12 posts tagged “maxidoodle”
When Max was a few days old, Juan went off to work, my mother climbed onto an airplane and I was left all alone with a strange little person who couldn't seem to get the hang of nursing and who screamed bloody murder whenever he was put down. I remember sitting with him on the couch, trying to figure him out, wishing he had an owners manual attached to his little foot.
Motherhood wasn't going as planned.
I assumed I would be a natural at mothering. I had imagined that soon after delivery I would be sailing along effortlessly, nurturing and listening to my baby's cues, managing the house, and taking a break from my stressful DC job, as good at the art of parenting as I was at everything else in my life that I had tackled. Instead, I sat sobbing on the couch frustrated that I couldn't figure out how to simultaneously hold him and feed myself lunch. I was so hungry, he was so needy and we were both absolutely miserable.
Even weeks later, I beat myself up for not knowing what the hell I was doing. I was not effortlessly swaddling my little bambino in a sling as I arrived for my lunch appointment. Instead I was sobbing as I tried for the 5th time to tuck him in, an hour and a half late for an appointment with a friend downtown, yellow mustard poop smeared on my arm, my breasts leaking through my shirt.
It was then, at that exact moment that I discovered the art of baby steps.
I stopped trying to fufill my ultimate vision and dropped my standards to the sub-basement level. I would define victory in the smallest of ways. "Today I went to the bathroom." "Today I made myself lunch." "Today I combed my hair." I remember how exhilerating it was when Max was three and a half weeks old I was able to pack him up all by myself and get to a friend's house. Granted, I was so exhausted from the effort of getting out all I could do was sit in her hammock swing and nurse my son sleepily, but I had done it all by myself. For a Type-A, Washington overachiever, it seemed like a pretty lame accomplishment but to me that victory felt sweeter than anything I had accomplished in the previous 10 years of work.
It dawned on me as I was swinging there on her porch that this was the first time I had attempted to do something I wasn't naturally good at. I really had no choice after all. But this was a departure from the rhythm of my life up to that point.
See, I was used to being good at things. As a child and young adult I was a classic overachiever. I was interested in anything I excelled at and so I chose my activities very carefully, filling my time with things I could sail through effortlessly and then focused all my energy at being the best. I quickly lost interest in anything that was hard.
Dance--I had been a natural since my first ballet class at 4. It stuck and became my major extracurricular activity all the way through college. On the other hand there was tennis and downhill skiing, I fell too much and had a weak swing. Swimming--I was slow and always behind the others, a little out of breathe. I left those activities in the dust (with a bit of regret) and didn't look back.
As much as I sometimes wished for it, I didn't have the option of leaving mothering behind in pursuit of something I could do so much better. So at age 32, I finally allowed myself to indulge in taking things slow, in fumbling along in a half-assed manner, in failing every day and in taking baby steps.
I learned the pure joy of sticking with something I was bad at, of toughing it out and struggling through. Getting through the muck and surviving. And while I still daily make classic mistakes that would lead many a social worker shake to her head in dismay, I have really become a pretty decent mom,. It was a bumpy ride l to get here but looking into those big brown eyes of Max's I know that every second its been worth it.
Max helped me discover the pure joy of doing something because I love it not because I am going to be good at it. And this beautiful little angel, he has opened up doors for me. I am now free to do things for pure and utter joy of it. There are so many beautiful things that I cant do well! Giving myself permission to plunge into all of them has been liberating. And it has been the biggest creative gift the universe has ever passed along.
Since Juan left, I regularly practice doing things I am bad at. I know longer crave the praise from doing the things that I naturally do well. Instead, I fill my free hours struggling through with no hope of ever being great, striving to be good enough. Despite the often poor results I keep going--an addict now to the adrenline rush of the tiny victory.
I was thinking about all this this evening because I have a bunch of new projects on my plate now that really do not play to my strengths. Struggling through them could be the understatement of the year. I am spending hours with little results, taking my baby steps, one by one and relentlessly congratulating myself on the smallest of successes.
I am so proud of myself to be doing so much so badly. For finally choosing to do things for the joy of them and not for the flashy results.
When I am called to account for my success or failure as a mother, there are only three things that will matter to me:
- Is my son a kind and compassionate person? Does he treat all human beings with respect and gentleness regardless of their skin color, gender, economic status, nationality?
- Is my son comfortable in his own skin? Is he comfortable with the full range of his emotions? Does he value himself and honor his own feelings?
- Does my son stand up for what he believes in, even when it is hard? Will he confront authority in the face of injustice? Will he stand for others?
Today was one of those wonderful days when we had a chance to practice all three things.
It is hard for me to believe that in this country, the wealthiest and most prosperous land in the world, there are 9,000,000--nine million--children who do not have access to healthcare. Children who have to forgoe medicines, children who will die because simple illness goes untreated. And it angers me that President George W Bush, a man who calls himself compassionate, has decided to veto a bill that will fund the expansion of health insurance for children. He will veto that bill, all the while asking for more and more money to fund a war in Iraq, a war that has been mismanaged and has lead to the deaths of so many, including many innocent children. While I love my country and am grateful for the freedom to speak my mind in this land, sometimes when I consider these policies I just want to hang my head in shame.
Along with Andy Stern and Dennis Rivera, Max and a handful of other children delivered petitions with some one million signatures to the White House. The petitions, collected by health care workers all over the country, asked President Bush NOT to veto this bill supported by Democrats and Republicans alike and to fully fund a program that will make it possible for so many children to live healthier lives.
On Friday, Max was invited to participate in this action. Although I was tempted to just sign him up based on my own values, I decided to leave it up to him. I explained to him the situation and asked him if he wanted to participate. He was thoughtful, considered what he would miss in school and the friends he wanted to play with. But then he said, "Yes mommy. I want to fight for healthcare for kids--and I want to tell President Bush to end the war." If that was not enough, he then completely independently convinced two more friends to join him.
And so today we headed downtown into Washington DC for an adventure. The children pulled red wagons filled to overflowing with mailbags stuffed with petitions. They pulled them down the street to the park in front of the White House while strangers looked on and while some grown-ups even jeered at them. They kept going, even though it was hot and scary, even though strange reporters were in their faces with cameras and microphones. Even though the wagons were heavy and hurt their hands.
The stood in the hot hot sun with Congressman John Dingell and Senator Ted Kennedy. And then they held hands and crossed the street and piled the petitions at the gate in front of the White House. They chanted and shouted and stood up against the injustice of little children left to suffer and even maybe die in the wealthiest country in the world.
After it was all over Max and his friends were exhausted, grouchy and spent. "I am sad" he confessed to me. But tonight when I asked him how he felt about the day, he said he felt good. He was glad that he did what he could to help kids who can't see the doctor. He was glad he got to yell against a war that confuses and scares him and he was glad that he got to help stand up for the kids who couldn't be there today. I asked him if he would do it again, even though he felt tired and his hand hurt.
He looked at me with a startled expression: "Of course" he said than turned back to his game.
I have seen the future. It looks very bright indeed.
Dearest Maxidoodle,
Today you are six. Its hard for me to believe that six years have flown by so quickly. It seems like only yesterday I was holding you in my arms for the first time, marveling at your long fingers, your sweet face, your chubby legs. At the same time it is crazy to think that it has only been six years. You are such an integral and precious part of my life, I can't imagine what it was like before you came into it.
You are a bright hot white streak of energy. You run fast as a baby cheetah and will sprint if you can. You like to be out ahead of any of us when walking or hiking. You no longer want me to kiss you at school in the mornings--you are too grown and too impatient for that--but you will hug me with spirit as you leap into your day. You are independent that way.
You have a contagious giggle that can turn any foul mood around. You are really good at snapping your fingers and proud to show anyone how you can do it. You are always climbing on something--scaling walls, rocks, trees, the kitchen counter, the fridge, me and we cannot stop you for you are twice as happy when you are hanging upside down. I wish I had your energy-- I know that you would loan me some if you could. You are so good at sharing with others--you do it without thinking (most of the time).
When Aidan and Olivia moved to Colorado you made them cookies for the road. Because Papi always tells us the most important cooking ingredient is love, you blew kisses in with each stir of the wooden spoon and made happy wishes for them like "I hope you get a nice teacher. I hope you like your new school. I hope you have lots and lots of friends" with each handful of chocolate chips. Your compassion and empathy at that moment floored me.
Your favorite game is hide-and-go-seek and you have frequently left us baffled with your creative hiding places. Who would have ever thought to look for you in the box inside the front closet? If it wasn't for those giggles that eventually gave you away, we would still be looking for you.
You are also particularly fond of dance contests where we blast music and take turns coming up with routines. Your moves are unbeatable. Really, there is no contest but we have fun anyway. Lately you have been learning African dancing and love to listen to Rwandan music turned up really really loud.
When you aren't playing Pokemon or Playmobil with your friends you are trying to trick me into letting you watch TV or play on the computer. You are so clever that you frequently almost get me.
You love to try new games and will jump into any new activity with excitement. Ice skating and karate are just two new things that make you jump for joy. If only we could capture some of that adventurous spirit and pass it on to your pallet. You don't like to try new foods and really could live for years on macaroni and cheese and strawberries.
When it comes to snuggling, I think you are a champion. You have bear hugs that raise the sun every morning and sweet, tender hugs which make the wind blow.
I am completely and utterly wrapped around your little finger. Whether you are saying things like "Could you pass the water, best mother in the world" or stomping your feet and telling me that you are "really really frustrated" with me or sharing that "actually I am very scared", I am lost in the sweetness of how you express your feelings.
Watching you sleep I don't know how I got so lucky to be your mom. I won the mother lottery, really I did.
I could write on and on forever telling you all the ways I love you and singing the praises of a boy so kind and sweet, but that would be "really embarrasing" and I seem to do that alot these days. So instead I will simply say you are the love of my life, best son in the world and I love you more each minute you are alive.
Happy birthday my big boy. May each day be as precious to you as you are to me.
Love
Your mommy
We just returned home from West Virginia. The house is quiet now, the unpacking of dirty clothes, of camping gear and photos has been done in a burst of efficiency. Max is fast asleep. The crickets alone keep my company.
Last week when I woke to my 7th straight day of a migraine I knew something had to change. It wasn't just the migraines however that had me shaking. I felt like I was struggling, that nothing I did was enough to make it work. The balancing of work and parenting and being a good friend all seemed to be too much. I felt myself tightening from want.
It must have been the Universe who inspired my dear Jackie to call me and invite us to the woods. At the time she offered it sounded as though it was the only thing I should do. We dropped everything and ran.
I should know now that there is nothing that grounds me like eating and sleeping outside among the trees. The energy of the woods, the mountains, the river repairs me even when I am at my most frayed. Over and over again I rediscover this about myself. I am not sure why I forget so easily.
Indeed it was everything I needed to soothe my tired brain, my achey grouchy soul. It was like an amazing power nap, a kind of (in the words of Eric) reboot for the brain. I feel as though I have been away for weeks, I am so refreshed. The stresses that seemed to paralyze me last week have floated away, like leaves carried away by a stream. Joy is now running circulating freely once more--no longer stuck in the muck am I.
Indeed I feel the entire universe conspired to make this weekend perfect. The sky was the most intense cloudless blue, the air temperature was perfect. It felt as though the forest was in cahoots with our merry band of travelers. The river was perfectly refreshing for us. There were long stretches of little children laughing, shrieking, falling down from silliness. And beautiful moments of silence. And music. And endless firewood. And the perfect amount of yummy food.
Alone and together in shifting combinations we moved about the day, collecting, observing, creating. Each moment unfolded effortlessly as both chaos and community flowed as sweetly as the Potomac around the bend, rippling and bubbling and smoothing out the edges of our lives.
I feel so inspired in so many ways but I feel I cannot unpack it all just yet. I struggle here, tripping over my own bliss as I try and write about it, about the way I feel somehow knit back to together around my frayed edges. I just know that I am. And that at this moment is enough.
For more photos of our adventure, click here.
This was the photo I took of Max right before we headed out to school on Monday. Like kindergardeners all across America on Day 1, Max was a nervous wreck in this photo. He knew he would be OK but he had spent the weekend worrying about everything that could go wrong. We would be driving along in the car and suddenly out of nowhere a question would pop up: "Mom...What if I am sitting at a table and it is quiet reading period and we are not allowed to talk or even raise our hand. And I am sitting next to a bully. And he keeps hitting me whenever the teacher isn't looking? What am I going to do then?"
Each time I tried to help him develop strategies to face his fears he seemed to get more and more frustrated. It was clear he just wanted to be heard. I saw how clearly torn up inside he was and I very much wanted to distract him, make him laugh, make him forget, tell him all the stories he heard about kindergarden weren't true that it was the land of milk and honey. But I didn't. Instead I hugged him and told him that it was OK to be scared. It made no sense to try and talk him out of his nervousness. Most people are scared before setting out on a big adventure and nothing spells adventure like K-I-N-D-E-R-G-A-R-D-E-N.
It is a challenge sometimes for me to remember that it is not my job to fix Max's feelings. When he is scared I do not need to make him not scared. When he is angry or sad it is not up to me to make him happy again. I can offer support, listen and help him process what he is feeling. Its not up to me to rush in with solutions but it is my job to hold the space so he can search for his own solutions. If he wants my advice I give it. I will wait patiently and wait for my in. It always comes eventually. But damn that is hard...and I frequently screw it up.
When Max came home on Monday, he was full of excitement and joy. He faced a big fear and survived and that is a victory. He felt so good about himself because it WAS scary but he DID do it. For all my desires to kiss away his hurts on Sunday and tell him there was nothing to fear I was thrilled I didn't because to do so would have been to minimize his triumph. I am so proud of him but more importantly he is so proud of himself.
Tonight is Boys Night at our house.
Alex, Julian and Max have been buddies since infanthood, sharing a babysitter, toys and their food. They fight and love each other fiercely. Like brothers. When Alex went off to Kindergarten, Max and Julian held hands and met him at the bus each day. When Julian joined Alex at the Spanish-immersion elementary school, Max waited patiently for that yellow bus to pull up for an hour of bliss each afternoon.
But now that school is out for the summer, they luxuriate in long sleepy days together under the watchful eye of their Nana. Building, running, climbing, hour after long hour wrapped up in imaginary play. Good hard physical boy play. Rolling on the ground, pretend fighting, all poopy jokes and pretend farts. And giggling. There is always lots of non-stop giggling. In the evenings it is hard to pull them apart.
So every now and again we don't. They will sleepover at one house or another. But our house has a special mystique--There are no big sisters here. Boys rule at our house. The will spend all night screeching with laughter, building blanket forts, and launching pillows at the mom at the computer and no one will roll their eyes or beg "MOM...make them stop!".
Tonight they wait at the door for me to arrive home from work like puppies, wagging their tails and begging for pizza. Please please PLEASE can we order pizza AND have a movie?!?. I pick up the phone and call for delivery. Who can resist making such dreams come true?
As I write this they tumble through the dining room at full speed. Strip off their clothes and pull on pajamas, and then explode back downstairs to finish the movie, pure joy and silliness. I want to bottle their laughter.
And tonight, when the movie is done they will curl up like the puppies that they are, together in each others arms in a big pile in the living room. Sweet sweet boys.
Some days its not all bliss with these three. There are hurt feelings, hurt limbs. But usually compassion rules the day. When one of them gets hurt, the other two run for ice. When there is only one icecream sandwich left, Max and Alex let Julian have it because "We know he loves them SO MUCH."
I pray that they will always have each other these friends who knew each other before the Boy Code reared its ugly head, before society tried to convince them that they shouldn't cry in public, or express affection for one another. I pray that when the storms of adolescence rock their world that they will remember the security they felt on summer days falling down laughing and summer evenings falling into each others arms.
Six little words. Six little words were all it took to let Sadness in the door. And last night at this time Saddness she was sitting on my chest, refusing to get off.
Mondays are Max's day with his dad. For me, they are a rare break. At first they felt empty and alone. I would stay long hours at work or wander aimlessly through the downtown. But lately I have claimed Monday nights as me-time. I write. I draw. I wander with purpose. I eat ice cream. Every Monday I arrive home between 7 and 8. Technically, I am not back on duty until 8. But Max loves having Juan and I in the same place so much. Its now part of our routine. I come home a little early. Juan leaves a little late. We play a card game. Kick a ball around. Watch a movie. The three of us. The whole family. For twenty minutes, once a week.
Yesterday we played a made up game with the Pokemon cards and we asked Max if he was excited about his impending graduation from pre-school. He was thoughtful and serious. "Yes," he said. "We are going to sing. But don't tell anyone. Its a surprise for the parents." We pinky promised the three of us. As Juan kissed him goodnight, he said to him "I will see you tomorrow, mijo. At your graduation." "Yes," Max said wide eyed and solemn. "The whole family will be there".
When Max says "the whole family" he does not mean a carload of siblings, or a parade of grandparents, cousins, uncles and aunts. No, for him the whole family means Papi, Mommy and Max. Sometimes when he is feeling generous and expansive he includes Rosie the cat. But usually its just the three of us. Together in one place.
Having the whole family together is something most of his friends take for granted. Its a weekday supper, a Saturday morning, a regular, banal affair. But for Max it is a rare treat to be savored. A holy serious and noteworthy occasion. And I hate this. I hate it with ever fiber of my being.
Long after Max had laid his tired head to sleep, these six little words left me sobbing audibly, mourning all he has lost and all that which I too have lost through this separation--this soon to be divorce.
Because those words signified a deeper truth that none of us dared whisper--Our family is not whole. And this has left all three of us a little worse for the wear.
As I tumble through the never ending days with their up and downs I am saddened and angry that I cannot process the day with the only other person who loves Max as much as I do. I am lonely in my worry about his cough--"Did that sound OK to you?" I ask to noone in particuar. There is only a journal to reflect my memories back at me. No one to giggle with over the silly jokes at the dinner table.
And I know that Juan mourns too. But his pain must be so much worse. For he must feel a deep emptiness that comes from not being there to bear witness to this great life he helped create. Most days he misses so much.
But mostly I mourn for Max. He recently shared with me that he can't really remember what it was like when Juan lived at home with us. He only knows that he misses it. That it is somehow a little sadder without his papi around.
We are trying, the three of us, to make something new out of the ashes of the old. It will never be the way it was--it cannot be. And while I mourn what is lost, I am proud that we are trying to make something meaningful out of the messiness. I know too many families who cannot be together for their kids--they split up holidays, birthdays, trade off on special events. Their children will never even know what it is like to have the Whole Family There. We lurch about gracelessly but at least we try.
Today Juan and I sat together, side by side and watched the singing, the parading. I cried in the beginning. Juan teared up at the end. Together we heard Max's teacher talk about how he wants to be a policeman just like his Uncle Sean and we smile at each other knowingly. "Of course," we say "Yes." Together we beam with pride. Max beams back at us and points us out to his friends. "Look" he says--"my mom AND my dad" giggling with delight. His friends look at him blankly--they do not know the joy of whole family-ness even though they experience it each day. And maybe, just maybe, Max is rather blessed to learn at such a young age to appreciate such a precious gift.
This morning for just an instant we were whole again. The whole family was there together. Different, maybe not better, but most definitely for a brief moment whole.
.
I am feeling rather anxious today. I can't say exactly why--Its a generalized anxiety that leaves me feeling jittery and a bit skittish as though I have had too much caffeine. My chest feels a little tight. I peer around each corner warily. I have learned that when I feel this way it is best to draw inward. To not try and chase my anxiety away with distractions. I am quiet today and still and just sit with this buzziness. I remind myself to breathe and that helps. Alot.
Last night Max and I played this game where we climb under blankets with flashlights. We take turns lighting our faces and telling stories. It is one of those games that seems to bubble up from a big collective childhood memory-- hardwired in every child's DNA. Like saying "Is not"/"Is too" or twirling around and around until you fall on the grass.
Max's stories are usually about Pokemon or superheros. Often these days they are spiced with potty humor. My stories tend to be old favorites--stories told hundreds of times. Sometimes when Max is feeling scared I tell him stories about a dragon named Max who is very compassionate and brave. A dragon who feels sad and angry and sometimes scared and always does the right thing anyway. Max the Dragon is a blatant propaganda tool, I know. But lately Max seems bored with such lack of subtlety. He asks instead for stories from my childhood. Last night he asked me to tell him the story about Uncle Sean and the racoons. My brother is a big bad macho guy. Ex Army paratrooper, Iraqi war veteran, current NY City cop. When Sean and I were teenagers, a family of racoons invaded our house when my mom and dad were away for the weekend. Sean barricaded us into his bedroom with his dresser and then he made me, his smaller, meeker sister climb out the window using the ladder from his bunkbed, so that I could open the back door and let the poor scared creatures out of our house while he cowered under his bed. Max loves this story, I think, because he is able to see his larger-than-life uncle for who he is, a real live human being, with fears and vulnerabilities. Scared sometimes just like him. And Max is able to imagine himself one day big and strong, like Uncle Sean even though he might be just "a little freaked out" about something now and then.
Tomorrow Max is going to graduate from preschool. I have been wistful all weekend thinking of the last three years. When we started at this school he was still in diapers, chubby cheeked and terrified. Leaving him at school was so hard that fall--he seemed so vulnerable--so tender--so small. He has grown now into a long-legged freckled-face boy with a wiggly tooth--a boy who jumps out of the car and runs to the tire swing without so much as a look back at his mama. He went from a clinging toddler tenatively exploring to a boy running wild on the playground.
And while he is still sweetly boy, all cuddle and kisses, each day there are moments when I need to look just a little harder to spot his vulnerability. He tries so hard to be fierce and strong -- using the boy code trying to mask his tender self. "You are SO going DOWN" he says to me when I challenge him to a Pokemon battle. He has permanently dirty knees. He has started to roll his eyes. To be a little bit elementary school. He is ready.
Tomorrow he will leave preschool behind, in the dust. Like babyhood and the toddler years, this period of our life will fade, captured only in photos, boxed up artwork and not enough anecdotes written down in our memory books. Fade away until at last we are left with only fragmented memories of these precious years. The mothers' day teas, the days when I co-oped and brought his favorite snacks, the silly games we played on the drive to school. Perhaps he will remember the wind on his face as the tire swing spun. Or waving to his mama as she drove away. Will he long for his best friends and their games--or simply the utter the joy of ruling the playground? Or will he move on to the new joys of elementary school without so much as a look back?
Knowing how fast his childhood is slipping away I long to hold on to each precious minute. I vow to relish each chance to kiss away hurts, to learn about the person he is becoming, to connect with him, to not leave him feeling alone. But then the phone rings, my computer beckons, the dryer tells me the clothes are done. I am distracted. I look up only to find he has fallen asleep for the night on the couch while I finished one last email, the book I promised to read him on his lap. I pick him up and carry him to bed.
I know now what has set my heart a flutter this day--this eve of a transition both so big and so small. I am afraid I will blink and I will miss it--this magical childhood of his.
Today I think I won the "Bad Mom" award. Here is the evidence against me.
1. We were in Trader Joe's doing some last minute grocery shopping at 8 pm (when all good 5 year olds should be getting ready for bed no less)--late because I was late home from work due to meeting which went way too long and which I didn't have the nerve after my long vacation to walk out of to make it home in time.
2. Max was chomping on the cookies and grapes from the "free sample bar" because we had yet to eat dinner.
3. Max bites down on a GRAPE and hears a loud splitting crack. Sobbing and scared from the sudden pain, blood running down his little quivering chin. "Mommy", he wimpers choking on his tears. "I think I cracked my tooth". I stop to examine the situation. His entire tooth, just a few minutes anchored firmly in his mouth is now loose and wobbly. What's more it is black near the root (perhaps from the blood?). I am convinced that this is because I have not taken him to the dentist. Ever. I hate going to the dentist so much that even the thought of them makes me break into a cold sweat. The little piece of paper with the list of good family dentists that our pediatrician gave me in DECEMBER has sat by the phone. And I have lately let toothbrushing be a battle that I pick only once a day not twice. Now my child has a broken tooth. Its all my fault.
4. I go to the dairy aisle and pick up the milk we came for instead of rushing him out of Trader Joes and to an emergency dental facility. Do they have emergency dental facilities? I am convinced that if I had only taken him to the dentist in the first place I would know EXACTLY what to do in this situation.
5. We come home and drink Smoothies for dinner because he is afraid to chew on anything. Not homemade fruit smooties but the prepared store bought kind that while organic are loaded with organic sugar. The perfect elixer for a tooth problem?!? Everything soft I have has sugar in it. Max refuses to eat soup. I think if I wake the doctor on-call they will tell me I am a bad mother and that there is nothing they can do about it.
6. I can't find the list of dentists--the one that I have stared at every day for six months. I look up the pediatric dentist on-line and get so freaked out that I forget to write down the phone number. I look it up again. I let Max watch TV while I do this despite the fact it is WAY past his bedtime. He falls asleep without brushing his teeth.
Stay tuned. I will let you know if they take me away to mother jail in the morning or worse yet if they have had to yank out all my precious baby's teeth.
This is Max's new friend Holly. We met her in Ireland. They took one look at each other and were immediate fast friends--as though their whole short lives were leading up to this one moment. She runs like the wind and throws balls really really high. Like Max she can scale walls, poles, trees with ease and grace. After he met her in County Clare, the first words out of his mouth each morning were :"Mommy--is she coming over today?" He didn't even have to say her name. We both knew that SHE was Holly.
Holly speaks with a crisp British accent. While I warned the hiking children by saying "Hey kids--look out for those prickly thingies" she passed the message down the line by saying "Mind the thistles now". The mischief in her huge twinkling blue eyes I had expected to see on fairies only. No wonder Max loves her so.
Together the two of them played hard for four days straight until her family had to return to their home in the south of England. But when she left it was hard for me to believe that I hadn't known her her entire life.
She and Max brought out the adventurer in each other. They scaled walls, invented games, made art and explored. Over castles and fields, restaurants and city streets they lived again and again fully and completely in each and every moment. They suggested outlandish games and hid from the two year old. They occasionally had to take to separate corners--but mostly they tumbled along in sheer wonder and bliss.
Watching the love affair between them unfold I was envious. Such instant friendships do indeed seem the stuff of childhood. We adults are more guarded. We chat about nothing for awhile, circulating around each other suspiciously, asking questions that will tell us whether we can take a step closer. We protect our wounded hearts carefully - don't reveal too much--we know how easily it is to be hurt when we lead with a wide open heart. We know how hard goodbyes can be and find ourselves censoring ourselves--not wanting to commit our real selves to things that won't last.
But as I joined their gleeful romps, I found myself questioning that supposedly smart adult behavior. I marveled at how two children who dared to live completely without fear of loss were able to experience such utter joy. I found myself wanting to be like them.
Its amazing to me how as an adult I tend to look at new people through the lens of time: How long have I known them--How long they will be around. I warm up slowly, revealing little bits of my soul. Carefully and slowly unfurling my dreams and thoughts when I know it is safe. Its not been a bad strategy--I have made many wonderful friends this way. But I wonder about the missed chances to connect--the people who were only around a few days or weeks--the people I never let down my guard for and who consequently I will never see again. I wonder about the joy I might have missed while I was worried about protecting my wounded heart.
Because my wise young son dared lead with a wide open heart we now have new friends. Holly and her family are coming to the US for a visit next year. She and Max have planned to take a ride in Uncle Sean's police car and go to Grandma's house on the beach. They will marvel at skyscrapers in NY and look for sea shells. Perhaps it will end there. Or maybe it will continue with subsequent visits to the UK. In some ways what the future holds is not important--we have already gained so much from knowing them.
And me, I have decided to emulate the girl with the fairy-like eyes and the boy with green socks. I have vowed to take chances with new folks. To let my kookiness shine with strangers. I still think I will protect pieces of myself from people who clearly don't get me but I will channel Max and Holly when I find myself censoring for all the wrong reasons. I will welcome each stranger with a wide open heart.
