Stay

A year ago, I wrote about what October means to me. 

Here we are again, but this year I am moving through this month with focused determination not to let it throw me off my game. Not because I am unwilling to allow myself to feel the things that this change in season brings up for me, but because I feel that now, ten years later, I should be able to achieve a better balance.

I can be there (in my thoughts) and here (in my actions) all at the same time.

At least that's the theory.

So, I have been making to-do lists and dutifully checking things off each day. I have been showering regularly (any of you who have been following along know this is HUGE for me). I have been spending time reading things that keep me grounded in my faith. And I have been making a concerted effort to be present in the world, spending time with friends, being available to substitute teach when needed, and just generally leaving the house (again, HUGE).

Next week, I have an incredible girl's weekend to look forward to down in sunny California with some of my dearest college friends. It couldn't come at a better time and I am gearing myself up for extended bouts of laughter, conversation and minimal sleep.

It's easy to look at someone else's situation and determine that any emotional obstacle is really just as simple as "mind over matter." Other people's problems or griefs appear so darn fixable to those of us standing on the outside. Maybe not immediately though- usually, depending on where the loss falls on our internal scale of sorrow, we allow for a certain period of mourning. But my experience is that the timeframe for grief we on the outside allow and the reality of what goes on inside a grieving person are wildly different.

It's hard to say what prompted this post today other than I keep seeing loss around me. It just keeps coming and the older we get the more likely it is to hit close to home. And without over-generalizing things, knowing that everyone is different, I wanted to offer just a couple of thoughts to anyone who might not yet have experienced a profound loss and deep grief. Or, perhaps someone close to you is suffering and you are floundering to understand her experience and what she might need.

Here goes... my completely non-expert perspective:

-Grief is physical as much as it is emotional. It is an actual weight on your body. You literally feel that everything is heavier and that makes accomplishing the simplest tasks that much harder. Imagine trying to clean your house, pick up your kids from school, go to the grocery store...everything...with 10 lb. weights strapped around your ankles and wrapped around your neck. Life is heavy when you are grieving. And the weights don't come off all at once in one glorious "I'm all better!" moment. They slowly peel off, ounces at a time, and even when they are mostly gone they can find you again. Holidays, special dates, changing seasons, both happy and sad occasions can make everything heavy again.

When your grieving friend seems too tired to even go to the movies, she probably is.

-Grief looks a lot like depression but they aren't the same. This was one of the most helpful things our grief counselor told my husband. He wanted to see me bounce back and get back to my old self not because he didn't understand and share the reason for my sorrow, but because he was scared of who I had become. He didn't recognize this quiet, tired woman who never wanted to leave the house. He needed reassurance that this was okay and not a permanent condition. Once he could wrap his head around the idea that grief is long and heavy and not super pretty, but isn't the same as depression, he was able to support me where I was. Of course sometimes grief and depression can overlap and that is something to mindful of, but according to my counselor you'd be surprised how seldom they do. True depression is chemical, grief is a natural response to a broken heart.

-Profound grief is long. I hesitate to use words like "profound grief" and "deep grief" because it implies a scale or measure of grief. No such measure exists and the reality is that if you feel your loss deeply, regardless of what others have felt in similar situations, then you have to move through it in whatever way you need to. But my point is, if your loss has rocked you to your very soul then it is going to take a long time to find your footing again. So much longer than anyone wants to believe.

I'm sure there are people reading this right now who can't help but think that ten years is a long time to still be remembering two babies who died at birth. It's such a common loss, right? But common doesn't mean easy. And just because someone stops talking about something doesn't mean they don't still feel that loss. It might just mean that they don't feel safe enough to let anyone in on how much they are still affected by that part of their story.

We do a pretty good job in our culture of subtly (and not so subtly) letting people know, "Enough. Time's up. I gave you 'x' number of days, weeks, months and now it's time." And what we are really saying is it is time for you to stop talking about this because I can't hear about it anymore.

I hold myself as accountable for this as anyone. It's hard to continue to bear each other's burdens. And there are those people who seem to wallow in and relish some measure of despair. We have to watch for that and it's okay to distance yourself from someone who truly seems to just love company in their misery. But if you have a friend who has experienced something truly traumatic- the loss of a child, a spouse, a marriage, a sibling...the pain is not going to go away in six months, or even a year, or even two years... These are life altering losses. Be gentle. Be patient. Be that friend who is still there when the laughter starts to bubble up again and the weights have fallen off their shoulders.

I know I am so grateful for my friends who stayed.

Be the friend who stays, even if you don't know what you're doing. Even if your friend says she wants to be alone and doesn't want to talk (I was that person). Even if you think it's been too long and you think if she would "just do 'x y or z"..." Just wait...quietly, patiently.

Be the friend who stays.

Thank you to all of mine who did.

"Lend me your hope for awhile. A time will come when I will heal, and I will lend my renewed hope to others."

~Eloise Cole

Neverland

When the first baby laughed for the first time, its laugh broke into a thousand pieces, and they all went skipping about, and that was the beginning of fairies.

~J.M. Barrie

 

When the boys were quite young, I remember saying to Superdad, "It will be a sad day when Peter Pan leaves this house for good."

Of course, like so many childish fancies, it didn't happen in a day, or in a moment that would be so easily noticed. Instead, it was more of a slow realization. And it wasn't exactly sadness, but more of a quiet wistfulness when my mind drifted back over days, weeks and months and couldn't remember the last time the boys had put on pirate coats, drawn their swords and sailed off for adventures unknown. They had left Neverland and it had taken awhile for me to notice.

This Thursday, the long-awaited launch our firstborn will finally happen. Granted, we are hardly sending him off to some foreign land and in theory could still see him frequently if we were all in agreement. But the winds are a-shifting and changes are on the horizon.

As we were looking ahead to this momentous occasion, Superdad and I agreed that we should take one last family hurrah knowing that family vacations with all of our children in tow may soon become difficult. In spite of my best efforts, my children do seem intent on growing up so that will mean different schedules, jobs, and responsibilities that will make it harder for us to coordinate travel together. They also may not want to! So, we knew we needed to grab this chance when we could still gather our chicks and they would willingly follow our lead.

Our boys may have left Neverland, but they haven't completely grown up....and there is still just a little bit of pixie dust in all of us.

Up early and ready for some Disney fun. They still love it!

We talked our cousins into coming with us for extra fun! 

More cousins and family! Could it get any better?!

The best!

So thankful we still have this little fairy for awhile.

The best send-off we could have asked for! Love this crew!

And NOW we are ready. We are ready for packing up clothes, loading up a dorm room, buying ridiculously expensive text books, asking two dozen times, "So, do you think you have everything you need?"- knowing that if he doesn't we are just a phone call away. We are all ready, because we have to be. It's time.

The moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease forever to be able to do it.

~J.M. Barrie

Jack, you have always believed you could fly. Don't stop now. 

We believe in you.

All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust.

~J.M. Barrie

Before the storm

You know what is weird? When you spend a year being all hyper-focused on the fact that this is your oldest child's last year at home (well, last year living at home full time...hopefully...or at least until he graduates college...again, hopefully...and moves back home because the job market stinks for all those poor 20 somethings with their college educations and nowhere to go)...anywhooo... What is weird is when you get through all the stuff. The Senior Thesis, the College Applications, the re-taking of SAT's, the College Acceptances, the College Decision, the Prom, the Graduation, the strange summer after graduation when they are not really kids not really adults (I call it the 'Are You Still Here?' summer)...you survive all of that in preparation for the big goodbye and then....they don't leave.

At least not yet.

A lot of kids have already said their goodbyes. I know that. But that's what is adding to the weirdness around our household. Jack's chosen university is on the quarter system which generally means they start later in the fall and finish later in the spring. However, I have yet to hear of too many schools that start as late as Jack's does this year. He doesn't even move into his dorm until September 26. Three. More. Weeks. If I wasn't in possession of a university calendar myself I might start to wonder if Jack was trying to pull one over on us.

I feel like we have been ripping off a particularly sticky bandaid one millimeter at a time for the past 6 months.

It's not that I want him gone, don't get me wrong. He's not making this difficult or challenging or annoying. I mean, it wouldn't kill me if he wanted to step up his efforts around the house but even at that I have noticed him taking more initiative in small ways to help with basic household maintenance and taking responsibility for himself. Just yesterday he informed me he was working on washing all of his clothes and figuring out what he wants to take with him and what needs to be given away.

Rock on, big guy.

Rooney says, "Jack, please don't go."

There is a bizarre little expression I have been hearing in my neck of the woods over the past 6 months. I have no idea if this is some sort of well-known metaphor or if it is oddly indigenous to our area but here it is:

In reference to the tension that can sometimes exist between children poised to leave home (but still at home) and their parents, I have heard more than one of my friends say, "They have to soil the nest a little so you'll be ready for them to fly."

I don't know about you but that imagery just makes me go, ewwwww.

I personally think it's a disgusting way to explain the conundrum of a child with one foot in and one foot out, but I also imagine that for many parents it not only rings true but brings some relief. It's always helpful when our children are making us bonkers to be able to step back and view it from a more removed, philosophical vantage point. If we can say, "Ahhh! It's a natural stage of development. Perfectly normal. This too shall pass..." we can save ourselves from going down that dark pathway of, "AAACK!! WHAT IN THE HE&! IS WRONG WITH MY KID!!!"

I gotta say, I prefer the former to the latter.

So, I get the reason for the metaphor and I'm even sympathetic to why the imagery might strike some parents as frighteningly accurate, I just can't relate. And when I say I can't relate it is not in some smug, "Why, MY child would never be so awful/inconsiderate/out of control/rude...!" Ha. Please. I have never claimed anywhere at anytime in anyplace to have perfect children NOR to be the perfect parent. And I never will because 1) I really try not to willfully go around breaking commandments, including the 9th one and 2) all you'd have to do is meet my kids or peek in their bedrooms and the jig would be up.

I can't relate because for whatever reason (and I claim no responsibility) Jack is neither literally (thank goodness) nor figuratively "soiling the nest" during his final days living at home full time. He actually seems remarkably content. Which is either great or cause for concern but since I don't have much control either way, I'm going with staying neutral. He doesn't seem unhappy about leaving, but he doesn't seem unhappy about his extended stay either.

We are all of us in limbo. The other kids have started school, they leave in the morning and return in the afternoon and in the in-between time Jack does laundry, occasionally does some car detailing work for people, and gives careful consideration to what he will have for lunch everyday.

I like to think he is just pacing himself. He's enjoying the calm before the storm. The storm could either be awesome or it could be dreadful and there is no way for him to know. So, he's just sitting back, enjoying his bedroom, his easy access to chips and salsa, and maybe even his family before it all hits.

Smart kid. I should take a lesson from him.

Freedom

The minute I stopped caring about what other people thought and started doing what I wanted to do, is the minute I finally felt free. 

~Phil Dunphy

The school year has officially begun.

And I have a cold. 

The cold started a few days ago with a mighty sore throat which fizzled into sneezing, watery eyes and a runny nose, and now I feel mostly fine (sorta, kinda) except I sound like I am walking around with a clothespin on my nose. 

It's that voice where when people ask, "How are you?" and you mumble something about "having a little bit of a cold", they tilt their heads, take a few steps back and say..."Yeah. You sound like it."

Sorry about that, everyone I have spoken to or come in contact with in the last 24 hours.

But in spite of all that, I was up with plenty of time to get Annie up and ready, feed her something that resembled breakfast (none of my kids are good breakfast eaters), make her lunch, take a first day of school picture AND get to school ON TIME. BAM!

That is some stellar parenting right there, People. 

On. Time. Day 1 and we are batting a 1,000!!

Even Annie said as we pulled up to the parking lot and saw millions of uniformed children still running around the playground waiting to go inside, "Wow! We aren't even late!"

That's right, Sister. Mom is going all out this year.

I was riding high on the euphoria of our on-time arrival right up to the moment I started looking around at all of the other beaming, on-time moms and dads. Okay, mostly the moms...I don't care what the dads are doing. 

I'll tell you what they were doing. They were looking showered, freshly coiffed (yep, coiffed) and dressed in clothes that can only be described as an "outfit" is what they were doing.

Standing out in the parking lot this didn't strike me as too much of a big deal. The children were creating a huge distraction and were still the focal point of all those cameras, cellphone cameras and iPads (Seriously, who are you people who take photos with an iPad? I'm sorry but I fail to see how holding up something the size of a small television to take a picture is a step forward in technology). We were just a sea of parents waving goodbye to our little lemmings as they marched off the cliff.

But once all those little cuties disappeared into the building, the smoke and mirrors were gone. Poof. 

All of the parents started dutifully moving toward the church where the First Day Parent Coffee Get Out Your Checkbooks And Sign Up For Stuff Thingy was going on. That's when my skirted yoga pants, clunky running shoes, and going-on-day-two-without-a-shower-hair became a bit more of a liability. Inside that church hall it became glaringly evident that most parents felt showering and getting dressed (not only dressed, but dressed cute) was part of the First Day of School regimen.

Rats. I missed that memo.

There was a time this might have really bothered me. There was a time I wondered why I couldn't quite manage to be as pulled together as those other moms. There was a time when I might have left that gathering worried about the impression I had made and given myself a good 15 minute lecture on the way home (even though it's only two minutes to get home, but I would have sat in the car for the extra 13 minutes finishing my talking-to) about how it really should not be that hard to get up in time to shower and look presentable on your child's first day of school.

There was a time....but not anymore.

One of the things I've learned over this past year as I have tried to live with heightened awareness of my children's growing, changing, learning and eventually leaving is that as they are doing all of that growing, changing and learning, hopefully we are too.  And somewhere along the line in these 18 years of growing, I stopped worrying about little stuff like dropping off your kid in workout clothes and possibly picking her up still wearing those same workout clothes. 

I don't think you ever want to get to a place where you truly don't care what other people think of you. Because if you take that to it's furthest extreme that is really the root of narcissism. Of course we need to care about the feelings, perceptions and perspectives of others. We need to care insofar that we don't go around offending people and behaving like boors and showing up at weddings in a tube top. But while I applaud those moms today who had freshly washed hair, cute cropped jeans and the perfect top (I really do, I don't know how you do it), I don't feel badly that mom wasn't me today. 

It might be me tomorrow. You just never know.

But, seriously, don't hold your breath...

Little detours

My kids have grown up thinking that making the 5 hour drive across our fair state multiple times a year is completely normal. They know every rest stop, all of their various fast food options and which gas stations have the least scary restrooms. When Annie was in her stage of being deathly afraid of automatic-flushing toilets, we ALL became experts on which bathrooms had toilets that were safe and which ones you needn't even bother trying to convince her to sit upon because no amount of cajoling, begging or bribery could convince her to put her tiny bottom on a toilet that might suddenly erupt in cacophony of swirling sound and water.

Nowadays, with fears of automatic-flushing toilets behind us, the trips are easy. The kids are so used to the drive they know how to settle in, check out, and watch the miles and the wheat fields fly by. Of course with the advent of iPods, iPads and endless other personal entertainment options, the trip has only become easier year by year.

After a lifetime of trips along the Northwestern stretch of I-90 the only questions that need to be asked are:

Does anyone need to stop in Ellensburg or can we press on to Moses Lake?

Where do you want to stop for food? I am only hitting two drive-throughs MAX so come to at least a partial agreement, please.

Seriously, you want to stop in Ritzville? We are practically there, can't you hold on for another hour?

Which is all why our most recent trip was such a startling departure from the norm.

After an unusually botched stop in Ellensburg (multiple unforeseen stops, restaurants unexpectedly closed for remodeling, Annie's utter indecision as to what would satisfy her 8 year old tummy for another couple of hours...) we were back on the road again.

Superdad would be joining us the following day so it was just the three kids and I. That was also unusual in and of itself. Nowadays, more often than not, due to activity schedules, work schedules and other mundane reasons, we end up divided in our travels. The division generally ends up being made along gender lines for no other reason than....it just does.

So....there I was with my three kids in the car. And it started to dawn on me that not only had this not happened for a very long time, but it might not happen again for a very long time. Or ever.

I'm not much of a Carpe Diem kinda gal, I gravitate more to a Seize the Nap sort of life philosophy but something was speaking to me in that moment. Something or someOne was nudging me to mark this moment.

Here they are. Remember this.

The drive along I-90 is not rich with memory making opportunities, although being a native Washington girl I do find it's varied terrain quite beautiful. Still, it sort of is what it is though. You travel through the mountains first. Pretty. Hit the more agricultural land on the other side. Pretty. Then you get a break from farmland as you move through the Gorge. Super pretty. Then more farmland until you start getting an increasing number of evergreen trees dotting the landscape, which is the sign that you are nearing the opposite side of the state where it all becomes more mountainous and green again. Pretty.

But right smack dab in the middle of the drive, something magical happens.

You see horses.

Wild horses, up on a ridge, overlooking the mighty Columbia River.

When the kids were little they believed they were real. And then, as they got older, they merely wanted to believe they were real. Because who wouldn't want to catch a glimpse of a band of wild horses in the middle of an otherwise ordinary, yawn-inducing, five hour drive.

Even the boys, easily bored and typically cynical at 15 and 18 years old, still admit they look for the horses. Every time.

But it's one thing to look for the horses while whizzing by at 70 miles an hour. It's quite another thing when your mother asks you (with what I'm sure was an annoying grin on her face):

What do you say we stop and climb up to the horses?

No surprise, your 18 year old responds with: What??? No!

You don't let it go. You tell him how you've always wanted to. That it will be really cool. Think of what a great story it will be!

He tries to bring in reinforcements. He insists his younger brother remove his headphones and fills him in on the fact that the Captain of their ship has lost her mind.

Younger brother responds in identical fashion when asked if he would like to climb up to the horses: What??? No!

Now they work as a team. Telling me that they are sure it is not allowed. I tell them it most definitely is allowed and that there is a viewpoint and a turn-off for that very reason.

The younger one (the one who never stops moving and plays soccer 7 days a week) tries to tell me that his knee hurts. I tell him that it's fine if he'd like to stay in the car while his 8 year old sister and I make the climb, since it will be too hard for him.

It will NOT be too hard for me! I'll be the first one to the top!

And the older brother rolls his eyes and groans knowing his younger brother just stepped right into my sinister reverse psychology trap.

Minutes later, for the first time in years and years of driving this route, we take the exit marked "Scenic Viewpoint". And it really is incredibly scenic.

I watch them set off. By now the boys are laughing and texting friends photos of their ridiculous adventure. Jack sends Superdad a text saying, "See. This is what happens when we have to drive with Mom." But they are smiling.

The boys do indeed beat us to the top. The climb is harder than you might think. In cowboy boots it is particularly challenging. But I keep telling her that she looks awesome and strong and determined. I know she can do it.

And she does.

We all do. And, yes, it is cool. And, yes, the view is amazing. And, yes, the horses are incredible and even more incredible that they are just here- in the middle of nowhere.

It was perfect.

Then we climbed back down (which was actually harder than going up) and continued our journey. 

20 years from now these three kids will get together with their own kids and families for some holiday and they will laugh hysterically and roll their eyes and say to each other:

Remember when Mom (our crazy mother!) made us stop and climb up to the horses?

At least I hope so. 

Because there are things in this world and in this life that will not last forever. Sometimes you have to grab hold and force time to stop for a second or two. That's all you get. Just a second or two. 

Hold tight.

Here they are. Remember this.

100 Years

Our house is celebrating its Centennial this year.

Granted, we haven't actually lived in this house for one hundred years (seeing as we are not Zombies) and I will confess the old gal has had a few facelifts through the years. But the bones of our happy home, along with the handful of remaining leaded glass windows, are all part of her original 100 year old charm.

She was considerably smaller when we first moved in. Over the years we have stretched her to her limit; ripping off the roof and adding a third floor, moving staircases, adding 6 feet to the back of the house, reconfiguring the basement (again), remodeling the kitchen (again), and none of that includes the work to the yard and the gajillion other small projects that have been done and continue to be done so that we can keep enjoying her hospitality for another 20+ years and beyond.

The latest project doesn't involve any demo work or structural changes, but it will require some elbow grease and determination. It may also possibly drive me into the loony bin (but I've said that about a thousand other projects worse than this one so you'd be wise to take my hyperbolic threats with a grain of salt.) 

(Can I get a whoop whoop for the nice use of the word hyperbolic?)

For the past four or five years I have been saying that when Jack goes to college I am going to have he and Annie switch bedrooms. And then at some point when I wasn't looking, those four or five years went by and now...here we are.

There are very practical reasons for the switch. His room is bigger. His closet is bigger. He has an extra storage closet in his room in addition to a full-size clothes closet. Considering the whole point of him going to college is that he is going to be gone most of the year it seems to make sense that the child who still has another 10 years of residency status left here at The Centennial House should get the better, bigger room. She's also a girl and we all know what that means in relation to closet space. She's going to need more.

Beyond the practical reasons, I'm excited about the side benefits. The most important side benefit being that this is a golden opportunity to clean out, clear out and get out lots of stuff. 

Me likey getting rid of stuff. 

So, it's all good. Both kids are excited about the move and I'm completely excited about the endpoint when it is really truly all done. What I'm not excited about is the hours and hours of work it is going to take to get us to the finish line. There is painting to be done, carpets to be cleaned, clothes to be moved, trinkets and treasures to be sorted and (hopefully) given away. 

Note to the little hoarder (aka Annie): Mom is not going to tolerate much sentimentality in this process. This is a time to be aggressive, cold-hearted and incredibly focused. Keep your eye on the prize, Sweetie. A clean, organized, beautiful new bedroom. (I've already broken it to her that the Dog a Day Calendar pages will not be making the trek across the hall.) 

So, I'm excited. Annie is excited. Jack is even happy about the change and the potential for a fresh start (his current room is beyond belief messy). Everybody is on board and ready to go!

So, why can't I get started?

Well, I'll admit, one reason is probably just because it is a BIG project and it is hard to know where to start. Do I clean out the rooms first? Do I start painting? Which room do I paint first? Where does the resident of each respective room sleep while painting is going on? Can Nate Berkus just come and do all this for me? He'd have a whole crew to help him so he could knock it out in like three days and he'd look cute at the same time (I'm not going to look cute for one second of this project). I could just sit back and post pictures to Facebook while you all envy me and my Nate Berkus bedroom makeover. Although, why would I waste Nate Berkus on my kid's bedrooms....? Forget it, if he shows up he's doing my room, and bathroom, and closet...And maybe my laundry room too, because only professional help could save that tiny space from the mayhem that it is.

There's that.

But I'm stymied for other reasons. Reasons that have nothing to do with paint colors and boxes of Little League participation trophies (what do you do with those??), and have everything to do with five years that went by in the blink of an eye.

For so long now the whole Great Bedroom Switcharoo was just an idea. A good idea, I'll give you that, but just an idea. It was out there. It was in some unknown future land in which our eldest child was going to leave home and live somewhere else for 9 months out of the year. It was just an idea.

Now, it's here. And even though he isn't going as far away as we once thought he might be, he is still going. He will have a different bedroom, in a different place and, if all goes well, he will be so happy in that new place we won't see him again until Thanksgiving. 

It's a strange thing to hope for, that your child will be so content he won't feel the slightest need to come home. But I do hope for that. Well, I mostly hope for that....in my less selfish moments when I'm thinking more of him and his well-being than I am of my own (luckily, that is most of the time). 

Don't get me wrong, I'm going to miss him like crazy. But at the same time I really hope to be missing him like crazy because that's what is supposed to come next. He's supposed to fly and we are supposed to re-paint the nest, get used to less noise and less garbage, and eventually find a way to live in and around and ultimately fill up the empty spaces. Over time, it will probably even all start to feel normal again, in a new-normal sort of way. 

It might take awhile, but we'll get there. This house has seen a lot of big changes and she's still standing. So are we.

I'm guessing that we will finally settle into that new-normal sometime around next June, just in time for him to come flying back for summer, bringing all of his noise and garbage and beloved quirks with him.  

And that's okay. We will still be here.

Happy Centennial, Sawyer House!

Thanks for the memories!

Presence

Here's a confession for you. (It's actually not much of a confession because I don't consider this a secret, nor am I at all reluctant to share this information, but confession sounds so much more interesting than "mundane revelation" so I'm still going with "confession").

Anywhooo...

My earth shattering Tuesday morning confession is this: My 8 year old daughter still climbs into bed with us pretty much every single night.

Now, before you think this is about soliciting parenting advice or looking for all the latest and greatest techniques for getting your school-age child to sleep in their own bed at night, I need to make one thing clear.

I don't really care.

Superdad doesn't really care.

And for sure neither myself or Superdad care enough to do anything about it that might require we would actually have to do something in the middle of the night. So any technique involving one of us swinging our legs out of bed, opening our eyes, or marching a weeping child back to her own bed just ain't gonna happen.

We really don't care.

And the beauty of parenting your third child is you also honestly don't care what anyone else thinks. You could be shaking your head right now and muttering, "Good heavens, you need to get that child sleeping all night in her own bed! How will she ever go to camp? How will she ever go to college? Will her husband be joining all of you in 20 years? You cannot let this go on one minute longer!!"

And I would just smile and nod and say, "You may be right."

Which is my surefire strategy for dealing with any unsolicited advice. You may be right. You may not be right. We both win and I don't have to discuss it anymore. Or, if you want to try and discuss it further you will end up beating your head against a wall because my only response is going to continue to be an annoying Stepford-wifeish smile and the pleasantly robotic response of, "You may be right."

Sure, some of it is laziness. I'm not going to pretend that we don't care because having a 60 pound child arrive in your bed at 2am is all sunshine and roses. There are those nights that don't go so well. Nights when it feels like our small child has at least 70 different elbows and knees that keep appearing in both of our backs. Nights when our petite little angel snores like a truck driver or better yet, vocalizes all of her inner 8 year old angst in her sleep complete with unintelligible yelling, whimpering and occasionally frighteningly maniacal laughter. I'm not gonna lie, those nights can be unnerving.

Superdad and I will talk in whispers the next day about how we really "gotta do something about this" and we formulate plans that oddly enough always seem to involve more work for me than for him, and then we get to the middle of the night and all of those genius solutions go out the window in favor of doing nothing more than rolling over and making room for our noisy, thrashing, elbow-jab-wielding nighttime visitor.

We take our chances in the hopes of a few extra minutes of sleep.

So, yes, some it is laziness. But, at least for me, there is something else. There is another reason I haven't yet found the inner strength to exile my young daughter from our bed.

The truth is, I get it.

Annie has expressed more than once, "It's not fair. You and Daddy have somebody to sleep with. And when the boys were my age they slept together in the same room. You told me they pushed their beds right up next to each other just so they could be close to each other! And they could still sleep in the same room if they wanted to! I have nobody! I'm the only one who HAS to sleep all by myself!"

She's right.

And the thing is, you can create all the rituals you want, and stuff your child's bed full of comfort objects, and turn on cute nightlights with fairies on them but your child is not stupid. None of this is the same as another person. None of this is the same as lying tucked in between the two people you love most in the world. None of this is the same as the feeling of safety you get from knowing there is another living, breathing human being sharing the dark, ready to stand side by side with you in battle against any monsters that might emerge from the closet or under the bed.

When I was a little girl, I would frequently cross the hallway in the middle of the night to my older brother's room. He had bunk beds and didn't mind if I made my way to his lower bunk in the night. What he did mind was that I felt the need to wake him up to tell him that I was going to sleep in his other bed.

It was always the same, me waking him up to ask him if I could sleep in the bottom bunk. And him, sleepily answering in an exasperated whisper, "Yes! It's fine! Why do you have to wake me up? Just go to bed!"

I never bothered to try to explain to him that I had to wake him up and tell him I was there. How would he know he needed to protect me if he didn't know I was there?

We are created for connection. We are born with an innate preference for the presence of people we love, not their absence. Absence might possibly make the heart grow fonder, but only because it creates an ever-increasing desire and longing for the other person's presence. Not because the absence itself is so idyllic.

Lately I have been standing on the outside watching too many people I know struggling to come to terms with the worst, most permanent kind of absence. There really are no words that are adequate to comfort someone grieving the loss of a loved one, so I try very hard not to offer anything other than, I'm sorry...I'm so sad for you...I'm praying for you... And I make a silent vow to myself to keep saying those things and to keep praying for a very. long. time. So much longer than we like to believe is necessary.

Sometimes, on nights when I'm feeling as though it's time - time for Annie to work out her demons and find a way to sleep peacefully in her own bed - I offer lame platitudes to her. I tell her how I'm always with her, even when we are separated by a long hallway and two closed doors. I tell her that she has her Pinky Bear and her blankie and those will keep her warm and cozy. I tell her that the nightlight is a reminder that God is with her and she has nothing to be afraid of. I tell her and I tell her and I tell her...and her incredibly sage answer every time is...

But it's not the same.

And she's right. It is not the same.

I think of that each time I'm tempted to take my words of consolation farther. To talk about how our loved ones are always with us, that they live on in our memories, that their light and spirit is still alive and moving among us. Because as true as that may be... and as much as that may bring some small measure of comfort in certain moments... I still hear the unspoken words of a grieving heart, sometimes in a whisper, sometimes screaming to the heavens, crying out and wanting the world to know that...

It's not the same.

No, it's not.


Nothing is an adequate substitute for presence. And death steals presence. For that alone, it is difficult for us to forgive the design of this world.
~Rabbi David Wolpe