Reading the yield signs

Since I've gone back to school--or back to dissertation, I guess--there's been this constant, nagging nudge that haunts me through the day: you should be reading something academic, should be writing, could be researching. While, sure, it's helpful to be motivated to work, I've noticed the constant internal preoccupation ends up robbing me of enjoying other good things in my life, including being present and attentive with my family. 

This week it feels like everything I see/read/think has been urging me to snap out of it already. To show up, slow down, and pay attention. 

photo origin unknown

There was that post On Slowness I read that referenced an art history professor who requires her students to look at a painting for three hours before writing about it. Despite initial grumbling, the students come away "repeatedly astonished by the potentials this process unlocked." She proposes that such deep attention and patience needs to be structured by teachers & professors (and, I would add, parents) since it's not cultivated "in the wild" anymore.   I loved that. And also: when was the last time I looked at something for three hours?

. . . 

A book I was reading ended with this quote: "I am done with great things and big plans, great institutions and big successes. I am for those tiny, invisible loving human forces that work from individual to individual, creeping through the crannies of the world like so many rootlets, or like the capillary oozing of water, yet which, if given time, will rend the hardest monuments of human pride" (William James) 

. . . 

Finally, the ever-fantastic Billy Collins just released a new book of poems and this one captures this well:

AIMLESS LOVE

This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.

In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.

This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.

The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.

No lust, no slam of the door –
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.

No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
just a twinge every now and then

for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.

But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.

After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,

so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.

 - Billy Collins

Okay, universe. Aye-aye. Message received. (Of course, the irony is that I'm writing this as my kids get ready to head to bed and G just got home from a business trip...so I'll sign off now.)

---

- A transcript of Billy Collins's recent conversation with Diane Rehm. 
 - A copy of Aimless Love: New and Selected Poems would make a great gift, by the way.
 - G and I went to the movie About Time last weekend. It's funny and sweet and sentimental (some might find it overly so but not me! bring on the sentiment!) and I came away inspired to relish & fall in love with the wonderfully mundane moments that make up our lives. The music was really good, too, so I made a playlist.   This song is especially lovely. And this one. 

Great expectations, birthday edition

A few months ago G. realized he'd be on a business trip over my birthday, accompanied by Maddy who was going along as an early birthday gift of her own to tour some universities and visit friends. He offered to try to juggle it around better to be home but I shrugged it off. "Nah, we'll just do it another day instead," I said. "No big deal." And I really meant it at the time, too. After all, I'm a big girl, a grown woman, right?  

You'd think.

Sadly I forgot to inform my inner 10-year-old about my mature response. That Annie was raised in a celebrating household, conditioned to anticipate birthdays and expect kind of a big deal. She had great expectations, that birthday girl.

My 10th birthday party

October 15 rolled around. Poor Sam. Suffice it to say that 15-year-old sons (no matter how kind and great they really are--and he is)  are not really equipped to carry the burden of their mothers' unspoken birthday expectations on their shoulders. To his credit, he remembered it was my birthday a couple of blocks before we got to his school drop off and gave me a chagrined/apologetic/cheerful "happy birthday" when we were almost at school. 

[As a side note, birthdays for Americans living in Australia are kind of out of sync, where our calendar is a day ahead of the US. On the bright side, having most of my family and many of my friends in the States means a two-day birthday-wishing fest. On the Aussie day, a few kind local souls left lovely, much-appreciated Facebook birthday messages. G, knowing me well, sent flowers.]

But it was a tough day, you guys. The mature Annie was willing but the inner youngster was weak. When it came down to it, no presents, no cake, no calls, and no birthday dinner meant that my inner birthday child felt kind of mopey and prone to pity partying instead.

Here's the rub: this was entirely avoidable! It's a lesson I keep learning, to either lower my expectations (and not expect mind reading) or speak up about them. Otherwise I'm just left with a cranky heart and bewildered loved ones. The naughty, told-you-so gremlin who lives in a little tarnished corner of our hearts is fed by the disappointment when people forget/fall short of our inner hopes. He makes us feel strangely virtuous and puritanical to have our wishes denied or withheld, as though it feels better to have our fears confirmed than our dreams fulfilled.

At our house we call this unnecessary martyrdom chicken-neck mom syndrome, our tendency to say--even when there's plenty to go around--"oh, no. Don't worry about me. You guys go ahead and take all the good meat. I'll gnaw on this chicken neck instead" with an air of ascetic self-righteousness. I could have spoken up when G offered to postpone. I could have told new local friends it was my birthday and scheduled a lunch out. I could have reminded and spelled it out for Sam and he surely would have risen to the challenge. But I settled for the chicken neck and a pity party instead. That's on me.

. . . 

p.s. We ended up having a lovely birthday do-over the next week when everyone was home. My inner birthday gal did a happy dance. All's well that ends well.

Selfie esteem

Once there was a man who filmed his vacation.
He went flying down the river in his boat
with his video camera to his eye, making
a moving picture of the moving river
upon which his sleek boat moved swiftly
toward the end of his vacation. He showed
his vacation to his camera, which pictured it,
preserving it forever: the river, the trees,
the sky, the light, the bow of his rushing boat
behind which he stood with his camera
preserving his vacation even as he was having it
so that after he had had it he would still
have it. It would be there. With a flick
of a switch, there it would be. But he
would not be in it. He would never be in it.

- Wendell Berry, "The Vacation" 

We just finished our spring school holidays here. As an early birthday present, Maddy accompanied G on a business trip to the states so she could (a) tour some universities she's in love with/dreaming of attending and (b) also visit her friends at her old school. Sam and I were on our own here so I gave him free reign (rein?) to choose something  as a consolation prize (if you can call it a prize, going somewhere with your mom when you're a 15-year-old boy)  and he opted to head to the Blue Mountains for a few days of hiking and adventuring. 

Hiking, yes, and instagramming/recording our way through the scenery. If a hike happens in a forest and no one instagrams it, does it really happen? As Wendell Berry asks, can you really be in a vacation if you are constantly recording it? It's a balance, the making of memories and the recording them.

I'm usually the one behind the camera (and prefer it that way, really!) but every once in a while I try to make sure to document my presence. Otherwise my kids will grow up and say, "Man, isn't it great my dad took us so many places. I mean, where's my mom? Did she ever even come on one of these things? I guess she just couldn't be bothered, huh?" Turning over the camera to someone else is an option, sure, but it's still tricky to get a shot you like and it's uncomfortable to ask for do-overs and adjustments (why yes, I do have some control issues, why do you ask?).

Enter the selfie.

I'm a reluctant selfie-er, really. It's a rare moment that I flip that camera around. As my friend Trina said, "Selfies...either a self esteem killer or boost." Mine are usually the killer variety, truth be told. And I feel vulnerable and silly even before I look at the shot. 

Look, kids. I was here. I was in it. Now, here, let me take a picture of you. 

Do you have a selfie opinion? How often are you in the picture?  Do you ever feel conflicted over the balance of living life and recording of life? 

---

Some great reads on selfies (via Longreads): 

• Sarah Hepola, a selfie enthusiast, examines and defends the culture of selfies
• The Young-Girl and the Selfie
• Snaps of America (where I was reminded of the Wendell Berry poem, by the way) 
• In Praise of Selfies: no longer self-conscious but self-constructive
• Why do we take selfies?  New York Times blog

p.s. If you are in the Blue Mountains of Australia, don't miss the National Pass trail. Spectacular. Selfies optional.

The end of swooping season

When we first moved here last September, we were amused by the crazy bicycle helmets we saw everywhere! Each helmet sported plastic zipties or pipe cleaners sprouting out of the vents, giving a vaguely punk rock impression.

We asked around and found out that September and October is Swooping Season, when magpies become especially territorial about their hatchlings in their nests and divebomb anyone who gets too close--school children at recess are even victims sometimes! Bicyclists are especially targeted so they go to great lengths to discourage being attacked, including putting eyes on the back of their helmets, doing the zipties or pipe cleaners, etc. (though many experts say the tactics don't actually work).

As annoying as it is to be swooped by those angry birds, I feel for those bird parents. I can identify! The protective instinct is strong in us. We want to swoop in, fix things, flap our wings and, yes, peck out the eyes of anyone who gets close to messing with our kids. I was completely prepared to write a post in praise of swooping magpies.

And yet.  

I think there's an even better lesson here. Swooping season ends when the young fledgling birds start making their own forays out into the world and our swooping has to ebb, too. It's one of the hardest transitions in parenting I've had to make, the gradual hand-off of responsibility and decision making for what is, after all, their lives.

Case in point: Once one of my kids had an issue at school with some social meanness. We talked about it at home and I really really really had the mama-bear urge  to go address it with the school faculty. But this kiddo said "no, I've got this" and decided to ignore it for a bit longer. Then, when it didn't seem like it was going to resolve itself, the kiddo made an appointment to discuss it with a teacher. Just like that. (And then I went and ate three Cadbury Cherry Ripe bars from the stress of sitting on the sidelines, but that's a different story entirely.) Epiphany.

I love Anna Quindlen's advice: "When we dropped off our daughter [at school] they gave us a card with the words "What are YOU going to do about that problem?" They suggested we put it by the phone and read it when our kid called complaining about the roommate/the courses/the food/the advisor. There's way too much parental involvement at a time designed for separation."  

But, really, if this is going to work well I think we actually have to start before college drop-off, right? Now, I'm the first one to admit that this can be so hard. Those high school years are rife with Important Decisions and Momentous Things. Just remember that you're raising not just a college freshman but a wonderful, functioning adult. Yes, it can be painful to watch but, if we can step back from solving our kids' problems and become a more distant safety net in those last few pre-launch years, our older teens will flail and fail and figure things out. They'll ultimately gain more confidence for the leap into adulthood. We end up gradually becoming advisory rather than decidery (which I'm deeming a word, by the way) and our kids learn to do some joyous/independent/instructive swooping of their own.

Fellow mid-stage parents, unite! All together now: What are you going to do about that?  

This water lives in Mombasa

My brother Matt gave me this vintage edition of Out of Africa for Christmas one year. I love everything about it: the graphic cover, the rough edges of the uneven paper, the library smell. The inside page says it's a Modern Library edition from 1952; there's even an old, folded up portrait of Isak Dinesen from a 1950s magazine tucked in the back pages. 

I came home from my hike/walk today and got the book out, searching for a line that had been running through my mind all morning. Scanning through, I saw that I had marked a different passage about an orphaned pet antelope they had on the farm.  It could easily be speaking to me, or you, or one of our children:

"Oh, Lulu," I thought, "I know that you are marvellously strong and that you can leap higher than your own height. You are furious with us now, you wish that we were all dead, and indeed we should be so if you could be bothered to kill us [note: well, maybe not that killing part...].  But the trouble is not, as you think now, that we have put up obstacles too high for you to jump, and how could we possibly do that, you great leaper?  It is that we have put up no obstacles at all.  The great strength is in you, Lulu, and the obstacles are within you as well, and the thing is, that the fullness of time has not yet come." (p. 72)

A great thought--but it wasn't the one on repeat in my brain. No, that line (it turns out) is in the movie version. In this scene, Karen Blixen is trying to establish the farm in the wild hills of Africa, to grow coffee and dam up the river to suit her needs.  Her head servant Farah shakes his head and warns Karen "this water lives in Mombasa, Msahib." (Later when the water breaks its banks, she concedes the point: "Let it go, let it go. This water lives in Mombasa anyway.")

Oh, I can relate to both of these dueling passages.  Yes, there are some things that, like Lulu the antelope, we have the strength and wherewithal to leap over and conquer. Go for it, great leapers!  

And yet, I think there also some things--in our kids, in our family life, in ourselves--that really can't be forced by our wills to be something else, not for long. Some things live in Mombasa, returning to their own courses despite attempts to change and control. 

So why was I thinking of this line today on my hike? It's that I keep trying to change, prod, mold, and whittle this body into something that, I've come to realize, it just doesn't seem to want to be.  Yes, I will be healthy, I will be strong, I will be happy with myself & keep working hard for the joy of it.  But my curves, my shape? They just might live in Mombasa, Msahib. 

(See also: some of my children and the state of their bedrooms. Mombasa.)

To remember

Each year on my kids' birthdays I try to write a note reminding us of what that time in space feels like. Why I love the fact that my kids probably won't remember all the nights I fed them cereal for dinner, I also hate the thought that we will forget many of the details of our lives as a growing-up family.

Dear Becca,

Happy birthday to my sweet sixteen-year-old. I know by now that I should gulp and shudder at 16, that sooner than I'd like I'll be driving YOU to college. I know all about the slippery slope of high school -- here one minute sleeping in, studying, out with friends, learning about being a grown up . . . and then graduation . . . and then . . . POOF!  So I'm doing my best to enjoy every moment with you, even when you lose your focus while driving and I clutch the dashboard like a drowning woman. Even then, I like being with you.

This year must be strange for you. You've spent your entire life with sisters -- older sisters to watch and emulate and laugh with and borrow their clothes. And now you are the oldest -- our household of girls is dwindling. Dad and Parker have pulled even. Two boys. Two girls. (And no, we are not going to count the dog.)

If we are looking for the good, then I'd say that we are back to a 2 and 2 parent/child ratio, which hasn't existed in these parts since 1997. You are the grand prize winner of a whole barrel-full of parental supervision and commitment. Like today? When we practiced parallel parking for two hours? I was thinking there was no way I could have done that with four kids at home -- needing rides, and supervision, and school help. Lucky you! Interminable parallel parking -- just what every girl wants.

I know you, as smart and calm and collected as you are, actually don't require a ton of diligent supervision. You've always had a level head and a strong desire to choose the right. I have silently watched you course-correct yourself at times, surveying your options, testing the waters, and then pulling in your growing limbs to the warmth and safety of home. You are a strong girl. You are almost there -- almost grown. But wait a while longer. Play little girl for just a few more moments.

Right now I can hear the strumming of your guitar from upstairs. I think that's one of the things I miss (and will miss) most about having a house full of kids -- the music. I remember well the afternoons when the piano was going full throttle, and the phone was ringing, and Parker was eeking out his first (loud) notes on the cello. I thought my head would split in two. I fervently called for Calgon to take me away. But that fervor has quieted now. How grateful I am for your guitar and your beautiful voice. I hope you'll sing me all the way through the next two and half years . . . and even some after that. 

I think all of my kids are pretty witty, but Becca, you just might take the cake. Your one-liners, delivered at the perfect moment, in the perfect accent, generally catch me off guard. I laugh quickly and often with you around. I hope you'll remember that a sense of humor can get you through some tough and uncomfortable situations. When in doubt, crack a joke. Unless it's in a job interview, or a very important exam, or in church. Well, sometimes in church. I've never been especially adept at being serious and humorous in just the right moments. So I'll leave those distinctions up to you.

Becca, you are a good sister and a good friend. You forgive easily. You are always up for a party, a late-night trip to Target, an after-dinner run to Walgreens for CANDY. And stylish? Forget about it. You have more style in your little finger than I have in my entire body. You bounce back from disappointments with panache. You are a surprisingly good skier, a full-blooded Texan who took to the slopes like a natural. Who knew? You are a hard worker. You even made the salad for your very own birthday dinner without a peep of complaint. You are always the first to pitch in and help out when there is a party or a project or a deadline. And you know what else? You're a little bit of a slave driver -- often creating the parties and projects and deadlines. But that's okay, because you make things happen. Otherwise your old momma might just eat microwave popcorn and watch Breaking Bad reruns all day long. So, thanks for that.

When it comes right down to it, it's a privilege to walk this road with you -- to be your Momma. Watching you grow up into the girl you are? the woman you are becoming? It's the best seat in the house.

Love you Becs. 

A fresh perspective: Kate Williams

Today's interview is a conversation with an old friend, Kate Williams. Kate is a hilarious and thoughtful writer who tells it like it is. And you know what else? Kate was my very good friend in the 5th grade!  In fact, Kate knew me at perhaps my most awkward stage of ALL TIME -- junior high. We both loved to read, and we both wanted to be writers. And now look at us! Kate is a writer, and I've been writing the same dissertation for 87 years. Good on us!

My family moved away from the small Texas town where Kate and I endured middle school just after eighth grade, but we were digitally reunited through the ever-astounding connecting power of Facebook. Since then I've followed Kate's blog and laughed along with the exploits of her three sons, Aquaman, and yellow dog. Grab a cold Diet Coke and read on -- Kate's perspective on big kid parenting is warm, funny, and real. 

First off, tell us about your kids.  We have three boys. The oldest I refer to as The Redhead - he’s 14. The twins turn 13 this month. I cannot believe we will have 3 teenagers! I refer to the twins as Thing 1 and Thing 2 when I write.

They are all very interested in science, The Redhead has already declared he’ll be majoring in Marine Engineering (he’s only a 9th grader!) and Thing 2 says he’ll be a marine biologist, like Dad (aka Aquaman). Thing 1 shows the most interest in fishing and geology. They are typical boys. They like fire, explosions, Youtube, and xBox.

What have you learned as a mom of older kids that you wish you had known when your kids were younger?  I wish I had known how bad their memories are. There are so many times when I lost my temper or cried or locked myself in the bathroom (sometimes all three at once) and felt so guilty because I thought I was damaging them for life. I just knew that they would have memories of their crazy momma, losing it. But you know what? They don’t even remember what the house we lived in looked like - much less the time I just walked out, leaving Aquaman to deal with three screaming babies. (That might have happened more than once - in more than one house.) If I had known how little they actually remember, I wouldn’t have stressed myself out so much!

If you could sum up your philosophy of this mid-stage of parenting into a fortune cookie, what would it say?  I actually saw this on a sign somewhere recently and I think it says it all:  “If you’re going to act like a turd, go lay in the yard.”

Such words of wisdom. I can’t stand to have a sulky, pouty kid around. And it doesn’t hurt to remind myself that sometimes my behavior is less than stellar and I should get out of my funk and get on with it.

What’s your favorite part of parenting teens?  I love that they are involved and interested in things that I can clearly remember doing or being interested in when I was their age.

I remember high school marching band vividly, so I’m able to understand what The Redhead has to do and what’s involved. When he lost it during summer band camp, overwhelmed and exhausted, I was able to pull great stories of band from my memory and give him an effective pep talk. And my stories from the good old days seem to amuse him.

The twins went to their first dance last weekend, and I remember being in 7th grade and having my first “boyfriend” and how awkward everything felt. I try to keep that in mind when they actually choose to share something with me. Being a teenager is hard. I think remembering that angst helps me as a parent.

What’s your most challenging part of parenting teens?  Dealing with the attitude. When they just look at you with that blank stare, and you’re so worked up you could spit nails. Or when they don’t answer “Yes ma’am.” when I’ve called them or asked them to do something. It’s the most challenging when you know that you have taught them well - they know what they’re supposed to do - and they deliberately choose not to do whatever it is.

That “Woe is me” attitude that our boys have a lot also gets to me. “My life sucks. We never do anything. I never get to go anywhere. Do I have to?” That stuff. Drives me nuts. I always ask them, “How can you possibly act so spoiled? We’ve given you NOTHING!” They never think it’s funny.  

On a more serious note, their severe food allergies and asthma are a huge challenge. (Only Thing 1 isn’t at risk of anaphylactic shock and doesn’t have asthma.) As they get older, I am sometimes filled with dread knowing that they are away from me a lot and it is their responsibility to be careful about what they eat, what other people around them are eating, and how to respond if there’s an allergic reaction or asthma attack. When I hear stories on the news of the latest death from anaphylaxis or asthma, I just want to curl up in a dark room. That, or follow them around everywhere with an inhaler and an Epipen.

What have been your most successful family gatherings/activities with older kids? Going to the movies as a family has been the most enjoyable for everyone. We can typically rely on all 3 boys wanting to be there, agreeing on something to see, and sneaking candy into the theater hidden in my purse (we splurge on popcorn and drinks).

Once or twice a year, we’re able to read a book aloud together before it comes out as a movie. Then we usually go and see the movie the day it opens. (Right now we’re reading Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card - the movie comes out in November.) All of the things that we loved and discussed about the book are rehashed as it comes to the big screen. There’s nothing better than hearing your kid say, “The book was way better!” And there’s something about having that shared experience.

We try to read aloud every night - we’re more strict about that than all eating dinner together. We all love it, unlike some other family outings we’ve tried (like hiking or even meals where inevitably someone doesn’t like the food or doesn’t want to be there).

What new routines or traditions have evolved as your kids have gotten older?  Elaborate homemade birthday cakes have become something expected as the boys have gotten older. It started out as a necessity - they have so many food allergies that the only way to have a birthday cake that they could eat was for me to make it. I kind of felt like I had to make it super special, since most folks were giving their kids store bought cake that would have some amazing designs or be over the top. But along the way, I got really good at cake decorating and it became something that everyone looked forward to. Now it’s tradition for each boy to request something challenging (for me) and very unique (for them) for their birthday cake. I’ve made everything from Spiderman, Hulk, and Monsters, Inc. to a snare drum and a shark.

Our reading aloud at night before bed has also evolved - it used to be board books and picture books. Then we graduated to early readers, chapter books - now we read pretty much anything. This summer we attempted World War Z but it just wasn’t made for reading aloud - too many sidebars and things set off in italics and different points of view. We still haven’t seen the movie, even though our boys are all about zombies.

How and/or when do you connect with your teens best? Usually it’s when we’re watching something like Saturday Night Live. My maturity level is on par with a teenage boy’s when it comes to comedy, so we’re all good. We watch the skits and laugh and laugh and laugh. And we end up talking about current events and discovering new musicians.

When Seth Meyers (from SNL’s Weekend Update) came to the DFW area, we went and heard him speak. The Redhead loves him, but all of us had a great time - he was a really good speaker. Silly humor brings us together. Will Ferrell brings out the best in us. We watch Elf every single year before Christmas and then quote from it year round. Just this weekend, we were at a park and saw a raccoon walking on the ground. I looked at the boys and said, “Hey! What’s your name? My name’s Buddy.” Thing 2 didn’t even hesitate. “Does someone need a hug?” We all cracked up. (See clip here.)

 What is one thing you want your children to learn/understand before they leave home? I want them to know how to do their own laundry. Please God don’t let them go through life in stained underwear.

 Any funny stories you can share about your kid(s) or mid-stage parenting?  We’ve been through alot the past few years - we moved from a very small town to the suburb of a huge metroplex. Not too long after the start of the school year after we moved, I quit my job teaching. I was waiting on the front porch when the boys got off the school bus. They were surprised to see me - I usually didn’t get home for several hours after they did.

“What are you doing home?” The Redhead asked as they walked up.

“I quit my job,” I announced. Out with it. No beating around the bush.

Thing 1 didn’t miss a beat. “Does that mean we can’t go out to eat anymore?” he asked.

“Maybe not as much,” I said.

I was prepared for all kinds of questions and anxiety from them. Ready to explain why I had to quit, why commuting and working somewhere that I didn’t feel appreciated had to end. How everything was going to be okay and we would be fine. How it was important for me to be home now that Dad was working out on boats for weeks at a time. I braced myself for the onslaught. Thing 2 looked like he had something to say. “Do you have a question, sweetie?” I asked him.

“Yes. Can you have a snack waiting for us every day when we get off the bus now?”

And there it is. A boy’s priorities.

They’re easy to love.

---

I love that Kate's family reads aloud every night. I want to do that. I'm big about jumping on a bandwagon and then falling off (and badly injuring myself). Well, badly injuring my pride anyway. But I'm going to pick up a book and climb up on that reading bandwagon anyway. I'm the boss around here. I'm in charge. And I want to READ!

Aside from being a thoughtful parent, Kate is a great essayist. You can read more stories about her family life here, here and here. 

Thanks Kate!