Today I witnessed something that made me feel sad, confused, and, in a way, angry. All at once. That's a lot of feelings to roll up into a ball and toss
anyone's way, but I had to take a moment to get it out of my head. I hope you don't mind.
I suppose I should start by setting a background to our parenting style. You see, I was raised with the belief that respect is something that is earned, not a given right. If I wanted my parents to respect me, I needed to first and foremost show respect to them. And not just because I wanted to be respected, mind you, but because...(are you ready for this?) they were the parents. How do you like that one, huh?
Cardinal rule number one in our house is firm: Children will respect and obey the parents.
Does this mean we dominate our kids and treat them like chattel? Of course not. We love them dearly and want them to feel secure in these truths: Mom and Dad are there for them. Will protect them. Care for them. Provide for them. Will listen to them about anything they need to say. Will love them unconditionally. Always. Part of instilling that sense of safety is by setting rules and letting them know that however much they want to, they do not rule our roost. That's our job. It's a big job, but it's one we signed on for. Let us take the reins on this one, sweetums. We've got it.
Okay, so back to today.
I was waiting for the girls to finish up a dance class and had the opportunity to watch a mother and her son, who appeared to be about the same age as the girls, perhaps a bit older. He was playing a video game while sitting in a chair.
The office was getting crowded, so his mom asked him to move to a smaller, Kid-Appropriate chair to make room from some of the other adults. He ignored her.
She asked again. He threw an angry look that included his eyes and his upper body, physically grinding himself into the chair in defiance. His eyes screamed, Make Me.
She gave up. Stopped asking him.
Adults shuffled in around all of us, the room was crowded. Everyone was just standing.
She made one more attempt to have this kiddo move to the children's area. "Please move to that blue chair."
He looked up with effort from his game. Met her eyes with his. "Blah-blah-blah-blah. Stop talking to me. Can't you see I'm concentrating?"
His tone smacked me in the face, and I have no idea who he is and doubt I'll have to deal with him again. But what about his mom?
She just smiled at the curious strangers around us. Perhaps to say, "Oh yes, this happens all of the time. It's normal you see. He never listens to me."
Every part of me was itching with sheer irritation. Why didn't she do something? This kid has been given the freedom to set his own limits, move back the boundaries, live in his own world. Now would be the perfect time to pull out some Love & Logic and turn this bad choice into a learning moment.
Instead, she pulled out her phone and proceeded to peruse the Internet. Content to wait. Meanwhile, Lil' Mr. Sassy pants played on, game volume turned to High. Now, my girls travel with their video games when I know we'll be waiting for awhile, so I am all for the simplicity of letting technology keep an otherwise bored kid out of your hair. For us though, when they are playing the games in public, the sound is off on them. No questions asked. The girls are good at this now, turning the volume off before the game even starts up.
Mom was getting annoyed at the dinky-tink-tink-waaa litany coming from the device and asked him to turn the volume down. He ignored her. Played on. She asked again. He threw The Look and squared off his shoulders. (I have seen that stance on many a student. He was prepped for battle, this one). She shrugged her shoulders and sat back against her seat. Back to the Internet again. Defeated.
Honestly, the whole thing made me sad. How tiring her days must be, forever struggling with him over small things like these. How draining. How long those 24 must seem, when one hour to the next is a new battle. An ongoing war.
I'm not judging here, either. I am not. My girls have their days, and I'm sure some people have looked at me and thought, "What is up with that lady?" I do not judge.
Truthfully, the entire scene made me incredibly thankful. Thankful for so many things. I'm thankful that my parents raised me with the beliefs that they did, and that their parenting style was one that made me see the importance of respect. I'm thankful that even when it was hard, and when Dan and I were sleep exhausted and consumed with the need for a laissez-faire attitude, we still persevered with a discipline. Still pushed on with another time out, another "Bummer, this is so sad...." I don't have these constant struggles with my girls. I have struggles, sure, but...not constantly. Not non-stop.
After dance class, I felt the very strong need to hug them.
"You two are pretty good kids, aren't you?" I asked them on the car ride home.
"We are, Mommy. You're pretty good too, you know."
"Hey thanks, loves. Do you know I love you?"
"Of course, Mother!" Caedance laughed.
Ashlyn added, "We love are-chother."
"We sure do, sprite."
We sure do.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Grandpa Celebration Weekend
This weekend has been Grandfather Celebration Weekend for our family. One evening we spent celebrating the 88th birthday of my husband's paternal grandfather, and the next evening was devoted the 85th birthday of my husband's maternal grandfather.
Two truly amazing gentlemen who have led extraordinary lives, and who have been strong leaders for two very beautiful families.
Spending time with the familiar faces of this family that I was blessed to have married in to, surrounded by the stories and laughter I've been around for the last 14 years, got me thinking about how much I miss my own grandparents.
I have two dear sets of biological grandparents who left my life too soon. My mother's parents had passed on before I even had a chance to meet them. I grew up with their histories on her lips, their faces in her smile, their presence fully felt by me in an odd and comforting way. Even though I haven't met them, I know they're with me. I like to think they're proud of me. (I rather like to think I've turned out okay).
My father's parents were apart of my early childhood. I have vague memories of a dim house and a Formica table with those very shiny red chairs. The red plastic seats that had little sparkles in them. (If they truly existed outside my memory, I loved those chairs.) I remember pictures on the wall, filled with black and white photos of faces I never really could place. I remember my grandparents together in that house.
My grandfather died when I was very young, and I honestly can't recall at what age I could have been. 5? Maybe younger. I remember he was in the hospital. I remember he would always save me an apple. A Red Delicious apple. The ironic thing is that I do not like Red Delicious apples, or any apple for that matter. I never have. Oh, but I've always thought they were beautiful. The quintessential apple; red and shiny. And shaped like a tooth, to boot. I was never ever allowed to have a whole apple myself. (Why would I be when I never ate them?) I always wanted my own though. There was a very distinct joy in having the freedom to eat an apple just the way it was, or so I thought, bite for bite. So he would give me one every time I visited, probably saved from his meal tray. Naturally, I was delighted and eagerly bit in with gusto. And naturally I had no desire to take any more bites after that first one. (It's funny how our parents seem to know exactly what we're going to do before we do it, isn't it?) I have no memory of what happened to my many uneaten apples. Were they pitched? Did someone else eat them? I was so young, one might even question if this memory happened at all. But I like to think it did; my grandfather saving me an apple he knew I wouldn't eat, just because he knew his granddaughter would be ecstatic about having one. All to herself. (Grandfathers are pretty cool like that).
My dad's mother was around for my childhood and those awkward years that happen between 12 and adulthood; otherwise known as The Teen Years. My memories are filled with Easter baskets filled with Kit Kats (which she knew were my favorite), pretty bracelets at Christmas. And lots of Elvis music. Honestly, every time I hear an Elvis song I am transported back to her living room on our weekly Sunday visit.
She saw me get married and begin the next phase of my life. I'm glad she was there for that.
Four distinct people who are a part of my life and a link to who I am. They're a piece of my history. A piece of me. I feel their presence in various ways. Making Chicken Paprikash pulls me back to my paternal grandparents; the sauce, not too thick with sour cream; dumplings, never noodles, thick and doughy.
The breakfast staple at our house, "Patch In The Eye" is one of my links to my mom's parents. Otherwise known as "One Eyed Jacks", though my daughters prefer to call them "Pirates In A Hole" and I really don't know why. My mom tells me when she ate them as a kid, my grandfather had the kids eat them under the table. My kiddos sit at the table, but it's a tip of the hat to Grandpa Rogal just the same.
I am grateful for those precious links. For those cherished memories, whether real or created in my mind. They are a part of who I am today. Their stories are told to my daughters who will know them through me. I like the imagery of that, the legacies of the past moving forward, ever onward, generation after generation.
And for the two men I've been lucky enough to call Grandpa for the last 14 years of my life? I feel so very fortunate. My daughters are growing up surrounded by "Grands" in their Great Grandparents, Grandparents, and Great Aunts and Great Uncles.(And of course some pretty great Aunts & Uncles; let's not forget about them). Their childhood memories will be filled with sleepovers that don't include those annoying bedtimes, dinners that include an extra dessert (sometimes even before dinner), a surplus of that most luxurious of all beverages, Cream Soda, funny stories with animal noises, and more hugs than they'll ever know what to do with.
If that's not a pretty great start in life, I don't know what could be.
Happy Birthday, Grandpa Dickinson
Happy Birthday, Grandpa Avsec
Here's to many more.
Two truly amazing gentlemen who have led extraordinary lives, and who have been strong leaders for two very beautiful families.
Spending time with the familiar faces of this family that I was blessed to have married in to, surrounded by the stories and laughter I've been around for the last 14 years, got me thinking about how much I miss my own grandparents.
I have two dear sets of biological grandparents who left my life too soon. My mother's parents had passed on before I even had a chance to meet them. I grew up with their histories on her lips, their faces in her smile, their presence fully felt by me in an odd and comforting way. Even though I haven't met them, I know they're with me. I like to think they're proud of me. (I rather like to think I've turned out okay).
My father's parents were apart of my early childhood. I have vague memories of a dim house and a Formica table with those very shiny red chairs. The red plastic seats that had little sparkles in them. (If they truly existed outside my memory, I loved those chairs.) I remember pictures on the wall, filled with black and white photos of faces I never really could place. I remember my grandparents together in that house.
My grandfather died when I was very young, and I honestly can't recall at what age I could have been. 5? Maybe younger. I remember he was in the hospital. I remember he would always save me an apple. A Red Delicious apple. The ironic thing is that I do not like Red Delicious apples, or any apple for that matter. I never have. Oh, but I've always thought they were beautiful. The quintessential apple; red and shiny. And shaped like a tooth, to boot. I was never ever allowed to have a whole apple myself. (Why would I be when I never ate them?) I always wanted my own though. There was a very distinct joy in having the freedom to eat an apple just the way it was, or so I thought, bite for bite. So he would give me one every time I visited, probably saved from his meal tray. Naturally, I was delighted and eagerly bit in with gusto. And naturally I had no desire to take any more bites after that first one. (It's funny how our parents seem to know exactly what we're going to do before we do it, isn't it?) I have no memory of what happened to my many uneaten apples. Were they pitched? Did someone else eat them? I was so young, one might even question if this memory happened at all. But I like to think it did; my grandfather saving me an apple he knew I wouldn't eat, just because he knew his granddaughter would be ecstatic about having one. All to herself. (Grandfathers are pretty cool like that).
My dad's mother was around for my childhood and those awkward years that happen between 12 and adulthood; otherwise known as The Teen Years. My memories are filled with Easter baskets filled with Kit Kats (which she knew were my favorite), pretty bracelets at Christmas. And lots of Elvis music. Honestly, every time I hear an Elvis song I am transported back to her living room on our weekly Sunday visit.
She saw me get married and begin the next phase of my life. I'm glad she was there for that.
Four distinct people who are a part of my life and a link to who I am. They're a piece of my history. A piece of me. I feel their presence in various ways. Making Chicken Paprikash pulls me back to my paternal grandparents; the sauce, not too thick with sour cream; dumplings, never noodles, thick and doughy.
The breakfast staple at our house, "Patch In The Eye" is one of my links to my mom's parents. Otherwise known as "One Eyed Jacks", though my daughters prefer to call them "Pirates In A Hole" and I really don't know why. My mom tells me when she ate them as a kid, my grandfather had the kids eat them under the table. My kiddos sit at the table, but it's a tip of the hat to Grandpa Rogal just the same.
I am grateful for those precious links. For those cherished memories, whether real or created in my mind. They are a part of who I am today. Their stories are told to my daughters who will know them through me. I like the imagery of that, the legacies of the past moving forward, ever onward, generation after generation.
And for the two men I've been lucky enough to call Grandpa for the last 14 years of my life? I feel so very fortunate. My daughters are growing up surrounded by "Grands" in their Great Grandparents, Grandparents, and Great Aunts and Great Uncles.(And of course some pretty great Aunts & Uncles; let's not forget about them). Their childhood memories will be filled with sleepovers that don't include those annoying bedtimes, dinners that include an extra dessert (sometimes even before dinner), a surplus of that most luxurious of all beverages, Cream Soda, funny stories with animal noises, and more hugs than they'll ever know what to do with.
If that's not a pretty great start in life, I don't know what could be.
Happy Birthday, Grandpa Dickinson
Happy Birthday, Grandpa Avsec
Here's to many more.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
12 Unfilled Pages
Here we are once more. Another year has slid away into the murky reminders of yesterday. Before us is the dawn of a new year, filled with possibilities, a multitude of unknowns awaiting around the corner.
I find I'm rather two sided about the start of another new year. On the one hand I confess to a certain thrill when unwrapping that new calender and skimming through the pages. They're all unfilled; blank and ripe with possibility. Each little box has the potential to be so many things. They're just waiting for their time to come, to unfold in the tidy sequential order in the great cycle of Time. There is an excitement in that. A daily present to unwrap and discover.
On the other hand, there is the uncertainty. A whole 12 months yawn before you. 365 days of Who Knows What lurking on each page. In some strange way it makes me think of a haunted house with glaring things half hidden around each corner, every turn a twist in a plan you didn't know you were following. Scary stuff.
I think I'll choose the former and leave the latter confined to the starkness of this page. Out of sight out of mind, as it were.
What do you hope for in this New Year? What will you make out of 2012?
The way I see it, we all start with the same tools: that blank calendar with 12, as of yet, unfilled months. Each of us has a choice to fill those boxes with love and hope, with peace and kindness. Or we can spend our time fearing each box, worried what each one will bring. From one moment to another, fearing, fretting, worrying.
Let's face it, those darned boxes will fill up quickly. Pens will fly and plans will be set in ink. Pages will turn as weeks and months go by. It happens with our without our knowledge. In a blink of an eye.
What am I going to do with this opportunity? With this New Year?
I think I'll fill those boxes with happiness. I choose to let go of so much of the worry that seems forever tied to me, my unwanted passenger. My eyes will focus on the path I am on, not on the journeys I am not taking. One step at a time. Forward. Onward. Face, forever looking up.
Looking up. Taking it all in.
Life is a journey. This year will be a journey. Take it all in. Enjoy the scenery. Fill those boxes with things that matter and leave the other stuff to the years gone by. Behind. In the past.
Hey, 2012. Nice to meet you. Let's go.
I find I'm rather two sided about the start of another new year. On the one hand I confess to a certain thrill when unwrapping that new calender and skimming through the pages. They're all unfilled; blank and ripe with possibility. Each little box has the potential to be so many things. They're just waiting for their time to come, to unfold in the tidy sequential order in the great cycle of Time. There is an excitement in that. A daily present to unwrap and discover.
On the other hand, there is the uncertainty. A whole 12 months yawn before you. 365 days of Who Knows What lurking on each page. In some strange way it makes me think of a haunted house with glaring things half hidden around each corner, every turn a twist in a plan you didn't know you were following. Scary stuff.
I think I'll choose the former and leave the latter confined to the starkness of this page. Out of sight out of mind, as it were.
What do you hope for in this New Year? What will you make out of 2012?
The way I see it, we all start with the same tools: that blank calendar with 12, as of yet, unfilled months. Each of us has a choice to fill those boxes with love and hope, with peace and kindness. Or we can spend our time fearing each box, worried what each one will bring. From one moment to another, fearing, fretting, worrying.
Let's face it, those darned boxes will fill up quickly. Pens will fly and plans will be set in ink. Pages will turn as weeks and months go by. It happens with our without our knowledge. In a blink of an eye.
What am I going to do with this opportunity? With this New Year?
I think I'll fill those boxes with happiness. I choose to let go of so much of the worry that seems forever tied to me, my unwanted passenger. My eyes will focus on the path I am on, not on the journeys I am not taking. One step at a time. Forward. Onward. Face, forever looking up.
Looking up. Taking it all in.
Life is a journey. This year will be a journey. Take it all in. Enjoy the scenery. Fill those boxes with things that matter and leave the other stuff to the years gone by. Behind. In the past.
Hey, 2012. Nice to meet you. Let's go.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
It's MINE.
The girls are 7 now. I really would have thought that, having reached this age in development that we would be blessedly passed certain, shall we say, undesirable behaviors.
It would seem not.
Given two toys, which are exactly the same in every single way, these two will fight like gladiators.
"She took mine!" Ashlyn growls.
"No. It's MINE!" screeches Caedance at a tremendously high pitch.
("Girls, please let's not fight over the doll. You both have the same one.")
"Give it to me. Now." Ashlyn is sneering now; lip curled, eyebrows furrowed, stance widened and ready for attack.
"It's mine, sister." Caedance straightens herself up to her full height, which currently falls just 1/4 inch shorter than Ashlyn. Chest out. Shoulders back. Poised to intimidate.
("Girls. You are fighting over two dolls that are exactly the same. If you must fight, choose something that at least makes sense. This doesn't make any at all.")
Did I mention the toys in question are identical? I'm not stupid, you know. I know better than to order or purchase two different anythings right now. Nope. These two Peach Dolls (from Mario Brothers) are the same. Twins, you might laughingly say.
But I dare not laugh. No I do not. I am watching the epic battle gearing up in front of me. Who will win? Will it be the curly headed one with the snarl. Or perhaps the curly headed one striking the pose?
Really. It's the SAME toy.
I could sit back and let them settle this. Duke it out. Swat at each other till it's all done. Maybe bite. I don't honestly know what exactly they would do.
I do know that they are 7 years old and I had really hoped we'd be somewhat past this incredibly banal stage of Mine-No-Mine. But I was wrong. So I shall settle the mess in the only way I have patience for in this exact moment in time.
I swoop in to the battleground, firmly planting myself between the troops. Ashyn is still stooped with the snarl on her face. Caedance is still taking the walled approach. Both are emitting some strange growling sound, although Caedance's is much higher and whinier. In one mighty motion I reach forth and sweep both Peach dolls from their grasps, swooshing them up and out of sight.
Both girls drop the snarls and look at me in disbelief.
Perhaps they thought Peach had grown magic and flown away.
Perhaps, with their prey out of sight, the predator forgot what the fight was about.
Perhaps they were just stunned for a moment to have mom intervene.
But I did.
("Peach will be going away now, my cherubs. Both of them. Like your mother, they tire of the fighting. Especially since, like me, they have no clue what exactly you're fighting about. They agree that they are EXACTLY the same. So they are off to a land where children don't fight over them and will return, perhaps, some other day.")
Goodbye, Peach. It's been real.....well...loud having your here.
So now the Peach dolls sit and wait.
We'll try it again another day.
Really, they are honestly the same doll. How do they even KNOW which one they've got?
It would seem not.
Given two toys, which are exactly the same in every single way, these two will fight like gladiators.
"She took mine!" Ashlyn growls.
"No. It's MINE!" screeches Caedance at a tremendously high pitch.
("Girls, please let's not fight over the doll. You both have the same one.")
"Give it to me. Now." Ashlyn is sneering now; lip curled, eyebrows furrowed, stance widened and ready for attack.
"It's mine, sister." Caedance straightens herself up to her full height, which currently falls just 1/4 inch shorter than Ashlyn. Chest out. Shoulders back. Poised to intimidate.
("Girls. You are fighting over two dolls that are exactly the same. If you must fight, choose something that at least makes sense. This doesn't make any at all.")
Did I mention the toys in question are identical? I'm not stupid, you know. I know better than to order or purchase two different anythings right now. Nope. These two Peach Dolls (from Mario Brothers) are the same. Twins, you might laughingly say.
But I dare not laugh. No I do not. I am watching the epic battle gearing up in front of me. Who will win? Will it be the curly headed one with the snarl. Or perhaps the curly headed one striking the pose?
Really. It's the SAME toy.
I could sit back and let them settle this. Duke it out. Swat at each other till it's all done. Maybe bite. I don't honestly know what exactly they would do.
I do know that they are 7 years old and I had really hoped we'd be somewhat past this incredibly banal stage of Mine-No-Mine. But I was wrong. So I shall settle the mess in the only way I have patience for in this exact moment in time.
I swoop in to the battleground, firmly planting myself between the troops. Ashyn is still stooped with the snarl on her face. Caedance is still taking the walled approach. Both are emitting some strange growling sound, although Caedance's is much higher and whinier. In one mighty motion I reach forth and sweep both Peach dolls from their grasps, swooshing them up and out of sight.
Both girls drop the snarls and look at me in disbelief.
Perhaps they thought Peach had grown magic and flown away.
Perhaps, with their prey out of sight, the predator forgot what the fight was about.
Perhaps they were just stunned for a moment to have mom intervene.
But I did.
("Peach will be going away now, my cherubs. Both of them. Like your mother, they tire of the fighting. Especially since, like me, they have no clue what exactly you're fighting about. They agree that they are EXACTLY the same. So they are off to a land where children don't fight over them and will return, perhaps, some other day.")
Goodbye, Peach. It's been real.....well...loud having your here.
So now the Peach dolls sit and wait.
We'll try it again another day.
Really, they are honestly the same doll. How do they even KNOW which one they've got?
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Away For The Night
The girls are up in bed. They call it being "Put Away For The Night". It's an odd title for certain, one come up with on some long ago nightly trek up the stairs. I can't remember how long ago now.
There must have been that last sippy; older still, perhaps a last bottle. Surely there would have been the last trip to the bathroom to brush teeth, etc, etc. Most definitely one final story. Followed eventually by the Okay-This-Is-Absolutely-The-Last-Book-Do-You-Understand-'Cause-I-Mean-It-This-Time-I-Really-Do story. And of course the last call for hugs all around. Everyone involved in this no-holds-barred tangle of family that is and always has been our Night Time Hugs. One last round of "Good Night" and "Sweet Dream" wishes all around.
During one of those countless and precious evenings, it was titled "Putting The Girls Away For The Night". And it has stuck. In some off beat way, it has become our family vernacular for nighttime.
Highly progressed from the days of yore, the days when The Routine took nearly an hour and had to be very dutifully adhered to under threat of non-compliance by our munchkins. The processional of today is a streamlined version, everything abbreviated and shortened. Except for the hug; that still remains the raucous family event of its ancestor.
When the announcement heralds "Time to put the girls away for the night!" 4 feet march to the kitchen for that last slosh of water; 4 feet go marching loudly up the stairs to the bathroom; 2 feet go bounding into the bottom bed while the other set prefers to creep quietly to the top bunk. There is the round of "Good Nights". The sweet sounds of "Sleep Tights". The story. The last story. The Really Last Story.
All quickened. Deviations from the procedure go forgiven now. An oversight in the production go forgotten. It's a different time. Different children in some ways.
But it's still the same title. The same name.
Putting The Children Away For The Night.
I smile at that. So much changes as they grow up. So many things learned and altered. Even amongst the complexities and completeness of those changes, some of the most basic things stay the same.
There must have been that last sippy; older still, perhaps a last bottle. Surely there would have been the last trip to the bathroom to brush teeth, etc, etc. Most definitely one final story. Followed eventually by the Okay-This-Is-Absolutely-The-Last-Book-Do-You-Understand-'Cause-I-Mean-It-This-Time-I-Really-Do story. And of course the last call for hugs all around. Everyone involved in this no-holds-barred tangle of family that is and always has been our Night Time Hugs. One last round of "Good Night" and "Sweet Dream" wishes all around.
During one of those countless and precious evenings, it was titled "Putting The Girls Away For The Night". And it has stuck. In some off beat way, it has become our family vernacular for nighttime.
Highly progressed from the days of yore, the days when The Routine took nearly an hour and had to be very dutifully adhered to under threat of non-compliance by our munchkins. The processional of today is a streamlined version, everything abbreviated and shortened. Except for the hug; that still remains the raucous family event of its ancestor.
When the announcement heralds "Time to put the girls away for the night!" 4 feet march to the kitchen for that last slosh of water; 4 feet go marching loudly up the stairs to the bathroom; 2 feet go bounding into the bottom bed while the other set prefers to creep quietly to the top bunk. There is the round of "Good Nights". The sweet sounds of "Sleep Tights". The story. The last story. The Really Last Story.
All quickened. Deviations from the procedure go forgiven now. An oversight in the production go forgotten. It's a different time. Different children in some ways.
But it's still the same title. The same name.
Putting The Children Away For The Night.
I smile at that. So much changes as they grow up. So many things learned and altered. Even amongst the complexities and completeness of those changes, some of the most basic things stay the same.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Choices, choices, choices.
I had the strangest thought today. It popped into my head at some odd moment or another, lodged itself in there, and refused to leave. Ever have that? You just can't seem to shake it. For better or for worse, it stays with you for the rest of your day. For me, it ruminates in the old gray matter, stewing until I sit down and give it free run of the place, through my fingers and onto this page.
My mental fixation today, 2 days after Christmas, has been the paths I've taken (or not taken), and choices I've made (or didn't make, if that were the case). And how those actions shaped me into who I see in the mirror today. Pretty heavy stuff, huh? I'm not really one to focus on existential thoughts of being who I am versus becoming who I am meant to be. I leave those gems for the philosophers, and quite frankly I just don't have the patience for it.
But every once in awhile I can't help but wonder......
I was just 2 easy classes and an added Praxis away from getting my Kindergarten certification. Did you know that? At the time I really didn't think having that additional certification was necessary. First through the Eighth grades was plenty. And yet.....and yet when I got out into the world of education, starting off as a very busy substitute teacher, I spent most of my time where? Ah yes, in Kindergarten classrooms. Which I adored, by the way. And when the position I had been subbing opened up, could I be considered for it? Alas, no. Because of 2 short classes and a test.
Would I be a stay at home mom now if I had taken a different path then?
Then too there is the question of my husband. We met at a summer church camp. I attended the church, but he didn't. Yet we both made choices to work there. That summer. Our paths hardly ever crossed, our circles spinning very distinctly in different directions. He spending his every single hour with his duties as a camp counselor, and me in the roasting heat of the kitchen. And yet.......and yet by the end of that summer we were dating, and just months from that we were engaged. What if one or both of us hadn't decided to work there? I am a self-described home body who never had any desire to leave home or strike out on my own. Besides that, I was miserable on the few occasions when I actually attended said camp as a camper myself. What on earth made me think I wanted to work there all summer?
Would I be who I am today if I hadn't? Would Dan and I have still met, somehow?
These are just 2 of the millions of choices I've made. Any of us, all of us, have made millions of decisions just like this, and they each shape our lives in some way. Stay or go? Left or right? Here or there? Yes or no? Every day is an onslaught of This or That choices that we make whether we're aware of making them or not. And I think they all have some impact on us, or those around us. And it's all too easy to sit back afterward and wonder if it had all been done differently, would the outcome still be the same.
Some people look at all this as so many random occurrences. A whole lot of nothings that may possibly add up to a monumental something. But it's all random. Or is it?
I feels things quite differently. When I look back to those moments where I was conscious of having a real choice to make--a yes or no---I can honestly say that I have felt led to make whichever choice I did. I've never felt alone. Never felt like I was the victim of some random act of who knows what.
Each choice, for better or for worse, was the one I was supposed to make.
Thinking back to those 2 classes and a test, I remember that last semester of course planning. I remember seeing the titles of the classes in question and seeing that they fit into my rather easy (for once) schedule that Spring. I had them both on my list. I almost registered for them. But it didn't feel right. I can't explain it any other way than that. It wouldn't have been right for me to take those classes, and I knew it. So no classes, no extra Praxis, no Kindergarten certification.
And that's okay.
Same thing with my husband of 13 lovely years. Time may be speeding away, but for some odd reason I still remember applying for that camp job. (I can't remember what I made for dinner last night, or what color my socks are without checking, but I can quite vividly remember that. Go figure.) I can still feel that sense of anxiety over the prospect of being away from home and the uncertainty of how that would be. All those nagging little worries that went along with that choice to submit that application. But it felt right. It was the right thing for me to do. And so I did. And you know what? I think it was quite right for me. (Somehow I think Dan would agree with me on that point.)
For me, things aren't random. I truly feel in the deepest parts of my very being that God has led me down a path. This path. It's not always the easiest path. There are bumps and stumbles along the way. There are the times, like today, when I mentally wonder about all of those countless little and big choices I've faced. They've made me who I am. Who I am right now.
And that's okay. I see myself quite clearly. I am at this place as the result of a million or more choices and daily decisions, but I wasn't alone in making them. Never once. I know that beyond a doubt.
In fact, at this exact moment my beloved is playing one of those strange video games that, to an observer (and uninterested party) like me, appears to blur the line between reality and fiction. Is this a movie? Is it a game? What is this? I could stay and watch. (And be confused). I could. But I'm going to execute one of those daily choices and move my little old self upstairs to my waiting nook and a Stephen King diddy. I'll admit that I am making this one on my own. Fully on my own. But I'm feeling pretty clear about it.
Good choice.
My mental fixation today, 2 days after Christmas, has been the paths I've taken (or not taken), and choices I've made (or didn't make, if that were the case). And how those actions shaped me into who I see in the mirror today. Pretty heavy stuff, huh? I'm not really one to focus on existential thoughts of being who I am versus becoming who I am meant to be. I leave those gems for the philosophers, and quite frankly I just don't have the patience for it.
But every once in awhile I can't help but wonder......
I was just 2 easy classes and an added Praxis away from getting my Kindergarten certification. Did you know that? At the time I really didn't think having that additional certification was necessary. First through the Eighth grades was plenty. And yet.....and yet when I got out into the world of education, starting off as a very busy substitute teacher, I spent most of my time where? Ah yes, in Kindergarten classrooms. Which I adored, by the way. And when the position I had been subbing opened up, could I be considered for it? Alas, no. Because of 2 short classes and a test.
Would I be a stay at home mom now if I had taken a different path then?
Then too there is the question of my husband. We met at a summer church camp. I attended the church, but he didn't. Yet we both made choices to work there. That summer. Our paths hardly ever crossed, our circles spinning very distinctly in different directions. He spending his every single hour with his duties as a camp counselor, and me in the roasting heat of the kitchen. And yet.......and yet by the end of that summer we were dating, and just months from that we were engaged. What if one or both of us hadn't decided to work there? I am a self-described home body who never had any desire to leave home or strike out on my own. Besides that, I was miserable on the few occasions when I actually attended said camp as a camper myself. What on earth made me think I wanted to work there all summer?
Would I be who I am today if I hadn't? Would Dan and I have still met, somehow?
These are just 2 of the millions of choices I've made. Any of us, all of us, have made millions of decisions just like this, and they each shape our lives in some way. Stay or go? Left or right? Here or there? Yes or no? Every day is an onslaught of This or That choices that we make whether we're aware of making them or not. And I think they all have some impact on us, or those around us. And it's all too easy to sit back afterward and wonder if it had all been done differently, would the outcome still be the same.
Some people look at all this as so many random occurrences. A whole lot of nothings that may possibly add up to a monumental something. But it's all random. Or is it?
I feels things quite differently. When I look back to those moments where I was conscious of having a real choice to make--a yes or no---I can honestly say that I have felt led to make whichever choice I did. I've never felt alone. Never felt like I was the victim of some random act of who knows what.
Each choice, for better or for worse, was the one I was supposed to make.
Thinking back to those 2 classes and a test, I remember that last semester of course planning. I remember seeing the titles of the classes in question and seeing that they fit into my rather easy (for once) schedule that Spring. I had them both on my list. I almost registered for them. But it didn't feel right. I can't explain it any other way than that. It wouldn't have been right for me to take those classes, and I knew it. So no classes, no extra Praxis, no Kindergarten certification.
And that's okay.
Same thing with my husband of 13 lovely years. Time may be speeding away, but for some odd reason I still remember applying for that camp job. (I can't remember what I made for dinner last night, or what color my socks are without checking, but I can quite vividly remember that. Go figure.) I can still feel that sense of anxiety over the prospect of being away from home and the uncertainty of how that would be. All those nagging little worries that went along with that choice to submit that application. But it felt right. It was the right thing for me to do. And so I did. And you know what? I think it was quite right for me. (Somehow I think Dan would agree with me on that point.)
For me, things aren't random. I truly feel in the deepest parts of my very being that God has led me down a path. This path. It's not always the easiest path. There are bumps and stumbles along the way. There are the times, like today, when I mentally wonder about all of those countless little and big choices I've faced. They've made me who I am. Who I am right now.
And that's okay. I see myself quite clearly. I am at this place as the result of a million or more choices and daily decisions, but I wasn't alone in making them. Never once. I know that beyond a doubt.
In fact, at this exact moment my beloved is playing one of those strange video games that, to an observer (and uninterested party) like me, appears to blur the line between reality and fiction. Is this a movie? Is it a game? What is this? I could stay and watch. (And be confused). I could. But I'm going to execute one of those daily choices and move my little old self upstairs to my waiting nook and a Stephen King diddy. I'll admit that I am making this one on my own. Fully on my own. But I'm feeling pretty clear about it.
Good choice.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Twins.
It's an interesting thing to see the relationship of my daughters change over time. They each came into the world with a Beloved Other right beside them; from that single moment they've shared a bond that I do not dare assess or too closely investigate.
It goes beyond my understanding to see them do the things they so innately do and feel. The times when they finish one another's sentences as if the word trains jump from one curly head to the other with seamless ease. Their ability to share a look that seems to encompass an entire conversation just between the two of them. The ability each has to sense distress or upset in the other, and rush to her twin, dropping everything and hurdling over any obstacle, to give comfort.
I do not understand this bond. Can't come even close to it because it seems to burn too brightly.
But I can watch it. Everyday. And be amazed.
They seem to be in a constant state of minor restructuring within it. It's as if even though they were born with this bond, it didn't come with an instruction manual and they still need to tweak the boundaries a bit. Get it just right. For them.
Occasionally I'll hear them conversing in a way that sounds as though they're just meeting each other for the first time, comparing likes and dislikes, adding up what they share and where they are different. In this stage of their lives, there are still more check marks in the Alike column, it would seem.
Perhaps sometimes it IS a bit like they're meeting anew. In a sense. They're changing as they grow, becoming someone slightly different. Maybe those subtle changes don't always come with a smooth transition in their bond. Maybe there are things that need to be evaluated, weighed, considered, and placed accordingly.
Or maybe they just like to stop from time to time and catch up with one another.
Who knows.
I may never truly be inside their bond; never have a complete understanding of how it works and what it feels like to be that connected to another human being, but it is glorious to watch it.
It is amazing to watch it, actually. A daily blessing.
It goes beyond my understanding to see them do the things they so innately do and feel. The times when they finish one another's sentences as if the word trains jump from one curly head to the other with seamless ease. Their ability to share a look that seems to encompass an entire conversation just between the two of them. The ability each has to sense distress or upset in the other, and rush to her twin, dropping everything and hurdling over any obstacle, to give comfort.
I do not understand this bond. Can't come even close to it because it seems to burn too brightly.
But I can watch it. Everyday. And be amazed.
They seem to be in a constant state of minor restructuring within it. It's as if even though they were born with this bond, it didn't come with an instruction manual and they still need to tweak the boundaries a bit. Get it just right. For them.
Occasionally I'll hear them conversing in a way that sounds as though they're just meeting each other for the first time, comparing likes and dislikes, adding up what they share and where they are different. In this stage of their lives, there are still more check marks in the Alike column, it would seem.
Perhaps sometimes it IS a bit like they're meeting anew. In a sense. They're changing as they grow, becoming someone slightly different. Maybe those subtle changes don't always come with a smooth transition in their bond. Maybe there are things that need to be evaluated, weighed, considered, and placed accordingly.
Or maybe they just like to stop from time to time and catch up with one another.
Who knows.
I may never truly be inside their bond; never have a complete understanding of how it works and what it feels like to be that connected to another human being, but it is glorious to watch it.
It is amazing to watch it, actually. A daily blessing.
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