Safe

“It’s my job to keep you safe.”  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said that to K over the years.  This job of mine made things like bike helmets and car seats and seat belts non-negotiable.  It required us to install safety gates on stairs and rubber bumpers on sharp corners.

K is 15 now.  She’s outgrown the car seats, safety gates and rubber bumpers, but she always wears a bike helmet and her seat belt.  She looks both ways when crossing the street.  She doesn’t run with scissors or talk to strangers.  So, she’s safe, right?  Cause you see, that’s my job, to keep her safe.

We talk about current events and the lessons we can learn from them.  I try to be honest without being frightening.  I believe in open conversation.  I believe knowledge can help us be better prepared for danger.

But now…

A 15 year old girl was sexually assaulted after getting off her school bus in our town.  Getting off her school bus.  At 3 in the afternoon.

The Boston Marathon runs through our town. Like so many in the area, we knew people running the race and at the finish line.  I’ve run a marathon.  I’ve had family waiting for me at the finish.  On Monday,  a monster or monsters set off bombs near the finish line, killing and maiming people.  For running or watching a marathon.  In the middle of Boston.

It’s enough to make me want to put my family in lock down.  Put safety gates around our house.  But… I can’t do that so I look for comfort where I can find it.

One of the comforting messages I heard was to acknowledge to children that yes, there are bad people in the world but to remind them there are many more good people than bad.  Maybe as parents our real job is to keep our kids as safe as we can.  And our job for the world, is to do everything we can to make sure our kids are one of the good guys.

So today, K and I volunteered for the first time at The Food Project, an organization whose mission includes creating a “thoughtful and productive community of youth and adults from diverse backgrounds who work together to build a sustainable food system.”  Our group of volunteers planted 14,000 parsnips seeds.  As one of the volunteers said, “In light of this week’s events, I’m thankful to be able to come together as a community and make a difference.”  Exactly.

Good guys.  They’re everywhere.  We just have to remember to look for them.

K and I cross the finish line, Mystic Places Marathon 2003

What We Can’t Fix

K and I had a recent conversation about homework that ended with me saying something like “You’re an awesome kid and I know that.  But you need to remember actions have consequences and you’re at an age where some of those consequences will be things I just can’t fix.”

K gave me a hug and walked away.  Out of nowhere, I remembered an incident with her bike when she was about four years old.  I was following behind her as she rode around our block.  It’s a safe neighborhood, all side streets, but on one stretch the drivers go pretty fast.  We were on that stretch headed toward the stop sign.  I knew she would stop but like always, I called ahead “stop at the stop sign!”  I watched in horror as she never slowed down and went right through it.  I started running and caught up to her on the other side.

 “Get off the bike”

“Mom, I tried to stop”

“Get off the bike”

“I tried to stop but I was going too fast”

“If you’re going too fast to stop, you are going too fast.  Get. Off. That. Bike.  Now.  Do you understand what could have happened to you?  Do you understand if someone hit you with their car, you could be so hurt, I couldn’t fix it?  Do you understand?”

She got off the bike and the tears started to fill her eyes.  “Mom, do you still love me?” Tears ran down my face as I held her.  I took a deep breath and said, “Of course I love you.  If you don’t remember anything else I’ve ever told you, remember this.  There is NOTHING that you could do, there is no mistake you could make that would EVER make me stop loving you. “

I wonder if kids realize that as parents our sole purpose isn’t to critique their lives by wielding a huge red Sharpie marker.  We don’t want our interactions with them to be those of the Grand Editor, circling this error and crossing out this one.  We are trying to give them the knowledge to make the right choice – to buckle that seat belt, skip that party, turn down that drink, avoid that boy, call for a ride instead of getting in that car – because the consequence of the wrong choice can’t be undone.

I guess the best we can do is to use the fine point marker or even a pen when possible.  And a reminder that there is no choice, regardless of consequence, that could ever make us stop loving them.  I told that once to the girl with the light-up sneakers riding a little pink bike with training wheels.  I better tell her again.  That, at least, is something I can fix.

The Ladybug Sandbox

It all started with the red ladybug sandbox.

K was 2 and I decided she needed a sandbox.  The ladybug was the perfect size – not too big, not too small – and K loved it.  She loved it before we even put sand in it.  She filled it with the little plant id tags from my garden, stepped in and started filling her bucket with plant tags.  I loved it because for the first time since K could move, I could sit.

We started going to playgrounds.  There was the sunny playground with the great train.  There was the wooden playground with the dog statue.  There was the Veres Street playground at Mom and Dad’s house.  We loved them all.  K enjoyed the climbing structures more than the swings but she always made time for the sandbox.  We packed a snack, sometimes lunch and stayed for hours.  The leaving was never fun but honestly leaving anywhere at that point in K’s life was a challenge.  And really, who wants to willingly leave a playground?

We decided to expand the offerings at home.  I did the research and declared that we needed to go with one of the more expensive choices because they marketed themselves as “splinter-free.”  What can I say?  I was a relatively new mom at the time.  I believed it was in my power to keep K’s life splinter-free not realizing that the required mulch underneath the play space would provide more than its share of splinters.  We started with a sandbox and climbing area and would ultimately add a swing set.  I can’t begin to count the hours we spent visiting playgrounds or using the masterpiece in the backyard.

But somehow, when I wasn’t paying attention, the swings in the backyard weren’t really for swinging anymore.  K and her friend G would sit on them and chat for hours but they didn’t swing.  They had gotten too big to go down the slide or climb in the fort.  But they loved to sit on the swings and talk out of earshot of the adults.  Visits to public playgrounds had stopped a while before.  We were too busy with other things.

The backyard playground began to show its age.  The ladybug sandbox was more pink than red and the lid hadn’t been opened in ages.  The mulch had been ground into the dirt and lost its battle with the weeds.  The girls realized there was just as much privacy in K’s bedroom and the swings stayed empty.

A neighbor’s granddaughter was having twins.  The baby’s arrival would make five children.  Could they use a swing set?  The neighbor came and looked at ours and thought this family would enjoy it.  Kids could climb on it and swing on it again.  We were thrilled they wanted to take it.  Yet,  I’m glad I was away the day they came to take it down.  You see, it was just yesterday that my girl was three and we sat on the steps and watched the men put it up.

K and I drove by the wooden playground the other day.  Or I should say the place where the wooden playground was.  The powers that be decided it was too old or too unsafe so it was taken down.  It was replaced with a much smaller, rubber/plastic kind of structure.  “I can’t believe they changed it, Mom.  That was a great playground.  Do you remember how we used to go there?”

Yes, K.  Yes.  I remember.

California Dreamin’

We’ve booked the flights and make the hotel reservations.  We’re off to California in February.  No, it’s not another trip to Napa for M and me, although that does sound delightful.  This time, the three of us will be heading to San Diego.

We’ll be staying in the same hotel from our last visit, the trip when K was born.  We’ll be doing a lot of the things we did the last time – Sea World, San Diego Zoo, the beach – and yes, we realize now those things are way more appropriate for a 14 year old than a newborn.    What can I say?  We were 3000 miles away from family and friends.  We did the best we could, and we all survived.  I consider that a success.

K isn’t sure if she wants to see the hospital, but as with most everything on this trip, it’s her call.  Honestly, I’m not sure I want to see it either.  Yes, I clearly remember walking out of that hospital with the world’s greatest gift.  Yet I can never forget the girl, not much older than my K is now, who walked out with nothing.  But, if K wants to go, we go.  This is her trip, not mine.

We almost went last year but then the Wizarding World of Harry Potter opened in Orlando and that took precedence over San Diego.  That decision sums up the place adoption holds in our lives now.  K determines its frequency and importance and we respond accordingly.  We’re a long way from the days when I obsessed over how to respond to people who told me K looked like me.  Should I respond immediately that K was adopted?  Should I wait til I get to know them better?  Is a simple “thank you” appropriate?

Adoption is the way K joined our family.  Although we are forever thankful for that, it does not define us.  We will visit her birthplace and we will remember those terrified thirty-somethings who had waited forever and then become parents overnight.  We will remember waking up in the hotel each morning relieved we had kept K alive for one more day.  We will remember the flight back home with a two-week old.  And we will remember how we become the awesome family that we are.

My Mother’s Daughter

Seeking some relief from the relentless heat and humidity, K and I went to see “Brave.”   I thought the days of animated film were behind me, but I went anyway, happy to be in air conditioning and happy that teenage K was still willing to go to the movies with me.

My plan was to score some movie popcorn, settle down in my seat, and catch a nap.  But there was something to this story of Princess Merida, who in trying to defy the customs of the day makes a reckless wish to change her life.  Perhaps it was the novelty of a Disney movie still having the mother alive after the first five minutes that caught my attention.  Perhaps it was seeing a princess rely on her own skills and bravery rather than hoping for a prince to rescue her.   More likely, it was the relationship between Merida and her mother, Queen Elinor, that kept me awake.

The movie began when Merida was a very little girl and it’s obvious that she and Elinor adored each other.  Then it fast forwards to the princess as a teen fighting with her mother about her responsibilities.  In the middle of an argument Merida yelled, “Do you ever bother to ask what I want? No! You walk around telling me what to do, what not to do! Trying to make me be like you! Well, I’m not going to be like you!”  Then there was the scene when Merida came home and excitedly told her mother about something amazing she did, but Elinor was busy focused on something else and barely heard.

I was my mother’s daughter long before I was K’s mother.  I remembered being a teenager thinking, like Merida,  I would never be like my mother.  My mother was a stay-at-home mom of five; I was going to be something important.  And have I been Queen Elinor -  focused on something else while K is trying to share something important?  Guilty, as charged.

The movie did a great job of showing both sides of a mother/daughter relationship going through a turbulent time.  Merida’s wished for her mother to be different caused an unfortunate transformation of Elinor. Efforts to reverse the wish weren’t working.  Near the end of the movie, Merida finally took responsibility for what she’d done:  “Oh, Mom, I’m sorry. This is all my fault.  I did this to you, to us. You’ve always been there for me.  You’ve never given up on me.  I just need you back. I want you back, Mommy.”  K looked over at me and said “Mom, are you okay?”  That was when I realized I was sobbing.

It was my mother’s daughter crying in the theater that day.  My mother has been gone almost nine years, but when I heard Merida’s voice begging for her mother back, it felt like yesterday.  I had left my ungrateful teen self behind long ago and grew up to realize that who my mother was and all she did was incredibly important.  I grew into someone who was able to appreciate everything she did for me and even better, to tell her that.

I was 41 when she died.  I know that she loved me and she knew I loved her.  I have no regrets.  I know how lucky I was to have her for my mother and to have her with me for as long as I did.  But, in that dark theater, on that hot summer day, I was reminded that I want you back, Mom.  I want you back.

Down is Optional. Up is Mandatory.

I’ve just returned from a trip to the Grand Canyon with my sisters.   For part of the time, my younger sister, L, and I hiked to the bottom down a strenuous 7.5 mile trail.  After two nights in the Phantom Ranch bunk house, we hiked back up a 10 mile trail.  Our companions on the hike were two experienced guides and three other hikers.  The guides were incredible — knowledgeable, funny, and all-around great guys, exactly what you’d hope for in this situation.  The surprises were our other travelers – an 82 year old man, his 70-something wife, and their 64 year old friend.

If I had seen these three at the rim of the Canyon, I’d never have looked twice.  I would have assumed they were with some bus tour, checking out the Canyon from the top while waiting to eat the Early Bird Special.  Instead, I had the pleasure of their company for three days and had the opportunity to learn their stories.  I learned the 64 year old has been everywhere.  Every time an opportunity comes along, she seizes it with both hands.  Her 70-something friend is an avid tennis player.  The 82 year old enjoys mountain biking and his IT job.  Oh, and I should mention that last year he hiked to the bottom and back in the same day!

We began our hike out at 4:30 am in the pitch dark.  By 8:30, the thermometer read 115 degrees.  For much of the trek, the 82 year old was in the lead.  For the last three miles, he walked with a broken shoe – the glue holding the sole to the rest of the shoe failed in the heat.  I assure you the hike was tough enough with intact boots, I can’t imagine doing that last stretch in a broken one.  But our elderly friend didn’t utter a single word of complaint and kept moving forward.  When we reached the rim at 2:15, we all hugged each other tight, overjoyed at our accomplishment and our pride in each other.

L and I said our goodbyes to the group.  The man told us we were “kick a** hikers and good girls.” I told him he was an inspiration.

We walked away and I began to contemplate how powerful an experience this trip had been.  I am proud of rising to the physical challenge of it all but also learned so much else in those three days.  As K begins high school in the fall, I’m hoping I can impart at least some of this knowledge to her.

Some things can be summed up by the classics – “Don’t judge a book by its cover” is one.  “Success is 10% inspiration and 90% perspiration” (especially in 115 degrees!) is another.

But there were new lessons:

“Down is optional.  Up is mandatory” – from a sign about a half mile down the Bright Angel trail warning would-be hikers of the challenges that lie ahead.   K is reaching the age where I can’t fix her mistakes for her.  She needs to learn that if she goes down a path she’s got to be able to handle the consequences.

“Reclaimed waste water, do not drink” – from a sign over a toilet at the top of Bright Angel trail.   You’d think a sign like this one wouldn’t be necessary but our guides assured us if there was a warning about something, it was because people had actually done it.  I’d like K to realize that people, smart people, can do really stupid things so it’s important to stop and think before following along.

“Hiking the Canyon is like eating an elephant.  You take it one bite at a time” – said by one of our guides as we trudged to the top.  I hope that K also learns the pride of taking on a challenge so big that you can only accomplish it by taking one bite at a time.

“The typical profile of someone bitten by a rattlesnake here at Grand Canyon is male 18 to 25 and there’s usually alcohol involved” said by a Park Ranger.  I think that one speaks for itself, K.

Lastly, I want her to know that even though she may think her mom can be embarrassing and boring, there’s a 82 year old superstar out in Arizona who knows that her mom is a kick a** hiker and a good girl.  And her mom is proud to be both.

Ode to the VW Bug

The text reads “Red One!” or perhaps “Tan One” or “White One” or “Yellow One”… and I laugh out loud when I receive it.

The text refers to the color of a VW Bug K has seen.  For years, we have played “punch buggy” although “plain old buggy” would be more accurate since no actual punching is allowed – too dangerous for the driver.

If we were keeping a cumulative score, K would be way ahead.  I use the excuse that I’m keeping my eyes on the road, safety first and all that, but truth be told, K’s simply better at the game.  As K approaches 14, I’m just glad we still play.  A car ride that’s about to be spoiled by a homework, dirty room, or all-around bad day conversation, can be saved by the sight of a VW Bug.  It’s sure to elicit a “Red (or whatever) One!” from one of us and the tension breaks.  To get a text from K when she sees a Bug with someone else is true delight.  As K pulls away, a simple thing like this brings her back for a little while.

Because we’ve reached the point where instead of “Mom, please stay just a little longer?” it’s “Mom, you don’t need to walk me up to bed tonight.”

Instead of “Mom, one more page, please?” it’s “Mom, we don’t need to read together, I’ll just listen to music before bed.”

I know it’s her job to become more independent and it’s my job to let her go.  And I realize I’ve had bed time and story time rituals much longer than most.  So I respect a closed door but eagerly accept invitations to enter.   I learn more than I can imagine about Comic Con, and anime, and stupid, I mean funny, animal videos on YouTube.   It’s different than when we learned together about the brachiosaurus and other dinosaurs, memorized the names of all the trains from Thomas the Tank Engine, and found out all that Bob the Builder could build.  This is K letting me in on something she’s discovered on her own and I’m amazed by what she knows.

So I’m grateful for what K continues to share and grateful to the young girl who was her mother first, a girl of 16 who gave all those story times and bedtimes to me.  I’m shocked to realize that girl is a grown woman of 30 now.  I wonder what her life has become and hope it is a good one.  I hope that she is at peace with the choice she made when she was so young, not much older than my K is now.  I hope when she is ready, she contacts us again to see the wonderful person her daughter has become.

For now, we move forward.  K and I act out our parts – she pulls away and I let her go.  She runs back and I pull her back in.  Sometimes we stumble and sometimes the choreography is just right.  And through it all, we keep an eye out for Volkswagens.

Defying Gravity

Thirteen is better than three.  I know I’m in the minority here but I’m sorry, it’s true.

While trying to weather K’s three year old tantrums, I was terrified of thirteen.  The nastiness, the sullenness.  If I thought three was hard, how could I possibly survive thirteen?

We’re nine months in at this point and we’re doing okay.  Don’t get me wrong.  As my dad used to say, “It’s not all steak and ice cream.”  K has been known to roll an eye or two.  On more than one occasion, I have been accused of ruining her life.  There have been several homework incidents that have ended with stomping up the stairs to her room.  I have been known to channel my mom’s voice with an incredulous response of “who do you think you are?” to said stomping.  Yeah, it’s not any more effective now than it was when my mom was saying it.

And, there’s certainly stuff I miss about three.  How her face would light up like the brightest star when I picked her up at pre-school.  How she would run to me squealing “Mama!” whenever I returned, no matter how long I’d been gone.  How this whirling dervish of a child could sit forever snuggled next to me while I read to her.

But… I like thirteen better.  I realized this a few weekends ago.  K and I were heading home from a performance of The Nutcracker and the Glee version of “Defying Gravity” came on the radio.  She suggested we sing the duet.  She’d sing Rachel’s part and I could have Kurt’s.  Inside, I thought “Seriously?  You’re asking me to sing with you?” but my reply was “Sure!”  So there we were, driving down the Mass Pike belting out the tune at the top of our lungs.

“Something has changed within me
Something is not the same
I’m through with playing by the rules
Of someone else’s game”

I stumbled on a few of the verses.  I didn’t go near that high F at the end.  But, we sounded okay.

Too late for second-guessing
Too late to go back to sleep
It’s time to trust my instincts
Close my eyes: and leap!

“Again?” she asked.  “Absolutely!” I replied.

I’m through accepting limits
cause someone says they’re so
Some things I cannot change
But till I try, I’ll never know!

Now, any time we’re alone in the car for any distance, we sing Defying Gravity.  I don’t think we’re ready for a spot on any of the singing reality shows but we think we sound great.  I’m sure there’ll come a time when I’ll suggest it and K will roll her eyes and that will be the end.  But for now, we may be pulling apart but we still have a way to find our way back.

I’d sooner buy Defying gravity
Kiss me goodbye I’m defying gravity
And you can’t pull me down!”