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

Remember the good stuff

Well, we made it.

One week ago today, our oldest child graduated from high school. Honestly, it's a milestone that I never doubted each of our children would achieve. I think we have always been prepared to do pretty much whatever was necessary to get our kids at least this far. And believe me, there were a few moments along the way when getting Jack to hang in there, go to school everyday, do his homework, and apply himself and reach his potential (as encouraged on more than one report card over the years) felt a little like dragging a squealing lamb to the slaughter.

But he made it.

WE made it.

And once the moment was here, it really did feel like a very big deal.

As I have reflected on that moment over the past week, it has occurred to me that maybe I should have gained some wisdom of my own over the past 12 years. Maybe there is something I can impart after having successfully guided (prodded/cajoled/dragged) one child through Kindergarten-12th grade.

Maybe. I'm not promising a lot.

Here goes...I'm not even going to put a number on my pearls of wisdom. Too much pressure. I'd like to give this a catchy title like, "Lori's Top 10 Hints and Tricks for Getting Your Child to Graduate" but I have serious doubts I can come up with 10 witty and wise tips for surviving your child's school years. I'm hoping I can come up with two.

Right now you might be asking why I didn't think of these in advance and then I would know exactly how much advice I actually possess to pass along? That's sweet of you to think I give these posts that much time and thought. Yeah, sorry, I don't work that way. I'm more of a stream of consciousness, let the words fly off the keyboard sort of writer. Which is all part of why I could never actually be a writer. Planning, forethought, editing, proper punctuation...not so much.

Here we go!

Lori's Unknown Number of Things I Learned Getting My Child Through School

1. Your Child Does Not Need to be an Academic Superstar to go to College. 

I'm putting this at number one because I have a lot of friends with kids entering into high school, or in the early years of high school and I know the whole college thing is looming. Here is the thing, there are a lot of schools out there. Unless your child has his/her heart set on Stanford, Pepperdine or even some of the more competitive state schools, there are a ton of options. We were freaking out going into the college application process having heard so much about how competitive it is now. We had a child with a mediocre GPA, minimal extracurriculars and marginal test scores (He knows all this and owns it. I'm not saying anything he wouldn't tell you himself). He was accepted to 4/6 schools and the two he wasn't accepted to we knew were a stretch. 

Seriously, try not to stress out if your child doesn't have a 3.5 and isn't editor of the yearbook while starring in the school play after coming home from football practice. There aren't enough valedictorians to go around so colleges are more than happy to take some average kids, too. I promise.

If you and your child want college to be an option- it probably is.

2. I Have Yet to See Diorama Construction on the List of Required College Courses

Over the course of your child's many years in school, you will have to suffer through many, many projects. These projects include, but are not limited to: dioramas, TRIoramas, coat hanger mobiles, three dimensional solar systems (and you are not allowed to go get the kit from Michael's), posters (literally, dozens and dozens of posters), various model clay creations, the Rube Goldberg project (I'm so sorry if this one comes home to you), and if you had the pleasure of having my son's 7th grade math teacher, a bizarre sewing project that is supposed to teach something about geometry but mostly ends up in having children with fingers so pinpricked and sore they have to eat like dogs because they can't hold utensils any longer. 

What you need to know is this: None of these projects really matter. If your child is still young enough that he/she doesn't even receive actual grades yet then multiply that statement by a thousand. 

Oh, I know. You can't just blow these things off and you don't want to send your child to school reporting to his teacher that, Mom says this project is silly and she said there was no way she was going to miss the Project Runway finale to find me a shoebox, puffy paint and glitter glue so that I could make something that's going to end up in the recycling. 

I get it. That ain't happening.

But I beg of you, keep it simple. Don't let these projects dissolve into tears and missed bedtimes. Whether or not your little one gets an "S" or an "S+" or an "O" or a "?" won't matter in the long run. Tell them to do their best, applaud their effort and make sure everyone gets to bed on time.

My son answered a lot of questions on his college applications but not one of them asked if he could whip out a killer diorama.

3. Take Lots of Pictures Because You Will Never Remember it All

I hesitate to throw this one out there because I know for some people, this is pressure. I'm the sort of person who likes to take pictures and likes to put together photo books, so I'm grateful for the treasure trove of memories we have in the form of photographs, scrapbooks and now digital photo books. If you aren't that sort of person, and you think you won't care someday if you don't have your child's years in school documented, then don't sweat it. This is totally your call.

But for me, I spent a lot of time looking back on photos of Jack leading up to his graduation and I was thankful for every single one. To see how our boy went from that chubby cheeked angel to the handsome young man he is now was more than a little sentimental.

Even if you only take pictures for the big events, or the first and last day of school, just do it. You'll be so glad someday.

4. Take the Best, Leave the Rest

One of the most beautiful things about the passing of time is it inevitably creates a memory filter. Details get fuzzy, people and places get hazy, and anything that isn't carefully documented with photographic evidence becomes victim to the whims of our long term memories.

I say embrace the filter.

My cousin and I, with whom we took several Disneyland trips when our kids were small, always like to look back on the photos and videos of those trips and say, "Look at that! What a perfect trip! The kids were always smiling. No one got sick. Not a single tantrum, whine or complaint. Best trip ever!!"

It's a big fat lie but we don't care.

The truth is, most of it was great. The kids did have a fabulous time. We do have wonderful memories of those shared trips and raising our kids together. 

So that's what we choose to remember.

The same goes for school, or holidays, or sporting events, or anything!

Embrace the filter. 

Remember the good stuff.

5. That's It

Well, I've sat here for a good five minutes wracking my brain trying to think of one more thing I learned from my son's school years and I got nothin'. I guess next time one of my kids complains after staring at the computer for three minutes that they cannot possibly think of one single thing to write for the essay that is due tomorrow, I'll be a teeny bit more sympathetic.

It's possible they get their lack of persistence from me.

But I'm not being graded on this and truth be told there is a stack of laundry that isn't going to fold itself, so...I quit.

Another of the many blessings that comes with growing up is I get to throw in the towel on this one and nobody is going to ground me or give me an "Incomplete". 

Seriously, being a kid can be hard. There are all these people telling you what to do all the time and expecting you to be good at every single subject under the sun (including diorama building) while also putting in volunteer hours, building a "resume" and being an all-around super great guy or gal about whom teachers will write glowing recommendations.

Whenever you can, make sure they have some fun. Make sure they know it isn't all so desperate or scary or life threatening. Make sure they see their future as something filled with hope and potential and worthy of big dreams.

We all know life isn't easy and that being an adult is filled with a lot of hard work. It's okay to tell them that. They need to know that, too.

But a hopeless person is a stagnant person. To be hopeless is to be stuck. Don't let them get stuck.

Feed them on faith and the belief in a plan that is bigger than them. Teach them they are part of a grand story and everyone has a part to play-no exceptions. They are here for a reason.

Let them experience the realities and consequences of life.

But never stop giving them hope.

And love.

Always love.

"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." ~Jeremiah 29:11

We are

There is a wild story in the Gospel of Mark that begins with Jesus walking along, traveling from town to town as he was known to do, and ends with a couple thousand pigs hurtling to their deaths.

Like I said, wild.

In the middle of those two seemingly disconnected bookends is a man so wracked and tortured by demons that not only has he been rejected by family, friends and his community but in their fear they frequently attempt to chain him up. The strength of the demons is so all-consuming though that he cannot be bound or contained. The man appears to be destined to live out his days in as sorry an existence as one could imagine while his community can do nothing but stand by and watch.

Then along comes Jesus.

Somewhere in the depth of this shell of a being there must have been something left. There must have been a shred of the divine child he was created to be. A smoldering ember of the holy spark we are all gifted with at the moment the Father dreams us into being.

There must have been something left of the man he once was, because at the sight of the Healer that mustard seed of faith manages to move mountains. Somehow he is able to overcome the power of the demons and propel his body to the feet of Jesus.

Jesus is neither alarmed or surprised. Maybe he knows we will all end up at his feet one way or another.

He does not address the man. He knows the demons are still in control.

And the demons know they are about to lose.

They begin to beg. Asking not to be swept into oblivion but for an opportunity to take up residence in a herd of swine grazing nearby.

Before Jesus sends them on their way though, he asks the demon's name.

The cryptic, bone-chilling answer is, "My name is Legion, for we are many."

The man is healed. And for reasons that aren't clear, Jesus grants the demon's request and sends the evil spirits into the unsuspecting pigs who promptly run down the hill and drown themselves.

I'll say it again, it's a wild, wild story.

But it's the story I often go to when I feel desperate to understand why awful, awful, awful things happen in this world.

My name is Legion, for we are many.

The thing is, Jesus never seems surprised that there is evil in the world. He is confronted with it right and left during his time on earth, never more so than in his own violent death, and he is never surprised.

He just continues to move in and amongst the people- healing, touching, forgiving, teaching, blessing and loving.

He moved through the world as the ultimate antidote to evil with his Resurrection putting the final nail in death's coffin. So that even now, even as evil continues to try to wrack and torment and torture, it flails about knowing it really, in the end, can't win.

We see evil and we wonder where is God?

The Bible makes it clear that God was not the hand tormenting that demon-possessed man in the Gospel of Mark. But He was the hand that set him free.

Unlike some people, I'm pretty content with the Mystery. And by mystery I mean the capital "M" sacred Mystery. I don't expect to know all the answers this side of Heaven. This doesn't mean that I don't struggle, don't wonder, don't doubt, don't question... But when I find myself wrestling with angels I try to go back to what I know for sure.

I know God is love.

I know we were created in love.

I know that we are called to love one another and that when we do, we participate in God's healing work in the world.

It's not often I read stories in the Bible and wish there were a different ending. Thank goodness because if I did I'm pretty sure I'd eventually hear God whisper,

Simmer down there, Child. I got this.

But when I see overwhelming goodness rising up to do battle with the dark forces of the world...

When I see entire communities pouring out love and compassion on the suffering...

When I sit in a sanctuary, or a classroom, or a gymnasium and hear both strangers and friends raise their hopeful, determined voices up together in prayer and song...

I always imagine Jesus staring that demon down, looking straight into the depths of that poor man's true soul and shaking his head when the demon declares,

I am Legion, for we are many.

And with a voice fierce with love, and truth, and light he would say...

No...WE are.

Lost and Found

One of the many hats I wear is that of substitute teacher at my daughter's school. Long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away I received my Masters in Teaching and spent one year as a full time teacher before moving on to my next career as a full time mom.  Many moons later I have been lucky to get to put my toe back into the profession that was always as natural for me as breathing.

The unique advantage I have in my situation is that I have chosen to only substitute teach at my daughter's K-8 school. This has given me the opportunity to really get to know all of the kids in the school. I know each of them by name (even if I occasionally mix them up now and then...there are a lot of them) and it's a real advantage as a substitute when you can walk in a classroom and immediately be on a first-name basis with the kids.

Recently, I had a moment of triumph when I was unexpectedly called in to sub in the jr. high because a teacher suddenly fell ill. The kids weren't anticipating having sub since they had seen the regular teacher there earlier in the day so they were surprised to find me standing at the front of the room. But I won't lie, I was pretty pumped when one of the 8th grade boys walked in and looked at me quizzically and said, "Are you subbing today?" Upon hearing that I was indeed going to be at the helm for the afternoon he thrust his fist in the air and said, "Yes!"

Now, that could have been because having a last second sub in jr. high usually means some version of study hall and a chance to get your homework done early but still...I decided to take it is a compliment. With that age group you have to take what you can get.

The last few weeks I have had several opportunities to spend the day on the opposite side of the school building with our littlest students. Anyone who knows me knows that in the depths of my teacher's heart my affection lies with the primary grades, even though I have grown to enjoy different aspects of all the grades (another advantage of being a sub-you get to see it all). So, I'm not kidding when I say that I really do enjoy teaching the Kindergartners...but...

Lately, as we get closer and closer to the end of the school year, days in Kindergarten have started to feel like feeding time at the zoo...for six hours straight.

Last Friday, as I was watching the clock and willing it to inch closer and closer to dismissal time I noticed one my little peanuts had tears welling up in her eyes. Some of her loyal little friends rushed up to me clearly in a state of utter panic.

Mrs. S! Gracie can't find Pink!

I needed clarification.

Wait. What? She can't find Pink? What or who is Pink?

Looking at me like everyone should know who Pink is they cried in unison:

Her baby doll! 

And then they all fell all over themselves trying to make the urgency of the situation abundantly clear.

She sleeps with Pink every night! She's had her since she was baby! She never goes to bed without Pink! It's the most important thing in the world to her!!

I pride myself on staying pretty cool under pressure but even I was picking up on the fact that this was a BIG deal.

Search parties were formed. Backpacks were dumped out. Children were crawling under tables and chairs. All while poor Gracie became increasingly inconsolable.

Wiping the sweat from my brow, I looked at the clock and saw we were mere seconds from the final bell of the day. We had no choice but to start gathering everything back together at lightning speed and get ourselves out to the carline. I've noticed Kindergarten parents in particular get concerned when their small children don't appear at the end of the day so I was now focused on not being the cause of unnecessary heart palpitations for 25 parents out in the parking lot.

I held little Gracie's hand as we walked down the hallway and assured her I was going to turn the classroom upside down until I found Pink and that once I did I would bring her to her house.

She was still weepy and looked skeptical but I could see she was trying to be brave.

Gracie was being picked up by another mom so I went up to her and gave her the news as calmly as I could. I didn't quite know what to say but figured it was best to just give it to her straight.

We can't find Pink. 

Her eyes flew open wide in terror. She literally grabbed my shoulders and said in a restrained whisper,

Dear God, NO!

I nodded solemnly.

It's true. We looked everywhere but I'll keep searching.

She patted my shoulder gravely, her eyes weary with resignation, and told me she'd be praying my quest for Pink would be successful.

At that point, so was I.

I went back to the classroom and enlisted my daughter's help to search the room. My own child was tired, hungry and ready to go home but when I told her it would be like losing her own precious Pinky Bear she was eager to help.

I knew they had been playing in the Kitchen Area during Centers and figured Pink must have been a central feature of their game of House so I concentrated my efforts in that general area.

And then I saw a little, dirty pink foot poking up out of the rubble of a tub of blocks.

I'm not ashamed to say, I shrieked.

Pink!

Annie and I both did a little dance around the classroom feeling victorious and relieved at having fulfilled our rescue mission.

I realized then though that I wasn't sure if I was going to have to leave Pink on their front porch. It was starting to sprinkle a little so I went in search of a plastic bag to put her in.

I found a group of teachers standing out in the hallway so I inquired if any of them might have a bag I could put the doll in.

One of the teachers wrinkled her nose and said, "What is that??" (I will admit, Pink does look like she's seen better days. Well loved toys usually do.)

I quickly explained it was Gracie's special doll and it had been lost but, thank goodness, I found her. I'm pretty sure I was beaming, still basking in the glow of victory.

Another teacher said, "Why did she even have it at school?"

I was a little confused then because at that point it seemed irrelevant to the good news of something so precious having been lost and now found.

I told them that in Kindergarten the children are allowed to play with an appropriate toy from home during Center time at the end of the day (they are five- remember?)

I asked again if anyone had a plastic bag because I wanted to be able to take it to her house and wasn't sure if they'd be home. I didn't want to just leave Pink lying on the front porch at the mercy of the elements. She may not be much to look at but I wasn't going to be responsible for her ending up soaking wet.

One of the teachers disappeared into her classroom to get a ziploc bag and another one looked at me half-smiling and said, "You're too nice, Lori."

I just grinned as I made sure Pink was safely tucked into the bag and shrugged.

When I got to Gracie's house, her older brother and a friend were playing in the front yard. When they saw me, her brother asked excitedly,

Did you find her??

I held up the bag triumphantly and he went tearing into the house yelling,

Gracie! Mom! Mrs. S. found Pink!! She's here! She's here!

Gracie's mom and I met at the door at the same time and without hesitation she folded me into a huge hug. Over her shoulder I saw little Gracie peeking around the corner smiling shyly with red-rimmed, puffy eyes.

I handed her Pink and felt a little teary myself as I watched her squeeze that ratty baby doll close and heard her whisper to me,

Thank you.

I knew within that household, for a moment, peace had been restored. Redemption had found a sad little girl and a worried, tired mama and hopefully everyone would be able to sleep that night.

I know that I, myself, slept like a baby, completely comfortable with having allowed myself to be consumed by a small child's sorrow, a lost baby doll and the journey to see them reunited.

I'd do it again in a minute.

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** Names have been changed to protect the innocent. Except Pink. She really is just Pink and I'm hoping she is okay with having starred in this little narrative.

*** This is not intended to be a criticism of the other teachers. They teach older kids and sometimes when you don't work with the little ones you forget what issues are very real to that age group. Everyone is also a little war-torn by this time of the year. That is another thing I enjoy about being a sub- I always get to see things with fresh eyes and don't get as worn down by facing the same mini-dramas day in and day out.

A thousand words: Part II

Soulumination, a local non-profit and organization that I love has been getting a lot of press lately. It's exciting to see for many reasons not least of which is the hope that it might generate more financial support as greater numbers of people are exposed to their gentle mission of love and compassion. But perhaps even more so are the lessons to be learned in the work of Soulumination.

When I was on the board of Soul (our affectionate shorthand for the foundation) we always made education an underlying priority to our overall mission of providing beautiful photographs to families with either a parent or child facing life threatening illnesses. Lynette Johnson, the founder, is keenly aware of how uncomfortable our modern, Western society is around the difficult subjects of illness, death, loss and grief. The discomfort is understandable, I share it in many ways, but it becomes unacceptable when it means we leave people walking through the valley isolated and alone. None of us will escape this life untouched by the particular sorrow felt by losing someone you love, so perhaps we would do well to acquaint ourselves with how other people have coped with such grief.

If we can find it in ourselves to abide with and learn from someone else's experience of loss, or at least not turn away from it, we will be better prepared and less likely to say something stupid when someone close to us is facing unimaginable grief. Because believe me, truly insane things come out of the mouths of people who are nervous and tentative around profound sorrow. I mean jaw-drop-to-the-ground-nutso.

None of us want to be that crazy person spouting off about silver linings, and how everything happens for a reason and how someone else you know had it really bad so be grateful that at least that didn't happen to you because that would have been so much worse. Oh, and how about how all you have to do is stay positive and focus on your blessings and everything will be fine. It's like busting out a round of A Spoonful of Sugar to a person whose beloved has just died. Not. Super. Helpful.

None of us want to be that person, right?

Just weeks after our twins had died I had a well-meaning, good-hearted, truly very nice friend who I know was probably fumbling all over herself when she ran into me at the ATM, ask me excitedly, "So, gosh Lori, with both boys in school now what are you going to do with all your time?"

Ummmmm.....well, there were those two babies I thought I was going to be taking care of 24/7, but that kinda fell through...

We can do better.

We can try harder to not flinch and run away from the subjects of death, loss, illness and grief.

We can put on our big girl underpants and remind ourselves that this is part of being a real grown up, and a compassionate human being, and (if that is your thing) a child of God who believes we are not only here to love one another but that we have been commanded to love one another.

And all of this is to say why I believe the work of Soulumination and the photographs they take and the families that agree to share them with us, all matter so much.

I didn't think I wanted photographs of my babies. My mom asked several times if I wanted her to bring a camera in case we wanted photos after they were born. I said, no. I was scared and sad and I didn't know what to expect and I didn't think it was anything I was going to want to remember with something as vivid as photographs.

Our nurse took some pictures anyway. They weren't very good, nothing like a photographer from Soul would have been able to do, but I will never stop being grateful to her for knowing better than I did what I would need later.

Photographs, especially beautiful, professional photographs like the ones Soulumination provides, do so many things for families. Depending on the age of the child they might mean different things to different people. I can only speak to what it means to lose a tiny infant who never comes home.

For me, those photos are validation. They are proof. They are evidence that even if no one outside my immediate family ever saw our babies, they existed. I had a reason for my sorrow. It wasn't just my imagination and all of those well-meaning words about how it "wasn't meant to be" were irrefutably wrong. They were meant to be, I know that because they were here. Yes, something went wrong- as it does all too often in our fallen world- but they were meant to be.

I have the pictures to prove it.

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I encourage you to read the article about Soulumination that recently appeared in Slate Magazine.

Low-drama Mama

The other night Annie and I were having one of our many, many, many chats about school and friendships and the trials and tribulations of navigating both. Inevitably the conversation drifted toward a discussion about "friend drama" and we ended up talking about what it means to be "dramatic" versus what it means to just express your feelings.

It's a fine line, don't you think?

Anyway, it was a lighthearted conversation and not particularly angst-filled so at one point I leaned in close to Annie and teasingly said, "Do you know who my most dramatic child is?"

Without blinking or missing a beat, Annie looked me straight in the eye and said flatly...

"Tim."

She's catching on, that girl. I think she's gonna be okay.

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The last time I felt really sad about one of my kids taking the next inevitable step in life was when Timothy was graduating from pre-K. He was my baby then and we had been trying for over a year to have another baby so I had a lot of emotions about seeing my littlest taking the next big leap forward. But considering that was 10 years ago now, and given the fairly significant extenuating circumstances, that should give you some indication of my approach to seeing my kids moving upward and onward.

I have never cried a single tear when one of my kids started preschool, Kindergarten or any other grade.

Even when we forced Jack and Tim to change schools in the 8th and 5th grade respectively, and they were upset and nervous and sad about the change, I sent them off to their new school that first day with nary a tear.

When we had our baby, little Annie, change schools a month into her Kindergarten year I dropped her off with butterflies in my stomach but dry eyes.

Now, lest you think I'm cold-hearted, it's not that I didn't have heartfelt, conflicted emotions around all of those events. I prayed mightily for my boys that our decision to change schools would prove wise in the long run. I watched my little girl walk into that new, big school and part of me wanted to run after her and whisk her right back home with me.

But, at the end of the day, as much as there is always part of me that wishes I could slow the hands of time, there is a bigger part of me that sees how ready they are to take that next step. Sometimes more than ready. And life has taught me that holding them back would not only be futile but potentially disastrous. Because my experience is that when a kid is ready for more, leaving him in a place that is stifling him is only asking for trouble.

Anyone who knows me well knows I have many sad feelings about our first child leaving the nest. I don't think anyone can blame me for feeling nostalgic and wistful about such a major life event. But when people talk about tears at graduation or when we drop him off at college, I honestly cannot predict what will happen. I keep telling Superdad to be prepared for anything. I could sail through his graduation with smiles and cheers and nothing more than tremendous pride (and relief), or I could be a torrent of embarrassing, ugly, snot-filled sobbing.

I wish I knew.

I do know though that he is ready. Not ready for every single thing that is going to come his way from this point forward. None of us are ever wholly ready for every eventuality life can throw at us. But he is ready to be done with high school. He is ready to test those wings out in bigger skies, with a smaller safety net. He's starting to chafe against the restraints that are a necessary part of keeping high schoolers in line and teachers sane. And he's ready to trade those restraints for the responsibility that comes with owning your own decisions and your mistakes.

I have seen a lot of kids making some questionable choices as they approach the finish line and as an adult it is so hard not to want to scream at them and ask, "Why are you doing this? You are almost done! Can't you just get through a few more weeks??"

They are acting like children because they are dying not to be anymore.

They remind me of race horses penned into the starting gate. The agitation is palpable. They are straining at the bit and the reins attempting to keep them contained. They prance in place, knowing they can't move forward yet but all of their pent up energy won't allow them to be still. All of their attention and focus is centered on the freedom that they know is coming but is not here yet.

Which is why I don't know that there will be any tears at my son's graduation.

I will be proud and exuberant and yes, a little relieved...but I don't know that I will be sad.

He's so ready.

And as much as I love that boy and will miss a thousand things about having him in our home on a daily basis.

I really am excited for him.

P.S. So, just hold on a few more weeks, son... You are almost there. Just coast to the finish line, Buddy. We are rooting for you all the way.

Kindergarten

The rocky road

I have mixed feelings about Mother's Day.

Don't get me wrong, I certainly enjoy being served my favorite latte along with some sort of purchased baked good while still rubbing the sleep from my eyes and wondering what happened to "sleeping in"(I requested a long time ago that my mother's day breakfast come from Starbucks and not our kitchen). And I always get a kick out of my boy's yearly efforts at putting into writing how much they appreciate the clean laundry, food, shelter and general happiness they receive as members of this household. And, of course, there is sweet Annie who would turn the day into an all-out morning-until-night-snuggle-fest if I would let her (and I probably would if we didn't have to get to church). Then there's Superdad who is always thoughtful and in spite of my efforts to keep the bar low he never fails to make it a lovely day (well, there was that one year early in our marriage when I spent the day doing several loads of laundry... but he never let that happen again).

So, it's not that it isn't a nice day. And it's not that I don't enjoy receiving gifts, treats and a little appreciation as much as the next gal.

I just know that as hard as it is to be a mom, sometimes....it can be even harder to become a mother at all. And that is something that is never far from my mind on Mother's Day.

I've tried to be very open about the fact that all of our children were conceived with the help of various forms of fertility therapy. It wasn't always easy to be so transparent about such a personal endeavor, and certainly when we were first going through our struggles to have a baby it wasn't something I advertised to the world. But one of the reasons I believe Jack is here today is because someone else, a virtual stranger, a friend of a friend, chose to be vocal about her fertility struggles and gently offered me some advice and guidance that I am convinced (because I was there), changed everything.

Once I had made it to the other side and had become an infertility success story, I made every effort to be that person for others. I didn't put a big yard sign out with 'Got Questions?' on it in big letters, but I also didn't shy away from being honest about my story. Sure enough, there would be the occasional phone call, or the acquaintance who pulled me aside at a social gathering, or the friend who would want to know how they could be of help to their friend, or sister, or cousin...Other women quietly struggling, feeling alone and wondering how to cope with the grief that keeps mounting month after month after month.

So, there is that. One reason Mother's Day resonates with me in a way that is both happy and sad.

Little did I know then that there would be more twists and turns in my path of motherhood. New sorrows and new lessons learned. Two precious babies, born too small and gone too soon. Again though, as I emerged from the fog of grief (which took awhile) I made a decision not to hide our family's loss in the hopes that by making our babies known, others with their own angel babies would feel less alone.

So, there is that, too.

But, nowadays, my ambivalence has far less to do with my own rocky road of motherhood than it does with my deep sadness for all of the other rocky roads out there.

Motherhood is not for everyone and some women choose to remain childless. That is a choice to be respected and honored. But there are so many for whom motherhood is something they long for, have strived for and yet for countless reasons, remains beyond their grasp.

It breaks my heart.

Which is all part of why I have always created an atmosphere of low expectations surrounding Mother's Day in my household. I want my family to know that while I appreciate all of their love and thoughtful gestures, they really aren't necessary.

I am the lucky one.