Arms Outstretched and Hands Raised

Last night was kind of the crowning glory for me.  A moment in time when I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole.  And to be sure.  I have had my fair share of awkward moments.  Moments when my truly funny life has imitated fiction.  Watch me in action for about five minutes and you could probably catch me doing something just a little left of center.   We fools are probably why they formed channels like TLC.   We’re just a little bit on the special side.

Adorable, but special nonetheless.

So I guess it could be said- there have been one too many times in my insanely crazy real life when real life has imitated art.  As long as you understand that the art I am talking about is a very entertaining (albeit low-budget) television reality show.  (Shout out to the Duggars… love you guys!!)

But physically mistaking my friend’s husband for my own has got to be a low point of the week thus far.  Even for me.   I made contact with the poor guy’s shoulder…!  Yes, it could’ve been worse.  Thank the Lord for that.  And yet.  This embarrassing faux pas has got even me wondering: what next?  How am I going to top that one?  If only…I hadn’t been rubbing his shoulder…if only I had caught myself before making contact.  If only Brian and half of West Price had not witnessed the event….   If only.  So much embarrassment could have been saved.  But nevertheless.  The ‘if only’ is not what happened.  Obviously.  And here I am to tell the tale.

What next?  Can there be any lower levels to reach?    I am already lying face down at the bottom of the barrel.

So it wouldn’t be surprising to any of you, now would it, that I was again late for work this morning.  I should just shoot myself and call it a draw.  This is becoming a habitual rite of passage for me, transitioning from my home self to my professional self.  I feel like one of those old time coal engines that take their good ole’ time warming up.  And when they reach full steam, look out.  They cannot be stopped.

This morning was the usual busy morning.  Rushing, meltdowns, fights over clothing.

Yadda, yadda.  The works.

But what was different this morning was I had actually convinced myself that I would be on time today.  (Stop laughing, fellow co-workers.)  I felt like I really had a fighting chance of arriving at work before the expected check-in preliminaries, for a lovely change.  Everything was seemingly lined up in my favor.  I had an extra hour today to play with, an extra hour within which to arrive.  So it should naturally follow, if ‘one’ had so much extra time on their hands that ‘one’ would thus arrive at work at the very least, before their first meeting of the day.

Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve.  And it should be noted: I am ‘one’ gal who has always been the exception to the rule.

So.  Since I did not arrive on time… but instead arrived late (5-7 minutes late, to be exact…but who’s counting), and since I missed the introductory staff meeting, as well as my first grade level meeting (very small short meeting)… I was extremely disappointed in myself.  Frustrated would be another choice word.  And so it was.   That I spent the majority of the morning berating myself and beating myself up for my ineptitude and uselessness.  Telling myself I was incompetent and a total let-down to my profession.  What.a.jerk.    (And this is just my day job.  Don’t get me started on the other slack areas of my life….)

About half-way through the morning, I made a trek up to the office.  Sheepishly looking around to see who was watching, all the while wondering if I would ever be able to arrive ANYWHERE, ever again…on time.   And so, I decided to unload all my feelings and frustrations on the very capable and caring shoulders of our amazing secretary.  And as I proceeded to tell her the very many ways in which I felt I was unable to live up to my expectations of myself (not to mention the expectations everyone else probably had of me), the conversation took a turn.  It swerved away from me apologizing over and over again for all the failures in my life and instead started heading in a direction I like to call ‘forgiveness’.  Grace.  Acceptance.  Toward a place where a body can say to themselves,

“You know what?  You’re not perfect, girlfriend, and you never will be.  So why don’t you start forgiving yourself your failures and start concentrating on what you’re doing right.  And while you’re at it, start learning to say NO.  YOU ARE TIRED, girlfriend!  You need to cut yourself some slack!  If you drop a few of the balls you have in the air, nobody is going to be the worse for the wear.  Stop trying to live up to everyone’s expectations and start setting some limits for yourself.  And while you’re at it, do something nice for yourself this weekend.  Get a coffee just for the fun of it.  Buy something pretty.  Read a book.  Go for a drive.  Call up some friends.  Laugh.  Love.  Live.  YOU DESERVE IT!!!”

And I don’t know about you, but I kinda like the view from that place- from GRACE.  From Forgiveness.  From self-acceptance.  Because it is so freeing when you tell yourself that you’re okay.  Just the way you are.

And I tell you all this because?

I don’t want to hide my life behind a facade pretending to be something I am not.  I am exactly what you read: a bumbling fool most of the time, but for the other twenty-five percent of the time, I am a girl who is learning to love herself.  Flaws and all.  And I think that when we take down the walls that hide our true selves from public view, we come to discover…we are all essentially alike.  We have insecurities, flaws, un-met expectations of ourselves.  We do embarrassing things.  We mess up.  We live crazy lives.  We are a work in progress.  And if we can share with each other a small portion of ourselves, it might encourage us all to live life as if we had no secrets.

And life stripped of all that baggage- those feelings of inadequacy and failure and incompetence and disappointment, is SO MUCH BETTER than hiding behind a false barrier.

We need to live life in view.  Maybe not as in full view as I do (I have pretty much no pride left- my dirty laundry is hanging out for all the world to see baby.  And those hip-hugging puppies are not pretty, let me tell you.)  But let’s be serious: we are so very much the same and we can learn so much from one another when we come out from our hiding places.  When we live our lives with arms outstretched and hands lifted.  And we stop hiding who we truly are.

Love wins!!!

I guess you could say that Florida is in the Bible belt.   And for sure you could say that I am in the middle of a Christian retirement community, as I am travelling with my parents.  (And they are attending a Christian conference at a mid-sized Christian conference and Resort Center here in north-western Florida.)  So I guess you could say that nothing really should surprise me.  I AM in the Bible belt, right?  What you see is what you get.

But something did surprise me today.  And it just about took the wind out from beneath my sails.

I had set out for a mid-morning walk around the grounds.  Actually, I was on my way to the pool.  And I decided to take the scenic route through the residential area in which we are staying.  The houses were small and quaint and most had palm trees out front, which I admired.  There were some pretty flowers, and I guess you could say I was in la-la land for the most part.  Brain on cruise control.  (I am on vacay, peeps!) So, I was coming up to some houses, one of which had a fairly large sign affixed to the front, which made me mildly curious. And I turned to read the sign.  And here’s what I read:

“…be sure your sin will find you out.”

That’s right.  Be sure your sin will find you out.  (And….’have a nice day why don’tcha, while you’re at it’.)

I am going to have to apologize in advance for this post.  Because I am so very, very wrought with feeling and emotion right now.  And I feel COMPELLED to write the deepest, most secret feelings I have within my being.  About God.  About church.  About Christians.  About Christianity.

Because like it or lump it.  Christians have failed me.  Have failed US.  The church…the body of believers that represent the Bible and Christ and Christianity…have failed. And miserably.

And I want to start this essay with an apology:

For anyone who has ever read a sign such as I did this morning, I want to offer you love for hate, healing for disappointment and hope for despair.  Because the Jesus I know would never let those words be the first impression He would leave with you.  The Jesus I know is not like that.

For anyone who has ever been hurt by the spiteful, angry words of an ill-meaning Christian, I apologize.  I offer up my own heart to truly say, from its very depths, that that is not what a Christian is meant to be.

For anyone who has ever thought that Christianity is about rules over freedom, hate over love, disappointment over joy, turmoil over peace, negativity over positivity.  I offer myself as the FACE of that apology.  I am sorry for what other Christians have done to you in the name of the Bible.  In the name of Jesus.

For we have been a disgrace to the beauty of Jesus’ precious name. And I am truly sorry for the hurt, the pain, the misery that has been heaped upon you in the name of what is RIGHT and TRUE.

For.    And this is a BIGGIE.   There go I, but for the GRACE, and the MERCY, and the COMPASSION, and the FORGIVENESS, and the endless, limitless LOVE of God.  There go I.  Pointing fingers.  There go I.  Calling names.  There go I.  Pointing out faults.  There go I.  Thinking I am better.  There go I.  Thinking I am worthy because of my faith.   There go I.  Thinking that anything I could EVER do on my own would ever be enough.  There go I.  Telling you what an awful, horrible sinner you are. There go I.  But for the grace of God.  And it is His grace that has shown me that this is NOT what my job as a Christian is.  To point out the faults of others.  I’ve got enough on my plate, thank-you very much, to be worried about you and all you’ve got going on.  My life is far from perfect.  But that’s okay.  Because I am a beautiful, messy work in process.  And God never asked me to be my fellow brother or sister’s keeper.

Pointing fingers at others is not the job of a Christian, people.  I have four pointing back at me, and that’s enough to keep me pretty, darn busy.

So again, I’ll say it.  From my heart and soul, I am sorry if I have ever hurt you with ill-advised words of counsel.  I want to be a different kind of Christian than all that jazz.  That crazy stuff is not for me.

And this much more…I know what it feels like to be hurt by the church.  I know what it feels like to resent the church.  I know what it is to feel wounded by the church.   To be hurt by that body of believers who call themselves the Church.  And, but for the Love of God, His Compassion and Mercy, I would still be in that miserable mess of thinking I am not enough.  Not worthy.

That is not Christianity, folks.  And if it is, then it is a gigantic FAIL.

Because the Jesus I know cannot often be recognized in the face of our present-day Church.  How very sad.  Because we cannot truly understand who we are until we understand who Jesus is, for our encounter with him, this “faceless” figure, defines what it means to be human.(excerpt from Has Christianity Failed You?, Ravi Zacharias)

This, my friend is Jesus:

No one was half so compassionate…, yet no one spoke such red-hot, scorching words….A bruised reed he would not break.  His whole life was LOVE, yet on one occasion he demanded of the Pharisees how they ever expected to escape the damnation of hell.  He was a dreamer of dreams and a seer of visions, yet for sheer stark realism he has all of our self-styled realists soundly beaten.  He was a servant of all, washing the disciples’ feet, yet masterfully he strode into the temple, and the hucksters and moneychangers fell over one another from the mad rush and the fire they saw blazing in his eyes.

He saved others, yet at the last, himself he did not save.  There is nothing in history like the union of contrasts that confront us in the gospels.  The mystery of Jesus is the mystery of divine personality. (excerpt from “Has Christianity Failed You?”, Ravi Zacharias)

And yet.  In all of this, the Jesus I know, that same Jesus intimately knows just what a breaking heart needs, knows what hurt and pain can do to a soul.  Knows what a mess we all are in without the endless, limitless LOVE of the Father.

And Jesus’ message was one of LOVE.  Love trumps everything.  EVERYTHING!!!!  Love wins, folks.  Period.

For God is love.  And if we cannot feel the love of the Father, the Son and the Spirit, what compels us to faith?  To grace?  What is the point?  Why believe?  There are better things out there, better institutions, better clubs to which one can cling or join than the alternative, those that spout messages of condemnation and hate.

But for God’s love, for His healing touch, the balm that soothes the soul after sorrow upon sorrow.  And believe you me, I have had my fair share of hurt and pain at the hand of those who call themselves Christ followers, I again say it:

Forgive us.  I pray we know not what we do.  And in the name of Jesus, let this humble, messed-up example of a Christian, let ME…with the grace of God and through His mercy and tender love, show you.  There is another kind of Christian  out there than what you’ve known.  Than what you’ve experienced.

And for now.  Indeed, for always.  Abide for me and for you, these three: FAITH, HOPE and LOVE.  And as God has loved me, so do I with God’s grace, want to deeply love others too.  And to ever let my life song sing this song of hope and love.  From the depth of my being.

Love wins.

I’ll Love You Forever…

Little voices, tiny hands.  Baby hair still wisps, framing round faces.  Wide-eyed.  They move, and squirm, roll and tumble.  And I try to quiet them, but they are alive with energy.  Full of life.

We read on the blue rug, I’ll Love You Forever.  As I begin to form words on the tongue, I can feel the tears welling behind the wall I’ve built.  My game face.  Trying to be strong for everyone.  Not wanting to let emotions show.  Making this about them, not me.

Their sing-songy lilt joins mine with the refrain, I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, As long as I’m living, My baby you’ll be.  I focus on the words- the pictures, as I read.   Remembering those infant days twelve short years ago when I thought I would never again be able to do another thing but sit and hold an infant.  When I took walks up and down the river-road, trying to console that colicky baby-boy.  Holding him tightly, fearing the worst.  Bundling, swaddling, comforting, adoring.   And I remember.  Those crazy days led on.  To crazy days with two.  And how much more mischief can two get into.   Both into cupboards pouring out boxes of cereal on the floor, smearing Vaseline all over the couch.  Baby voices then, calling me, hugging me, wanting me.  Oh, the tender joy to hold chubby, little hands.  And yet, there were times.  I wanted to put them in the zoo.  I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, As long as I’m living, My baby you’ll be.

I remember still.  The days are not so long and far removed from now. When there were three- and four.  Could a heart hold that much love?  Days of highs and lows, of joys and sorrows.  Days when they walked through the house as if they owned it, full of spitfire and gumption.  Of battles over clothing, movies, free time, chores.  Sibling rivalries.  Of embarrassing parents who like to tell stories.  Of wanting to be close, but pushing away. These days of feeling like I am in the zoo.  Of sulky stares and stolen hugs.  Those days are now.  And yet.  This I know for sure.  I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, As long as I’m living, My baby you’ll be.

And some nights, when they are really asleep, I tip-toe into their rooms and I touch their cheeks with a mother’s kiss.  Tucking the blankets around their slumbering bodies.  Holding them close in my heart. And I know then, as I know always.  That I will love them forever.

As long as I’m living, my babies they’ll be.

The joy of identity…(the words found in between the lines)

We are sitting in circular formation, teaching colleagues, acquaintances and friends.  The atmosphere is warm and inviting.  Soft lights sparkle on a tree over against the wall.  And we wait.  In anticipation.

Our facilitator directs everyone’s attention to the meeting at hand and then asks us to introduce ourselves.  A discussion begins as to what we might say by way of introduction.  Should we share a book we are reading?  Seems too formal.  We are then given allowance to introduce ourselves and then share a part of our story, as we feel  led.  Each woman before me introduces herself as a mother, sharing about her children, her connection to them and some kind of predicament attached to being a mother.  One describes herself as ‘living vicariously’ through her children.

I have no idea what I’m going to say.

It is my turn, and I have to think fast.  What few words can I give that will encapsulate the essence of what it means to be me?  What can one say in so few words?  After all, first impressions mean a lot.  It is hard to dissolve a wall built on a quickly formed judgment.  I decide to stop thinking and talk.

“My name is Lori Gard and I have four children.”

I do have four children whom I love dearly.  They have been the heart and soul of my existence for as long as I have known of their presence.  I have placed my own interests on the altar of self-sacrifice for them many times over.  But still.  Is this how I want to define myself?  Am I a mother first?  Or am I Lori?

“For many years, I lived vicariously through my children.  So much so, I began to lose parts of myself.  After some time, I fell into a dark place.  It was then that I discovered writing.  Writing helped me find myself again.”

Ah, now I remember.  I remember who, I remember why.  And for this moment, I will speak.  And then later on, after four tired children are tucked into bed and the lights go dim, I will write.   Therefore I am.  A writer.  And if not for writing, I jokingly told someone recently, I would have been driven to strong drink.  Instead, I am driven to write.  I write about everything.  About my faith, my day, my children, my relationships, my job, my feelings, my frustrations, my fears and my joys.  Writing has delivered me from being swallowed up by the many varied hats I wear.  Of course, I am child, mother, wife, sister, friend, colleague.  All these in service to others.  And at one time in my life, I did not feel capable of identifying as anything other than that of my relationship to others.

But today.  I can proudly say I am free of that bondage.  I am Lori.

I am partial to blog style writing.  I enjoy playing piano.  I have a weakness for reading book club recommendations, whether they be Heather’s picks from Chapters, Oprah’s book club picks or those touted by bloggers I follow.  I love to go on long walks down scenic pathways.  I am fond of chocolate covered pretzels.  I crave Kettle cooked potato chips at bedtime.  I need to get a fill of Facebook before hitting the hay.  I love candles, scented cream, fuzzy socks, photographs, coffee, newspapers, fleece sheets, board games and Clark’s shoes, all in no particular order.

I feel deeply about many issues.  Faith.  Family.  Education. Healthy living.  Exercise.  The importance of communication.  Personal development.  Professional development.  Prejudice.  Bullying.  Empathy. Inclusion. Gratitude.  Giving to those less fortunate than myself.  Giving to those more fortunate than myself.  Because all of giving is about grace and compassion.  I feel deeply about all these.  And more.

Because of course I know that I cannot be narrowly defined by a single feature of my persona, confining my identity to being only a lover of chocolate covered pretzels or reader of blogs.  For I am more. So much more than these.

“I am Lori.  I write for a hobby.  And it’s really nice to be here.”

Hope renewed…

I feel discouragement tonight covering me like a dark, heavy cloak.  This has been one of those days of joy-less mothering.  Of difficult parenting.  Of challenging discussions.  Of battered emotions and low self- efficacy.  Of wondering ‘what if’ and ‘how come.’  Of hopelessness.   And just now, as I sit and contemplate where I am with myself and why.  I remember this: sometimes we have days like this one.  When everything seems hard.   When nothing is easy.  And things don’t really seem very funny either.  But there’s always tomorrow.  And with that hope comes the possibility that there will be a brighter day.

Tomorrow.

Ten things to be grateful for today:

1.)    The falling leaves- rich hues of red, green and orange.  Dusting the ground with vibrant color.

2.)    Banana chocolate chip muffins fresh from the oven, ooey-gooey goodness.

3.)    Pumpkin spice tea from Tim Horton’s. Um-yum.

4.)    Walking at twilight on a quiet road.  Much needed stress-relief for today.

5.)    Tinkling the ivories.  I love playing the piano and singing.

6.)    Flannel sheets.  My daughter’s are so comfy.

7.)    Fresh laundry. Mmmmm…

8.)    Clean stoves. Mine, cleaned by Husband.

9.)    Good books. I’m on my last chapter.

10.) Faith, love and hope. In God, people and myself.

The Beauty of Today (Living in the Moment)

As a mom, I feel pressure to capture and preserve every waking moment of my four children’s lives. To photograph, video-tape, blog, anecdote; to keep a baby calendar, baby-record book, family scrapbook, and personal diary; to Facebook, Pinterest, Tweet and Instagram for the love of my children; and to do things the old-fashioned way: write them down on whatever piece of paper I might find stashed away in my purse.  In years past, I had been known to date, detail and file photographs of my little ones the same day as they were printed.  I have also lost sleep so as to record baby milestones in four separate Winnie-the-Pooh record books.  I have written blog posts into the wee hours of the night, trying to encapsulate every detail of an event involving my precious children.  And I have written weight, height and head circumference numbers on the back of receipts found inside my purse, only to discover these jottings months later, realizing I forgot to write down which child the stats belonged to.   In my best efforts not to forget the here and now, I might just have missed at times, the most important part of the present:  the beauty of reveling in and appreciating the simplicity of big and small moments.

Tuning out the noisy demands of technology, and instead allowing time spent with my children to be the focal point of my heart.

A few short years ago, a mother I was acquainted with at the time experienced a house fire.  When I went to visit her later in the afternoon, she was understandably in a blurry daze.  Her house was still smoldering in the distance, and she was left to pick up the pieces and forge ahead for the sake of her family and her children.   What she was most bothered by that infamous afternoon, secondary to the obvious loss of her beloved home and belongings, was the destruction of her three sons’ baby record books.  Although her boys were safe and sound and there was no loss of life, it was reasonable for her to grieve the cost of losing this most precious treasure: the chronicle of her children’s lives up to that fateful experience she was living that very moment.  It was heart-wrenching to watch her sadness.

And I understood on many levels what she was feeling.  I knew from my own record-keeping the memories those pages held and the time invested in chronicling those recollections.  Precious memories: that first of all photographs- the ultra-sound picture.  The miniscule hospital bracelet with baby’s vital stats.  The stories lovingly crafted while reminiscing and detailing the events of a baby shower or first birthday party.  The health record, complete with immunizations and reactions.  That first curl, snipped and carefully sealed inside an envelope.  A tiny hand-print and foot print sealed in black ink.

Priceless reminders, these icons of the baby years.  They are irreplaceable.  But they are merely symbols of life, and thankfully for this friend, the lives they stood for were still with her.

Another friend and I were speaking a few years later, this time meeting up in a grocery isle at Walmart.  The conversation again centered around loss and symbols, only this time the loss was the child.  As precious as the remaining symbols were to this mother- the little sleepers, the photographs, the receiving blankets, they could not replace the child they represented.  They were but painful reminders of what could have been.  A life abrupted.

As much as the chronicling of my own children’s lives means to me, the records I’ve kept are disposable.  The pictures fade, the plaster cracks, the baby clothes I carefully washed and folded away are all now musty, in spite of my best efforts.  Even the memories of time well spent fade and dissolve a bit in the passage of time. But what remains, in spite of my best efforts to preserve all that matters to me, are the relationships forged.   The things that stay intact in my mind are the feelings.   For I know at the end of the day, I may not remember everything about today, but I have carved out time to be part of my children’s lives.  And they know my love through my use of time.  Watching them play soccer after school, sitting side-by-side practicing piano, lovingly sudsing up fine baby hair with fragrant shampoo.  Holding hands, kissing cheeks, family hug fests.  Building ‘I love you’ into the actions, not just the words.  And for every parent who has suffered a loss, from one extreme to the next: know this.  You built love into your child and that is the greatest document to a life well-lived that there ever will be.

Time invested is a testament to the very essence of love.

So when I start to feel guilt that I haven’t updated my children’s  baby books, I gently remind myself that it is not the updates that count: it’s the beauty of the moment.  Although I still feel there is far too much pressure on parents to record every detail of our lives for infinity, I’m not advocating that we stop altogether.  We live in a digital age in which pictures are posted to a global community within seconds of being taken, where posts and statuses and blogs are updated at times on a minute by minute basis and where video is live streamed.  And the advances of technology have made it so much easier for parents to keep a chronicle of their children’s lives.  So I’m not going to stop record-keeping:  I’m just going to pull my head out from behind the camera and watch my kids with the naked eye rather than always observing them from through the lens of a camera.

Over the years, I have been inundated with ways in which to preserve today’s memories for future generations.  But there is no time like the present in which to really live.  And I say these are the moments that count.

The joy being enough (otherwise known as the Joy of Dr. Suess…)

Who I am is enough.  For now.  And I say this first and foremost.  The rest will follow as it may.

I am under the table wiping up crumbs.  While I clean, I talk to Husband, who is wiping counters.  I talk about my troubles with Daughter Number One.  She has been extraordinarily moody of late, and she is crying at the drop of a hat.  Or the drop of a toy.  Or whatever.  Is it hormones already?  Say it is not so.  She is just about sending me to the beauty salon every two weeks to cover the grey, and I really cannot afford this.  I need to stretch these visits out.

Earlier, she and Sister Number Two had a fight about a sketch that the latter had found in an old scribbler.   I will henceforth refer to these two lovely young ladies as Thing One and Thing Two, for the sake of clarity and also because I love Dr. Seuss.  His writing sends me to my happy place. Which I need after the day I’ve had.

Thank you Dr. Suess.

The issue is that Thing Two claims to have drawn the picture.  Of course, Thing One adamantly disagrees.  Forcefully disagrees.  A fight ensues.  Complete with screaming, name-calling and general bits that most certainly would make up an all-out cat fight.  It is quite nasty, particularly considering the fact that it takes place the hour before we all go out the door wearing looks of repose and our Sunday best, headed straight for the confines of our local church.  It would take Solomon’s wisdom to figure out who drew this picture.  The two of them are avid artists and what one draws, the other tries to copy.

Did Thing One draw it?  Or was it drawn by Thing Two?  Educated guesses only.

I try to explain to Thing One that imitation is the highest form of flattery.  I go to great lengths, while I frantically try to get ready for the day, knowing that in doing so, I will be late for church.  I try to work out the understanding of the matter between Thing One and Things Two.  I explain both sides.  I exhaust myself.  And it is only 9:30 a.m.  But in the end, I have them both understanding the other’s point of view.

Victory number one.  There will be more battles to be won on this long, rainy Sunday, but at the very least, I can tuck this one under my belt as an accomplishment.

So as I am stuck under the table, pondering the events that unfolded earlier in the morning (which were followed by more drama as the lunch meal was rolled out, but I digress), Husband states to me that he is trying to be gentle with Daughter One and show some sensitivity.  Which he does very well, by the way. He is so good at this.  It makes me quite cross, actually.  While I am the screamer, he is the voice of reason.  While I have panic attacks, he is passively cutting his toenails and chucking the clippers under the bed.  He is way, way too laid back.  But he is who he is, and who he is, his calm, easy-going self, is part of what our daughter needs.

Part, I said.

I almost felt inadequate when he told me his approach.  But then I remembered.  Who I am is enough too.  I don’t have to change who I am, I just have to channel the qualities that make me who I am in the right direction.  I can be the tiger mother, just as long as I am doing so for the right reasons.

And I hope you know, that of course, I am.

So this is what I said to his comment.  That is, the comment about his beautiful way of being that tender loving care that both my daughter and I need.  I said, “You are the gentle one, and that is part of what our daughter needs.  But I am the one who tries to get into her head and understand her.   Between the both of us, we are the whole package.  We are together just what she needs.”

It would have been easy to judge the qualities that are lacking in my life, sizing myself up next to someone who has so many of the positive qualities I admire but have unfortunately not quite learned to master yet in my own life.  But doing so would accomplish very little.  I am who I am.  And who I am, that person I am, has lots of great stuff to bring to this parenting table.

Who I am is enough.  For now.  Of course, I am a work in process.  Aren’t we all? But with the combination of Husband’s tenderness and my tough love and understanding, together we are more than enough for our precious child.

And knowing this, as I write tonight, is certainly enough for me.

The joy of making a difference…

I am checking e-mails when I come across one from a colleague of mine.  He and I are on opposite ends of the spectrum in the areas we teach and also have very different social circles within our work environment.  However, as we had collaborated ideas at the committee level over the past year, this particular e-mail I opened during summer vacation happened to pop up in my in-box.  As expected, the first part of the e-mail was all business, relating directly to a few professional matters at hand.  But as my eyes skimmed toward the end of the note, I realized he had included a personal thank you to me, along with a few encouraging comments regarding my contributions in the workplace.

At first, I am taken aback as I re-read this portion of the note.  In spite of how refreshing it is to get this feedback, it is also unexpected to read a note, from anyone other than my boss, that highlight positive contributions one has made in the workplace.  Sadly, there are very few, myself included, who take the time to call or write, let alone vocalize in person, positive contributions made by fellow employees.  This note I received was unprovoked by any offers of incentive and thus did not get any brownie points from those in the administration.  It was seen by none other than me.  And because it was a spontaneous offering of encouragement, it meant a lot.

The power of a positive comment.

With the adjustments that autumn brings, it is common for many of us to look at the change in season as being a change in routine.  Even viewing this transition from summer to fall as a new beginning.  It certainly is such for students and parents, but it also can be that as well in the professional world.  With summer nearly over, the focus is on buckling down to more of a structure in our day-to-day lives at work and at home.  And this newly gained structure means that we are all thinking of ways to re-vamp, re-organize and co-ordinate our lives in new and more effective ways.

As a parent, I love the focus that our schools place on positive affirmation.  Our school is reading a book called Have You Filled a Bucket Today: A Guide to Daily Happiness for Kids.  The focus in many schools today is on proactive solutions to preventing bullying within the school environment, promoting the power of supportive words and positive actions as a means to ending bullying practices within the school environment.  We are doing a good job at thinking and planning for children, but many times we adults miss the golden ticket via the learning opportunities afforded our children.

Filling buckets is not child’s play.

The focus on using encouragement and affirmation to “fill up” the invisible buckets we all carry around with us (vis a vis our self esteem and confidence) is necessary for well-being, vitality and growth within the workplace.  When we use our words to build up those around us, there is a direct effect on employee output and workplace happiness.  Although this comes naturally within the social circles we naturally interact, it is much harder to make the effort outside that comfort zone.  But when e take the time to recognize people other than those who are our intimates and friends, something different happens.

Workplace climate improves for everyone involved.  Exponentially.  And by pushing ourselves to circulate the positive feedback outside our usual circles within which we naturally socialize, we gain something in return.

The power of making a difference.

Joy in letting it all ‘hang out’…

Bedtime rituals bring out my inner grizzly bear.  There are always impulsive exceptions to the rule introduced by the Fearless Foursome.  Exceptions that just about tilt my boat enough to sink it entirely.  Nothing ever goes exactly as per routine.  I roar for the majority of this most miserable of nightly moments, and then I am silent.  Because what good does it really do?  To roar and rage.   I am cranky, they are cranky; all are spent.  The two oldest have a near brawl over a money-making scheme that both have laid claim to patent the idea.  They want to open up a dog-walking venture here on the campground, and the business partners have been in start-up mode for all of one hour and are already at odds.  One has gone to bed fuming, the other crying.  Must it really be this wretched at bedtime or am I a glutton for punishment?

Prayers are forced tonight.  No one is really in the mood.

This was not really my day, this moment I am in right now.  I can adjust the gauge and turn back the dial.  Earlier, things were actually peaceful.  There was that moment.  That moment at the park, that moment of tranquility.  I go there.  That moment when I was transported back in time.

I am ten years old.  My feet pump beneath me as I stretch toward the tree line.  I try to beat each rhythmic swing of the pendulum created by my body’s weight.  Every time, I push my feet higher.  From my vantage point, my feet clear the evergreens off in the distance.  Ah!  I am just a little girl, no holds barred, ponytail swinging in the wind.  Every upward swing-return I make takes me back again to another place, another time.  To sweet, sweet childhood.  Simply free to enjoy all that life has to offer, its sweet, innocent goodness.

My girls and I play ‘Charlie Brown, Charlie Brown’ on the seesaw.  I am the dead weight on one end, while my two daughters take turns tottering up and down.  They laugh and giggle with joy.  “Come down the slide with us,” they call, but I have already made enough of a spectacle of myself.  Other campers more dignified, more refined than I, sit watching the crazy woman playing her heart out like a middle-schooler.  They poke sticks in their metal grates from which burn red-hot coals bursting flames.  They yawn with boredom and check their Facebook.  They call out to their children to stay clear of the road.  They look at me with detached amusement, for I am the anti-thesis of all this.  I am woman-child.

Joy.  Today, I follow my heart.  My heart tells me this.  Enjoy this moment.  And this moment.  And all the rest that follow.  For they are fleeting.  Forgive and forget.  Life is short.  Life is fragile.  Live, love, laugh.  Be all the clichés.  Don’t, but even for a moment, regret a thing.  Yesterday is what it is. Tonight might be a nightmare: stress-filled stomach-clencher of a nightly  moment, when all are locked up tight inside twenty-four feet of wall-to-wall mattress-filled confusion. What do I care? I need not fret about that.  And to be sure, tomorrow will take care of itself.  Even if there is that rain shower they have been predicting.  Bring it on.   I am what I am right now, and that is all that matters.  The present.  The here and now. The moment.

I let things ‘hang out’ today.   I never put a stitch of make-up on to cover up my imperfections.  I normally cannot see the light of day without my cover-up.  I hide behind my mask. And most days, I hide behind my clothing.  And so. Today I did not. I spent the entire day in my two-piece bathing suit.  I bared my arms and legs, those white extensions befitting of a stick figure.  Or rather.  Those pillars of strength that propel me to motion covered in varicose veins, bruises, marks, blemishes and a swath of deathly white skin.  White skin, splotched with red patches, now that I have tried my hand at sunbathing the last day or two.  But these are hard-earned battle scars.  The result of birthing four babies.  I wear the marks of motherhood proudly. Even if but for the day.

I did.   I let it all ‘hang out’ today.  I stood on the end of the diving board, looking down at my bathing suit, containing the slight protrusion of my belly in its bottom half with a good, solid piece of elastic; this two-piece wonder of a garment I am wearing has given me no promises to hold things together if I take the plunge.  I vowed to myself that I would do the necessary checks before emerging in plain view of all those other onlookers.  None of them, needing the shock of a lifetime.  I stood.  Inhaled.  Exhaled.  Had not a second thought.  A slight jump, then I soared.  Like a dove, in my mind’s eye.  Probably more like a spread-eagle bullfrog, to all those looking on.  No matter.  It felt great.  To let it all ‘hang out’.  I’d do it all again right now, just for the thrill.

I talked to strangers at the dog park.  I wanted to leave and carry on with my plans for the afternoon, we did have company coming for supper, but instead: I allowed myself the moments necessary to meet someone new, hear their story and learn a little more what it is to be human.  It is so freeing.  To let go of my plans, and embrace the freedom to be ‘in the moment’.

I put a full pot of coffee on tonight and only had one cup.  Because it is better when you make the full pot.  I dug out the s’mores, the licorice, the chocolate bars.  We strung the patio lanterns.  I read a book that will never increase my brain cells, even one iota.  I had that extra chicken sandwich at supper, just because.  The second tasted even better than the first.  And tonight, I write for the pleasure of it.  Because to write for me is to understand.  And now I know.

I do this, and all that of which I write just because.  These are for me moments of freedom.  And I know that tomorrow will be that much easier because I let it all hang out today.

Joy in the School Library…

Library day for Kindergarten A.  I, for one, am stoked.  Library day is every third Monday, and it is a twenty minute interlude from the hectic pace of life in the zoo. It is the gift that keeps on giving.  When library day comes, we all get to escape the confines of the classroom, head down the hall, single file- touching the wall as we go so that stragglers do not get side-tracked or lost in the corridors, then walk (no running! for goodness sake) directly towards the two sets of stairs that lead ever upwards to that greatest of rooms.  The Library.  Or as we say in Kindergarten, the Lie-berry.

I love the library.  And not just for its very special purpose of allowing teachers and students an escape (literally and figuratively).  The library is a place where dreams come alive and connections are made.  At least it is suppose to be that way in all the workshops on literacy and texts teachers read on the same.  The library experience opens doors and windows- allows students choice of text and freedom to take risks.  It helps students become independent readers.  It provides an opportunity for readers to discover books they might never stumble upon otherwise.  It is one of the most underrated time blocks in our schedule, but to all those who think it a waste I say this: What’s not to love?

Today, we are not allowed to check out books.  This is a bummer, but I am creatively (yet somewhat desperately) trying to figure out a way to extend our time block, as normally it takes twenty minutes to find everyone a book, re-shelve the dozens of books that everyone thought they wanted but now look too boring, then take the books that make it onto the interesting list and in turn, get these latter books checked out for home by Ms. O.  That’s Ms. Olscamp, our coolest of cool, school librarian.

Ms. O reads us a book after check-in and check-outs are over.  Today she is reading a very funny book that I selected from our classroom collection of ocean-life books, about a giant squid.  Everyone laughs hysterically at the little squid who thinks he is the biggest fish in the ocean.  I am wondering exactly how long is this book?  And who thought of such a ridiculous story line?  But it works, and the children are engaged.

After the story is over, Ms. O suggests that everyone take notice of her very colourful book display to promote summer reading, behind which she has carefully (perhaps painstakingly?) cut out and pasted the following slogan: Dive into Reading.  On it, there is a cut-out of very enthusiastic diver propelling himself into an invisible pool below the display which leaves much to the observer’s imagination.  And this folks, is exactly what reading is all about.  I am trying to get the students excited about the connotations that this display suggests and I ask them leading questions.  What do you think this means, boys and girls?  What is the diver DIVING into?  No one is really paying attention to me now that the giant squid story is over, and I make a last ditch effort to make a connection.

Who is going to read a book over the summer? I ask sweetly, thinking that Ms. O. will at the very least be encouraged by the many hands that will undoubtedly rise upwards in an affirmative to the prompt.

Instead, a little one says to me with as much swag as she can muster, “I’m NOT reading a book over the summer.”

Undeterred, I forge on.  If this is the last battle I win today, I will come out victorious.

“Well then, who is going to try to make it to the library this summer to read some new books?” I say, plunging in over my head as does this little paper diver behind me on the presentation board promoting reading.  I look around pleadingly for one little hand to raise, one little voice to chime in that they will indeed be visiting our public library system even once this summer.

Nada.  Instead I get a look that insinuates I might have just grown a third head.  I must be dreaming this all up.  The two closest kindergarteners look me boldly right in the eye and then declare that the library is the last place on earth they are going to be heading in the upcoming two months of Island summer.

“I am NOT going to a library this summer.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

I am about to blow a gasket.  Meanwhile, the children head to line up at the door, and as I try to collect myself, I notice that the only thing the children are truly interested in right this very minute is securing a front position in our line-up: for two of them are nearly about to come to blows over who should stand first and who should follow.  I desperately try to resume decorum, and insist on the children thanking Ms. O. for her most generous spirit in allowing KA this memorable experience.

And to Ms. O, if she happens to be reading my blog tonight, I can assure you this.  When KA graces the hallowed walls of the library, know that it is for this very reason: We’re here for a good time, not a long time.  And I am sure that must be a relief.