On Being Mommy

Twelve years ago, I became a parent.  First, let me say that it is very hard for me to believe that The Boy is actually 12 years old.  I still picture him as the angelic little boy who could run under the edge of our kitchen island without ducking.  Needless to say, he cannot do that now.

I remember sitting in my hospital room the day after The Boy was born.  We were supposed to go home the next day, and I remember the feeling of blind panic that seized me at that prospect.  I remember thinking that this little person was absolutely perfect.  He was beautiful, angelic, and peaceful.   In my mind, all I was going to do from that moment on was mess him up.  The thought terrified me, and as I sat in that room, I began to weep.  Not the graceful tears streaming down your face kind of weeping.  No.  This was the savage, guttural wailing kind of weeping.  Weeping like your heart has broken.  I felt like I had failed him before we even got started.

Luckily, the maternity ward of UNC Hospital was staffed by a kind-hearted nurse named Claudia.  I remember Claudia sitting with me while I cried my eyes out.  Once I had gotten it all out of my system, she showed me how to do the things that I was panicking about: how to get The Boy to nurse, talking me through how to bathe him, how to swaddle him and how to get those tricky onesies on him.  (Somehow, I thought these skills would be instinctive.  They were not.)  She also said something to me that I didn't understand at the time.  She told me in  response to my lamenting fear of ruining him: You are not going to ruin him.  In fact, he's going to change you.  

And boy has he ever.  

I spent the first 11 years of The Boy's life trying to get him to conform to my ideas of how things should be.  It is only in the last few months that I realized the truth in what Claudia told me all those years ago.  I'm not the one that's shaping these two.  They are shaping me - when I let them.  It is not an easy thing to do.  Being a parent means you have to check your ego at the door and accept life as it comes.  It requires acknowledging that I don't know everything.  (Mother, in fact, may NOT know best.)

Being Mommy to The Boy (and later to his sister) has changed me.  It has taught me that there is no such thing as having anything completely under control.  It has given me the opportunity to experience the world in new and unusual ways.  It has shown me what it is to love unconditionally.  And it has taught me how crucially important it is to appreciate, love, and accept people as they are.  Including myself.

Kahlil Gibran said it much more eloquently that I could.

On Children

 Kahlil Gibran

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts, 

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, 

which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, 

but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children

as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, 

and He bends you with His might 

that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as He loves the arrow that flies, 

so He loves also the bow that is stable.

And Sweet Honey in the Rock interpreted it even better than that:

I've been thinking a lot about what this means - especially in context of all the other work I've been doing.  I am the bow from which my two little arrows are being sent forth into the world.  I have to be flexible enough to give them the trajectory they need, but strong enough not to break when the string is drawn back.  It's a fine line to maintain, and many days, I don't do it so well.  But every day is a new chance to be what they need me to be, so they can be who they will become.

The Girl and The Boy
If this is not a reason to be the best I can be,
I don't know what is.  

Act 18: Try a Martial Arts Class

I didn't know what I was in for when I purchased my Groupon for Triangle Krav Maga;  I just knew the price was right, the location was convenient, and the timing fit my schedule.  I did a little bit of research beforehand (I am, after all, me!), but for the most part I went in cold.  

When I initially planned this Act, I had images of myself as the next Karate Kid - in a gleaming white gi, ready to take on the evil Cobra Kai.  However, as I learned more, my idea of Krav Maga seemed a bit more akin to the bad boys.   Krav Maga ("contact combat" in Hebrew) is a self-defense system developed for the Israeli army.  It's closer to boxing and judo than to karate or tae kwon do, and according to Wikipedia, "is known for its focus on real-world situations and extremely efficient and brutal counter-attacks."  YES, PLEASE.

Perhaps the biggest blessing of this little project of mine is how miraculously these tasks put me exactly where I need to be, when I need to be there.  Like the salsa dancing that lifted my spirits when I was way down, this, too, came when I really, really needed it.  I had no idea when I made my reservation weeks ago that on this day, I would be in the mood to kick some butt.  But I was.  I really was.

I didn't know exactly what to expect when I arrived.  Yes, I had done a little research, but the reading did not prepare me for what waited behind that unassuming storefront!  I walked in to a large open room with a wide pad in the middle of the floor.  It smelled like a middle school locker room.  On one wall, there were about 25 3 foot long pads hanging.  On the opposite wall was a display of weapons.  But this was not the typical weapons one might expect in a dojo.  Rather than shurikens and katanas think AK-47s. I realized at that moment that this was not Mr. Myagi's karate class.

As I waited for the action to begin, I watched the crowd that began to gather.  It was quite a diverse group: Two 20-something girls, a dad and his teen-aged son and daughter.  A couple in their late 40s.  A wisp of a girl who looked barely 18.  One or two 30-somethings, and a herd of 20-something guys.  Again, not what I expected!  I chatted a bit with the girls who were gathering, curious about what brought them here.  Most wanted a fun workout.  One wanted to be able to defend herself.  All agreed this program was downright addictive.

The instructor was a very compact and energetic guy in probably his late 20s.  He seemed small and easygoing to me when I first laid eyes on him, but as soon as class began, he proved to be quite an imposing presence.  To begin class, the instructor had us all line up in the front of the class.  We bowed to the mural of Imi ( Imi Lichtenfeld, the founder of Krav Maga) and then to our teacher.  And then the torture began.  We started with burpees.  If you've never experienced a burpee, consider yourself lucky.  They are a full body exercise that is a combination of a squat and a jump.  But in this class, these burpees were accompanied by a push up.  It went something like this:  Squat down, bending your knees.  Leap in the air.  Place your palms on the ground and hop your feet out behind you - assuming a plank position.  Do one push up.  Hop your feet up to your hands until you are in a squatting position.  Repeat.  If you want to try one, I'll wait...

Yeah.  It sucks, right?  We started with 10 of those.

After 10 burpees, we were told to find a sparring partner.  During this warmup, you and your partner would try to tap each other on the shoulder.  While your partner was trying to swat your shoulder, you had to defend yourself and try to swat their shoulders.  If your partner hit your shoulder, you had to do a push up.  5 minutes into class, and I was sweating, panting, and now trying to attack someone I had met 30 seconds ago.  It was hell.  And it was EXACTLY what I needed.  My first sparring partner was a new guy just like me, so we both were terrible at the shoulder swats.  That meant no extra push ups, so I wasn't complaining.  We did this for a few minutes and then...

Nine burpees and nine push ups.

We found a new sparring partner, and now in addition to swatting shoulders, we were instructed to also try to swat the outside of our partner's knees.  If your sparring partner connected with your knee, you had to do TWO push ups.  I ended up with that sweet, wispy girl I had chatted with before class.  I breathed a little mental sigh of relief as the sparring began, but the joke was on me.  That girl was dynamite!  She was so quick that I spent most of our sparring time doing push ups as she swatted me again and again and again.  She was kind though, coaching me to keep my guard up and giving me pointers on the best way to position my feet.  After a few minutes, the instructor called time.

Eight burpees and eight push ups.

This time, we were instructed to form two lines, facing forward with our feet slightly less than shoulder width apart and our arms crossed over our chests, hands on shoulders.  We pivoted to the left to face the left wall, then shifted to face the right wall.  We started slowly: face left, pivot right - focusing on keeping our feet in one place while shifting from side to side.  I did fine until we sped up.  Then I started to lose my balance and almost fell over.  Every time it would happen, I would get tickled and giggle at myself.  Then I would feel weird, because everyone else in the class was so serious and almost savage.  But I couldn't help it!  It was fun, and I was so out of my element.  We did this for a few minutes and then...

Seven burpees and seven push ups.

We got back up into place and this time, we added punches with the pivots.  Face the left wall and punch with your left hand.  Pivot to the right wall and punch with your right hand.  We did this much faster than the last go-round, and the punches helped me to stay a bit more balanced.  The only trouble was, every time I thought to myself Hey!  Look at me!  I'm doing this! or the instructor would praise me, I would lose my balance and stumble.  Every. Single.  Time.  Still, I felt like I was getting the hang of it.

Six burpees and six push ups.  (For those of you keeping track, that's 40 - not counting all the push ups I had to do during sparring!)

You can see I meant business!

Now it was time to learn the real punches.  We started with the left, or non-leading hand.  I stepped back with my right foot slightly behind me, I focused on a spot on the wall in front of me. On the instructor's command, punched out with my left hand (Hyah!) while keeping my right fist close to my jaw.  Again and again, we practiced the left jab.  Then we switched to the right.  However, since the right hand is my leading hand, we practiced punching through with the right hip to give extra power to the punch.  Again and again and again we punched with our right hand (Hyah!, Hyah!, Hyah!), then our left again.  And then both (Ya-Hah!).  Something about the focus on the single spot made this feel incredibly intense.  The instructor complimented me on my form (all that Tae-Bo I did in the late '90s paid off!) and I started to get why this was so addictive.

Five burpees and five push ups.

We were told to grab a shield and find a partner next.  I tracked down the nice girl I chatted with at the beginning of class, thinking that was a good choice for what came next.  It was time to practice actually punching someone.  I went first.  We were to hit the shield as hard as we could and as fast as we could until the instructor called "time!"  Then we were told to run back and touch the wall and go to the next person in the line.  Repeat until we were told to stop.  THIS IS WHAT I HAD BEEN WAITING FOR!  I learned after the first bit of sparring that folks didn't hold back in this class, so when the instructor gave the signal, I went all out.  I punched as hard and as fast as I could.  All the anger and frustration and disappointment that had been welling up in me surged up.  I must have looked like a mad woman, because I certainly felt like one.  That lasted for about 20 seconds.  Turns out, punching as hard and as fast as you can is EXHAUSTING!  After an eternity - in reality, about 30 seconds - I heard "Time!"  I ran back, touched the wall and found my next partner.  The short break recharged me a bit, and again, I just let that poor guy have it, wailing on that shield with everything I had.  "Time!"  Back to the wall and on to the next partner.  This time, I was a bit slower, and a bit less powerful, but I managed to keep it going.  "Time!"  Again,  And again. Until I made it to the last guy.  At this point, I could barely lift my arms to punch the shield.  Both my knuckles were battered and bloody, sweat was pouring down my face.  I was almost spent.  My partner was pushing me, saying "You can do this!"  and I could hear the instructor encouraging us:  Think of why you are here - what you have to protect!  Put that last bit into keeping them safe!!  Finally: "Time!"  I dropped my arms in relief, too exhausted to do anything but drag myself over to get a sip of water.

It was my turn to hold the shield.  I found my original partner, and she coached me on the best way to stand.  I held the shield against my chest, rooted myself with my left foot slightly behind my right and got ready for the onslaught.  The first punch took me by surprise.  It was the first time I had ever been punched, and the jolt of it knocked the wind out of me.  I adjusted my feet, raised the shield, and got ready for the next blow.  It kind of felt... good.  Every strike I withstood made me feel stronger.  Every blow I absorbed felt like a small victory.  And let me tell you, that girl packed some power!  "Time!"  The next opponent was a guy.  Interesting fact: in my Krav Maga class, the guys seemed to hold back a bit when it came to the punching.  The same can not be said for the girls.  Each time I faced a female sparring partner, I knew I was in for a walloping.  "Time!"

Four burpees and four push ups.  (At this point, the push ups were more like planks with a very small dip and the burpees were more like a little hop with a stretch at the end.)

The last part of the class was spent learning how to fend off attack.  (Side note: In the world created in Krav Maga, there are apparently always people lurking, ready to attack you with a variety of weapons, intents, and purposes.)  I learned how to not only break a choke hold, but also how to disable an attacker by aiming for his knees.  We practiced kicks, driving elbows and more punches.

Three half-hearted burpees and three leisurely push ups.

We found a partner and practiced attacking each other.  I found this to be a little disconcerting - partly because I don't like the idea of hurting anyone, and also because it's really quite awkward to grab a perfect stranger by the throat and knock him to the ground.  Also, by this point, I really thought I was going to pass out.

Two burpees and two push ups.  Almost done...

The instructor called up back into one line to review all that we had learned in class.  I was so glad to have made it to the end.  I felt strong and excited to have learned a few new things, but I was ready to be done.

Ten burpees and ten push ups.  (Wait!  What?!  No no no no NO!  It's supposed to be one, Dammit!!!!)

As I staggered back to my place in line, I felt proud of myself for hanging in the entire time.  I halfheartedly saluted Imi and the instructor, and then headed over to gather my things.  The instructor praised my effort and said he'd see me next week.

It took about 20 minutes for the complete and utter exhaustion to give way to euphoria.  It wasn't until I got home into the shower that I realized just how badass I was.  I did 64 burpees and 64 push ups (plus those I racked up during sparring!)  I had wailed on no less that three girls and six guys.  I had busted up my knuckles.  I was woman!  Hear me roar!  And I am SO going back next week!!

The In-Between

I am a chronic over-achiever.  Throughout my entire life, I've been obsessed with moving forward.  Whether it is my career, my education, my family life, or my relationships, I've always been obsessed with what "my next move" was going to be.  I've been like the shark, swimming unceasingly, because to stop swimming is to die.

I understand now that that relentless pursuit of progress was less about achievement and more about avoidance.  I kept plowing forward out of fear.  If I was moving forward, then it didn't matter if where I was at the moment was unsatisfying or uncomfortable.  I wouldn't be lingering here, so there wasn't time to really reflect on it.

Because of that unceasing need to be ready to seize the next opportunity, I found myself grasping on to situations that were not good for me.  I was the living embodiment of a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.  I always had to have a bird in hand - and had to be ready to grab the next one, should it become available.  I spent all my energy trying to fit the situations that were presented to me, rather than taking the time to find situations that right.

I am trying to change that.

Right now, in my life, I'm not really working toward an accomplishment. I'm not in pursuit of a goal.  I'm not searching for a relationship, a new career, the next big thing. There is nothing that I'm obsessively trying to achieve.   And the feeling is so... liberating.

And terrifying.

Right now, I'm in what Melody Beattie calls "the in-between."

Being in-between isn’t fun, but it’s necessary. It will not last forever. It may feel like we’re standing still, but were not. We’re standing at the in-between place. It’s how we get from here to there. It is not the destination.

There is a certain amount of faith required in this state of being.  And it's not for cowards.  As the quote above says, sometimes the most courageous thing is to be willing to stand with our hands empty and wait for God to fill them.  And while the idea of being empty-handed makes me nervous, I have to admit that after holding on to a heavy load of not-quite-right and just-plain-wrong, it's kind of nice to have my hands free.

 I've been spending my time and energy figuring out who I am and what I already have.  Once I get that worked out, I will spend some time thinking about what it is that I need and what I really want.
And hopefully, when that is all sorted out, I will be ready to start moving again.

Act 23: Go Salsa Dancing

The nice thing about having friends is that they are there for you when times are not-that-great.  They buoy your spirits and help you hold the course when life's waters get a little rough.  I'm lucky to have a several people in my life who do just that for me.   The not-so-nice thing about having friends is that they sometimes shake you out of your comfortable patterns - even when you think it's the last thing you want to do.

I put "Go Salsa Dancing" on my list in deference to my girlfriends Heidi and Meldy.  I figured they were going to get me out there eventually, so I might as well accept it.  Besides, I like the idea of getting out and doing something fun.  However, when the opportunity - Heidi's birthday celebration - came along, I think I can safely say that I was NOT in the mood for getting out and doing something fun.  As a matter of fact, I was in the throes of what I thought was a pretty impressive wallow.  Still, Heidi's birthday comes once a year, and it turns out that Cinco de Mayo, the newest Mexican restaurant to open in my little corner of the world has a salsa DJ and dancing on Friday nights.  This was happening.

Let me help you to understand how monumental this would have been under normal circumstances: the dancing started at 10.  PM.  AT NIGHT!  That's 30 minutes after my normal bedtime!  And it happened to coincide with the Netflix release of Tina Fey's new show Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt.  Late at night!  And up against Tina!  Were my friends out of their minds?  Add to that one of the worst weeks that I've had in recent memory, and I was not up to party.

But friends are friends.  And this was going to happen.

I got all tarted up to  go out - because when you go salsa dancing, you have to at least TRY to look hot.  I think I did ok, though I couldn't pale in comparison to my girl Heidi and her fierce look.  I arrived a bit late (Hello!  Kimmy Schmidt!  I'm not made of stone.)  The party was already in full swing.  Now, anyone who knows me knows that words like grace and rhythm are NOT words that you might use to describe me, so I made a beeline for the booth where my friends were sitting.  And sat down.  In the corner.  Literally.

Proof of both the experience
and the patience of Dr. B.

I sat through one song, and I made a decision.  I was out.  I was looking good.  I was here to challenge myself.  So doggone it,  I was going to dance.  I grabbed my friend Kelvin, and made him dance with me.  I knew no steps, didn't recognize the music, and was completely out of my element.  And I had a blast!  I laughed more that I had in weeks.

Meldy & Rigo show us how
it is done!

There were a few kind souls who tried to teach me a few steps, and after a while, I started to maybe kinda look like I knew what I was doing.  I eventually got the concept of one-two one-two  or one-two-three-kick, but every time I tried to spin or turn or vary at all, it almost always ended up in me getting WAY off beat, stepping on someone (usually my partner, but not always), and laughing my head off.  I was rubbish at dancing, but I had so much fun.

I didn't stay out long, because real life and Kimmy were calling, but I can honestly say that I enjoyed the time I was there.  I had nothing to prove.  I wasn't trying to impress anyone, and I forgot my troubles for a little while.  And I have my girls to thank for that!

March Forth

Yesterday was one of my favorite dates of the year: March 4th.  It's both a date and an imperative. (Yes, I know I'm a word nerd.  So sue me.)  I used to love to tell my students that it was now time to really begin our March forth - to spring, to the end of the school year, to bigger and better things.

I've always liked March.  It's like the reward you get for slogging through February.  You can feel the promise of spring in the air, enticingly close, but not quite here.  March is full of possibility, of potential.  It can often be tumultuous, and while it often ends up sneaking in one last little bit of nasty weather, it usually makes nice by the end.

March is a month of transition - the ending of the cold, bleakness of winter and trading it in for the blossoming rebirth of spring.  It never is a clear transition here in North Carolina.  We get a few days of warm weather, then a blast of arctic air.  Over and over, until the blasts are less frequent, and the days finally dissolve into warmth.

That is where I am.

I can feel the coming spring in my bones.  I know that in just a short while, there is going to be a bursting forth of life and renewal.  There will be warmth and beauty and a whole realm of possibility.  It's enticingly close.  But it's not today.  Today is one of those last blasts of nasty, bitter, bone-chilling cold.  The kind of day that almost makes you forget that there is even such a thing as bright warm sunshine and soft breezes.  The kind of day that tests your mettle.

And just as there is no point in railing against the weather, there really doesn't seem much use in putting up a fight against the bleakness of today.  So instead, I will surrender to it and recognize that the bulbs of spring can't blossom until they have weathered the chill of winter.  New things cannot truly begin until old ones truly end.  But new things will begin.

That's the gift of March: It starts blustery and harsh, but with those early days' imperative it brings the reminder - March forth.  There are better days ahead.  Just keep moving forward - one foot in front of the other, steady, slowly, non-stop.  The promise is there, but you have to move toward it.  And you can only claim it if you have the courage to march forth.

Side Effects

I've officially started feeling my emotions.  I know that probably sounds moronic, but after years of tamping them down, it's kind of revolutionary.  It's also a little scary.  Everything is so close to the surface - tears, anger, frustration, loneliness, joy, satisfaction, awe.  It all keeps bubbling up.  And when it does, I have a little moment where I feel myself try to push it down.  It's in those moments that I have to let go, and trust God.

After so long of feeling like I am responsible for every little thing, it takes a lot of reminding to remember that God is the one who is in control.  Every time, I'm surprised by the sense of peace that comes over me once the feeling has subsided.  In those moments, I know that I am going to be alright - eventually.  One day, I hope this reaction will be automatic.  It's not quite yet, but it is self-reinforcing.  The more I do it, the easier it gets.

The past two weeks were hard because I've been going through this while The Kids and I were snow bound together.  At first, I tried to hide myself away when I would get The Feels - go into the other room or hang on until after bedtime or they went out to play.  However, after a few days of that, it didn't make sense.  I've been modeling the stoic bad habits for so long, I thought maybe it's time to model the healthy ones.

So, if I get The Feels when they are around, I verbalize what I'm going through.  Last Monday-Tuesday was a good starting point.  I felt raw and exposed and the tears were never far from the surface.  When they would erupt, I would say, "I'm feeling happy because Chandler and Monica are engaged" (I watched a LOT of Friends the last two weeks.)  or "I'm feeling sad now because I'm missing my Daddy.  It makes me feel better to cry a little bit because it helps get the feelings out,  I know that God has a plan and will take care of me, and when I remember that, it makes me feel better."  They both seemed pretty cool with that.

I see some of my tendencies in my kids.  The Boy has the tendency of caretaking and control - acting as if he's responsible for every one and every thing.  In The Girl, I see the need for perfection in the anger and frustration that bubbles up when she doesn't get things just right.  They both are exceptionally hard on themselves.  It hurts my heart because I put that there.  So I feel doubly dedicated to be as healthy as I can, so they can see what a healthy person looks like.  I believe it's possible - with God's help.  I know I can't change them, but I can be a good example and hope they will pick something up by osmosis.

The message that I keep driving home is that I love them as they are - no matter what.  So  when I fuss, it's always with that context.  Interestingly, there has been much less fussing around Chez Kaye.  Because I'm giving myself breathing room to just be, the kids also get to enjoy the breathing room.  I can feel it in our home.  I've stopped micromanaging them (as much... I am after all a Work in Progress!) They have responsibilities, but I have stopped standing over them while they fulfill those responsibilities.  They have risen to the challenge. This past week, we basically did home-school.  Each Kid completed a major project.  The Girl did two writing prompts.  The Boy kept up with his school work too.  There was minimal fussing, and plenty of time to enjoy the snow, the down time, and each other.

 It's kind of an amazingly beautiful thing!