherhood has contained more surprises than I can count the central one is probably how bittersweet it is.  I ferociously love my children, and the emotion I feel for them is the central guiding tenet of my life.  But even almost 13 years into being a mother, I’m staggered, over and over again by the losses that this ordinary life contains and by how frequently my eyes fill with tears.

My role these days with my tween is about abiding, knowing when to bite my tongue, being patient, and trusting that our bond will survive this passage.  It is making sure she has a soft place to land when she needs it but also gently encouraging her to step outside of that familiar circle to challenge herself.  It’s in that space beyond what is known that growth happens, even though it’s scary.  For us both.

It’s keeping the end game that Kyran and Asha mentioned in mind.  It’s knowing that what I want is an independent, brave, autonomous child.  After all, so many years ago, when I put 5 year old Grace on a plane alone, I said confidently that only a child secure in her attachments can venture away.  I still believe that.  I just didn’t realize how much it would hurt.

 

This is our story

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Last week was the 6th grade musical.  The play was Shrek and Grace was the donkey (there were several).  She’s been going to rehearsal a lot and I’ve had to run to Target to buy her a black tee shirt and then a black tank top, but on the whole I had very little visibility into the play.  We never practiced her lines.  We never practiced her songs.  We never practiced her dances.  I had definitely been very hands off when it came to her experience with Shrek.  So I was excited to see her perform last week.  It was absolutely marvelous.  Grace blew me away with her confidence and her humor – she was funny and she sang well and demonstrated a fair amount of swagger on stage.  It was great. I was proud and happy for her.  These reactions did not surprise me.

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What I was not expecting, though, was the swell of intense emotion, nostalgia, and joy when the entire cast sang the musical’s last song, This is Our Story.

We are witches, we are fairies
We are weirdos, I’m an Aries
We’re a giant different sampler here to try
We are puppets, we are rabbits
We are hobbits with bad habits
We’re a screwy but delighted crazy stew

We are different and united
We are us and we are you
This is our story, this is our story
This is our story

There was such tremendous power in watching these 55 children, many of whom have been in the same class since they were 4 years old, sing these words that I so loved.  .  Grace is twelve and a half, well on her way into the woods of adolescence, and there is much about life right now that doesn’t feel simple to her (or to me).  There are emotional and social and intellectual tangles aplenty at school.  But last week, as I watched children who I’ve known since they were nearly toddlers sing their hearts out, all of that was forgotten. Instead there was palpable joy and a tangible sense of triumph. They took it seriously, and they worked hard, and nobody was flip or blase.  They threw themselves into the performance, and I loved witnessing their enthusiasm, their commitment, and their energy.  I laughed and laughed, which I’d anticipated, but it was the throat-tightening rise of tears that took me by surprise.

This is their story indeed, and it’s my honor and privilege to be watching from a front row seat.

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What is love?

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One of my favorite recent pictures, from last October, with my parents, on the water.  I used the photo on this year’s Valentine card.

I’ve long believed that love – actually, life itself – resides in small things.  Yes, roses on Valentine’s Day are nice and weddings can be powerfully moving and the toast at a big birthday celebration carries all kinds of importance.  But day by day, hour by hour, we show people that we love them through our smallest acts.

There are three people in the world that I love the most.  You may have noticed that I write about two of them less and less (and one of them, almost never, though that’s not a change).  Grace and Whit are growing into their own stories, and it feels trickier and trickier to share them here.  In this case, I was very curious about what love looks like for them.  So I asked them.

Grace

Love is when Mum tucks me in at night and listens to me talk about my day.  It’s when she stops doing something important to help me when I need it.  Love is sacrificing some of the things she loves for us – like going out to dinner with friends or reading by herself.  Love is when she thinks of new recipes and makes something new for family dinner.  Love is keeping the kitchen stocked.  Love is sitting in cold rinks and cheering us on at hockey games (though not too loud).  Love is letting us go to sleep away camp even though I know she misses us.

Whit

Love is when Mum snuggles with me at bedtime every night.  It is when she reads me Harry Potter.  When she doesn’t pick up the phone so she can be with me.  When she makes us dinner.  I know 90% of her life right now is work but the other 10% is caring about us and that is love.  She does things that try to make our lives better.  Love is driving around the world constantly to get us places.  Love is when she goes to the library and picks out lots of books for me to see what I like.

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I really enjoyed this exercise.  Sometimes the things we think mean the most don’t, and vice versa.  Nobody mentioned lunchbox notes, for example, which I write sporadically but not always, and nobody mentioned presents at all.  In fact neither of them mentioned things.  I recommend asking those you live with or love the most what touches them the most.  And then do more of that.