Time for Bed-Bed

Last night, as I was getting The Munchkin ready for bed, she asked if she could have cuddles in our (The Other Half and my) room. She got changed, brushed her teeth and after grabbing her trusted yellow blanket, finding her go-to corner and pressing it up against her nose, she curled up against me and laid her head down on my chest, ear over my heart. It wasn't long before she was fighting a losing battle to stay awake and her eyelids became heavy. 

As I watched her drift off to sleep, I wondered if somehow she remembered the sound of my heart - as she listened to it beating away - from when she was an infant or even before, when I was pregnant with her. I enjoyed a rare, few quiet minutes with her, before giving her a kiss on her nose and telling her it was time for bed-bed. She looked at me through sleepy eyes and offered up her arms to be carried to her crib.

Grieving & Gratitude

Early last week my boss stopped by my desk and asked me if I had a minute and then said we should talk back in our department's area (neither here nor there, my desk is set apart from the rest of the department for reasons that aren't relevant to what I'm about to write - but I will say that I'm better off because I have a window and more workspace). I didn't think much of it because I'm at a point of transition professionally and the details about my new position are evolving so I quickly followed. When he stopped by the office of one of my coworkers, asked if she had a minute and then - when we were inside the walls of our department space - closed the door. I knew something was wrong. 

"I have some really bad news..." he started. 

Our organization is going through a period of transition as well. With the various laws and regulations that seem to be changing from week to week that's just the way it is in my world. My mind started racing and in a nanosecond a bazillion possibilities raced though my head: our department was being let go, maybe he was being let go, maybe he was being tapped to move from the entity to the system, was someone from our c-suite leaving or worse yet, fired? How was I going to tell my husband I was out of a job? It wasn't convenient but I just started a part-time position for giggles with my Trusted Running Store so maybe that could help me fill in the gaps?

We all focused our attention on him, holding our collective breaths waiting for his next words and when he spoke it was far more of a shock than anything I could have imagined. A beloved member of our team had suddenly passed away. Details were sketchy and few. His wife and family - twin girls and an older daughter - were okay and had been out of town.  But that's all we knew. 

Someone began to tear up. Most of us just stared blankly off into space. My heart felt heavy. Words escaped me. My boss, recognizing the blow, said if we were free to leave for the remainder of the day if we wanted or head to the main building where we could find other forms of support and be with our other colleagues. We all sat and talked between ourselves behind a closed door and within the safety of our department walls and then slowly began to try and resume what we were doing as best we could. 

For me, it was only a short time before I decided I needed to leave to be with my family. To see The Other Half, to collect The Oldest off the bus and then gather The Munchkin from Kiddo Care. It was one of those afternoons where all I wanted to do was hug and love on my children because I could. It was one of those days that I was reminded how much can change in the blink of an eye.

I could try to describe the person we lost, but there are no words that could fully tell you what kind of remarkable individual he was. He just had a presence about him - he was one of those people that when you were around him you just knew that he was a good person. And he always had a smile. Always. As I walked into our building yesterday for the first time since his passing I meandered down the hallway that I inevitably would pass him by. Usually I'd be a woman on a mission and lost in thought or staring at one of a million work related email messages that had popped through on my phone and suddenly there he'd be. Walking toward me, leaning over with That Smile and a "Hi Joy!".

I could try to describe the organization that I work for but no words could fully tell you what kind of remarkable organization it is. I'm from a generation that is continually seeking the next great thing so when I'm asked how long I've worked for the organization it's still surreal for me to say that I'll have been with them for NINE YEARS this coming August. I love the place I work for. I love the people I work with. I love that so many people met The Oldest when she was just barely 6 months old and now they're remarking at how much she has grown. I love that I hope, when she graduates high school, some of those same people will be there and I can walk in to their offices and hand them a graduation announcement.

So this loss hurts us a great deal. We're family. And like all family does in times of trouble, we've circled our wagons and are taking care of our own in the ways we are able, but it doesn't make the loss any less raw or fill the void that now exists. 

This morning, as I was grumbling and groaning to myself as I was trying to get my legs to cooperate on the treadmill. That's when the universe spoke to me by way of music. There is a beautiful rendition of Over The Rainbow/Simple Gifts that's done by a group called The Piano Guys and it shuffled its way into my playlist. 

'Tis a gift to be simple, 'tis a gift to be fair,
'Tis a gift to wake and breathe the morning air.
And each day we walk on the path that we choose,
'Tis a gift we pray we never shall lose.

I could no longer grumble and only be grateful for the fact that last night I was able to watch the Bruins win in 2OT, get 4.5 hours of sleep and somehow manage to wake up, stumble into the bathroom and go to the gym. I was so thankful for a husband that could meet me after my shift with my Trusted Running Store with a container of gas to fill up my tank so I could make it home on more than fumes. I reflected on the conversation I had with The Oldest as she rode home with me - watching the way the setting sun reflected the red and blonde highlights in her brown hair and being amazed at the girl she's become. And I thought back to the time I had with The Munchkin as we rocked in the glider in her room - her little finger tapping three times on my nose as she said the words, "I. Love. You." before she curled up in her well loved, yellow blanket and closed her eyes. 

And I cried. Right there in the gym. I cried. I hopped off the treadmill and wiped off my face with the towel and hung my head before looking up to the sky.
 
Tell people how much you care. Tell people how grateful you are for them. Make sure they know what they do well. Say I love you and mean it because you don't know if you'll ever get that change again. Smile. Smile at everyone because you can never know the impact of one, simple smile. Hug your children just because you can and let them eat fruit snacks and drink Sprite for breakfast every once in a while because really, those are the kinds of things that memories are made of and someday they'll look back at and laugh and smile and say, "Remember the time that mom let us have fruit snacks and Sprite for breakfast?"

And when you wake up in the morning feel what's beneath your feet, be amazed at the sunrise and be grateful that you've seen another day. Because it truly is a gift.

I wish for you peace, Jason. I hope somewhere, somehow, you know how very many - how. very. many - lives you have touched and how deeply you are and will be missed. 

Time Transformation

This morning it was just The Oldest and me at home. The Other Half had left to bring The Munchkin down to Kiddo Care about 30 minutes earlier and we were sitting quietly at the table - her eating cheese toast and sipping on orange juice and me crunching away on my cereal drenched in coconut milk. 

The Oldest loves to read. She's got book upon book upon book and is starting to collect a number of digital books on her Nook too. I looked up from my phone where I had been engrossed in the morning news stories on NPR and looked her way.

And there she was. 3 years old, legs just barely dangling over the edge of the chair as she peered into her cereal bowl with a spoon trying to be a Big Girl. I blinked and that little girl was gone. I had to catch my breath and choke back tears. 

The Oldest glanced over at me and looked concerned. "What's wrong, Mommy?" she asked as she put her hand on mine. I scooted over to be closer, wrapped my arms around her and kissed her forehead. 

"Nothing at all, Peanut." I replied. "Just thinking about how much I love you." 

"Okay," she chirped before smiling and going back to her reading.

 

Newtown

On Monday morning, as I’m sure many parents did, I bundled up The Oldest, gave her an extra long hug, a kiss on the forehead and told her I loved her. I watched as she climbed the steps to the school bus while The Munchkin waved and watched and spoke as only a two year old can about the day she will get to ride the bus. Then, as it pulled away from the curb, I held my breath.

I was tempted to follow the bus to school, something that has never crossed my mind before not even on the first day of kindergarten. I know, however, that as a parent if I am to move beyond the senseless tragedy in Newtown I have to let go. I can love her. I can guide her. I can clean the scrapes on her knees and make sure she eats all of her peas at dinner but at some point I have to send her out into the world – a world that to me is much more uncertain and scary than it was last Friday morning. 

As parents we walk a fine line between protecting and being over protective, between reacting and being over reactive; and struggle knowing that a certain amount of fear is healthy, too much can be crippling. So you take a lot of love, add a couple of shakes of compassion, maybe a few (or maybe many) dashes of concern, a liberal amount of manners, a few heaping scoops of boundaries combined with guidance and  and mix well in the hopes that what you get is a confident, intelligent, self-assured kiddo that makes positive contributions to society. 

The words President Barack Obama spoke to the residents of Newtown at the prayer vigil held on Sunday evening resonated with me:

It comes as a shock at a certain point where you realize no matter how much you love these kids, you can’t do it by yourself, that this job of keeping our children safe and teaching them well is something we can only do together, with the help of friends and neighbors, the help of a community and the help of a nation.

And in that way we come to realize that we bear responsibility for every child, because we’re counting on everybody else to help look after ours, that we’re all parents, that they are all our children.

This is our first task, caring for our children. It’s our first job. If we don’t get that right, we don’t get anything right. That’s how, as a society, we will be judged.

And by that measure, can we truly say, as a nation, that we’re meeting our obligations?

Can we honestly say that we’re doing enough to keep our children, all of them, safe from harm?

Can we claim, as a nation, that we’re all together there, letting them know they are loved and teaching them to love in return?

Can we say that we’re truly doing enough to give all the children of this country the chance they deserve to live out their lives in happiness and with purpose?

I’ve been reflecting on this the last few days, and if we’re honest with ourselves, the answer’s no. We’re not doing enough. And we will have to change.

Like many others, I too had my moments of reflection in the hours and days that followed. Some happened through thoughtful discussion while others were in peaceful solitude and I had arrived at many of the same conclusions on my own before President Obama spoke to Newtown and by extension, the people of the United States. No. We are not meeting our obligations. We are not doing enough to keep them safe from harm. We cannot claim as a nation we are doing enough. And we will have to change. I fear without that change that while I am doing what I can to raise two beautiful girls who will have much to offer the world, that the society I live in - that we live in - is going to fail them. 

Violent crime in any form is terrible, but violent crime involving children is particularly abhorrent and senseless. The fact that what happened in Newtown happened in an elementary school - a place that is sacred and should inherently be considered safe - makes this event even more difficult to comprehend. Say what you will but our children deserve to be able to go to school - to learn, to be nurtured and loved and educated - without having to walk past an armed guard or have a continual police presence. 

Society is failing my girls and failing our children and families in more than one way, and it's time WE THE PEOPLE, our community leaders and our lawmakers engage in discussion as to how we right the wrongs. I don't claim to have the answers but while I believe gun control alone isn't the answer, I also believe that there are steps that can be taken (that have not been) to help reduce risks. I don't know as mental illness should be the lone focal point of these types of incidents but hope that there's discussion about the failures of our communities to help families who need assistance. Perhaps most of all I hope that we honor the children whose lives were cut tragically short by continuing to dialogue about how we can best make sure that these horrific events become a thing of the past.

"I don't own my child's body."

A friend on Facebook recently posted a link to a thought provoking CNN article by Katia Hetterer. You can read it here, but the general message the author conveys is that occasionally, her 4 year old daughter goes on a hugging and kissing strike (which happens, as most parents of young children can attest to).

Her parents could get a hug or a kiss, but many people who know her cannot, at least right now. And I won't make her... I will not override my own child's currently strong instincts to back off from touching someone who she chooses not to touch.

 Not friends. Not extended family. Not own family.

How many times have I, as a mother, told The Munchkin to give someone a hug or a kiss? Many. As I read through the piece I reflected back on the many times that when The Munchkin shook her head no, said no and ran in the other direction, or just flat out refused on the spot,  and I said something to her that could have caused her to relent. For a child who has such a strong will (and a strong will she does have) this is one time when she will do as I wish or ask and not what she wants to do.

In short, I began to realize that I need to change my modus operandi. A long time ago I decided I wouldn't allow anyone to guilt The Oldest into feeling like she had to do something or had to go somewhere. She's an old soul and has more empathy in her pinky finger than many adults will be able to muster up over the course of a lifetime and because she's a people pleaser she's easily persuaded, guilted (is that even a word?), or made to feel like she should do something because it will make someone else happy. I never connected that telling her she needs to give someone a kiss or a hug could put her in equally a difficult position.

I work hard to nurture my two girls in the hopes they will become caring, strong willed, independent and intelligent women with both book smarts and people smarts. I want them to be resolute in what they believe and feel as though they can stand up or speak out when they feel they have been wronged. But mostly, I want them to trust their instincts - to believe in that gut feeling, to be able to know that they are doing the right thing without second guessing should they find themselves in a situation that makes them uncomfortable and to do that - it starts with my saying exactly what the author has: I won't make them.