Dear sons,
This morning while we were out on a walk with some friends, you both contentedly riding in the stroller -pacified by one of those devilish-to-the-earth-mama-in-me sweeter-than-sweet-tea donuts - when a random stranger stopped by to oo and ahh at you and tell me how precious you were, how much like twins you looked, and how full my hands must be. So close together! And TWO BOYS too! First times for all of those [were not today]. "You know, I never had to spank until I had my son... girls are so well-behaved and social and sweet, and boys... well boys never stop moving and are into everything. You'll be in my prayers tonight." she said.
She's never met any sister that you might have - but you come legitimately from a mama who is rarely well-behaved, and while, sweet, never stops moving and is into everything. And I'd reckon any daughter that I might have might inherit some of those genes. Mild eye roll here.
Regardless, I thanked her for her prayers, and we moved on.
But as you both [finally] fell asleep for nap today, and I breathed a little sigh of relief, this is what I wanted to tell you:
I don't ever want to tame you.
I love that you are into everything and never stop moving. I love your curiosity and your chatter and your enthusiasm and energy. I love that you don't care if you get dirty, that you see puddles and your first thought is not staying dry but making the biggest splash that you can. I love that you have so many thoughts and so much joy that you sometimes quite literally keep yourself awake retelling your day and singing every song that you know. Loudly. I joke that you only have two volumes - loud and extra loud - but I love your unbridled, unhindered enthusiasm that needs to shout "DAAAADDDDY, MOMMY MADE BEANS FOR DINNER!" The whole neighborhood is invited in to your delight. Also for dinner. [Slightly better than "DAAAADDDDDY, MOMMY POOPED ON THE POTTY!"]
I love that you, S, see me cooking and want to pull every single pan and pot out of the cupboard so that you can cook too, and that you loudly proclaim your menu to me as you "cook" it. I love your enthusiasm about everything - your curiosity to explore your world and figure out how things work -and how deeply you delight to do it and then retell it to anyone who will listen. You are all in, 100% in whatever you do, and I love that about you.
I love that you, E, see the world as your oyster - that you fearlessly launch yourself off of slides, shelves, chairs, and beds, without worry that you will be caught, even though my heart stops almost every time. You will be the child who takes us to the emergency room first. But I love how safe you feel, that you are not afraid to launch yourself into anything new.
I love that you both explore the world in your own ways, on all four cylinders. Neither one of you holds back - and it is exhausting, nerve-wracking and delightful to see. Full-steam ahead, bloody occasionally, running-never-walking, all-hands-on-deck, exhausted by bedtime, from dawn until dusk.
This is certainly not just a boy thing, although stereotypes do render it the conversation more often than not. Lord willing, if you have a sister, I hope she's fully herself, whatever that looks like, with reckless abandon too. Somehow my eardrums, nerves, and heart will survive, I am certain.
Baby boys, your Daddy and I will do our best to teach you manners, kindness, gentleness, and compassion - to raise you to be good men who recognize and appreciate context and balance. We will endeavor to raise you with good discipline and respect. That's why we do discipline you, with consistency and firmness. Hitting your brother is still not okay - wrestling is fine as long as you're both game. We've been over this. But it is not our goal to "tame you," quiet you, or curb your enthusiasm, even as we do ask you to be obedient and respectful.
See, your enthusiasm, your energy, your curiosity - the way that you are both hardwired - it is a good gift. And channeled appropriately, with respect and compassion, that enthusiasm and energy will be your greatest asset. That fearlessness and confidence, E, will propel you forward into places that others dare not go - boldly and bravely - your empathy, which I also see in you, will drive you there for the sake of others. Your curiosity and intellect, S, will motivate you and drive you learn and understand how and why things work - and your enthusiasm and delight in proclamation will invite others to have the same delight in discovery that you do.
So while I appreciate the well-meaning prayers and encouragement of strangers - please do not mistake my politeness to them as agreement with their sympathy for me in your energy. Please hear me, loud and clear -
I love your into-everything-ness. Your energy. Your enthusiasm. And even your wildness. I would not change it. I am grateful for it. And I want to bless it - I do bless it - to thrive and grow in appropriate context and application. And when my natural tendencies and desire for order might influence me otherwise, remind me that I said this earlier, because I do mean it, from the heart.
I love you so deeply, little ones. And I am so so proud to be the mommy to two such wonderful boys.
Love,
Your crazy mama
KD
Showing posts with label Letters to my Son. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Letters to my Son. Show all posts
Friday, July 10, 2015
Friday, October 17, 2014
Letters to my sons: on sunrises, beauty, and awe
Dear sons,
It's 7:24am on a Friday morning*. The child who woke me up when the clock still started with a 5 has already gone done for his first nap of the day. The other one of you has yet to begin to stir. It's a cool crisp morning, and the nip in the air makes the sunrise seem so much more beautiful as the first few warm rays creep over the clouds left over from yesterday's rain storms. Warm coffee in hand, curled up with a blanket - I am sleepy and bleary-eyed, but content.
I remember another morning - now seems ages ago - my freshman year in college when we got up early to drive down to the beach to watch the sun rise. It was magical, and beautiful, and we did it every year I was in college - but that first time was something special. It was the first time I had ever intentionally watched the sunrise. Growing up on a farm, I was often up before the sun rose - but I don't remember ever taking the time to notice it. And so when I saw it - really saw it, for the first time - it took my breath away. The first light barely visible over the horizon, the gradually lightening of the sky, and then those first rays which creep out as you watch. And then all of a sudden, in a sort of symphony for your eyes, the sky crescendos as sun rises into view and brings everything else around it into light. It is one of the most beautiful harmonies of the earth.
This morning's sunrise wasn't quite that dramatic for me - but it hearkened me back to that day and made me smile with the sweetness of it.
Here's the thing though - the sun rises every day. And, as it is presently, often I am up before it rises, thanks to you two sweet little alarm clocks. But I rarely am wowed by it, and honestly, very rarely even pay attention to it. But still it rises. It has become simply a backdrop to our busy day-to-days.
So where, pray tell, is your sleep-deprived, bleary-eyed mama going with this? I promise, I have a point and here it is: I don't ever want to become so used to the beautiful that it becomes the mundane, simply a backdrop to our busy days. And since you are both parts of my life that easily can seem routine and regular, I want to take a minute to treasure you both and tell you how beautiful to me you are.
E, when you were first born, we waited for almost 24 hours before you gave us your first good ol' healthy pee. I remember the waiting to make sure that all of your piping was working the way it was intended to - and the relief when it did, even though there was no reason for concern. As a result, I get to change 6-7 wet diapers every day. This is my mundane, day-to-day, but it is also evidence of the good and beautiful way that your body works exactly as it is designed to. All of the intricacy of blood vessels, bones, intestines, ligaments, and tissues - woven together to enable you to grow and eat and learn and play. It's amazing. You, son, are beautifully and wonderfully made.
S, one day when you were about 2 months old, your daddy realized that he had never checked to make sure you had all your fingers and toes, and a bit sheepishly counted them then. Sure enough, you have ten beautiful fingers and ten strong toes, and you use them every day to poke, prod, pull, and push mommy. And to request every little thing that you want, sometimes driving your mommy up a wall. But son, it is nothing short of miraculous, the way that you are made - the way that each part of your body is there and works exactly as it was made to. You, son, are beautifully and wonderfully made.
The way that you cry - that your eyes produce tears, that your lungs work to enable you to breathe (and scream), the way that your little hearts beat in rhythm. The way that your fingers can grasp my hand or pull my hair. Your silliness and the ways your sense of humor is already developing. The ways that you both can already empathize and feel and emote. How much you trust your daddy and me. How love is an expression and emotion and feeling that exudes from you and in those giant bear hugs that you love to give. And the depth of love, that I cannot even find words to express, that I have for you.
I am so so so grateful to be able to be your mommy.
I am in awe of many things - but there are very few things that amaze me as much as the fact that you were formed and made inside of my belly, that I got to carry you for 9 precious months, and the ways that you have grown since then from so tiny to so beautifully big. I can't believe that you are ours.
You are both regular, every-day, parts of my life and there are oh so many mundane and regular things that I do to care for you every day, but there is absolutely nothing mundane or ordinary about you. You are both fearfully and wonderfully made, and I know that full well. And there is nothing that you can do or not do that will change that.
No matter how many times I have to change your diapers, wash your hands, feed you, pick you up, comfort you when you cry, or hold you as you drift to sleep in the middle of the night. No matter how tired I am, or how much I grumble about the 5am wake-up calls, or yet another temper tantrum. No matter how many aspects of day-in-day out motherhood I struggle with (I do and I will) or complain about (I do and I will) - no matter what. In the midst of all of that, very real, very messy, and very true part of motherhood, no matter what, I want you to always know that you are beautiful to me. That you are my first sunrise. That when I look at you, I hear the harmonies that God sings over me. I see the majesty of the symphony in how you were made. I am in awe of the story that you get to live. And I cannot wait to see how the rest of it unfolds.
I love you both, S and E, and I am honored that I get to be your mom every.single.day.
With all my love,
Mommy
*finished during naptime, as a certain toddler needed breakfast RIGHT NOW when he woke up!
It's 7:24am on a Friday morning*. The child who woke me up when the clock still started with a 5 has already gone done for his first nap of the day. The other one of you has yet to begin to stir. It's a cool crisp morning, and the nip in the air makes the sunrise seem so much more beautiful as the first few warm rays creep over the clouds left over from yesterday's rain storms. Warm coffee in hand, curled up with a blanket - I am sleepy and bleary-eyed, but content.
I remember another morning - now seems ages ago - my freshman year in college when we got up early to drive down to the beach to watch the sun rise. It was magical, and beautiful, and we did it every year I was in college - but that first time was something special. It was the first time I had ever intentionally watched the sunrise. Growing up on a farm, I was often up before the sun rose - but I don't remember ever taking the time to notice it. And so when I saw it - really saw it, for the first time - it took my breath away. The first light barely visible over the horizon, the gradually lightening of the sky, and then those first rays which creep out as you watch. And then all of a sudden, in a sort of symphony for your eyes, the sky crescendos as sun rises into view and brings everything else around it into light. It is one of the most beautiful harmonies of the earth.
This morning's sunrise wasn't quite that dramatic for me - but it hearkened me back to that day and made me smile with the sweetness of it.
Here's the thing though - the sun rises every day. And, as it is presently, often I am up before it rises, thanks to you two sweet little alarm clocks. But I rarely am wowed by it, and honestly, very rarely even pay attention to it. But still it rises. It has become simply a backdrop to our busy day-to-days.
So where, pray tell, is your sleep-deprived, bleary-eyed mama going with this? I promise, I have a point and here it is: I don't ever want to become so used to the beautiful that it becomes the mundane, simply a backdrop to our busy days. And since you are both parts of my life that easily can seem routine and regular, I want to take a minute to treasure you both and tell you how beautiful to me you are.
E, when you were first born, we waited for almost 24 hours before you gave us your first good ol' healthy pee. I remember the waiting to make sure that all of your piping was working the way it was intended to - and the relief when it did, even though there was no reason for concern. As a result, I get to change 6-7 wet diapers every day. This is my mundane, day-to-day, but it is also evidence of the good and beautiful way that your body works exactly as it is designed to. All of the intricacy of blood vessels, bones, intestines, ligaments, and tissues - woven together to enable you to grow and eat and learn and play. It's amazing. You, son, are beautifully and wonderfully made.
S, one day when you were about 2 months old, your daddy realized that he had never checked to make sure you had all your fingers and toes, and a bit sheepishly counted them then. Sure enough, you have ten beautiful fingers and ten strong toes, and you use them every day to poke, prod, pull, and push mommy. And to request every little thing that you want, sometimes driving your mommy up a wall. But son, it is nothing short of miraculous, the way that you are made - the way that each part of your body is there and works exactly as it was made to. You, son, are beautifully and wonderfully made.
The way that you cry - that your eyes produce tears, that your lungs work to enable you to breathe (and scream), the way that your little hearts beat in rhythm. The way that your fingers can grasp my hand or pull my hair. Your silliness and the ways your sense of humor is already developing. The ways that you both can already empathize and feel and emote. How much you trust your daddy and me. How love is an expression and emotion and feeling that exudes from you and in those giant bear hugs that you love to give. And the depth of love, that I cannot even find words to express, that I have for you.
I am so so so grateful to be able to be your mommy.
I am in awe of many things - but there are very few things that amaze me as much as the fact that you were formed and made inside of my belly, that I got to carry you for 9 precious months, and the ways that you have grown since then from so tiny to so beautifully big. I can't believe that you are ours.
You are both regular, every-day, parts of my life and there are oh so many mundane and regular things that I do to care for you every day, but there is absolutely nothing mundane or ordinary about you. You are both fearfully and wonderfully made, and I know that full well. And there is nothing that you can do or not do that will change that.
No matter how many times I have to change your diapers, wash your hands, feed you, pick you up, comfort you when you cry, or hold you as you drift to sleep in the middle of the night. No matter how tired I am, or how much I grumble about the 5am wake-up calls, or yet another temper tantrum. No matter how many aspects of day-in-day out motherhood I struggle with (I do and I will) or complain about (I do and I will) - no matter what. In the midst of all of that, very real, very messy, and very true part of motherhood, no matter what, I want you to always know that you are beautiful to me. That you are my first sunrise. That when I look at you, I hear the harmonies that God sings over me. I see the majesty of the symphony in how you were made. I am in awe of the story that you get to live. And I cannot wait to see how the rest of it unfolds.
I love you both, S and E, and I am honored that I get to be your mom every.single.day.
With all my love,
Mommy
*finished during naptime, as a certain toddler needed breakfast RIGHT NOW when he woke up!
Monday, October 14, 2013
Letters to my son: Being Your Mom
Dear son,
I've been wanting to write this letter for a while, but I just haven't quite had the words. I still don't, but they say that words start to flow when you start to write, so here I am. I want to tell you how much I love being your mommy, and how much more full I am than I ever thought I could be.
It's not one story - that would be easy to describe or tell. It's not even one sweet tender moment, because I'm pretty sure I could find words for that as well. It's the days, in and out, with your good moments, and your scream-y ones, that make my heart fill and feel like it cannot hold any more, but still it grows and overflows even more each day.
You are a man on the move these days and from the moment that you sit up in your crib to the moment that I lay you down for the night, you never stop. Over legs, under tables, climbing trash cans and strollers: by the end of the day, you have more bumps than I can count - but still you grin. You are unfazed by each set-back, and your persevering little personality keeps trying again, and again, and again. Grinning and pouting and crying and chortling, all the way. Nothing melts me like your laugh. Even your preciously adorable pouty lip doesn't come close.
The other night, you had a hard night. You were startled awake around 10:30, and you screamed and cried and wouldn't go back to sleep in your crib until almost 1:15. And so we held you, and rocked you, and walked with you, and you fell asleep on our chests, your breathing slowing and relaxing, and your body slumped against ours in total trust, arching and screaming the moment we tried to put you down. And as frustrated as I was, and as tired as I was, and as much as I wanted you to go.to.bed, I kept thinking, "I get to be his mom. And we get to be the ones who comfort him. Who help him feel safe when he's scared." We get to be the ones who sit with him on these long, dark nights and as well as bear witness to the happy, laughter-filled days. We get to be the ones... and baby, even though I was SO glad when you finally let Daddy put you down in your crib, and stayed asleep, and we could crawl into our own bed and fall asleep, lying down, I wouldn't trade the privilege of getting to be the one who gets to be your mom - your safe place, even in those long, dark nights - for anything.
As I write this, you are crawling around on the floor, under daddy's keyboard, under my chair, pulling books off the shelves, and in general leaving total chaos in your wake - but every so often, you come back over to me, pull up on my leg, and just grin, as if to say "still here, mom?" I'm still here, baby. And I'm not going anywhere.
I love your fearlessness, even when that causes heart failure as you launch yourself off couches, beds, and chairs. I love your laughter when daddy tickles you or you find something totally random, funny. I love your snuggles in those last few minutes before bed, those precious, rare moments when you curl up and snuggle in and are still. I love how you grin when we brush your teeth, and how you impishly consider whether to obey or not when we tell you no. I love your wild crazy hair, standing on end and going every which way. I love hearing your voice, as you sing going up the stairs, or along with me when we're cooking in the kitchen. And I love how you crawl/run to greet me when I come home from a long day at work.
I wear many hats, baby. But being Daddy's wife, and your mom are two of the most precious to me. When I am with you both, I am home and fully me.
I love being your mom, and as long as I am alive, I will always be here. Whether you're screaming and running away, or screaming and running towards; whether you're smiling and laughing, or crying; whether you are being fiercely independent, or just needing reassurance that we're here; whether you despise us or delight in us; whether you need us, or are fine on your own; whether I understand you or struggle to; whether I'm tired and just need a break, or loving every moment of motherhood, I will be here, with love, hard or easy, as your mom. Loving you regardless. Listening. Staying. And grateful for the gift of being your mom, always.
Love,
Mommy
I've been wanting to write this letter for a while, but I just haven't quite had the words. I still don't, but they say that words start to flow when you start to write, so here I am. I want to tell you how much I love being your mommy, and how much more full I am than I ever thought I could be.
It's not one story - that would be easy to describe or tell. It's not even one sweet tender moment, because I'm pretty sure I could find words for that as well. It's the days, in and out, with your good moments, and your scream-y ones, that make my heart fill and feel like it cannot hold any more, but still it grows and overflows even more each day.
You are a man on the move these days and from the moment that you sit up in your crib to the moment that I lay you down for the night, you never stop. Over legs, under tables, climbing trash cans and strollers: by the end of the day, you have more bumps than I can count - but still you grin. You are unfazed by each set-back, and your persevering little personality keeps trying again, and again, and again. Grinning and pouting and crying and chortling, all the way. Nothing melts me like your laugh. Even your preciously adorable pouty lip doesn't come close.
The other night, you had a hard night. You were startled awake around 10:30, and you screamed and cried and wouldn't go back to sleep in your crib until almost 1:15. And so we held you, and rocked you, and walked with you, and you fell asleep on our chests, your breathing slowing and relaxing, and your body slumped against ours in total trust, arching and screaming the moment we tried to put you down. And as frustrated as I was, and as tired as I was, and as much as I wanted you to go.to.bed, I kept thinking, "I get to be his mom. And we get to be the ones who comfort him. Who help him feel safe when he's scared." We get to be the ones who sit with him on these long, dark nights and as well as bear witness to the happy, laughter-filled days. We get to be the ones... and baby, even though I was SO glad when you finally let Daddy put you down in your crib, and stayed asleep, and we could crawl into our own bed and fall asleep, lying down, I wouldn't trade the privilege of getting to be the one who gets to be your mom - your safe place, even in those long, dark nights - for anything.
As I write this, you are crawling around on the floor, under daddy's keyboard, under my chair, pulling books off the shelves, and in general leaving total chaos in your wake - but every so often, you come back over to me, pull up on my leg, and just grin, as if to say "still here, mom?" I'm still here, baby. And I'm not going anywhere.
I love your fearlessness, even when that causes heart failure as you launch yourself off couches, beds, and chairs. I love your laughter when daddy tickles you or you find something totally random, funny. I love your snuggles in those last few minutes before bed, those precious, rare moments when you curl up and snuggle in and are still. I love how you grin when we brush your teeth, and how you impishly consider whether to obey or not when we tell you no. I love your wild crazy hair, standing on end and going every which way. I love hearing your voice, as you sing going up the stairs, or along with me when we're cooking in the kitchen. And I love how you crawl/run to greet me when I come home from a long day at work.
I wear many hats, baby. But being Daddy's wife, and your mom are two of the most precious to me. When I am with you both, I am home and fully me.
I love being your mom, and as long as I am alive, I will always be here. Whether you're screaming and running away, or screaming and running towards; whether you're smiling and laughing, or crying; whether you are being fiercely independent, or just needing reassurance that we're here; whether you despise us or delight in us; whether you need us, or are fine on your own; whether I understand you or struggle to; whether I'm tired and just need a break, or loving every moment of motherhood, I will be here, with love, hard or easy, as your mom. Loving you regardless. Listening. Staying. And grateful for the gift of being your mom, always.
Love,
Mommy
Thursday, October 3, 2013
Letters to my son: Easy Answers
Dear son -
This has been a month of a lot of hard moments for mommy. Questions of why that don't have answers. Tears. Memories. More questions.
This month, two dear friends that are trying to get pregnant, but haven't been able to, clocked in yet another disappointment and heartbreak. Yet another month without a longed for, beloved member of their families. Earlier this week, a friend gave birth to her beautiful daughter, stillborn, at 6 months after receiving a fatal diagnosis earlier this month. And those losses have hit me really hard this month. Even as we celebrated with rapt delight countless other friends delight in welcoming home a new baby or discovering/announcing that they are pregnant.
This last month [Sept] is host to suicide prevention week, and with it come the memories of those that mommy has lost to suicide and thankfulness and prayers for those that she feared she would lose. Those she holds dear, in this life, and the next. And with it comes both grief for those absent, questions of why, and sadness for the oft invisible hurt, heaviness, and darkness that is felt by so many.
This month, mommy had hope for something new that might be had. Thought that it might happen. But it didn't. And the hope that was, fell, in the silence of that which never was, but was hoped and longed for.
And this month, mommy has prayed with more people who have lost a loved one or are losing a loved one, to death, disease, or divorce, than she has in a very long time. And it's been hard. Really hard. With lots of tears, lots of sitting with, and lots of why questions.
Right now, your hardest why questions are most likely "why is it taking so long for mommy to arrive?" and "why can't I eat this onion skin or climb on this chair?"
In a few short years, I am sure that you will overwhelm us with your questions of "why?" Why do birds fly, mommy? Why don't airplanes fall? Why do football players wear helmets? Why do some people speak a different language than us? Why does the T move so slow or smell so dirty? Why do you kiss daddy? Why isn't the sky orange?
And while those are tricky questions, I am fairly confident, with the help of google search and wiser friends, we can ascertain an answer to them. But you will learn, son, that there are many many questions that don't have easy answers. Whys which we don't know. Whys which no matter how smart mommy and daddy are, or how excellent their google searching skills, we cannot figure out concisely. Or at all.
Your mommy thinks a lot (and so does Daddy). And for years, she has wrestled with those whys. Wanted simple answers. Tried to simplify complex things. And tried to understand why. And that's not a bad thing.
But in my now slightly older wisdom, I am learning that we do some of those griefs, some of those hard places, some of those questions, a grave disservice, when we attempt to make what is complicated, simple.
Oliver Wendall Holmes once said, "I would not give a fig for the simplicity on this side of complexity, but I would give my life for the simplicity on the other side of complexity." I love that quote, and it hangs on the wall of our dining room, in a piece of art that I created, when I was wading through a season of my own complexity and story, grief, and history.
There comes [eventually] a simplicity to these why questions - even if it's just an inexplicable peace in the "I don't know"- but it only comes from wading through, sitting in, walking with, crying through - those places of complexity. Of I don't know. And it's beautiful - far more beautiful than a cliche simplicity. When we settle for the easy, feel good answers, we do a disservice to the grief. To those who grieve. And to ourselves. And we cheapen the beauty that rises from the ashes.
Son, in my grief this month - in my grief for others this month - and in my grief with others this month - I don't have answers. I don't know. And I can guarantee you that you will ask questions that I don't know the answer to also. That you will likewise wrestle with. Or those around you, that you love deeply and dearly, will wrestle with.
And there is a temptation - out of a good desire, and deep compassion to mitigate pain - to give easy answers. To hold on to easy answers. And to resolve the why quickly.
But son, this is my entreaty to you, as well as my promise: [I will] be willing to say "I don't know." Without explanation, but with compassion and empathy. I don't know why, but I love you. I don't know why, but let's wrestle with it together. I don't know why, but I want to love you well. How can I do that? I don't know, but I'm not going anywhere.
Perhaps there are times when a simplified [but still true] answer will be helpful - when you ask where babies come from, when you're 2 or 3, for example. But, in as much as I am able, and with room for discernment and wisdom to lead - I promise you, I will not give you trite answers - or make something up, when the reality is that I don't know. I will [endeavor to] not be afraid to say "I don't know."
Because while it is extremely tempting to give or cling to easy answers, it is not comforting to those who are stuck in the complexity. It would be easy for me to teach you trite answers - cliche phrases which you can always give. In one blog post letter, I can give you at least four that can always be [inappropriately] dished out in any circumstance. But the harder and more compassionate thing is to teach you to sit with. To model sitting with. Pressing in. Digging deep. And wading through the complexity to find the beautiful simplicity on the other side.
That is what I want to live. That is what I want to model for you. And what I want to invite you into as well.
Love,
Mommy
This has been a month of a lot of hard moments for mommy. Questions of why that don't have answers. Tears. Memories. More questions.
This month, two dear friends that are trying to get pregnant, but haven't been able to, clocked in yet another disappointment and heartbreak. Yet another month without a longed for, beloved member of their families. Earlier this week, a friend gave birth to her beautiful daughter, stillborn, at 6 months after receiving a fatal diagnosis earlier this month. And those losses have hit me really hard this month. Even as we celebrated with rapt delight countless other friends delight in welcoming home a new baby or discovering/announcing that they are pregnant.
This last month [Sept] is host to suicide prevention week, and with it come the memories of those that mommy has lost to suicide and thankfulness and prayers for those that she feared she would lose. Those she holds dear, in this life, and the next. And with it comes both grief for those absent, questions of why, and sadness for the oft invisible hurt, heaviness, and darkness that is felt by so many.
This month, mommy had hope for something new that might be had. Thought that it might happen. But it didn't. And the hope that was, fell, in the silence of that which never was, but was hoped and longed for.
And this month, mommy has prayed with more people who have lost a loved one or are losing a loved one, to death, disease, or divorce, than she has in a very long time. And it's been hard. Really hard. With lots of tears, lots of sitting with, and lots of why questions.
Right now, your hardest why questions are most likely "why is it taking so long for mommy to arrive?" and "why can't I eat this onion skin or climb on this chair?"
In a few short years, I am sure that you will overwhelm us with your questions of "why?" Why do birds fly, mommy? Why don't airplanes fall? Why do football players wear helmets? Why do some people speak a different language than us? Why does the T move so slow or smell so dirty? Why do you kiss daddy? Why isn't the sky orange?
And while those are tricky questions, I am fairly confident, with the help of google search and wiser friends, we can ascertain an answer to them. But you will learn, son, that there are many many questions that don't have easy answers. Whys which we don't know. Whys which no matter how smart mommy and daddy are, or how excellent their google searching skills, we cannot figure out concisely. Or at all.
Your mommy thinks a lot (and so does Daddy). And for years, she has wrestled with those whys. Wanted simple answers. Tried to simplify complex things. And tried to understand why. And that's not a bad thing.
But in my now slightly older wisdom, I am learning that we do some of those griefs, some of those hard places, some of those questions, a grave disservice, when we attempt to make what is complicated, simple.
Oliver Wendall Holmes once said, "I would not give a fig for the simplicity on this side of complexity, but I would give my life for the simplicity on the other side of complexity." I love that quote, and it hangs on the wall of our dining room, in a piece of art that I created, when I was wading through a season of my own complexity and story, grief, and history.
There comes [eventually] a simplicity to these why questions - even if it's just an inexplicable peace in the "I don't know"- but it only comes from wading through, sitting in, walking with, crying through - those places of complexity. Of I don't know. And it's beautiful - far more beautiful than a cliche simplicity. When we settle for the easy, feel good answers, we do a disservice to the grief. To those who grieve. And to ourselves. And we cheapen the beauty that rises from the ashes.
Son, in my grief this month - in my grief for others this month - and in my grief with others this month - I don't have answers. I don't know. And I can guarantee you that you will ask questions that I don't know the answer to also. That you will likewise wrestle with. Or those around you, that you love deeply and dearly, will wrestle with.
And there is a temptation - out of a good desire, and deep compassion to mitigate pain - to give easy answers. To hold on to easy answers. And to resolve the why quickly.
But son, this is my entreaty to you, as well as my promise: [I will] be willing to say "I don't know." Without explanation, but with compassion and empathy. I don't know why, but I love you. I don't know why, but let's wrestle with it together. I don't know why, but I want to love you well. How can I do that? I don't know, but I'm not going anywhere.
Perhaps there are times when a simplified [but still true] answer will be helpful - when you ask where babies come from, when you're 2 or 3, for example. But, in as much as I am able, and with room for discernment and wisdom to lead - I promise you, I will not give you trite answers - or make something up, when the reality is that I don't know. I will [endeavor to] not be afraid to say "I don't know."
Because while it is extremely tempting to give or cling to easy answers, it is not comforting to those who are stuck in the complexity. It would be easy for me to teach you trite answers - cliche phrases which you can always give. In one blog post letter, I can give you at least four that can always be [inappropriately] dished out in any circumstance. But the harder and more compassionate thing is to teach you to sit with. To model sitting with. Pressing in. Digging deep. And wading through the complexity to find the beautiful simplicity on the other side.
That is what I want to live. That is what I want to model for you. And what I want to invite you into as well.
Love,
Mommy
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Letters to my Son: I saw in you his humanity
Dear son,
This morning I rocked with you, as you began to get sleepy, in those early morning hours after sleep but before your first nap, your mind still fighting sleep, even as your body gradually began to sink into mine, your eyelids growing heavier and heavier, and your little twitches and fiddlings slowly down. Those moments, those snuggles, are precious to me, because already you are a man on the go. Already you want to move. To be off exploring every dangerous element of our house, one backwards crawl-scoot at a time. You're sitting, scooting, rolling, moving constantly. And when you're not, you're babbling in full-baby dialogue, telling us about every move that you have made or want to make. You're growing up oh so quickly...
You're sleeping now, bottom in the air, one leg pulled up next to you in crawl-ready position, with your little arms - with those precious little baby rolls upon rolls - one holding your pacifier, stroking your lips with it, the other holding Mr. Moose and patting him as though he were an old friend.
Yesterday morning, on my way to work, mommy passed another boy who was sleeping in exactly the same way that you are now. One hand by his lips, the other cradling and patting his snuggle buddy. Bottom in the air, one leg pulled up into the ready-to-crawl position. For just a second, when I saw him, he reminded me so much of you, sleeping peacefully in your crib.
Except that this boy was in his late 40s, and instead of a soft crib, he was sleeping on a cement bench in a bus terminal. Instead of a blanket, he was wrapped in a dirty jacket. Instead of a onesie, he was wearing clothes that smelled of days without washing or relief from the heat. And instead of a snuggly Mr. Moose for a buddy, he was cradling his backpack, assumedly containing most of his possessions.
And yet, for just a instant, in the midst of my own very stressful day, my own busyness, concerns, and worries, I saw him.
In him, I saw you. Saw someone's son, not one abandoned, but one that at some point in time, maybe even presently, was deeply loved. Cuddled, held, rocked. Treasured. A son whose mother felt his kicks and wiggles and heartbeat before he was born, and bore him into this world in the same ways that I delivered you. A baby growing up into a little boy, whose mother couldn't believe how quickly he was growing. A son who slept ready to crawl because he was so ready to take on the world on crawl-scoot at a time.
We never interacted - he was sound asleep, I was late to work. And more rapidly than I'd care to admit, my mind moved back to my own pressing issues for the day. But for just an instant, he wasn't dirty, homeless, and aging to me - he was someone's son and I felt my mother's heart beat within me.
I don't know his story - I don't know what brought him to that point, finding rest snuggled up on that bench, during my morning commute. I don't know what his family was like - and I don't know what parts of his circumstances were of his own choosing or as a result of his past. But I do know that he was someone's son. That someone loved him enough to give him life. That he grew up, from baby to little boy to man. And that you, and I, and he, we're made from the same material, no matter where our paths or choices take us differently.
And so son, as you sleep peacefully in your safe, comfortable crib, I want to entreat you, as you grow from a baby to a boy, to a bigger boy, to a man - to recognize with me, and to remind me to remember, this common humanity of every person that we encounter. Everyone, no matter how smelly, dirty, crude, rude, mean, or frustrating, is someone's son or daughter. We might not like everyone, or agree with everyone, and that's okay, but at very minimum, we must recognize their humanity, and treat each person with the same respect and dignity that I would want them to treat my sons and daughters, or you would want them to treat your brothers and sisters.
And son, Lord forbid, but if, by some horrible turn of events or choices made, you ever find yourself sleeping on a bench, out in the cold, or caught up in a cycle that you cannot break - I want you to know - and really know - that you are loved, and wanted and will be welcomed. Whether I agree with you, or all of your decisions, whether there is hurt or anger or brokenness in our relationship between now and then, and no matter how messy your life may be, you are loved, wanted, and welcomed, as you are. Please come home, or call me, and I'll come where you are. Please don't every let shame, or messiness, or dirt, or stuck-ness, or difference of opinion keep us apart, or keep you away. And I will promise, here publicly, that I will do endeavor to let strong love always win, to keep my arms and my heart open and welcoming, come what may.
I love you, sweet boy. Your Daddy and I are so proud of all of the ways you are growing and learning. And we pray daily for the man that you are becoming.
Love,
Mommy
This morning I rocked with you, as you began to get sleepy, in those early morning hours after sleep but before your first nap, your mind still fighting sleep, even as your body gradually began to sink into mine, your eyelids growing heavier and heavier, and your little twitches and fiddlings slowly down. Those moments, those snuggles, are precious to me, because already you are a man on the go. Already you want to move. To be off exploring every dangerous element of our house, one backwards crawl-scoot at a time. You're sitting, scooting, rolling, moving constantly. And when you're not, you're babbling in full-baby dialogue, telling us about every move that you have made or want to make. You're growing up oh so quickly...
You're sleeping now, bottom in the air, one leg pulled up next to you in crawl-ready position, with your little arms - with those precious little baby rolls upon rolls - one holding your pacifier, stroking your lips with it, the other holding Mr. Moose and patting him as though he were an old friend.
Yesterday morning, on my way to work, mommy passed another boy who was sleeping in exactly the same way that you are now. One hand by his lips, the other cradling and patting his snuggle buddy. Bottom in the air, one leg pulled up into the ready-to-crawl position. For just a second, when I saw him, he reminded me so much of you, sleeping peacefully in your crib.
Except that this boy was in his late 40s, and instead of a soft crib, he was sleeping on a cement bench in a bus terminal. Instead of a blanket, he was wrapped in a dirty jacket. Instead of a onesie, he was wearing clothes that smelled of days without washing or relief from the heat. And instead of a snuggly Mr. Moose for a buddy, he was cradling his backpack, assumedly containing most of his possessions.
And yet, for just a instant, in the midst of my own very stressful day, my own busyness, concerns, and worries, I saw him.
In him, I saw you. Saw someone's son, not one abandoned, but one that at some point in time, maybe even presently, was deeply loved. Cuddled, held, rocked. Treasured. A son whose mother felt his kicks and wiggles and heartbeat before he was born, and bore him into this world in the same ways that I delivered you. A baby growing up into a little boy, whose mother couldn't believe how quickly he was growing. A son who slept ready to crawl because he was so ready to take on the world on crawl-scoot at a time.
We never interacted - he was sound asleep, I was late to work. And more rapidly than I'd care to admit, my mind moved back to my own pressing issues for the day. But for just an instant, he wasn't dirty, homeless, and aging to me - he was someone's son and I felt my mother's heart beat within me.
I don't know his story - I don't know what brought him to that point, finding rest snuggled up on that bench, during my morning commute. I don't know what his family was like - and I don't know what parts of his circumstances were of his own choosing or as a result of his past. But I do know that he was someone's son. That someone loved him enough to give him life. That he grew up, from baby to little boy to man. And that you, and I, and he, we're made from the same material, no matter where our paths or choices take us differently.
And so son, as you sleep peacefully in your safe, comfortable crib, I want to entreat you, as you grow from a baby to a boy, to a bigger boy, to a man - to recognize with me, and to remind me to remember, this common humanity of every person that we encounter. Everyone, no matter how smelly, dirty, crude, rude, mean, or frustrating, is someone's son or daughter. We might not like everyone, or agree with everyone, and that's okay, but at very minimum, we must recognize their humanity, and treat each person with the same respect and dignity that I would want them to treat my sons and daughters, or you would want them to treat your brothers and sisters.
And son, Lord forbid, but if, by some horrible turn of events or choices made, you ever find yourself sleeping on a bench, out in the cold, or caught up in a cycle that you cannot break - I want you to know - and really know - that you are loved, and wanted and will be welcomed. Whether I agree with you, or all of your decisions, whether there is hurt or anger or brokenness in our relationship between now and then, and no matter how messy your life may be, you are loved, wanted, and welcomed, as you are. Please come home, or call me, and I'll come where you are. Please don't every let shame, or messiness, or dirt, or stuck-ness, or difference of opinion keep us apart, or keep you away. And I will promise, here publicly, that I will do endeavor to let strong love always win, to keep my arms and my heart open and welcoming, come what may.
I love you, sweet boy. Your Daddy and I are so proud of all of the ways you are growing and learning. And we pray daily for the man that you are becoming.
Love,
Mommy
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Letters to My Son: Boston Marathon
Dear S -
As I write this letter, you are sleeping soundly in your pack-n-play in the next room over, presumably drifting in between dreams of toys and warm milk and giggly bath times with Daddy. Your world is beautifully small and safe - guarded by me and your Daddy, who love you dearly - and limited, for the most part, to things which might be strange and new, but are for the most part, safe.
And a part of me wishes that I could keep your world that small and safe forever. That I could forever stand guard over your crib, your sleep, your giggles, your days - protecting you from all the things in this world that are broken, and scary, and unsafe. And for now, while you are small and wee, completely dependent on your Daddy and me, and oh so innocent, I will do that. And that is right and good - my role, my privilege as your Mommy.
But, as you grow from a wee boy into a bigger boy, and start to ask the questions "why" and "how" and "what," I do you no service, if I deny the ways that this world is broken. If I don't teach you, as a bigger boy, how to process brokenness, how to fight for goodness and restoration, and the need to long for wholeness. I don't want you to fear the brokenness, son - it's there, it's real, it's part of our world. But there is also hope. And the promise of restoration. And places for you and me, to live and act in that hope. And as your mommy, that is my job, as you grow into a bigger boy - to teach you about the broken parts, yes, but to teach you about hope, and life, and restoration and action in the midst of those places. And so, while you won't read this for years to come, we start today.
This week has been a week where I am oh so keenly aware of the brokenness in this world - the hatred, the hurt, and the evil that can be perpetuated by humans. And yet, as I process these marathon bombings, the one question that I have never asked is why these men wanted to cause such hurt and pain. I don't feel led to ask it. I know the power that hate can carry - I know the ways in which hurt or cause or hatred can grow into evil action. I know it in myself. I know it in others. I know it in the world. And while you are wee and small and safe and protected now, it won't be too many years before you too will see the ways in which people can hurt, hate, and injure with their words and actions - me not excluded. And so "why" is not my question. The specifics I don't know - why this day, why this way, why these people, why my city? But those don't feel important.
What I do want to know is...
Who had the opportunity to demonstrate love, welcome, and kindness to these men - in the years that preceded this - and how might that have made a difference? How can you and I and we love, welcome, and show kindness to those in our midst? How might kindness, goodness, and welcome have made a difference? They might not have, but in our family, let's take the risk, live in hope, and try to love radically and see what happens.
In this story, a younger brother seems to have been influenced by an older brother's passion, cause and influence. I wonder why. I wonder what led him to throw away all the good, promising, hopeful opportunities that he had, and seemingly follow his brother, to a path of destruction. I wonder if the hatred was his too. I wonder what he thought and wanted. I wonder and I don't, at the same time.
You, S, will hopefully have the opportunity to be an older brother. And I guarantee you, your younger siblings will look up to you, watch you, and probably imitate you. Simply by means of being older, whether making mud pies or playing soccer or dealing with bullies or the way you talk, you will get the chance to be a leader. And in the same way that your Daddy and I have responsibility to model well for you, the ways that we hope you will walk - and do so in a way that is good not merely our way - you too will have the opportunity to model, to lead. There's grace in that - we're all learning, figuring this out, growing. And ultimately, you can't be responsible for the choices that your siblings make. But son, my hope is that if and when your siblings follow you, it will be into things which bless rather than curse, which heal rather than hurt, which stand up to evil, rather than aid it or simply give it room to grow. This is what your Daddy and I hope to model for you, teach you, and live into.
And lastly, I wonder what do we do now? When we see the ways that people hurt other people. When we hurt people. When we are hurt. When we feel fear. When we see hatred. When we feel hatred. How will we, will I, will you, respond? How can we respond with hope, and life, and restoration, and action?
Son, I guarantee you, that you feel fear at some point in time. That you will, even though my soft mommy heart wishes I could prevent it, be hurt. That you will see others be hurt. That you will feel anger, maybe even hate. That's human. Normal. Broken, yes. But not abnormal. But what you do, how you respond, will be what makes the difference. It is far easier to grow fearful, bitter, angry, self-defensive - to hate, to withdraw, or to lash out - than it is to act in hope and love. While harder, it is far better to seek understanding, to press in, to seek justice, to mourn, to seek healing, to forgive, to say I'm sorry. It is far easier to turn a blind eye to the hurt of others, to let the bullies continue to bully, and pacify ourselves with the fact that at least we're not contributing, than it is to stand up, and say "it's not okay." But S, our prayer for you - that I pray every night - is that you would not be the easier man. That you would be a man of strength, of courage, of humility, and of kindness. That you would act in hope, and love. That you would stand up for the bullied, the small, and the hurt. It is harder, yes - there is no doubt. And there will be times when you will take the easier way - and we'll love you then nonetheless, and strive to give you grace then, even while challenging you to turn back to hope and love. But S, no matter how hard, it matters, how we respond.
S, you and I and we will face fear, hurt, and hate. In our world, we cannot avoid it. But we always have a choice in how we respond. And we hope and pray, that you and I and we will respond with hope, and life, and restoration, and action.
I love you so much, sweet baby boy, as you sleep in peaceful innocence, growing, even as I write this. Your Mommy and Daddy are so proud of you and the wee boy that you already are becoming - and even as I write this, we pray for the man that you will become.
Love,
Mommy
As I write this letter, you are sleeping soundly in your pack-n-play in the next room over, presumably drifting in between dreams of toys and warm milk and giggly bath times with Daddy. Your world is beautifully small and safe - guarded by me and your Daddy, who love you dearly - and limited, for the most part, to things which might be strange and new, but are for the most part, safe.
And a part of me wishes that I could keep your world that small and safe forever. That I could forever stand guard over your crib, your sleep, your giggles, your days - protecting you from all the things in this world that are broken, and scary, and unsafe. And for now, while you are small and wee, completely dependent on your Daddy and me, and oh so innocent, I will do that. And that is right and good - my role, my privilege as your Mommy.
But, as you grow from a wee boy into a bigger boy, and start to ask the questions "why" and "how" and "what," I do you no service, if I deny the ways that this world is broken. If I don't teach you, as a bigger boy, how to process brokenness, how to fight for goodness and restoration, and the need to long for wholeness. I don't want you to fear the brokenness, son - it's there, it's real, it's part of our world. But there is also hope. And the promise of restoration. And places for you and me, to live and act in that hope. And as your mommy, that is my job, as you grow into a bigger boy - to teach you about the broken parts, yes, but to teach you about hope, and life, and restoration and action in the midst of those places. And so, while you won't read this for years to come, we start today.
This week has been a week where I am oh so keenly aware of the brokenness in this world - the hatred, the hurt, and the evil that can be perpetuated by humans. And yet, as I process these marathon bombings, the one question that I have never asked is why these men wanted to cause such hurt and pain. I don't feel led to ask it. I know the power that hate can carry - I know the ways in which hurt or cause or hatred can grow into evil action. I know it in myself. I know it in others. I know it in the world. And while you are wee and small and safe and protected now, it won't be too many years before you too will see the ways in which people can hurt, hate, and injure with their words and actions - me not excluded. And so "why" is not my question. The specifics I don't know - why this day, why this way, why these people, why my city? But those don't feel important.
What I do want to know is...
Who had the opportunity to demonstrate love, welcome, and kindness to these men - in the years that preceded this - and how might that have made a difference? How can you and I and we love, welcome, and show kindness to those in our midst? How might kindness, goodness, and welcome have made a difference? They might not have, but in our family, let's take the risk, live in hope, and try to love radically and see what happens.
In this story, a younger brother seems to have been influenced by an older brother's passion, cause and influence. I wonder why. I wonder what led him to throw away all the good, promising, hopeful opportunities that he had, and seemingly follow his brother, to a path of destruction. I wonder if the hatred was his too. I wonder what he thought and wanted. I wonder and I don't, at the same time.
You, S, will hopefully have the opportunity to be an older brother. And I guarantee you, your younger siblings will look up to you, watch you, and probably imitate you. Simply by means of being older, whether making mud pies or playing soccer or dealing with bullies or the way you talk, you will get the chance to be a leader. And in the same way that your Daddy and I have responsibility to model well for you, the ways that we hope you will walk - and do so in a way that is good not merely our way - you too will have the opportunity to model, to lead. There's grace in that - we're all learning, figuring this out, growing. And ultimately, you can't be responsible for the choices that your siblings make. But son, my hope is that if and when your siblings follow you, it will be into things which bless rather than curse, which heal rather than hurt, which stand up to evil, rather than aid it or simply give it room to grow. This is what your Daddy and I hope to model for you, teach you, and live into.
And lastly, I wonder what do we do now? When we see the ways that people hurt other people. When we hurt people. When we are hurt. When we feel fear. When we see hatred. When we feel hatred. How will we, will I, will you, respond? How can we respond with hope, and life, and restoration, and action?
Son, I guarantee you, that you feel fear at some point in time. That you will, even though my soft mommy heart wishes I could prevent it, be hurt. That you will see others be hurt. That you will feel anger, maybe even hate. That's human. Normal. Broken, yes. But not abnormal. But what you do, how you respond, will be what makes the difference. It is far easier to grow fearful, bitter, angry, self-defensive - to hate, to withdraw, or to lash out - than it is to act in hope and love. While harder, it is far better to seek understanding, to press in, to seek justice, to mourn, to seek healing, to forgive, to say I'm sorry. It is far easier to turn a blind eye to the hurt of others, to let the bullies continue to bully, and pacify ourselves with the fact that at least we're not contributing, than it is to stand up, and say "it's not okay." But S, our prayer for you - that I pray every night - is that you would not be the easier man. That you would be a man of strength, of courage, of humility, and of kindness. That you would act in hope, and love. That you would stand up for the bullied, the small, and the hurt. It is harder, yes - there is no doubt. And there will be times when you will take the easier way - and we'll love you then nonetheless, and strive to give you grace then, even while challenging you to turn back to hope and love. But S, no matter how hard, it matters, how we respond.
S, you and I and we will face fear, hurt, and hate. In our world, we cannot avoid it. But we always have a choice in how we respond. And we hope and pray, that you and I and we will respond with hope, and life, and restoration, and action.
I love you so much, sweet baby boy, as you sleep in peaceful innocence, growing, even as I write this. Your Mommy and Daddy are so proud of you and the wee boy that you already are becoming - and even as I write this, we pray for the man that you will become.
Love,
Mommy
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