tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44321186079580776602024-03-19T06:07:05.547-07:00Muddled JoyKatherine Welchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274001630481246089noreply@blogger.comBlogger38125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4432118607958077660.post-79950177445502413492016-02-26T13:44:00.000-08:002016-02-26T13:58:29.623-08:00Home Is Where...<h2>
<span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Home Is Where <s>the Heart Is</s> I Get Called a
Bastard</span></h2>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A few weeks ago, both big boys came home from school with
Kindness and Caring awards. Each month or two, their elementary school
highlights a character trait (respect, responsibility, perseverance, honesty,
etc.), and at the end of the month, two children who best exhibit that trait
are selected from each class. The boys have been honored with character awards
before, but never in the same month and never kindness. And since there may be
nothing in this world I desire more than to raise kind and brave children, I
shed many grateful tears over those awards.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The irony is, however, that a few days later I received an
email from someone who told me what an awful mother I am, specifically pointing
out the hateful way my boys sometimes talk to me, although, the emailer conceded, they
had never done the same to him/her. Not surprisingly, there is a bigger story
surrounding this message</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> delivered under the guise of constructive
criticism, but this part of the email, at least on the surface, was actually all
truth. I can count on one hand the number of times my boys have spoken rudely
to anyone else, but they have said some truly horrifying things to Mister and
me. (Where is the baby book that includes in its list of milestones items like
The First Time Your Child Called You a Bastard?)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It may surprise my emailer, but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I wouldn’t have it any other way</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">When my boys are home, they have to be reminded constantly to
pick up their dirty clothes and clear the table and hang up their backpacks and
jackets. They forget to say “please” and “thank you” and eat like they were,
honest to goodness, being raised in a barn. They balk when I ask them to empty
the dishwasher. They gripe that it’s their responsibility to take out the trash
and recycling. They sass me when they’re tired or hungry or if they think
something is unfair or if the wind is blowing in from the south. They call me
names and throw their binders when I try to help with homework. They behave so
horribly sometimes that I worry about sending them into the world like this – so
obviously works in progress – but send them I must – to school, to their
grandparents’ homes, to their coaches, to friends’ houses.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And over and over, I am told they are respectful, courteous,
exceptionally well-mannered, helpful, kind, brave, coachable, teachable, and
generally just a delight to be around. My boys. The very same ones I worry
about sending into the world. (The first few times their teachers offered
descriptions of their behavior in class, behavior I hardly recognized as belonging
to my children, I responded with puzzled looks. But I reminded the teachers of
the boys’ names and provided a general description of their physical
appearances, and the teachers insisted, each and every time, they had the right
child. So I stopped asking.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Despite all my worries that I have been raising boys who aren’t fit for public consumption, they are. Despite their providing numerous,
daily indications to the contrary, they have been learning what I’ve been
trying to teach them. Despite my certainty that most days we’re barely muddling
through, they’re thriving. Somehow, we’re doing it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And yet at home? At home, they can’t seem to pull their
stuff together for more than a few minutes at a stretch. Why, for the love,
can’t they act at home how they act out in the world?<br />
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Well, first, they can. It’s easy to see the misbehaving and miss the good
stuff. How the “bigs” will bathe the littlest. Or how the littlest will
accompany the “middlest” to find something in another room when the worry
bullies are especially feisty. Or when the oldest finally – finally – put into
practice the time management and study skills I’ve been working on for
months. Or when they say thank you for dinner, even one that included peas. Or
when they put aside competitiveness and congratulate another on a job well
done. It’s there. It’s all there. I just have to remember to notice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But the answer to why they let all the crazy hang loose at
home?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Because they feel safe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Don’t misunderstand, calling me “bastard” or yelling “I hate
you!” or any of the myriad other horrifying things my boys have said to me
(most of which I won’t risk embarrassing them with) isn’t without consequence.
But that consequence isn’t to shut them down so forcefully and completely that
they actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fear</i> doing it again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Because when my boys act up, they’re trying, if inartfully,
to communicate something to me. Sometimes, it’s as simple as “I’m hungry” or
“I’m tired.” But other times, it’s bigger stuff. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My brilliant therapist once told me that anger is always a
secondary emotion. Anger may be a way we react to embarrassment, guilt, grief,
unfairness, remorse, fear, frustration, or other emotions. But there’s always
something deeper. The trick is figuring out what the something is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I don’t think it’s fair
I have to take out the trash and recycling when he gets to play.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I miss Daddy.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I made a mistake, and
I feel deeply remorseful.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I try so hard, day in
and day out, and I feel like all the recognition goes to my brother.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">He’s been pushing my
buttons all day long.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I got caught.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I don’t want you to
leave.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I’ve been adulting all
day and just can’t even hold it together for one more second.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Oh, wait. That last one was about me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We all do it, right? Whose kiddos and spouses and others
nearest and dearest too often get their leftovers? Mine do. I’m not proud of
it, but it’s true. And I do it because I know that I can screw up over and over
and over (and over) again, and they’ll still love me. My mother forgives me for
being less than patient with her and welcomes me back eagerly for visit after
visit. Mister will give me the space I need or tell me to cut out my nonsense,
whichever is appropriate, and want to sneak upstairs with me and lock the door
five minutes later. When I snap at the boys and forget to apologize, they still
snuggle in for bedtime reading and assure me I’m the best mommy in the world. I
don’t feel the same confidence the rest of the world will react with such
graciousness. And neither do my children. They have some of the best teachers
and coaches and friends a mother could hope for, and I am deeply grateful. But
home is just different. Home is the ultimate safe place. The place where they
never have to wonder if love is unconditional.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">At home, the boys know if they speak rudely or scream
something hateful or sass me, I will take the time to figure out what’s at the
root of it all. Sometimes right then if they can turn it around or sometimes
after a snack or sometimes after a cooling off period in their rooms. They
learn that speaking to me disrespectfully is wrong not because I punish them
swiftly and harshly for the disrespect but because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> treat <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">them</i> with respect
– because I take the time to figure out what’s REALLY wrong, address the
underlying issue, and then remind them how they could handle the situation
better next time. That doesn’t mean that they don’t sometimes hear some sharply
spoken words about how to and how not to address me (especially when the root
cause is something superficial). That’s just not the whole of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So although my emailer intended the comments as scathing
criticism, I refuse to see it as such. I’m far from a perfect parent (for
starters, I’m too quick to anger and wash sheets far too infrequently), but the observation is a compliment. Yes, my children say things to me that are wildly
inappropriate. But they almost never do the same to anyone outside our home. Because
they know two things: Speaking disrespectfully to others is not okay, and home
is safe.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And that isn’t a sign I’m doing something wrong in my parenting. It’s a sign I’m doing something right.</span></div>
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Katherine Welchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274001630481246089noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4432118607958077660.post-35652859718304547502016-02-25T07:39:00.000-08:002016-02-25T07:39:37.565-08:00Send Me a Sign<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The other night, Bubba asked Mister to teach him a new card
game. Apparently, the only card game that came to mind was a game of solitaire I
used to play with some regularity and that Mister remembered only half way. I’m
not sure that’s exactly what Bubba had in mind, but that kiddo will do just
about anything his daddy suggests.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This version of solitaire is easy to learn and almost
impossible to win. There is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">zero</i>
skill involved, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">no</i> strategy, just utterly
mindless play. I’ve played scores of times, maybe even hundreds (perhaps, I
shouldn’t admit that), and have won precisely once. One time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I was fifteen, and it was the summer before my junior year
of high school. I was at my grandma and grandpa’s home several states away,
where we always spent two weeks in July. I was playing solitaire when the phone
rang. It was my best friend Shelby. Now, Shelby and I talked every day when we
were home, but she had never called at my grandparents’ house. In fact, I
didn’t know anyone knew the number there, most certainly not her. But there she
was on the other end of the line, telling me that our dear friend Tori had been
in a terrible car accident and was in critical condition. She was going to
require brain surgery, and no one had any idea if she would pull through.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I wanted to rush home – to do what, I don’t know – but I
couldn’t, of course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So in an effort to
settle my shaking hands and swirling mind, I picked up the cards again. I
needed something mindless to do. As I shuffled, I prayed. I don’t remember most
of it, but it was probably a jumble of Help and Please and No Not This. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do remember how the prayer ended. I asked
God to show me through the cards if Tori would be okay. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Let me win if she’s going to live.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I won that very game. And Tori lived.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I struggle with prayer. I haven’t always, but as my faith
has grown and evolved and, I hope, matured, prayer has become harder and
harder. I feel perfectly comfortable going to God in prayer. I believe He is
there and listening. I even believe in the power of prayer. I just… don’t know
what to say. Some of it, I’ve got. I pray the Lord’s Prayer. I ask for
forgiveness. I pray for comfort and guidance. I say thank you. All good. But
what about other requests? Is it okay to pray for healing? Safe travels? What if,
as it was suggested to me years ago, you tack on “if it’s Your will”?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I don’t know. But I’m becoming more comfortable with the idea
that it’s okay not to know. Of all the miracles and mysteries of my faith,
prayer is the one I have the hardest time wrapping my mind around. To me,
prayer is the ultimate mystery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But I do know that in many of my most desperate moments, the
one prayer that forces itself to the front of my mind, the one fully-formed, if
brief, prayer is Send Me a Sign. And that He has.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The day I prayed for God to show me if Tori would live was
the first time I remember praying for a sign. But it wasn’t the last. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My grandma died this past summer. She had been in failing
health for years, with her health more rapidly declining in recent months, so
it wasn’t unexpected. Still, one can never be fully prepared for news like
that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I was on vacation with Mister and the boys. The news came at
the beginning of our final week away. We started making mental preparations
while we awaited news of the dates for the visitation and funeral. Ultimately,
the visitation was planned for the evening before we were to leave (packing
night), and the funeral was planned for the morning we were to begin the seven
hundred-mile drive home. The logistics of my getting to the funeral (a
three-leg flight) and of Mister packing up and driving out with potentially
minimal help from me were overwhelming. Yet, somehow, we got it done. Travel
plans for me easily fell into place. Mister decided he and the boys would leave
a day early and drop me by the airport on their way home. There were a lot of
moving parts, but they all lined up beautifully.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Now, I need to pause here, back up a bit, and mention that
our family hiked a mountain the day I learned about the funeral arrangements. I
was actively grieving at this point and overwhelmed by the travel logistics. I
told Mister that I needed some space on that hike, and at one point I found
myself with enough distance from the family that I paused and lifted my face to
the sun. I was flooded with the unmistakable feeling that I was not supposed to
go to the funeral and was to stay with my husband and boys. But that just
seemed wrong. I mean, you’re SUPPOSED to go to funerals when people die.
Especially when it’s your grandmother. So I made plans to go, and when the
logistics worked themselves out so easily, I assumed I had heard wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Which means I was honestly surprised when I woke up at 4:00
a.m. to take a quick shower before leaving for my flight and found that my
flight was delayed four hours. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Four hours. That meant, at a minimum, I would miss that
night’s visitation and family prayer service. At that point, I was just hoping
to arrive in time for the funeral and some time with my extended family.
Because Mister had already planned to leave that morning and drive me to the
airport, I was able to reschedule my flight from a larger airport (with more
options) five hours away that was on the way home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When we left, it was immediately apparent why my flight was
delayed and why it was hard to get re-booked. Fog. For the next five hours, the
only time it wasn’t foggy was when it was raining. And this was the case from
the mid-Atlantic through all of New England. We had no confidence that I could
even make it out on my rescheduled flight. As we drove, Mister, who travels
extensively for work, taught me all his tricks about how to figure out what
specific plane had been assigned to my flight and to determine what other legs
it was flying that day. We went round and round about my options until we
arrived at the final decision point. If I was going to try to fly out, we would
head straight to the airport. If not, we would exit right to bypass the city.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I had no clarity about what I should do. I desperately
wanted to make it to the funeral, to say goodbye to my grandmother, to mourn
with my family; but the weather was bad and not improving. I was already going
to miss fully half of the events. I feared I’d be stuck at an airport hundreds
of miles from home, husband and boys hours down the road, when I learned my
flight was cancelled and that I’d miss the funeral, too, and would have to use
my ticket just to fly home. How, for the love, was I supposed to make this
decision?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And that’s how I found myself asking God for a sign, while
sitting in the car at a gas station hundreds of miles from home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I asked Mister for a few more minutes to think, and he
exited the highway so we could take a break we needed anyway. We filled up the
car with gas and used the bathroom and got water, and I was absolutely no
closer to having made a decision. So I asked for a few MORE minutes and dropped
my head and closed my eyes, and this is what I prayed:<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">God, I have no idea how I’m supposed to
make this decision. I want to go and I feel like that’s what I’m supposed to
do, but there are SO MANY obstacles and so it feels like maybe I’m not REALLY
supposed to go. But how could that be? How could it be that I’m not supposed to
go to my grandmother’s funeral? What will people think of me if I say,
“Enough!”? Shouldn’t I do every last thing possible to get there? God, can I
ask for a sign? Is that a ridiculous, childish way to pray? I don’t know. I
DON’T KNOW. But if you were ever to send me a sign, this is it. I need to hear
from you in no uncertain terms what I’m supposed to do.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I sat there for another moment, thinking, “This is absurd.
This is the stupidest prayer I have ever prayed. I know what’s in front of me.
There is a propane tank display on the sidewalk and a giant poster in the
window advertising soft drinks. This is ridiculous. WHAT AM I THINKING?!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I forced myself to open my eyes because, well, eventually I
had to, I reasoned. And the first thing I laid my eyes on were the words<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><b>HOME TODAY</b></i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Chills. Well, for one split second anyway. Because my next
thought was, “Nope. Can’t be. I’m SUPPOSED to go to the funeral.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">God whispered to me on the mountainside, and when that
wasn’t enough, I woke to half of the East Coast socked in fog and a delayed
flight, and when I still didn’t listen, when I asked for a sign, He sent me an
ACTUAL, PHYSICAL SIGN, and STILL I DOUBTED. (There may be no one who tries
God’s patience like I do, y’all.) But finally, I turned to my husband and said,
“You’re not going to believe what just happened, “ and we drove home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I’ve told almost no one this story because I feared people
wouldn’t understand. But if I’m serious about my faith, it doesn’t matter if my
family judges (and truthfully, that concern is born solely of my own insecurity
and not of anything they have done), if friends think I made the wrong choice, or
if I fail to comply with societal norms. I, also, feared people would look
askance when told I asked for a sign and got one. But the truth is that
sometimes God gives me signs (even actual, physical ones), and sometimes He
talks to me (which, lest you be concerned, sounds a lot less
booming-voice-from-the-clouds and a lot more unmistakable-voice-from-within).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">From this experience, I’ve learned that it’s possible to both
desperately want something – something good and worthy – and understand it
wasn’t meant to be. It is possible to simultaneously ache to be elsewhere and
know you’re right where you’re supposed to be. And I know this because I asked,
and He answered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I prayed, and He
responded with a sign even I, though I tried mightily, couldn’t ignore. Despite
my muddled, if sincere, mess of a prayer, despite my complete bewilderment
about how prayer works, it did.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And I learned it’s hard for even the biggest skeptics in
your life (I’m looking squarely at you, Mister and Bubba) to ignore the mystery
and power of a sign.</span></div>
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Katherine Welchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274001630481246089noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4432118607958077660.post-26212329271920565832016-01-26T15:33:00.000-08:002016-01-27T04:50:53.697-08:00Loving their Quirks<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">During winter, when the sun passes low across the sky,
light pours through the windows at the back of our home, directly into our
bedroom and bathroom. The light is so warm, it’s easy to forget how cold it is
outside. And at no time is the light more breathtaking than when there are a
couple of inches (or a couple dozen, as the case may be) of snow blanketing the
backyard. “The light is GORGEOUS,” I’ll declare, as I grab my camera and pull a
willing(ish) boy into the light and start snapping away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Yesterday, it was Bubba who obliged me. I told him to climb
in the tub (where the light is always the very best) and opened and closed
blinds until I got the light just right. And I captured this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The eyelashes, the smile, the heavy brow, the perfect
earlobe, the hair colored like none I’ve ever seen… and the cleft.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">“Bubba has a butt chin!” Froggy gleefully pointed out.
(Where in the world do they get these things?)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Bubba looked at me. “It’s called a cleft,” I reminded him,
“but you should TOTALLY call it a butt chin. Just own it. It’s one of my
favorite things about your precious face.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">He relaxed and smiled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There are a lot of affirmations spoken in our home. A lot.
Mostly, it’s a never ending stream of “I love you (no matter what)” and “I’m so
glad you’re my boy” and “You’re so precious to me” and the like. I, also, often
point out the things I love most about them: Bubba’s curiosity and soulful
eyes, Froggy’s old soul and <a href="http://www.muddledjoy.com/2014/07/mommy-i-want-my-tummy-to-be-flatter.html" target="_blank">strong body</a>, Monkey’s quick “I love you”s
and gorgeous lips. But more and more often, I realize I take care to tell them
how much I love their quirks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">One of the first times I remember doing this was at someone
else’s home. Bubba walked past me, and I couldn’t help but notice and comment
on his cute, round tush. Oh, how I wanted to reach out and squeeze his
“apples,” but at ten, this seemed inappropriate, if wildly unfair. (The
struggle is real, y’all.) My friend was surprised I’d draw attention to Bubba’s
bottom, especially, in part, for being a bit on the larger side. But it’s so
uniquely his, and I adore it, so of course, I want to tell him so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I love Bubba’s round tush and his big toes that look like they
might telescope but that no one has successfully pulled out to their full
length. I love his overbite, the one that makes him look so much like me at his
age. I love his huge head and skinny body, the build that earned him the
nickname “lollipop” when was he was a toddler. I love how deeply he feels, even
if it’s so very hard some days. I love that he is an unabashed geek who laments
that his friends don’t understand his desire to send a rocket to space. I love
that he bounces when he gets excited.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I love Froggy’s freckles, especially Fred and George. I love
his double hair whorl. I love his unflinching love of the color pink. I love
that what he’s feeling is never, ever, EVER a secret. I love that when he
burps, he just keeps talking right through it and out the other side. <a href="http://www.muddledjoy.com/2014/12/this-is-my-brave.html" target="_blank">I even love his anxiety</a> because I know it’s why he has such a tender heart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I love Monkey’s missing tooth and imperfect smile. I love
that he yells “I love you, Mommy!” across the house every time he’s pooping.
And when I remember that his orneriness will serve him well as a teenager and
adult, yes, I even love that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It wasn’t intentional at first, but I’ve been teaching my
boys that you don’t just love your shiny bits, you love all of you, even the
edges and quirks – especially the edges and quirks – because those are what
make you uniquely, beautifully, perfectly-imperfectly you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There’s a school of thought that says parents (or anyone,
for that matter) shouldn’t ever compliment children’s physical appearances
because we want to focus on what really matters, like kindness and bravery. I
get that – I really do – and I do that, but the reality is that people are
going to notice how my boys look. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And one day, when someone calls my boys “freckle face” or
“butt chin” or “buck teeth” or says that pink is a girl color or wonders what
happened to his tooth, my boys will be ready. <i>Because I have already claimed their edges and quirks as beautiful.</i> I have told them in many ways,
directly and indirectly, that I adore every last bit of them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">After Froggy’s “butt chin” comment, Bubba said his teeth
looked huge in one of the pictures I took. Froggy said, “I like how your teeth
cover your bottom lip.” Froggy wasn’t teasing him; he was being sincerely complimentary.
Still, I turned to Bubba and asked if his teeth bothered him. He cocked his
head and screwed up his face, and quickly answered, “no,” before turning back
to enjoy the other pictures I’d taken. He wants braces because his friends have
them and because he knows eating will be much easier. But not because an
overbite is something to hide and be ashamed of. No. Because he is learning to
treasure every piece of himself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Just like I do.</span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
Katherine Welchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274001630481246089noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4432118607958077660.post-25008287962072657472015-05-14T06:23:00.000-07:002015-05-14T06:23:36.968-07:00Saturday<div class="MsoNormal">
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Then [the women who had come with Jesus from Galilee]<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">went home and prepared spices and perfumes.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But they rested on the Sabbath in obedience to the commandment.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">Luke 23:56</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This is all the Bible tells us about what any of Jesus’
followers did on the day between his death and resurrection. On Saturday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But we can imagine, can’t we?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It is a dark day. Emotions are raw. We hear the weeping of
the women. We imagine the prayers, the pleading that his promise of
resurrection would be fulfilled. We imagine their conversations, grief mingled
with hope, wondering how Friday happened and what Sunday will bring. We bear
witness to their vigil. It is a period of anxious waiting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We can imagine this scene so clearly because many of us have
experienced this passage from death to resurrection, from old to new. This
transitional space when everything has been upended. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Saturday</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It is Saturday in my life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I have recently experienced a fracture in a relationship
that is so deep and so agonizing that it feels like a death. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Friday</i>. The relationship hasn’t been
severed, but the old relationship is gone and what the new relationship will
look like is painfully unclear. It is a period of intense mourning and unwanted,
if necessary, growth. It is a time of upheaval. Of waiting and awaiting. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Saturday</i>. But I know that at the end of
this transition lies the promise of resurrection. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sunday.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Every Easter, my former pastor would leave the pulpit during
his sermon, walk the center aisle, and declare, “Resurrection is not the same thing as resuscitation; <i>it is a</i> <i>radical transformation into an utterly new state of being</i>.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I’m not sure I heard a single thing my pastor said after
hearing this for the first time. I had never stopped to wonder why
the women and the twelve mistook Jesus for the gardener or insisted on touching
his wounds. He didn’t look the same; he had been transformed into something
entirely different from his previous earthly form.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This makes perfect sense though, doesn’t it? The concept of
resurrection is meaningless if it’s a process that returns us to precisely the
state in which we began, if it’s merely resuscitation. There must be change.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I won’t return to my previous state of being on Sunday. Nor
will my relationship. Friday can’t be undone, and Saturday can’t be avoided. I’m
being transformed from my hurt and broken and utterly exhausted self. I don’t
know what I will look like on Sunday, but I know that day is coming and that I
will be a new creation. Wiser, maybe. Stronger. Softer. I don’t know. But
definitely different. New.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But for now, my home is Saturday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Every day, I’m inching toward the day of resurrection. Some
days I’m being dragged. Others I’m being carried. Occasionally, I stubbornly
refuse to move. Many days, I’m crawling and clawing toward the glorious
promise.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Toward Sunday.</span></div>
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<br />Katherine Welchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274001630481246089noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4432118607958077660.post-15242374427460829832015-03-12T18:21:00.002-07:002015-03-12T18:21:32.761-07:00Splurge on the Large Prints<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At the end of this month, I will be entering a local,
amateur photography competition. When I learned about the annual event at about
this time last year, I promised myself I would enter this year. This year. Barely
a year after I switched my camera from automatic to manual and started trying
to learn what all those buttons and dials do. (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Still</i> learning. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Forever</i>
learning, I suspect.) I read a little and asked questions of friends who know
far more about photography than I do, but mostly, I spent the year taking
approximately <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">eleventy-million</i>
pictures and figuring out what I did and didn’t like, what did and didn’t work.
Some of the pictures were awful. Many were ordinary. Some I loved. And a
handful absolutely took my breath away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The last few weeks have been exciting, as I’ve sought input
from photographer friends on what caught their eyes and how to tweak my edits,
as well as finalizing my (four) choices. But I’m nervous, too. This is a <a href="http://www.muddledjoy.com/2015/03/this-little-light-of-mine.html" target="_blank">whole</a> <o:p></o:p><a href="http://www.muddledjoy.com/2015/03/this-little-light-of-mine.html" target="_blank">new level of vulnerability</a> in which I’m actually <i>asking</i> people to critique my work. Good things will come, I know
(and I’m not talking about blue ribbons – that’s not my goal and doesn’t feel
at all attainable), but it’s still hard to open myself up like this.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Part of the process of preparing for the competition is, of
course, ordering prints. Large prints. To be matted and framed and hung for
display. When the box of prints arrived, I placed it on the dining room table
and anxiously tore into the box.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And I was stopped in my tracks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC9HXelPxRM79WHq4jnSwIzUZIAAI06_X_6pblfPlcL4j9SlF4y_rwXH-BNyATtKPUHRmju3_0KKSOsA0JRsWgzH2ENT1OIfertuBKSTU0pEZkMSi88faZ_GZFt5PtfX9Ip7xA3UTQRx2O/s1600/Harrison+on+float.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC9HXelPxRM79WHq4jnSwIzUZIAAI06_X_6pblfPlcL4j9SlF4y_rwXH-BNyATtKPUHRmju3_0KKSOsA0JRsWgzH2ENT1OIfertuBKSTU0pEZkMSi88faZ_GZFt5PtfX9Ip7xA3UTQRx2O/s1600/Harrison+on+float.jpg" height="427" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Most of my images I have never seen outside my computer
screen. The images I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have</i> printed, I
have never seen larger than what a standard tabletop frame would hold. But enlarged,
details emerged: the rich green of mid-summer, the beautiful texture of wood
grain, the pebbled appearance of galvanized metal, water droplets catching the
afternoon light, perfect rosy lips. The simple act of printing these images in
a larger size transformed them from mere photographs into art. Art.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2wD7rE4K9aW9roj2qsv3wBDyAZasRUvyPcB41_A17OiAz274_Nb4XVixOgGFpyZUDPTPxxpTD8Ja_bizYhPMdVe_PyYwgu8itG7cCZXCHc7i1VeIecUaD6YvTgl6WtYj7fhIRAr9b-asc/s1600/Walker+homestead-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2wD7rE4K9aW9roj2qsv3wBDyAZasRUvyPcB41_A17OiAz274_Nb4XVixOgGFpyZUDPTPxxpTD8Ja_bizYhPMdVe_PyYwgu8itG7cCZXCHc7i1VeIecUaD6YvTgl6WtYj7fhIRAr9b-asc/s1600/Walker+homestead-7.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I’ve only recently started becoming comfortable with the
idea of calling myself a photographer. And when I do use the p-word, I’m always
sure to firmly plant in front a descriptor that clearly indicates where I place
myself in the hierarchy of photographers: “fledgling,” “beginner,” “new,”
“amateur.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barely worthy of calling
myself a photographer.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But when I saw those large prints, something inside me
shifted, and I realized that what makes one a photographer isn’t composition,
lighting, exposure, and depth of field. Knowing how to do those things <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">well</i> is part of what makes a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">good</i> photographer, but it isn’t what
makes one a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">photographer</i>. I’m a
photographer because I strive to capture how I see the world – the beauty, the emotions,
the shapes, the colors, the light (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">oh,
the</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">light</i>) – in a still, digital
image. Other people show us their worlds with their voices or fabric, clay or
the movement of their bodies, a piano or a typewriter, acrylics or wood.
Artists all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Which means that not only do I have to come to terms with
calling myself a photographer but, also, with calling myself an artist. This
realization is maybe a little more than I’m capable of wrapping my head around
right now. I’ve spent a long time waiting until I was “good enough” for such a
label, waiting until I had achieved sufficient technical skill. But there are
many other labels I have adopted, fully recognizing my (many) limitations (like
“mother” and “Christian”). I could wait forever and still never feel worthy of
being called an artist or photographer.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If I hadn’t decided to enter the photography competition and
hadn’t needed to order those large prints, I wonder when, or even if, I would
have decided I am a photographer. An artist. And I wonder how many others there
are like me, attaching qualifiers to the label “artist,” questioning their
value, downplaying the beautiful way they see and interact with the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Friends, trust me: Splurge on the large prints. </i>And a mat
and frame while you’re at it. You’re worthy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Buy the domain name for the blog you’ve been contemplating,
the leather-bound journal, the beautiful pad of sketch paper, or the nicest
brushes. Hang your painting above the sofa. Audition for a talent show. Give
your pottery as Christmas gifts. Sign up for the photography conference coming
to your town. (Apply for the scholarship if you need to.) Reach out to someone
you’d like to mentor you. Enroll in a dance class. Start an acting class in
your neighborhood. Set aside time in your day to nurture your art. Sign your
painting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Do whatever little (or big!) thing you’ve been holding back
on because you think you’re not good enough, because you don’t see yourself as
the artist you are.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You may not feel ready. You may never feel ready. But you’re
an artist. And you’re worthy. And that’s all that matters.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhT1dA7GZOXpw8I2VYnXEE62Q0NH4ETPC0XsicPxq3yJRzsDWVs2cWRALzf3EJ78iP0Crw9HgPTWT-j-TUVxew9L06JDIVV4fpuXngluF_xHfqKrgUBwfg5Bv6KFkFAWIu7J2IBrC_K5_W/s1600/+puddle+jump+10x20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhT1dA7GZOXpw8I2VYnXEE62Q0NH4ETPC0XsicPxq3yJRzsDWVs2cWRALzf3EJ78iP0Crw9HgPTWT-j-TUVxew9L06JDIVV4fpuXngluF_xHfqKrgUBwfg5Bv6KFkFAWIu7J2IBrC_K5_W/s1600/+puddle+jump+10x20.jpg" height="320" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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Katherine Welchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274001630481246089noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4432118607958077660.post-12294049093600161422015-03-09T17:03:00.001-07:002015-03-09T17:03:40.130-07:00This Little Light of Mine<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The summer between my sophomore and junior years in high
school, I had jaw surgery. As was standard of care in my oral surgeon’s office,
he referred me to a therapist for a pre-op visit. I sat in the therapist’s
office for an hour as she asked routine questions about my family and friends
and school. When she was done, she called my mother into the office and began
telling her not only that I was cleared for surgery but that (and there’s no
delicate way of sharing this) I was an all-around amazing teenager. As she was
saying this, the therapist turned to me smiling and innocently, even jokingly,
asked, “Do you ever feel pressure to be so perfect?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At which point, I began to cry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The therapist hurried my mother back out of the room. We
chatted for a few more minutes, until she decided I really was okay and not
under any excessive pressure, and sent me on my way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I don’t know if anyone has ever spoken such truth <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">to</i> me, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">about</i> me than that therapist (inadvertently) did that summer day.
And I reacted in the most honest way I knew how:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I cried as I recognized myself in her words.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This story came to mind as I was preparing for publication <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.muddledjoy.com/2015/02/my-story.html" target="_blank">My Story</a></i> about my parents’
divorce. I sent the piece to my sister, requesting her thoughts. She wrote back
and told me it was beautiful but asked if I really wanted to share something so
personal. Was I sure?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Well, yes. Yes, of course, I was sure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I worried about my parents’ reactions, but everyone else? I just
knew good things would result from sharing my experience so openly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">However, the truth is there <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> a time that I wouldn’t have made the choice to share <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My Story</i>. Lay my soul bare like that?
Willingly risk criticism?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No, thank you</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The journey from the time when I presented to the world a
carefully constructed image of a conscientious student and all-around good girl
to the time when I was ready to share the joyful and shadowy and quirky and
very real parts of my life was a long and meandering one, but I remember the
precise moment I set upon that path…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was a senior in high school when I decided to audition for
my school’s annual talent show. I had been singing essentially my whole life,
and, except for the first several years of my life when my mother (also a
singer) anxiously wondered if I’d ever be able to carry a tune in a bucket, I
was a pretty good singer. But very few people actually knew what my voice
sounded like. Until I sang in the talent show.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After the show, many of my classmates congratulated me on a
job well done, but looking back, I realize there was a warmth to their comments
that conveyed more than just praise and encouragement. It was a warmth that
comes from being let in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For five minutes, standing on the corner of that stage,
spotlight on me, I opened a deep, sacred part of myself to them. For the
briefest moment, I let them see me. They received that offering with warmth,
and I felt a connection to my classmates that I had never before felt, that I
had been unknowingly longing for. A connection that comes only when you expose
those well-guarded parts of yourself, when you allow yourself to be known. When
you become vulnerable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When I was a freshman in college, I had another similar
moment. Not long after I first told friends that my parents were separated, I
learned that the parents of a hallmate had just announced to her their
separation. I knew just how devastated and alone she felt and wanted to reach
out. I wasn’t ready to talk in person, so I wrote her a letter, walked down the
hall to hand deliver it, and returned to my room where I waited anxiously.
Minutes later, she appeared at my door, tears running down her face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She was seen. I was
seen. We were not alone.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Over the years, these experiences of intense vulnerability
leading to deep connectedness piled up, but it wasn’t until recently I
recognized the great joy that results from this connectedness, from allowing
myself to be known and truly knowing others. I spent decades of my life trying
to present what I thought was the most perfect me. The shiny parts. The good
parts. It was exhausting. And it meant that people were rarely interacting with
the real me. They didn’t love the real me or hate the real me. They weren’t reaching
out to the real me or avoiding the real me. But at the time, it seemed good enough.
I would have described myself as happy. I even might have been perfectly
content to go through all of life like that. Until I finally recognized the joy
of being vulnerable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Now, I strive to live a life fully seen. This can be an
unnerving way to live at times. Each time I publish an intensely personal
piece, I sit on pins and needles, waiting for the comments. But I’ve always
been rewarded many times over when people say, “I saw some of my own
experiences in here,” “Was very similar for me,” “My story is different but
feelings still very real,” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Me, too</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I know at some point there will be a comment that stings, a
criticism that brings tears. Not everyone will like me. But at least they’ll be
reacting to the real me, rather than a prettied-up façade. Inviting people to
truly see and know me means opening myself up to pain. But the alternative is
closing myself off and missing the connectedness and joy. I don’t want to miss
the good stuff. I’ll take the pain if it means I get to experience the joy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When I remember to drop my armor and stay vulnerable, life is
so very good. Because then I am seen and known and loved <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">just as I am.</i> As <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Me, who loves Jesus and leans so far left I might just tip
over one day. Me, who twitches and shrieks when I have bits of Styrofoam stuck
to my hands that I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">just can’t shake off</i>
and who organizes my house when I get overwhelmed by life. Me, who has a
peculiar love of <i>The People’s Court </i>(and would probably, also, still watch <i>Hee
Haw</i> if were on the air… because Granddaddy) and who has a passion for serving
others. Me, who has heard often what a good mother I am but who knows those
people haven’t heard me yell at my boys. Me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So, yes, I’m sure this is how I want to live. Not hidden.
Not pretending to be perfect. (Whatever that is.) Laying my soul bare.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This is me. Here I am.
I’m going to let my light shine.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLTuN2SDLGXT5uZIoDpQ0DswDsMaA2K4-d0TSpZx6RLV9fS3p19D9cjxSeirMDh644F9E2DBEc-4TgqsI85d7uX5JiJ5Ne0CPX6AxXysDGwb9yYZklT_71GU7iVfBGHSUMQMiSS_GMdBVK/s1600/Slide1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLTuN2SDLGXT5uZIoDpQ0DswDsMaA2K4-d0TSpZx6RLV9fS3p19D9cjxSeirMDh644F9E2DBEc-4TgqsI85d7uX5JiJ5Ne0CPX6AxXysDGwb9yYZklT_71GU7iVfBGHSUMQMiSS_GMdBVK/s1600/Slide1.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Froggy, who teaches us all how to let our lights shine.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
Katherine Welchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274001630481246089noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4432118607958077660.post-76696131136067134742015-02-17T05:47:00.000-08:002015-02-17T05:47:09.794-08:00My Story<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">One ordinary day, the summer I was sixteen and a rising high
school senior, my parents told my younger sister and me they were separating.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I don’t talk much about my parents’ divorce. For one thing,
it’s been almost twenty-five years since my parents separated. My parents have
been divorced longer than they were married. This is my normal. And divorce is
so common that it, also, hardly seems worth discussing. But maybe that’s
precisely why I should talk about how it affected me – how it still affects me
– because being a child of divorce is an experience so many of us share.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Recently, my friend Julie posted a <a href="http://www.rantsfrommommyland.com/2015/02/some-things-to-remember-when-grown-ups.html" target="_blank">beautiful piece about divorce </a>that left me in tears, as fresh pain from an old wound resurfaced. I
knew I needed to share my experiences to help me – and, I hope, others –
continue to work through this hurt. I do this with much trepidation, as I don’t
want to hurt my parents, whom I love and who were, undoubtedly, doing the best
they could.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">These insights are born solely of my journey, so some may
resonate with you, friends, others may not, and you may feel like I’ve missed
big ones that are important to you. That’s okay. Divorce may unite many of us,
but everyone’s experience is unique. This is my story…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">1. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Being eased into the separation was brutal</i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. </i>After the big announcement, my father
moved out of the bedroom to the couch in the den and slept there for a few
nights while he looked for an apartment. It was excruciating to have my father
in the house, knowing it was no longer his home, aching both to rewind to the
blissful ignorance of a few days prior and to fast forward to my new normal.
There is no perfect, easy, painless way to make the transition out of one’s
home, but being in limbo was agonizing for me. I wish my parents had taken a
firm hold of the Band-Aid and ripped it off in one swift motion. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">2. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I didn’t want to be asked to do anything
that made me feel complicit in the separation</i>.</b> During those painful
days while the Band-Aid was ever so slowly being peeled back, my father asked
my sister and me to go furniture shopping with him. I have a vivid memory of
sitting on an ugly, blue sofa in the furniture section of a department store
while my father chatted casually with us about the pros and cons of various
pieces of living room furniture. I imagine my father felt free in a way that he
hadn’t in a long time, but I felt physically ill. I wanted nothing to do with
furniture shopping, packing boxes, apartment hunting, or anything at all that
might have been construed as my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aiding a
parent in leaving the home and family.</i> Please, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">no</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">3. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Things weren’t better post-separation, no
matter what anyone said</i>. </b>Parents, like children, may be feeling crushed
and may be trying to convince themselves, as much as their children, that
things will be okay, or parents may be feeling the newfound freedom of being
unencumbered by a dying marriage. Family friends may mean well with comments
like, “It’s for the best.” But witnessing my parents’ separation was
devastating, and there was no way to put a positive spin on that. Trying to
just made me angry. I wanted people to respect me and honor my feelings by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fully allowing me to feel heartbroken</i>.
However, comments like, “It will get better,” would have been welcome,
especially from those who knew, firsthand, the pain of divorce.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Similarly, nothing my father could have said would have made
his new apartment anything different from/better than what it was: the
embodiment of the demise of my parents’ marriage. He could have moved into the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">actual Taj Mahal</i>, and his home wouldn’t
have been any less ugly or inadequate. I’m grateful my father didn’t try to
sell me on the merits of his new home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">4. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I desperately needed acknowledgement of how
crappy the situation was (and is)</i>.</b> I have one parent who excels at this
and another who I felt never fully acknowledged the enormity of my loss. Maybe
the latter is a coping mechanism; maybe the pain one’s child is experiencing
feels too close; or maybe the parent feels blamed and doesn’t want to throw
fuel on that fire. But it just added to my pain to feel unseen by a parent and,
in fact, made healing even harder. A long, fancy speech was never required. Something
as simple as, “I know this is hard. Thanks for muddling through with me,” would
have sufficed. Early in my grieving process, I needed the crappiness of the
situation acknowledged often. Now, I don’t. But it still helps when someone –
anyone – recognizes my loss. Twenty-five years after my parents’ separation, I
still feel an ache when I think about the family I lost, the childhood I deserved
and should have had. I even still occasionally cry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Like right now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">5. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sometimes I needed my parents to back off,
and other times, I needed a gentle push.</i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>The day after my parents announced their separation, I stayed in
bed for much of the day. I called in sick to my summer job at the pool. I
didn’t eat much. I know now that I was depressed. But the next morning, my
mother walked into my bedroom, opened the shades, and told me I was going to
work. I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to do less, but she was right.
There is comfort in routine. My routine, my foundation, had been ripped from me,
so I had to find tiny fragments of it wherever I could. Going to work was hard,
but good and necessary. There are times to be sad and angry and times to pick
oneself up and carry on. I’m grateful my mother knew me well enough to help me
navigate this tricky balance in those earliest days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">6. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Shame is an insidious enemy</i>.</b> The
first time I told anyone my parents were separated was in a tearful confession
to two friends fourteen months later. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fourteen
months</i>. In the interim, when I talked about my family, I carefully chose
words that didn’t reveal my secret. Yes, my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">secret</i>,
revealed in a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">confession</i>. I wasn’t
being private. I wasn’t merely embarrassed. I was filled with shame. I could
have told you it wasn’t my fault, that I had nothing to do with my parents’
separation, that the end of their marriage wasn’t a reflection of my worth; but
I didn’t live like I understood that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The day after my parents announced their separation, my
mother offered to call the mother of my best friend and break the news. I was
so grateful for that gesture, so relieved that I didn’t have to speak the
unspeakable, that I agreed. In hindsight, I suspect it would have been better
for my grief and healing to do this myself. Because my mother (unwittingly, of
course) had given me tacit approval to say nothing, to remain hidden.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But shame lurks and grows in the shadows, in the secrecy.
Even after that tearful confession to my friends, for many years, I still choked
out the words when revealing that my parents are divorced. It never should have
been like that. I never should have felt shame, and I wish my parents had known
how to help me talk openly about their separation. Because shame can’t survive being
out in the open. It can’t survive the light.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">7. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I had mixed feelings about my parents’
second marriages</i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.</i> My father
remarried less than a year after the divorce was final, and I was not in a
particularly celebratory mood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, I
wanted my father to be happy. Yes, I dearly love my stepmother. But I was still
actively grieving the loss of my parents’ marriage. My life still felt like it
was in turmoil. So what, surely, felt like a new beginning to my father felt
like an ending to me. Witnessing my father marry someone else felt final in a
way that his moving out or my learning that the divorce was final did not. I’m
not suggesting that anyone needed to do anything different to accommodate me,
but I wish someone had simply acknowledged how crappy this time, in particular,
was for me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My mother, on the other hand, got married eight years after
the divorce. I was in an entirely different place in my grieving process and in
my life in general (I had gotten married earlier the same year), and I could
whole-heartedly celebrate with her and my wonderful stepfather. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Similarly, watching my parents begin to date again was
difficult, at its worst, and awkward, at its best. I’m grateful that my parents
waited to introduce me to their significant others only after it was clear
relationships were serious.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">8. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">At sixteen, I was just a child.</i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>My parents’ separation and divorce would
have been hard at any age, but being a teenager brought with it special
difficulties. I was sixteen when my parents separated, eighteen when they
divorced, and nineteen when my father remarried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked liked an adult. I felt like an
adult. I was definitely NOT an adult. And as such, I should never have been
expected to handle all that was thrown at me as if I had been one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As far as teenagers go, I was incredibly responsible and levelheaded.
That actually may have made it even harder to understand why I sometimes
reacted more like a child than an adult to circumstances surrounding the
divorce. I’m not suggesting that my parents should have excused any blatantly
rude behavior, but there were times when I suspected my parents thought I was
acting in an intentionally cold and callous manner when my actions were born of something else entirely.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The most painful example of this came when I missed my
father and stepmother’s rehearsal dinner. I was at college an hour away from
home. I had to leave choir rehearsal early to drive home and catch the bus that
was driving all the dinner guests to an out-of-town restaurant. My beloved
choir was a haven from the storms that swirled around me during my sophomore
year (and there were <i>many</i>, not just related to the divorce). I waited until the
last possible moment to duck out of rehearsal, lost a few minutes in some
unexpected traffic, and arrived to a deserted home. I felt sick. I didn’t know
the name of the restaurant, no one had left me directions, and this was long
before everyone had cell phones. I gladly would have driven to dinner, but I
had no idea where to go. I learned later that the bus left thirty minutes
earlier than I thought it was supposed to, but I hadn’t left myself a
sufficient buffer to compensate for that miscommunication. No number of
apologies or explanations (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i>
justifications) seemed to ease the hurt I had caused, which compounded the pain
of an already crappy weekend. I so desperately needed to feel that I was being
met with some measure of grace and compassion – if not possible in the moment,
then later when feelings settled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That said, I still needed to be approached in conversation
as an adult. Lecturing me was a strategy that always backfired; it always made
me angry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">9. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I love you.</i></b> Sometimes – often – “I
love you” was the very last thing I wanted to say to my parents when I felt
like they’d forever destroyed my world. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
I did love them. I do love them. I know this if for no other reason than
because, if I didn’t, their divorce would have been painless.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And when I couldn’t tell them, I desperately needed them to
tell me. Better yet, to show me. All the while remembering that I have always
loved them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I loved you during
that first painful, post-separation holiday when everyone felt shortchanged. I
loved you when you remembered to say, “I’m sorry,” and when you forgot. I loved
you when you left. I loved you when you attempted that first awkward vacation
as a single parent. I loved you when I just wanted to be left alone. I loved
you when you were too spent to make dinner. I loved you when I remembered you
were doing the best you could and when I was certain you were doing it all
wrong. I loved you when you dragged me to counseling. I loved you when you gave
me exactly what I needed and when you didn’t. I loved you even when I was
thinking, “I hate you!”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Even then<i>.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">********</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I’d love to know what you think of My Story. What resonated? What didn’t? What did I miss that is part of Your Story?</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ1HzAGoC9iPKpUk5IUMosuIp2fTdXRY0F-6fSHABBskTlK6EYNzyEh_U0djS5PR6xCViNZhGOJqGID3aGyrAdA-3hTFzTzqcYc9kwSz26FfPsHWKCuaGrn36ht57AA0_YUKMVQ-gAsoI-/s1600/Slide1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ1HzAGoC9iPKpUk5IUMosuIp2fTdXRY0F-6fSHABBskTlK6EYNzyEh_U0djS5PR6xCViNZhGOJqGID3aGyrAdA-3hTFzTzqcYc9kwSz26FfPsHWKCuaGrn36ht57AA0_YUKMVQ-gAsoI-/s1600/Slide1.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<o:p></o:p></i>Katherine Welchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274001630481246089noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4432118607958077660.post-74803330711712749102015-02-13T06:20:00.000-08:002015-02-13T06:21:06.871-08:00Warmth at First Sight<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">They told me it would be love at first sight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">They said that when the doctor placed that new baby on my
chest for the first time that angels would sing. The world would smell sweeter
than it ever had before. I would feel like I was floating. Waves of the most
overwhelming love would come crashing over me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But it wasn’t like that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I loved him to be sure. I felt warmth. But I didn’t Love
him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When I saw my firstborn for the first time, I thought he was
beautiful, precious, but the nurses couldn’t whisk him away fast enough to
clean him up. I didn’t want to touch my newborn, much less kiss him. Yes, I
probably would have gouged out the eyes of anyone who dared harm him, and I
willingly took care of all his needs, but I expected more. I expected to feel
changed. And I felt largely the same. Just a little more banged up than normal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I didn’t have post-partum depression. I knew that. So I
assumed something must be terribly wrong with me. “Do some women never feel
Love toward their children?” I wondered. “Am I destined to be a horrible
mother?” I despaired.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I continued to mother with love. I gently bathed him and
changed him and nursed through the toe-curling pain. Until one day (days later?
weeks?), I realized that a tenderness had grown, almost imperceptibly, so that
I was now Mothering with Love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When my second and third sons were born, the angels
stubbornly refused to sing at their births, too. But this time, I knew that the
Love would come, as it had before. I wasn’t a bad mother. There was nothing
wrong with me. This was simply my normal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I have since talked to other mothers who experienced the
same slow growth of Love for their newborns. I wish I had known their stories
before my eldest was born. I wish I had known that there was nothing to fear,
that I was not unwell or destined to be a bad mother. If I had known that some
mothers feel warmth but not overwhelming Love at first sight, I needn’t have
worried.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So when the nurse placed my firstborn on my chest and I felt
only warmth at first sight, I could have simply said to myself…</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">They said this might happen, too. And that’s okay.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt9Dv_rtxkfgl2Q3u50OGn6OzvqdyatfWuyE-bYdQEUAmoG_lmZh8wixUgwySAn0rx5WQC2jBfdlDNliSDW1Nj9j2-NPpdbXKVfKvLu03RHKz6hmlJKDfPX2z4ljppvjeoF86R0THh9tgk/s1600/Family+photo+with+newborn+Corbin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt9Dv_rtxkfgl2Q3u50OGn6OzvqdyatfWuyE-bYdQEUAmoG_lmZh8wixUgwySAn0rx5WQC2jBfdlDNliSDW1Nj9j2-NPpdbXKVfKvLu03RHKz6hmlJKDfPX2z4ljppvjeoF86R0THh9tgk/s1600/Family+photo+with+newborn+Corbin.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Our first family photo (taken by my L&D nurse).</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Katherine Welchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274001630481246089noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4432118607958077660.post-78010167464390011742015-02-04T18:01:00.000-08:002015-02-04T18:01:18.913-08:00On Playing Cards and Doing Laundry<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkvHaDvAys6BpWUk3iQEBo04hL4GuvhHZ3l8td8LFaeOZqctC3j3W3UG95AO1FJS0jnP8N5kHJ3s5AVs1F7lzUqdUvGEFxmz_PABI3y94vcMOF2oIy4uGLVnL8OK-UA6mt_VBJtskpg4Mf/s1600/on+playing+cards+and+doing+laundry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkvHaDvAys6BpWUk3iQEBo04hL4GuvhHZ3l8td8LFaeOZqctC3j3W3UG95AO1FJS0jnP8N5kHJ3s5AVs1F7lzUqdUvGEFxmz_PABI3y94vcMOF2oIy4uGLVnL8OK-UA6mt_VBJtskpg4Mf/s1600/on+playing+cards+and+doing+laundry.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-large;">M</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">y beautiful friend Virginia told me years ago that, growing
up, she fell asleep to the sounds of her parents playing cards at the kitchen
table. That snapshot was the entirety of the story she shared, but it was
precisely its simplicity that held such power. I don’t know Virginia’s parents
(except through her stories), and I’ve never visited her childhood home, yet I
have created a detailed mental image of those evenings: I can see her parents,
sitting across a simple, oak table in an old, but tidy, kitchen. There are
floral curtains hanging around the window over the sink and a damp towel hung
on the empty dish-drying rack. The comfortable hum of conversation about the
game and her parents’ days is punctuated only by an occasional shuffle of the
deck. And in Virginia’s small, dark bedroom, where dolls and books line shelves
and a few strays dot the floor, she lies in a cozy twin bed, quilt tucked to
her chin, as her eyes flutter closed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But more vivid still than the picture of that scene is the
knowledge of precisely what Virginia must have felt in that moment. When that
first shuffle of the deck pierced the quiet, she felt the security of routine,
the comfort of the familiar rise and fall of her parents’ conversation, the
certainty that she was safe and, above all, loved.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">These are the things I hope home is for my boys. And so it
is that Virginia’s story so often comes to mind in the evenings after I’ve
kissed my boys goodnight, tucked them in, and turned out the lights (in rooms
that aren’t nearly so idyllic looking as Virginia’s imagined room). Many
evenings, I head straight for the laundry room. As I’m bumping around, doing
the work that begs to be done, I wonder if the boys hear not sounds of tedious
household chores, as I do, but rather sounds of tremendous comfort.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When my boys hear the familiar rush of water refilling the
washer, are they soothed by the knowledge that I am near, always near? When
they feel the angry shaking of the spin cycle, are they temporarily jolted
awake just long enough to remember that they have parents who faithfully care
for their every need? Does the rhythmic clicking of zippers and rocks and stray
Legos hitting the dryer drum fill them with the security of routine as they
close their eyes? When they hear the gentle scraping of drawers opening and
closing as they’re refilled, do they rest comfortably in the knowledge that
they are so very loved?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Today, my youngest got upset with me when I told him he
couldn’t have a giant bowl of ice cream for dessert, but it was, also, I he
turned to for a hug to ease his sadness. I watched as my middle son returned
home from school, the anxieties of the day sliding off his shoulders and
hitting the floor alongside his backpack, as he stepped over the threshold of
our home. My oldest requested one-on-one time with me so he could tell me about
a problem he’s having at school. And all the boys jostled for prime positions during
evening reading time, snuggling into me but never quite being satisfied that
they had gotten close enough. It is in these quiet moments that I wonder –
hope, pray – that this is one area in which I’m getting it more right than
wrong. That these precious boys know how completely they are loved. That there
is nothing they could do or say to make me love them less. That I’ll always be
right here, waiting for them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">And I’m quite certain they’ll know in which </span>room to check for me first.</span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Katherine Welchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274001630481246089noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4432118607958077660.post-50336991450957021232015-01-22T17:11:00.004-08:002015-01-22T17:11:46.853-08:00Why We Must Put an End to Kissing on the Playground<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The other day, a friend posted the following status update
on her Facebook page:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: white; color: #141823; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">At school pick up, [my son in pre-K] tells me, ‘A girl kissed
me at school, even though kissing is not allowed. She kissed me two times.’</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She followed it with an emoticon expressing surprise, and a
follow-up comment made it clear that her son had not wanted to be kissed by
this little girl. Many people “liked” the status update, and comments were
overwhelmingly positive: “That’s SOOO cute!!” “Heartbreaker.” “Love it!” There
was exactly one comment expressing concern: mine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There was a time when I would have grinned at my friend’s
story, as well. Both of my big boys have had crushes on girls in their classes,
and several girls have had crushes on my middle son. In fact, he used to come
home every day from kindergarten grinning broadly about all the girls who
chased him on the playground. My big guy could hardly sit still when he
excitedly told me about his first crush. My littlest makes eyes at every girl
he sees. And I vividly remember carefully grooming my brows with my Brownie
pocket comb for my first crush, Brad, before school each day in first grade.
There’s just something so sweet and innocent, giggly and fluttery about those
first crushes. But in my friend’s story, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">unwanted kissing</i> crossed a line in my mind. The little girl who
kissed her son was surely just as sweet and innocent as those who chased my son
last year, but what do we do about the fact that her son didn’t want to be
kissed? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When we tell our children it’s “cute” when others kiss them
against their wishes, what are we teaching them about their ability to make
decisions about their own bodies? When we don’t stop our children from kissing
another child when he doesn’t want to be kissed, what are we teaching them
about consent? Because we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are</i>
teaching them something. I just fear it’s not what we wish to be. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In light of the horrific stories coming out of our nation’s
colleges, in particular, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about sexual assault,
rape culture, and consent. As the mother of three boys (ages 10, 6, and 3), I
think especially about the possibility that, one day, one of my boys might,
heaven forbid, perpetrate an assault (though I certainly understand that they
could, also, be victims). It’s a horrible thought – it’s difficult to force my
mind to go there – but I must. I must because, apparently, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> thinking and talking about this subject has gotten us to this
awful place in which sexual assault among friends, acquaintances, and
significant others is commonplace.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It would be easier for me to say, “It can wait.” A three
year old is, after all, too young for discussions about sex, so how does one
teach about something as weighty as consent? And I feel woefully unequipped to
tackle such a big, important subject. But waiting doesn’t make it easier, just
more urgent, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">surely</i>, there is
something that can be done now. After all, parenting is about teaching our
children, even the littlest ones, critical lessons that will guide them
throughout their lives. We are constantly laying the groundwork to help them become
amazing adults.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So Mister and I have three, simple rules for our boys that we
view as precursors to the bigger, harder discussions about rape and consent
that must and will come later:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ol>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>When someone says
“no,” screams, cries, or in any other way expresses displeasure, stop.
Immediately.</i> This pertains almost exclusively to play right now, and it
just about kills the boys, who delight, as siblings sometimes do, in some
good-natured brother torture (pinning each other down, wrestling, tickling).
But it’s very easy for a child to assume that because <i>he’s</i> playing, everyone else is in on the game and having fun.
Almost daily, I have to break up play that has become too rough or frightening
for one of the boys. <span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">
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</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Take responsibility
for your actions/reactions.</i> Yes, your brother may have antagonized you by
“not touching” you until you snapped and hit him. He shouldn’t have done that. (I’m
looking at you, Froggy.) But that doesn’t excuse the inappropriate reaction;
you can’t use that as a justification. You are capable of self-control, even
under the most tempting of circumstances.
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<!--StartFragment-->
<!--EndFragment--></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>You never have to hug
or kiss or otherwise touch anyone you don’t want to, any time you don’t want to.</i>
To be sure, this one doesn’t win us a lot of points with the boys’
grandparents. They want hugs every time they see the boys. I understand – so do
I! – but it’s far more important to me that the boys learn that they have control
over who touches their bodies and when. Also, their reluctance to hug any given
relative is likely just a stage in which touching anyone else seems a little
weird, but it could be a red flag. <i>It
could be</i>. And I need to be paying attention.</span></li>
</ol>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Children learn through play. When my children play, they aren’t
engaged in meaningless activity; they are exploring social cues and physical
laws and so much else while they’re on the playground or building a Lego castle
or playing dress-up. By the time my boys reach puberty, the groundwork for countless
lessons, including consent and self-control, will have been laid, whether Mister
and I did it passively or actively. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I
hope by teaching our boys these three, simple rules early and by keeping them
consistent in childhood and the teen years, we will avoid any confusion that
might arise if we were to have contradicting rules and expectations for play
than for sexual activity. It’s not the end of the conversation, to be sure;
it’s merely the beginning. But I hope our boys will understand that they must
stop if and when their partners signal they’re in distress, in part, because we
insisted they stop rough-housing when a brother was no longer having fun. I
pray that our never allowing the excuse that a brother got what was coming will
lay the groundwork for our boys’ understanding that they are, similarly, fully
in control of </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">all</i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> their choices and
should never, ever, EVER use any variation of “but she asked for it” as an
excuse for assault. I hope our boys understand that they, </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">as well as their partners</i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">, have the right to say “no” in any
encounter and demand that their denial be heeded, in part, because we allowed
them to decline relatives’ hugs and kisses and other unwanted touches.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Including kisses on the playground.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKEphD90dbL4DROxoml-GR72BWAirXLSX5lDZ87pmAuDTDoZhsZr_ll9JB5B9BjJLrkjqNXxFvlLR7L-mu7yLcRzIArSqI4enn8f26MK61QY8klocLa9VdOWs3Pp2_W0F_3f7UHa-oISkM/s1600/DSC_9669.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKEphD90dbL4DROxoml-GR72BWAirXLSX5lDZ87pmAuDTDoZhsZr_ll9JB5B9BjJLrkjqNXxFvlLR7L-mu7yLcRzIArSqI4enn8f26MK61QY8klocLa9VdOWs3Pp2_W0F_3f7UHa-oISkM/s1600/DSC_9669.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Katherine Welchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274001630481246089noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4432118607958077660.post-37589779242955061352015-01-20T16:42:00.000-08:002015-01-20T16:43:37.257-08:00My Grandmother's Hands<div class="MsoNormal">
Grandmama had the most beautiful hands I’ve ever seen.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was 58 when I was born, and she was born to a farmer,
married to a farmer, so her hands were certainly not conventionally pretty. In
fact, her fingertips were often so badly cracked open that they would be covered
in tape to prevent the cracks from deepening. But when she sat still long
enough (which wasn’t often), she would let me play with her hands. I didn’t
hold her hands or fix her nails (goodness, no); I would play with the bulging,
purple veins that spread across the tops of her hands. She would run her index
finger firmly up a vein on the opposite hand, making the purple bulge
disappear, then lift her finger, releasing the blood to surge back down her
hand. Then it was my turn to try. The backs of her hands were as soft as her
fingertips were dry. We would grin at each other, sitting together at her
kitchen table.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I loved this time with Grandmama. In a long list of
wonderful memories of her, this may be second only to seeing her cradle my
newborn sons.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She wasn’t at all self-conscious of her weathered, aging
hands. In much the same way that she would wiggle the plate containing her
false teeth and reveal the gaps in her mouth whenever a grandchild asked, I
suspect she simply accepted that this is where life had brought her body. So
she freely allowed me the intimate opportunity to touch her hands. The hands
that had known the hard work of the fields and of the home. Hands that worked
the garden, gathered eggs, drew water from the well, ran laundry over a
washboard. Hands that prepared the food that fed our bodies and souls. Hands
that turned every page of her Bible at least thirty-two times as she read.
Hands that wiped her eyes when she buried her beloved husband and two
granddaughters. Hands that gripped a steering wheel for the first time in her
70s when she realized she had to learn to get herself from place to place now.
Hands that were as gentle as they were strong.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mother has her mother’s beautiful hands.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As a girl, her hands, too, knew the hard work of the farm. The
same hands dance across the piano, create heirloom-quality needlework, and
prepare meals into which she pours all of her love to feed her family. They
have braided my hair and rubbed my back and bandaged my scrapes. Hands that are
never idle, whether at her home or mine. The hands that reluctantly learned the
work of a husband who left. Hands that give my favorite hugs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mother has always cringed when I touch the soft veins on the
backs of her hands. She is more self-conscious of her hands than her mother
was. But she needn’t be.<br />
<br />
Last night, as I was peeling clementines for the boys’
lunches today, I happened to glance at my hands. Like my mother and grandmother
before me, my hands were engaged in holy work, as I know they so often are. And
I couldn’t help but hope that, one day soon, I will look down and see the bulging of beautiful, soft veins. My mother’s hands. My grandmother’s hands.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUsEJ_4fze6KQezY4HPo6vc69yguygrQPSyncQ7KLRJvBNUUQgrKXHccuSU0pts3fYXUvw7ybmqYoZeqb1f42jZUlKNCHszLe1b8qJdp0FfmBHaZFwcc6zq7jBb-gJ8c1bjZAVRSGfkrzS/s1600/Grandmama+with+baby+Corbin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUsEJ_4fze6KQezY4HPo6vc69yguygrQPSyncQ7KLRJvBNUUQgrKXHccuSU0pts3fYXUvw7ybmqYoZeqb1f42jZUlKNCHszLe1b8qJdp0FfmBHaZFwcc6zq7jBb-gJ8c1bjZAVRSGfkrzS/s1600/Grandmama+with+baby+Corbin.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grandmama meeting her 12th grandchild, my precious Bubba, at age 5 weeks.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Katherine Welchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274001630481246089noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4432118607958077660.post-65785948224167957532014-12-15T09:53:00.000-08:002014-12-15T18:12:25.262-08:00This Is My Brave<div class="MsoNormal">
Anxiety gripped Froggy this morning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ten minutes before it was time to leave for school, he
perched himself on the side of my bathtub, hugging his knees, head down,
breathing big, deliberate breaths. He didn’t ask for a hug. He knew I wouldn’t
– no, couldn’t. Shouldn’t. It would just make it worse, feed the emotions. Time
to head downstairs to put on coats, he slithered under my bed. I repeated that
it was time to go, and he reluctantly fought his way back out. I heard him bump
down the stairs on his bottom, one painstaking step at a time, as if he couldn’t
bring himself to think beyond the next step. But that one step right in front
of him, maybe he could sit on that one next. Maybe that was doable. He put on
his coat and grabbed his backpack, resigned to the inevitability that he would
have to go to school. I cupped his chin in my hands and lifted his eyes to mine
and told him, again, how very much I love him and how proud I am of his
bravery, for doing this very hard thing. And I turned him over to his big
brother, who took his hand and headed for school, this big brother
who, five minutes ago, was yelling at Froggy as brothers sometimes do, but was
now supporting his little brother with such tender, unspoken care. I watched
Froggy walk away, anxiety still gripping him, wondering if this ever gets
easier, wondering why doing the right thing sometimes feels so very wrong.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These are the hard days.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You see, Froggy has an anxiety disorder.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He’s not worried about going to school. He’s not afraid.
Those are almost the right words – the ones we used for months, in fact – but
that implies that there is something about which Froggy should be worried or
afraid. There’s not. Sure, we’ve had some bumps in the road, but school is a
safe place, a fun place, a place he usually loves when he’s there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The right word is “anxiety,” that fear and
worry that is disproportionate to any actual risk. Froggy has anxiety about
school. (And about being alone anywhere in the house, especially at night.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we discovered that Froggy has an anxiety disorder, there
was, more than any other emotion, tremendous relief that washed over me. It
explained so much about what had been going on for over a year, but especially
in the previous four months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, as I
always do, I started researching and emailing and making phone calls. I was
going to figure out how to best tackle it. There had to be a plan.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And there was a plan, a plan that has allowed for far more
good days than hard ones. But as I was making new connections and establishing
new routines, I was, also, feeling stuck. I knew I wanted to – needed to – write
about this. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I started sharing my writing more widely, I knew there
would come a time when the story I needed to tell would collide with someone
else’s story, and I know that I need to be very careful about telling others’
stories. Because their stories belong to them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But when that story belongs to your child and you write
about mothering and your stories are inextricably intertwined, what do you do?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wrestled.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thought about how I teach my children to be truth tellers
and to listen for people’s stories and about the beauty in realizing we’re not
alone in our struggles, in finding connection. I thought about how I freely
talk about Froggy’s stutter and the boys’ speech delays and an infinite number
of other parenting challenges. I remembered turning to Mister one evening and
saying to him, “We have a child with a mental illness. Are you okay with that?”
and how he looked at me, utterly perplexed, and answered, “Of course, I am.”<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I realized that what had been holding me back is stigma.
The stigma still surrounding mental illness.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a stigma that hasn’t led me to a place of “This is bad!
How did this happen? No one can ever know!” but rather to a place of “Well, maybe
this is just best left private.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But why?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What if the person I don’t tell is the person who has a
piece of advice that is the key to helping Froggy talk the next step in
effectively managing this illness? What if the person I don’t tell is the very
person who is desperately waiting to learn that she and her child aren’t alone?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, let’s be honest, people already know something: Froggy
invites friends to have lunch with him in the guidance counselor’s office each
week. Neighbors have witnessed the ugly mornings when it’s a fight to get
Froggy to school. Family has seen the panic that grips him when he’s faced with
the possibility of being in part of the house by himself. I’ve shared with
friends how Froggy had debilitating stomachaches for weeks after a <a href="http://www.muddledjoy.com/2014/07/this-happened.html" target="_blank">brutal GI bug</a> tore through the family. His teacher has witnessed his perfectionism. His
classmates watch him get out of his seat without permission, touch the post-it
note on the teacher’s desk, and slip into the bathroom for a few minutes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d rather people really know than speculate about what they
almost know.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Froggy gave me permission to tell people that he has “some
anxiety,” as he refers to it. When he gave me permission, he was dancing half
naked in my bedroom, singing. He told me I should tell you that, too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s the thing about Froggy: If there is anyone who could
single-handed destroy every iota of stigma associated with mental illness, it’s
Froggy. He is kind and generous, an excellent student and a better son. People
are drawn to him – teachers, sales associates, family, and friends. He’s goofy
and joyful and just a delight to parent. He has fully embraced the fact that he
has an anxiety disorder. When I was planning to hold off on telling his
classroom teacher what was going on, assuming she’d rather wait and receive a
plan for action along with the news, Froggy had other plans. He woke up one
morning and asked to be reminded of the “e word.” (He obviously hasn’t mastered
yet how to spell “anxiety.”) He then went to school, marched right up to his
teacher, said, “I want you to know I have some anxiety,” hung up his backpack,
and sat down to start his school work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This kiddo embodies brave. And for him, there is no stigma.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is a relatively new campaign called “<a href="http://thisismybrave.org/" target="_blank">This Is My Brave</a>,” which seeks to talk openly about mental illness and share stories of
those with or those who love someone with mental illness in the
hopes of breaking down the stigma of these diseases. I share their hope that “[<span style="background: white; color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">o]ne day we will live in a world where we won’t
have to call it “brave” when talking about mental illness. We’ll just call it
talking.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">So
that’s what I plan to do: keep talking. And I pray that this is the right
choice for Froggy, for me, for the rest of our family, and for those who live
with mental illness.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;">Friends,
meet Froggy. He is my brave.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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Katherine Welchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274001630481246089noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4432118607958077660.post-42417440770704588022014-11-26T07:39:00.000-08:002014-11-26T07:42:55.575-08:00Thanksgiving Giving<div class="MsoNormal">
I popped into Michael’s (craft store) yesterday to pick up some
picture frames for some of my boys’ artwork. I love to display the boys’ art,
but I don’t frame it often. So when I do, they know I truly love the piece they
created, and they walk a little taller.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Because the public school system and the framing industry apparently
haven’t (yet) sat around a conference table together, I wandered the aisles for
half an hour, trying to figure out how to get the boys’ 5.5x7” and 8.5x14” artwork
(typical sizes for school projects) to fit in standard size frames. Ultimately,
I found myself at the framing counter so I could have a mat cut for the larger
piece.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was an older couple in front of me. On the counter,
they had carefully laid out his jacket, his hat, and a handful of medals from
his time in the army during the Korean War. I watched as they chose a shadow
frame and mats and a plaque. And as I did, my heart started beating faster,
tears welled in my eyes, and I started feeling a little twitchy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Twitchy is how I describe that feeling that means I’m
supposed to DO SOMETHING. I tried to convince myself that this was neither the
time nor the place to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do something, </i>but
the twitchiness wouldn’t stop. In that moment, I was overcome with the notion
that, try as I might to be extravagantly kind and generous, there was nothing I
could do that was as extravagant as putting one’s life on the line for
countries’ worth of people one has never met, but that, be that as it may, I
couldn’t use that truth as an excuse to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do
nothing</i>. So when the sales associate told the couple how much the work
would cost, I leaned into them and managed to squeak through tears, “Excuse
me.” They looked my way. “But would you do me the honor of letting me pay for this.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They were momentarily speechless. “Oh, no. No, we couldn’t. It’s
just too much,” they said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Please, I would very much like to,” I said as I handed my
credit card to the wide-eyed associate.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I couldn’t let you. I wouldn’t feel comfortable,” the
husband said, never lifting his head.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so I finally decided to take my card back. Because the
point of being kind and generous is never to make the other person feel
uncomfortable. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wiped my tears, as the couple and the sales associate
began to finalize the transaction, but the weight of what had just happened
hung awkwardly in the air between us. I stepped out of the space to the end of
the counter and busied myself pretending to look at mats, hands still
trembling. After a minute, the wife followed me, and said, “Thank you,”
reaching up for a hug. We clung to each other, as she quietly said, “You made
my day. No. You made my year.” She released her embrace, still holding my arms,
and looked me in the eyes and said, “You are a good woman.” I was speechless.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I walked back to the front of the counter, the couple
began sharing some of their story with me. The husband (a formal army corporal)
had been “dropped” in Korea on Christmas Eve 1952 and served for a year and a
half. Only a couple of months ago, he lost his brother, who had, also, served
but after Korea, never seeing active combat. When he died, the couple took
special notice of his army jacket and two flags, framed and displayed in his
home. They went home and dragged the husband’s uniform and medals from the
cedar chest, ready to turn them into a “museum piece” for their descendants. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The husband was a quiet man, bordering on gruff. I didn’t
see him make eye contact with anyone in the fifteen minutes I was with him. But
as he and his wife turned to leave, he stopped in front of me (maybe feeling a
bit twitchy himself) and reached out to me, unsure whether a hug or a handshake
was the most appropriate response. We hugged, as he simply said, “Thank you.” I
thanked him for his service and for sharing some of his story with me and
wished them a happy Thanksgiving. As they walked away, the wife, smiling,
called out over her shoulder to the sales associate, “Take good care of her.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes an act of kindness doesn’t turn out the way we
planned it. Sometimes we are turned down. Sometimes our only gift is an offer
of help. But it is precisely those moments that serve to remind us that acts of
kindness are never best judged by the amount of money exchanged. Acts of
kindness are about connecting to other people. And that cannot be measured. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The couple at Michael’s politely declined my offer to pay
for the framing service, yet they were clearly moved at the gesture. I will
never know what they took from our encounter – a chance to share their story, a
heartfelt thank you, softened hearts, a needed connection – but I know they
took something. The husband didn’t strike me as the type who often hugs
strangers. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thank you for your service, Corporal. Thank you for sharing
part of your story with me. Thank you for the hug. And…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Happy Thanksgiving.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFuj9mK9RtBBE30rxaUcpQTYHqGMMY2jLJrxVUlw_ZoJl3EDGsWN20dHkyJc_QHYeLAUf-GtfbSGc0HDsfiwi3OjrcCxM__-J4yQrCS51ZEltNoH2EVdD3P8ANYRAc7FCI_VDPrOyEh2zz/s1600/eagle+scratch+art.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFuj9mK9RtBBE30rxaUcpQTYHqGMMY2jLJrxVUlw_ZoJl3EDGsWN20dHkyJc_QHYeLAUf-GtfbSGc0HDsfiwi3OjrcCxM__-J4yQrCS51ZEltNoH2EVdD3P8ANYRAc7FCI_VDPrOyEh2zz/s1600/eagle+scratch+art.jpg" height="338" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It seems fitting that one of the pieces of art I was framing was a bald eagle.<br />
(Scratch art by Bubba, spring 2014)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Katherine Welchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274001630481246089noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4432118607958077660.post-49142798556232722892014-10-27T09:11:00.002-07:002014-10-27T09:11:39.657-07:00Do You See My Child?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZdpAQHBNutuAktLrEzDLNG4LxEsLhI_UaDZHCMbxRxCCBkunXf7ZLU_p3LUlYCY7Kel0rMF7vDi4YIBX6VppIsn4HJfXRZ5jKPZhJhB2Fi37ykeNYSyER4XcRxmoNFbTS8CY8JHYKGIYc/s1600/Slide1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZdpAQHBNutuAktLrEzDLNG4LxEsLhI_UaDZHCMbxRxCCBkunXf7ZLU_p3LUlYCY7Kel0rMF7vDi4YIBX6VppIsn4HJfXRZ5jKPZhJhB2Fi37ykeNYSyER4XcRxmoNFbTS8CY8JHYKGIYc/s1600/Slide1.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To the teachers of my sons,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In about a week, we will be sitting down for our first, and
perhaps our only, parent-teacher conference of the year. I will be listening
intently to everything you tell me, but there is really only one question I
need you to answer:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Do you see my child?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everything else hinges one this one simple question.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Do you see him?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What have you learned about him beyond his grammar skills or
the grades on his math tests? Have you watched his body language when he talks?
Have you observed him interact with friends on the playground? Have you looked
at the details in his artwork? Have you read between the lines of his poetry?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do you see that my oldest is easily frustrated and quick to
anger or tears? Do you notice how his eyes light up when you say there will be
an experiment during today’s science lesson or how he talks a mile a minute
when he’s excited about a new theory he’s been noodling? Do you see how
vulnerable he makes himself when he shares his intensely personal fears and
goals?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do you see that my middle son has expectations of himself
that border on too high? Do you feel the pride in his sweet smile when you
compliment him on a job well done? Do you see how hard he works to be “good”?
Do you hear the beautiful inflection in his voice when he reads aloud?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know that what you see in school and what I see at home
won’t line up perfectly and that you can’t provide a comprehensive description
of my child. I’m not looking for that. I’m just listening for a little nugget
that tells me that you’re watching and listening and that you’ve dug just a
little deeper. You’ll probably tell me what I’m listening for without even
trying. It might be a profound insight into my child, but more likely, you’ll
just let slip a little something you don’t even know will resonate with me. But it will.
Because it’s something only someone who’s truly paying attention will notice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last year, my oldest’s teacher laughed with me about his
bizarre obsession with road kill, and my middle son’s teacher mentioned in
passing that he sits just a little taller when she notices a job well
done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew then that my children were
seen, and I relaxed because I knew everything else would fall into place.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because when you truly see my child, when you take the time
to notice his strengths and weaknesses and quirks, I instantly know two things:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know you love your job. You’re not burned out or
disillusioned or tired (as I know it is so easy to become in your profession).
At least not most days. You still have a passion for teaching. And you almost
certainly don’t see just my child. You see <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all
</i>of them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And when you see my child, our children, and when you love your
job, you will give them exactly what they need. You may do it consciously or subconsciously, but you will do it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You will teach my oldest that future engineers and
scientists must learn math. You will create space for him to share his ideas.
You will take a step back when he’s upset and let him come to you when he’s
ready. You will smile when he asks you for extra-challenging science
work. You will make sure he runs hard enough at recess that he can sit still in
social studies.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You will tousle my middle son’s hair or sneak up behind him
and playfully cover his eyes because you sense he needs a little extra love in
that moment. You will proudly display the picture he painstakingly drew just
for you. You will celebrate his attempts, even when he fails. Especially when
he fails. You will be the safe space he needs at school.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, in turn, I will talk less during the precious thirty
minutes we have because I won’t be struggling desperately to make sure you know
my child. Because I will <i>know</i> you do. And I will hear all the other things you
tell me about my children – that this one needs to practice his multiplication
tables at home or that one is confusing the letters b and d – because you’ve
already told me the most important thing you could.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>You see my child.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Warmly,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A Mother<o:p></o:p></div>
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Katherine Welchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274001630481246089noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4432118607958077660.post-76557320358222753712014-10-05T16:33:00.002-07:002014-10-05T16:55:41.185-07:00A Life in Transition<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTq5R_mI8N_Y6tx5RuPtwl1tZL00iW7OEAZGxZqWxF-nTM5vOLIceLhH3Gtwpj5GCSHQWS8P1ZNe0drn-zAWKISLsEZUedwAYCWXT-EyD5dnzdLGojsVcM1Jn-aBHJEvYWzQF3GLQ3mDSc/s1600/Slide1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTq5R_mI8N_Y6tx5RuPtwl1tZL00iW7OEAZGxZqWxF-nTM5vOLIceLhH3Gtwpj5GCSHQWS8P1ZNe0drn-zAWKISLsEZUedwAYCWXT-EyD5dnzdLGojsVcM1Jn-aBHJEvYWzQF3GLQ3mDSc/s1600/Slide1.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was in the process of deciding on a name and tag line
for my blog, one of the phrases that popped into my mind was “a life in
transition.” Ultimately, I decided against it, in large part because it seemed
a little too, well, <i>dramatic</i>, I
guess. In fact, my life would certainly appear quite stable to anyone looking
in, and in many (big, important) ways, it is stable. Still, there are days that
the shift occurring inside the confines of my home and my heart feels downright
seismic. My fortieth birthday is days away, and this milestone has shaken me in
ways I never would have predicted even just two months ago. I have three
children in school this year. Granted, Monkey is just in preschool three
mornings per week, but in two short years, all of my boys will be full-time students.
Bubba’s tenth birthday is next month, and I’ve become a reluctant witness to
the slow transition between childhood and the teen years. And his growing up is
causing a huge shift in the dynamic between the boys. But, perhaps, the area
currently undergoing the greatest change involves deciphering what my next big
calling in life will be.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For almost ten years, I had a career as a certified genetic
counselor. For all but two of those years, I coordinated NIH grants to learn
more about genetic causes of hearing loss. Although my day-to-day
responsibilities primarily involved contact with our research participants and
our lab, I, also, regularly presented for various local and national audiences
and was an author on over a dozen, peer-reviewed journal articles, in addition
to co-authoring two book chapters.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After Froggy was born, I made the difficult, though obvious
(for me) <a href="http://www.muddledjoy.com/2014/07/on-finding-career-i-loved-and-giving-it.html" target="_blank">decision to step away</a> from my career for a while. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The longer I stayed at home, the more fully I
realized I was just where I needed and wanted to be. And then one day, it
finally dawned on me that I wasn’t going back, and I made the (again, difficult
but obvious) choice to let my genetic counseling certification lapse.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was around this time that a book arrived in the mail. It
was an author’s copy of what is widely considered to be the go-to reference for
genetics and deafness. I had co-authored a chapter a couple of years before,
not long after leaving my job and when I still thought I would return to
genetic counseling. The book was slow getting published, so my copy was just arriving.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I opened the box, pulled out the tome, cracked it open, and
peered into a world that was, at once, comfortingly familiar and oddly foreign.
These authors were my people, and this was the language I spoke for so many
years. But here I was, standing in my home, listening to the boys playing
upstairs, wondering what I should cook for dinner, and I didn’t know what to do
with the book. Should I show the boys? Should I share the news with my friends?
I felt so disconnected from my work, from this writing. I remember being so excited
when my former supervisor contacted me to say that, even though it had been a
couple of years since I left work, she wanted to write this with me.
Where did this accomplishment fit, if anywhere, in my current world of
preschool and diapers and school lunches and homework and first steps and
doctor’s appointments?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Was I still the same person who co-authored this book
chapter?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since that day, I have slowly begun to see that I am not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">formerly</i> that person; I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">am</i> that
person. Still.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I may not be able to call myself a genetic counselor anymore
because I’m no longer certified and no longer doing the work of a genetic
counselor. But that doesn’t change the fact that it was I who earned a masters
degree. It was I who passed the board certification exam. It was I who routinely
threw around terms like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">GJB2</i>, heterochromia,
compound heterozygosity, and assortative mating. It was I who co-authored book
chapters, contributed to journal articles, counseled clients in American Sign
Language, and helped hundreds of people understand why they are deaf.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I’ve made the deliberate choice to no longer look on my
former career with a longing that suggests that I was more worthy then. That my
value was determined by having a paycheck, being booked for speaking
engagements, or actively publishing. That I’m wasting my degree. That I’ve
turned my back on something at which I excelled and could again. Because that’s
simply untrue. Because all of the skills and lessons I learned as a genetic
counselor are beautifully and inextricably woven into the fabric of who I am
today.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am the mother who answers her children’s questions about
nature and medicine and our bodies and our world. I am the friend people turn
to when they have questions about prenatal testing or when they get an abnormal test result. I am the mother who easily says no to morning cartoons but has a hard
time limiting access to the Discovery Channel. I am the patient who has
mastered the art of providing a thirty-second history, so the doctor and I can
immediately get to addressing my concerns. I am the author who channeled the
skills learned from a decade of scientific writing into a blog. I am the woman
whose ears perk up whenever a medical story airs on NPR. I am the person who
delighted in helping families understand why they were deaf and now delights in
serving families in myriad other ways.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am the sum of my past and my present – my jobs,
relationships, mistakes, experiences, and accomplishments. I embrace all of me,
as who I was once is who I am still.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>This week, I’ll be sharing some exciting news about what’s
coming next</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>for me and for an organization that I love.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Stay tuned!</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
Katherine Welchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274001630481246089noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4432118607958077660.post-11447066363384710352014-09-24T17:16:00.001-07:002014-09-24T17:22:33.123-07:00In which I'm Learning to Live with The Fear<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg261EJyL7ZVQ2igsZtoO3eoXvmwy8CDJqBnPjVzTHCwUIFv6cB79TLldI-xPsy-BEsws4bel0rxh-LiC2lfkYG5_qx6eI8_s-ay8GJ647_BovZo8bw6SE8da2A9HNnE_cKie1qWVMVOUcv/s1600/Slide1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg261EJyL7ZVQ2igsZtoO3eoXvmwy8CDJqBnPjVzTHCwUIFv6cB79TLldI-xPsy-BEsws4bel0rxh-LiC2lfkYG5_qx6eI8_s-ay8GJ647_BovZo8bw6SE8da2A9HNnE_cKie1qWVMVOUcv/s1600/Slide1.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My oldest boys have vasovagal episodes in response to
painful stimuli. In other words, when they get hurt, they lose consciousness.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The boys have different pain thresholds, so this has
happened only twice to Bubba but has happened about a dozen times to Froggy.
Monkey hasn’t had an episode but is only just now about the age at which this first
happened to his brothers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At age six, Froggy has lost consciousness so many times that
he can often anticipate when it’s going to happen. He tells me “the floor feels
fuzzy.” I’ve been working with him to lie down wherever he is when this feeling
comes over him, but he has yet to remember on his own, so I will either call to
him to lie down when I’m suspicious he’s hurt badly enough to pass out or, if
he’s close enough, scoop him up and lay him on my lap, feet elevated.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Froggy has lost consciousness eight times, give or take, in
my arms.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have watched his eyes roll back in his head, his body
stiffen and convulse, and foam seep from his lips. I have held him while he
holds his breath and then gasps for air, as his bladder and bowels relax and
release. I have hugged him when he wakes up confused, panicked, wild-eyed,
afraid, dazed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the outside, I suspect I appear calm. Even though I know
Froggy can’t hear me, I soothe him with reminders. “Mommy’s here. I have you.
Breathe, Froggy. Breathe. Wake up for me. Breathe. I’ve got you.” I hold him
gently, remembering not to cling too tightly. I tell bystanders who’ve never
witnessed this before, “It’s okay. He passes out when he’s in pain. He’ll be
fine.” I must be convincing because the last time this happened, the other moms
on the playground just went about their business, rarely even glancing back to
see what was happening.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the truth is, in those terrifying moments, I’m barely
holding it together.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What if all the doctors are wrong and this isn’t benign?
What if this episode is different from all the others before when he was just
fine? What if he doesn’t gasp for breath this time? What if he doesn’t regain
consciousness? What if he hurt himself too badly this time?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What if, at this very moment, I’m holding my son as he dies?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is why, no matter how many times Froggy loses
consciousness in my arms, it will never get easier. Because each and every
time, I am confronted headlong with The Fear.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Usually, when we’re going about our day-to-day business, I
can easily hold The Fear at bay. I don’t think about The Fear when I’m watching
the boys play soccer or when we’re chatting about our days over dinner or when
I’m folding laundry or when I’m mediating another disagreement. But sometimes
The Fear creeps in: <a href="http://www.muddledjoy.com/2014/07/this-happened.html" target="_blank">When the boys are sick and I can’t do anything to make them better</a>. When, in the still of the night, I kiss them goodnight and marvel at my
good fortune to be their mother and feel my heart race with the possibility
that one day I might look back on The Fear and wonder if it was really a
premonition.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I’m holding my baby and it appears to all the outside
world like his life is slipping away. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes, I think it would be easier if I didn’t love them
so completely.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I do. And because I do, the only response that makes any
sense to me is to lean in. Lean into the love. Lean into The Fear.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Bubba first lost consciousness, I had no idea that the
boys had this condition, that it was normal, that I had the same condition.
(Boy, did that realization explain a lot about my medical history.) So when my
father yelled inside to call 911 because Corbin had hit his head and wasn’t
breathing, I fell apart. I dialed 911, handed the phone to my stepmother, ran
into the other room screaming, and crumbled, weeping, onto the floor. It wasn’t
until my sister took me by the shoulders and firmly told me, “Bubba needs you.
He needs his mother. Go to him.” that I came to my senses. (Yes, it was just as
Lifetime movie-like as it sounds.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Leaning in means that I now run to my boys when they’re
hurt, even when I know they’re hurt badly enough that I will hold them
while they slip out of consciousness and panic will grip me and The Fear will
take hold. Leaning in means that when they wake up, the first thing they will
see is their mother’s face, and they will know that I am always with them when
they need me the most.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Leaning in means knowing that if The Fear becomes a reality
the last thing my boys will know in this world is their mother’s touch and remembering that I wouldn’t want it any other way. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Leaning in is remembering that I never make good parenting
choices when guided by fear. Leaning in means letting my boys decide when
they’re ready to hop back on the monkey bars. Even if it’s just five minutes
later. Leaning in means remembering that roughhousing and running and climbing
and pushing limits and experiencing freedom are good and necessary for my boys.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Leaning in is giving myself over to loving them fiercely and
completely, knowing that however long their lives are, this is the kind of
mother I want to be and this is the kind of love my boys deserve to know. Leaning in means tearing down any barriers I
have feebly erected in an attempt to protect my fragile heart. Leaning into The
Fear, sometimes, looks a lot like letting go.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Katherine Welchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274001630481246089noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4432118607958077660.post-86469594370869861272014-09-19T18:18:00.001-07:002014-09-19T20:10:57.404-07:00The Dance<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">My husband’s parents just celebrated their 50<sup>th</sup>
wedding anniversary.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Amazing. May we be so fortunate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Mister and his brother hosted a dinner at a local
restaurant, and family and friends flew in from hundreds of miles away. The
evening was a tremendous success, and the following day Mister and I extended
the celebration by hosting a brunch at our home. I panicked when he told me a
couple of weeks prior that he wanted to do this, but I knew it was a good thing.
So we set to work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Mister set the menu. I tweaked it. (Too much gluten, not
enough vegetables.) He approved. We divvied up cooking duties. He wrote his
grocery list. I added my items. He shopped. (Bless him.) We figured out what
would be cooked where and when. For two days, we alternated our prep work and
cooking. The morning of the brunch, we covered each other when one of us needed
to sneak out of the kitchen to shower and dress for the event. As soon as guests
started to arrive, the food began rolling out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I would visit with family and return to the kitchen to take
care of something, only to discover that Mister had already handled it. So I’d
do something else. He’d return to the kitchen after chatting to find what he
needed to do had been done. So he’d do something else.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He gave tours of our home. I answered the door. He brewed
more coffee. I consolidated food. He washed dishes. I put dishes away. He
gathered coffee cups. I gathered napkins.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">By the time the last guest left, the kitchen was spotless.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Besides the compliments that the food was delicious, guests
told us that we made the brunch look effortless. The truth is… it was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">My husband tells everyone that he has made a life choice to
never dance. I disagree. This brunch was nothing short of a beautifully
executed dance. There was never a sharp word spoken or an accusatory question
asked. In fact, we hardly spoke at all, not about logistics. We didn’t need to.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We smiled. We winked. We complimented
each other’s food.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve experienced this dance before. On the occasions we stay
in a hotel as a family, we have a rhythm. Mister supervises bath time, while I
lay out pajamas and the next day’s clothes. I distribute various lovies into
the correct beds. I dress the littlest. Mister brushes little teeth. (We both
give lots of hugs and kisses.) The next morning, I shower while Mister gets the
boys dressed. He showers while I finish getting ready. He gathers our things. I
pack them up. He herds the boys out the door. I do a final sweep of the rooms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Dancing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I thought our hotel dance was the result of practicing it a few
times a year. Maybe it is, in part, but I realize now, after the anniversary
brunch, that there’s more to it. Thirteen years into this marriage, we know
each other so well that we can anticipate what the other one is thinking, what
he will say, what move I’ll make next.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Don’t misunderstand. There are plenty of times when Mister
and I trip over each others’ feet, step on toes, and struggle with the give and
take of leading and following. But when we remember to listen for the same music,
the dance is fluid, flawless.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I treasure the comfort and familiarity and routine that are
the result of nearly twenty years with Mister. I feel safe and known. Still, I have
occasionally missed the thrill of the first year, of falling in love. But I’m
beginning to realize that the thrill is still there; I just have to look for it
in different places. Weeks later, I’m still smiling from our beautiful brunch
dance. It’s surprisingly, sweetly reminiscent of how I felt after Mister kissed
me for the first time. And it fills me with the tingly anticipation of a lifetime of dances with my partner.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo credit: <a href="http://blog.aliandersonphotography.com/" target="_blank">Ali Anderson Photography</a></span></div>
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Katherine Welchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274001630481246089noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4432118607958077660.post-2810208342722365742014-09-06T12:19:00.000-07:002014-09-06T12:24:57.380-07:00Lessons from a Summer of Free-Range Parenting<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Not long ago, I casually mentioned to another mom on the
playground that my boys have been to the emergency room six times, twice by
ambulance. Eyes suddenly opened wide, she slowly turned her head toward me to
gauge my expression. (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Was I serious? Was
I appropriately horrified by that absurdly high number?</i>) I understand. It
wasn’t that long ago that I probably would have reacted the same way had the
tables been turned. But ten years into this parenting journey, I’m starting to
get a better handle on what kind of parent I want to be, and who I want to be
is, in part, a mother who allows her children the kind of freedom that means
that sometimes they will get hurt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Still, this doesn’t always come easily for me. I fight my natural
tendency to be a mother who protects at all costs. I’m bombarded by the message
that the best kind of parents are those who know exactly where their children
are and what they’re doing every second of every day. I question my choices
when harm befalls children given this freedom, especially when the <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/style/she-let-her-son-play-in-the-rain-he-never-came-back/2014/08/26/ac387c1e-26f1-11e4-958c-268a320a60ce_story.html" target="_blank">stories hit far too close to home</a>. But I am determined to continue trying.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In fact, I recently realized that the two primary ways I
assess my success as the mother of young children are 1. how kind they are to
others and 2. whether or not their knees are skinned. So this picture of the
boys in Maine this summer positively makes my heart sing. Their legs are
bruised, scraped, bug bitten, and covered in sap and dirt. Just as they should
be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">One of the many reasons I am grateful for our annual
vacation in Maine is that it provides the perfect opportunity to parent the way
I long to, largely free from all the influences that constantly whisper to me
that I might be doing it all wrong. Our family spends several weeks in a cottage
in a spruce forest on the bay. We leave to hike mountains and to restock the
pantry, but much of our time is spent in camp with hours upon hours of time to
just play. Play for me involves reading and crossword puzzles and naps, but for
the boys, it means large swaths of time spent outside. My husband and I provide
a few basic ground rules (like “You can’t go down to the float without a life
jacket.”) and then let them run free. These are snapshots of what happened this
summer:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">The boys spent hours in the boathouse, filled with tools and
chemicals, and never touched anything they didn’t possess the skills to
properly handle.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></li>
</ul>
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</div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">They fell down, got up, and returned immediately to what
they were doing. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Sometimes they requested Bandaids;
often they didn’t.</span></li>
</ul>
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</div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">They came home from tromping through the woods whenever they
were hungry.</span></li>
</ul>
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</div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">They never wandered so far away that they got lost.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></li>
</ul>
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</div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">The nine year old decided <a href="http://www.muddledjoy.com/2014/07/geeks-and-crabs.html" target="_blank">he wanted to build a crab trap</a>.
After rummaging through the boathouse for supplies and crafting his trap, he
caught dozens of crabs. He couldn’t stop grinning.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Without being told to stay away from the water’s edge, the
three year old recognized the possible danger and threw rocks from further
back.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></li>
</ul>
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</div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">No one ever needed a reminder to put on a life jacket before
going down to the float.</span></li>
</ul>
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</div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">The three year old walked to another cottage in camp a
quarter mile away, looking for his cousin, and when he didn’t find her, came right
back home without our even knowing he wasn’t with his brothers. We didn’t find
out about this adventure until much later in the day.</span></li>
</ul>
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</div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">When the nine year old took a nasty spill on his bike while
coming down the steep, gravel driveway, he didn’t let it stop him from riding
again, but he did recognize that he needed to do something differently on the
next descent.</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">The boys took turns trying to flip each other out of the
hammock. They recognized on their own that they had to be gentler with the
three year old.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></li>
</ul>
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</div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">The boys spent an entire morning with their cousins,
planning and executing repairs to the decades-old tree house, including
replacing rotten boards and completely rebuilding the ladder. They doled out
jobs based on age and skill. The big kids looked out for the little kids. The
boys decided on their own that the second level of the tree house didn’t look
structurally sound enough to climb up to, so they didn’t.</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mister and I almost never intervened in disagreements that
happened outside of our cabin, and only once did anyone come to us needing help
in resolving a problem. (Our answer was “Oh my goodness, your brother is
freaking out; let him out of the outhouse!”)</span></li>
</ul>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m certain much more happened that I know nothing about. The
boys spent hours tromping through the woods but reported on only a fraction of
that time. Maybe one day they’ll tell me, when there’s enough distance that
I’ll laugh rather than cringe. Or maybe they’ll hold those memories tightly and
reminisce only with their brothers and cousins, their partners in crime. Either
is just fine with me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As a parent, I often act as though I suspect my children
don’t possess the intelligence or self-control to prevent themselves from
making every bad decision presented to them, when in reality, overwhelming
evidence suggests that, in fact, my boys are quite capable of making sound
decisions most of the time and that the few bad decisions they make are almost
always rather routinely lousy and not dangerously so. So what I need to do is
put in place a few safeguards for the really big dangers and for the temptations
that are specific to my children and then step back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">One day this summer, I stepped outside and saw my nine year
old walking by with a 2x4 about 6 feet long. Curious, I asked what he was
doing. He reluctantly answered that he was going to use it as a sled to go down
the hill behind our cottage. The 20-foot hill, riddled with new stumps, that
ends right at the foundation of our house. It didn’t take more than a shocked
look on my face for him to correctly guess that I thought that was a supremely
bad idea. But I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t seen him as he
walked by. Would a brother or cousin have warned him that was a dangerous idea?
Would he have gotten set at the top of the hill, looked down at the stumps and
at the wall that would stop his descent, and decided not to sled down? I
suspect fear almost certainly would have stopped him. But what if it didn’t?
What if he went careening down the hill? What if one of the boys had started
mixing chemicals in the boathouse? What if someone had fallen through the floor
of the tree house? What if the three year old had wandered up to the road?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My husband often tells the boys that not getting the result
you hoped for doesn’t mean the decision was wrong. (These are the deep,
difficult conversations that stem from losing a game of Yahtzee.) A boy with a
broken arm, a concussion, or (please, dear God, no) something far worse doesn’t
mean that my choice to offer my boys the freedom to play unsupervised in the
woods or walk alone to a friend’s house or cook his own breakfast was wrong. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">My job as a parent is not to prevent harm from ever coming
to my children. That <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">will</i> happen, regardless
of how tightly I hold the reins. (In fact, many of our boys’ injuries have
occurred when Mister or I were just feet away.) My job is to help shape them
into the best men they can possibly be. And I cannot achieve that goal if my
boys have no sense of who they are apart from me, if they have not been allowed
to experiment and fail, if they do not feel trusted to make good choices, or if
they have never experienced the thrill of a success crafted entirely of their
own making. If I don’t provide this space for them to spread their wings, I am <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">guaranteed</i> to thwart their potential.
That’s a certainty far scarier to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">When I have doubts that I’m on the wrong path, the smiles on
the boys' faces, the way they straighten their backs with pride, the confidence in
their voices, and the delightful way their thoughts bubble and tumble from
their mouths is all the reminder I need to continue giving them the space to
learn and explore, to fail and succeed on their own.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And when they do need me – to celebrate with them, to
commiserate, to slap on a Bandaid – they know I’ll be right here, dozing on the
couch with my book spread open, waiting for them.</span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
Katherine Welchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274001630481246089noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4432118607958077660.post-992179691178968922014-08-19T18:05:00.000-07:002014-08-19T18:10:16.857-07:00A Letter to My Boys on the Occasion of Michael Brown's Death<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">[When Mister read this, he gently and correctly pointed out
that this post doesn’t contain any insights he hasn’t read elsewhere. He’s right,
and that’s okay with me. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I </b>needed to
say this… for my boys and for me.]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBQ-3u1QJaFH_Q6lgRQ3r7MR9xTAD7hzNwcHHOuggFOCYm44zQa2YcOp6q8Rfyqr37-uyQEaF6-UsdnaYd1sOob1y7DOFyVWs4hqh63HxJM4CACOaBhginLT4KG2zpEy46Pu8PvbUya-rr/s1600/DSC_9669.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBQ-3u1QJaFH_Q6lgRQ3r7MR9xTAD7hzNwcHHOuggFOCYm44zQa2YcOp6q8Rfyqr37-uyQEaF6-UsdnaYd1sOob1y7DOFyVWs4hqh63HxJM4CACOaBhginLT4KG2zpEy46Pu8PvbUya-rr/s1600/DSC_9669.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></a></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">To my precious boys,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Michael Brown is dead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">By the time you are old enough to truly understand what I’m
writing to you today, Michael Brown’s name might be all but forgotten. It might have
become buried in the growing list of names of boys and men who have died under
similar circumstances. The events of last week may have become hazy because,
tragically, his story is not unique. But I will remember Michael Brown’s name for
us because it was his story that made me face many uncomfortable truths about
my life and about our world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">For the last week, information has swirled about Michael
Brown and the circumstances of his death. He was a black teenager, and the
police officer who shot and killed him was white. He was unarmed. He was
walking down the street with a friend. He would be attending college in the
fall. He was shot six times. He allegedly had just robbed a store. He may have rushed
the police officer. His body was left in the street for hours. It has been hard
to make any sense of so much, often conflicting, information.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Eventually, I stopped trying to process the minutia of the
story, stepped back, and took note of the broader story and who was saying
what. It was only then, amidst the noise, that I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">finally</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">truly</i> heard the
voice of people of color crying, “Look!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Please!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s happening again! Another
one of our children has died! What will it take for you to notice?!” Statistics
I already knew suddenly morphed from mere numbers into names and faces and
stories: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the startling <a href="http://www.naacp.org/pages/criminal-justice-fact-sheet" target="_blank">rate of incarceration for black men</a>, studies that point to a <a href="https://www.aclu.org/racial-justice/racial-profiling" target="_blank">racial bias in law enforcement</a>. A
pattern appeared that had gotten lost when focusing narrowly on one story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But it was one discovery that forever jolted me out of my previous,
comfortable existence: Parents must have <a href="http://content.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,2147710,00.html" target="_blank">The Talk</a> with their black sons. Mothers
and fathers and grandparents and religious leaders have to tell their black
sons how to respond with deference when they are stopped by police officers,
how to react when clerks follow them around stores, how critical word choice
and tone and demeanor are. They instruct their sons that good intentions aren’t
enough, that simply not doing anything wrong is insufficient. Learning these
lessons isn’t simply a matter of proper manners or upstanding morals; it is a
matter of life and death.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I had been struggling to figure out what my response to
Michael Brown’s death should be, and with this revelation, all at once it
struck me: As long as mothers of black sons are having The Talk with their
sons, I will have a similar Talk with you. Because good intentions and the simple
absence of any wrongdoing are insufficient for you, as well. If you are doing
nothing to fix the problem of racism, then you are complicit… as I have been. We
will do better, together.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t know exactly what doing something will look like for
you or for me, but now that I have my head out of the sand, the first step is
clear to me: Listen. Our brothers and sisters of color have stories they need
us to hear. Ask them to tell you, and listen to their answers. I will start
this important work and will do my best to share with you what I learn, until
you are ready to join me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">At the same time, I will teach you about the privilege of being
a white male in this world. I don’t want to make you feel ashamed of who you
are – after all, you had no more control over your gender or the color of your
skin than Michael Brown had – but I will try to teach you to use your privilege
responsibly. We must stand with our brothers and sisters who have been
oppressed. We must not let our fear of saying or doing the wrong thing prevent
us from doing something.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And I promise to you that I will continue to work toward
figuring out the next right step… because I want you and all our children to
live in a just world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Last year, as I was considering what might come next for me
career-wise, I had a vision so
clear it could have been mistaken for a memory. I was standing on a
residential, urban street, in the doorway of a modest, brick building. I was
there to serve the community. A black man about my age approached me, eyeing me
suspiciously, and asked, “Why are you here?” I replied simply, “To listen.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The vision ended there. I don’t know what comes next. But I
now know the journey begins today.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Love,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
Mommy</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Katherine Welchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274001630481246089noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4432118607958077660.post-53208708155898293142014-08-13T19:02:00.000-07:002014-08-13T19:02:32.978-07:00Seeing Grace<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg443NXLkXXTCJlq4BU0Tp2jtOs53lQZruqwvlWZ8XgezwwRalN39XcEDLWKDheLXVViD1NxUnIzCUSTRtfBJekSlJ2Jemi6Ux6BB4bA8tyNJNPUqldYpWsy7UNYoZL4ZgEnbdd8hBFIFh3/s1600/DSC_3343.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg443NXLkXXTCJlq4BU0Tp2jtOs53lQZruqwvlWZ8XgezwwRalN39XcEDLWKDheLXVViD1NxUnIzCUSTRtfBJekSlJ2Jemi6Ux6BB4bA8tyNJNPUqldYpWsy7UNYoZL4ZgEnbdd8hBFIFh3/s1600/DSC_3343.jpg" height="320" width="214" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The day our family arrived in Maine for vacation was excruciatingly
long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We drove the last leg of our
three-day trip, stopped at Mister’s family home just long enough to unload the
(very full) trunk of Madge-the-hard-working-minivan, then headed to town for a
grocery-shopping marathon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we
returned three hours later, Mister tackled the kitchen, and I began unpacking a
month’s worth of our Stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At four
o’clock, we both collapsed in deck chairs and declared our jobs Done Enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then we looked at each other and agreed that
we were both entirely too spent to cook dinner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So thirty minutes later, we called the boys in from their adventures in
the woods, climbed in Madge, and headed into town to grab a pizza. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Had Mister and I been thinking at all, after ordering the
pizza, we would have crossed the street to the playground and let the boys run,
but we were in
let’s-get-everything-done-today-so-vacation-can-really-begin-tomorrow mode and decided
to split up for quick runs to (yet another) grocery store, the hardware store,
and the kids’ clothing store (because Bubba had grown out of all of his pajamas
overnight).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mister and I weren’t the
only tired ones; the boys were exhausted from three days of being cooped up in
a car, crappy food, and inadequate sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Monkey was in particularly bad shape because he hadn’t gotten a proper
nap in days, and he protested our plan loudly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But Mister and I were determined.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I took all three boys into the kids’ store and had just
started looking at the pajamas when Monkey decided I needed to fully understand
how breathtakingly, irredeemably horrible this plan was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He bit me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now, Monkey is a biter, and we’ve all been victims.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But this time, he took my thumb in his mouth
and wouldn’t let go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I actually had to
pry his mouth off of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I finally got
my thumb out, I had a blood blister.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Okay, Love, message received.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We walked back down the street toward the market with a
completely inconsolable, irrational Monkey in tow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was exhausted and hungry (and three), and
there was little I could do but grin and bear it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he spotted Daddy in the market, he
wanted to go in, and he had calmed down enough (fussy but not loudly so) that I
thought it was okay and might actually help to calm him further.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Mister</span> was at one of two cash registers at the
counter, and as we approached him, the other cash register freed up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked the boys to gather closer so the next
lady in line could get around us more easily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As she passed, she grumbled,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“You should really take him outside.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve been a mother for almost ten years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve been the recipient of eye rolls, stares,
raised eyebrows, and unwanted advice, but I have never, NEVER, had anyone talk
to me like that about my children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
bristled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, right or wrong, I turned
to her and, in the most measured voice I could muster, said, “He has as much
right to be here as you, ma’am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You were
three once, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You were three once,
too.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She never looked at me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she stepped out of the store, I soon
followed because, by that point, Monkey was getting loud again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw the lady retrieve her dog from another woman
waiting on a nearby bench and continue walking down the sidewalk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I was barely holding it together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Monkey was wailing again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was hungry and tired, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, now, I was fuming from being the target
of somebody’s judgment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I kept walking back toward the pizza place, and as I passed
the lady who had been tending the dog, she smiled and asked hopefully, “Did it
help?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked at her, obviously
confused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Did it help to take him
outside?” she clarified as she looked down at Monkey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“My friend said she suggested you take him
outside because that would help.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Um, I wouldn’t call what she said a ‘suggestion,'” I
carefully started.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“She wasn’t
particularly kind when she spoke to me.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Oh,” she said with a look that indicated that she was both
startled but not terribly surprised.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Where are you from?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Northern Virginia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Near Washington, D.C.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I’m from New Jersey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They’re [the locals*] still not nice to me either.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She paused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“I hope you have a good day.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I lightened just a touch, though Monkey still screamed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I reached the pizza place as a family was exiting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They looked at Monkey and me and smiled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Another family passed and did the same.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">People murmured kind comments about their children and
grandchildren and having been there, and I lightened even more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A man approached and asked if the boys (Bubba and Froggy had
since joined us) would like to pet his dogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He turned to me and gently said, “Sometimes they just need a little
distraction.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I teared up as I felt a weight continue to lift.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Mister approached and asked what happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He told me the cashiers in the market had
said that they’d “defend” me if the grumbly woman had continued to make
comments.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The weight all but disappeared.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As I reflected on the events of that afternoon, it struck me
that I could react in one of two ways:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
could view the kindness and grace extended to Monkey and me as
exceptional.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a world filled with violence
and distrust and selfishness and anger, here was a glimmer of hope for humanity,
a step toward restoring my faith in people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>OR I could view the harsh comment as exceptional.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could choose to believe that we are all –
yes, even the grumbly market lady – struggling to do our best, sometimes more
gracefully than others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could choose
the attitude that my faith in humanity doesn’t need to be restored because it
was never lost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I usually remember to choose the latter path, to keep my
eyes open for those extending kindness and grace in both small and grand ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is, of course, easier to do when a dozen
strangers remind you of the goodness of people right after one gives you a
glimpse into the struggle that resides in us all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s harder to do when a hurt is followed by
a slight, which is followed by an injustice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But the truth of my life is that the moments when people have been kind
and gracious and forgiving FAR outnumber the times when I’ve been hurt by them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not even close.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I’d venture to guess that I’m not
alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suspect that what causes us to
remember the instances when people hurt us is not how common they are but,
quite the opposite, how relatively rare they are.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Friends have told me that the reason I am the recipient of
these moments of grace is karma, because I try to extend the same grace to
others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rather, I suspect it’s because I try (with varying degrees of success) to
keep myself open to seeing kindness, even during my lowest moments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I believe those grace-filled moments are there for all who are willing to receive them. </span>I could have kept my eyes on the sidewalk,
retreated to Madge in tears, chosen to interpret people’s smiles as pity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, this time, I remembered to take a
deep breath, stay in the moment, and meet the gazes of others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in doing so, I found in their eyes…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Compassion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Understanding.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Empathy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Sincerity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Warmth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Camaraderie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Love.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Abundant grace.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9sAfNlhbVzw7fpSsHI4Gv3bMlOGOK5XvtoHFJsMGf1diMzn7izCI_PcL7SHwdF_l5M1sYGsThiZSg0pnsj4gWZIaJnJChhJyr5BcEC5S94cJzBUfR1UnaWfDdPI-HV-oyEia5cqupTucr/s1600/DSC_3340.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9sAfNlhbVzw7fpSsHI4Gv3bMlOGOK5XvtoHFJsMGf1diMzn7izCI_PcL7SHwdF_l5M1sYGsThiZSg0pnsj4gWZIaJnJChhJyr5BcEC5S94cJzBUfR1UnaWfDdPI-HV-oyEia5cqupTucr/s1600/DSC_3340.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">*It is not my intent to disparage the islanders or Mainers in general. I have long suspected that many struggle with the annual influx of tourists and summer residents, but most have been exceedingly welcoming to us. I, also, don't pretend to assume the motivation of the lady in the market.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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Katherine Welchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274001630481246089noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4432118607958077660.post-51697162976371878832014-07-24T17:33:00.000-07:002014-07-24T17:33:34.586-07:00Geeks and Crabs<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Bubba, at age 9, is an unabashed geek.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s one of the things I love most about
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His current obsessions are Legos
and anything and everything science-related, and as an extension (of design,
construction, and physics), he loves engineering, though he doesn’t yet know to
label it as such.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There are two ways Mister and I know when Bubba is in full-on geek out mode: He talks non-stop about a subject, and he starts
bouncing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has been known to get so
excited about his latest modifications to a Lego creation that he will, quite
literally, follow me around the house explaining each change in great detail,
barely stopping to take a breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When
Bubba decided to see what bacteria he could culture from swabs taken around our
house, he couldn’t stand still as Papa and I explained proper plating
techniques.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m a science geek myself, so when Bubba wanted to start a
“museum” of fossils and rocks and feathers and such in his closet, I didn’t hesitate
to say “yes.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we were at the Field
Museum recently and Bubba asked questions about the cell division exhibits, I
had his full attention as I talked for ten minutes about mitosis vs. meiosis
and sexual vs. asexual reproduction… until Mister pulled me away so we could be
sure to see the Hall of Dinosaurs while we still had time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But truth be told, as much as I adore Bubba’s geekiness,
sometimes I find it a bit, well, tiresome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the boys’ request, I’ve sat down with them a few times to play Legos and have have been bored out of my mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They created
landscapes and museums and ships.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I
made a box.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not a very good one either. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My eyes might even occasionally glaze over when they show me <i>yet another</i> Lego creation that I cannot distinguish from
the preceding dozen but that they insist is ENTIRELY DIFFERENT.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when Bubba thrusts design after design
for a rocket or a crossbow under my nose, I try to express interest, but I know
so little about physics that I can’t begin to have a meaningful conversation
about which design elements will work and which won’t and what chemical reaction
would be safe enough but strong enough to provide the needed thrust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So when Bubba announced at dinner the other night that he
was going to use the remains of our lobster dinner to go crabbing the next day,
Mister’s and my response was something along the lines of “Mmm hmm, sure,
that’s fine.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not even sure what he
said really registered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the next
day, he headed over to the boathouse to see what he could scrounge up for a
crab trap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He came back with a small,
flat net to which he had hooked some ropes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He excitedly explained that he was going to fill the net with “lobster
guts,” lower it to the floor of the cove off the float, wait for the crabs to
crawl in, and then raise the net.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s
simple, but I hope it’s effective,” he wished aloud over his creation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Froggy was all in; he was as sure this would work as Bubba
was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mustered a smile and a “Well,
we’ll see what happens!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mister walked
to the float with all the boys to get them off to a safe start but quickly came
back and said, “We’ll see how long this lasts.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Monkey announced that he “hated” crabbing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Approximately two minutes later, there was a commotion, as
the boys ran around, gathering additional supplies from the house and
boathouse…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>They had caught two crabs.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hurried down to the float with Mister close behind me, and
we watched as the boys caught crab after crab.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Froggy lowered the net to the floor of the cove.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tide was too high for him to hold the
ropes AND spread the net on the floor, but they had discovered it didn’t
matter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The crabs would crawl to the
net, reach in for the lobsters, and get stuck for just long enough that the
boys could hoist them out of the water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As Froggy carefully raised the net, Bubba would slip an old, plastic
flowerpot under the net to catch the crabs, then dump them in a pot filled with
sea water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Simple but effective, indeed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“And to think, I designed this all by
myself!” he beamed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTVJ6nnw5LqUtNsgawTft7wMld3F1rf-PzB_Si9seZDQYuCc32fXxr4pe9kRtfgXwO-m2IUIfcnlAnbVVCubJ4_ednzdwofMZ02nYyankb8RbHTBJ6g1DetAvu_LPsZPFDixiYsnUir5-b/s1600/DSC_2738.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTVJ6nnw5LqUtNsgawTft7wMld3F1rf-PzB_Si9seZDQYuCc32fXxr4pe9kRtfgXwO-m2IUIfcnlAnbVVCubJ4_ednzdwofMZ02nYyankb8RbHTBJ6g1DetAvu_LPsZPFDixiYsnUir5-b/s1600/DSC_2738.jpg" height="320" width="214" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As Mister and I watched, we both confessed our previous
doubts to Bubba and apologized.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our
penance was clear: We added steamed crabs to the evening menu.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I watched Bubba proudly pick the tiniest bits of meat out
of the crabs, I thought about how easy it is to encourage our children in their
interests when they align with our own and how difficult it can be when their
interests differ. Maybe it’s because we
honestly don’t know how to begin to support the interest. Maybe it’s because, never having experienced such
depth of interest (in the same subject or another, at this age or another), we
doubt its sincerity or question its longevity.
Maybe we think the interest is frivolous and unimportant.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m relieved that Bubba’s confidence overrode my
lukewarm response.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m glad that, for my
many parenting faults, one thing I think I usually get right is providing lots
of space and raw materials for unstructured play and exploration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But most of all, I’m grateful for Bubba’s
powerful reminder to me that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">his
interests are something to be celebrated, not just tolerated</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I can’t pretend that I’ll no longer find conversations about
Legos to be anything other than mind numbing, but maybe next time, that won’t
stop me from pausing to really look at Bubba’s latest creation and the
excitement on his face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Bubba
chases me out the door on my way to Target to ask me to buy Mentos and Diet
Coke for his latest rocket design, I hope I remember to rejoice in his love of
engineering, rather than sigh at my growing shopping list. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because even if I don’t share all of his
interests, one thing I can get behind wholeheartedly is his excitement and
curiosity -- the look of wonder on his face when he learns something new, his
pride in seeing a project from idea through planning and execution to
completion, how quickly he talks when theories he’s been noodling tumble out of
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, that is part of what
makes Bubba uniquely, beautifully himself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Which reminds me... Does anyone know where I might stock up on supplies for
building crossbows?</span></div>
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Katherine Welchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274001630481246089noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4432118607958077660.post-14192666243192518182014-07-15T15:55:00.001-07:002014-07-15T18:12:11.220-07:00"Mommy, I want my tummy to be flatter."<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because I have boys, I was caught off guard when Froggy
announced one morning that he wished his stomach were flatter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not that I thought boys were immune to
body image issues; it’s just that it was really low on my <i>List of Things to Worry about</i> – way behind broken bones, accidental fires, and experiments with
household chemicals, all of which we have miraculously avoided so far.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nonetheless, I’ve heard enough about body
image issues in girls to know that I had about 2.5 seconds to pick my jaw up
off the floor, gather my thoughts, and get to the bottom of this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>“I love your body, Froggy. What made you think there’s
something wrong with it?” </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was surprisingly straightforward to determine the root of
the issue: early morning commercials.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Our boys don’t watch much TV.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What they do watch is largely limited to the early morning when I’m
dozing for a few more minutes, showering, and preparing breakfast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because we reserve cartoons for weekend
mornings, the boys watch The Science Channel, The Discovery Channel, Nat Geo
Wild, etc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As it turns out, there are A LOT of commercials for ab workout machines that target men.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(sigh.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was frustrated that what I thought was good
parenting (limiting junky TV) had backfired, but I was relieved that the flat
stomach message wasn’t inadvertently coming from within our family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The harder question to answer was what in the world to do
next.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I quickly told Froggy again how much I
loved his beautiful, strong body that was designed to do exactly what it needed
to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I repeated this message over the
coming weeks, as it seemed appropriate, and from time to time (often as I was
tucking him in for the night), I would pick a body part and tell him how much I
loved it and why.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(<i>“I loved seeing your
strong legs kick the soccer ball today.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Isn’t it amazing how your body fought all of those germs without any
medicine?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I love your broad shoulders
because they remind me of Daddy.”</i>)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
grinned at every affirmation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I, also, grabbed my camera.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m always looking for an excuse to photograph my boys, and this seemed
like an excellent one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first time I
asked Froggy to take off his shirt, he refused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The second time, he agreed but made me promise not to show anyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The third time, he balked only because I told
him I wanted to shoot in the front yard, but he quickly warmed up, even flexing
his muscles for me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2iGQC1e6Hb2IuMaM0p_8Qd6VWYn69mi-ceSUohN0l-COFC4lgQQJ0w9MJ7v1mVAnXoXhcyaOB5JiYI6SYYFEh-u2hJDC4lQhOYPz2SaFnjdqw0GJfbuhfDTXScmeCyxi7xkg8R-RxSw57/s1600/DSC_9269+-+Version+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2iGQC1e6Hb2IuMaM0p_8Qd6VWYn69mi-ceSUohN0l-COFC4lgQQJ0w9MJ7v1mVAnXoXhcyaOB5JiYI6SYYFEh-u2hJDC4lQhOYPz2SaFnjdqw0GJfbuhfDTXScmeCyxi7xkg8R-RxSw57/s1600/DSC_9269+-+Version+2.jpg" height="320" width="214" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKHbxmQFUtrsUzDZbzXhFQMfFKzu2IZsqghcrIh7Dg1qHnKg-lFt3CCBqBCYQgUM0kjcA-MZVtg3M1TjfcjEOi2YkUH2CIJ0_AHM-ZNgdHiNK1Md2kahaksWI4p1rd_zHVEPPCkfzazDty/s1600/DSC_9256.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKHbxmQFUtrsUzDZbzXhFQMfFKzu2IZsqghcrIh7Dg1qHnKg-lFt3CCBqBCYQgUM0kjcA-MZVtg3M1TjfcjEOi2YkUH2CIJ0_AHM-ZNgdHiNK1Md2kahaksWI4p1rd_zHVEPPCkfzazDty/s1600/DSC_9256.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFqC6heGA5pQxY3IWW1Ouje41Hmw-R2LRnWcs9Xh2aSgNbCy3YcDSh7Up5xE5tZ8W7sbwgjz6M9M2wgisiHqSWP4f_psTCRkYEYaKZE_9K79cpSPXSBvS-HSMbucBgQs3VVVV0ZkQhELwA/s1600/DSC_9269+-+Version+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFqC6heGA5pQxY3IWW1Ouje41Hmw-R2LRnWcs9Xh2aSgNbCy3YcDSh7Up5xE5tZ8W7sbwgjz6M9M2wgisiHqSWP4f_psTCRkYEYaKZE_9K79cpSPXSBvS-HSMbucBgQs3VVVV0ZkQhELwA/s1600/DSC_9269+-+Version+3.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmyh6XzM4vSs_TOzLR5FkTvjTKZrjctXCL4iAWnTv08d6x5NGHQvH_jX9z2i7jBpBGPaASqUwYNNSOyN6oX4a0CufjHi_4tewg1VIk5clfqVdi14U0U_0FMwy2lcAeZpoAeiZ5Z_rNee7X/s1600/DSC_1931.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmyh6XzM4vSs_TOzLR5FkTvjTKZrjctXCL4iAWnTv08d6x5NGHQvH_jX9z2i7jBpBGPaASqUwYNNSOyN6oX4a0CufjHi_4tewg1VIk5clfqVdi14U0U_0FMwy2lcAeZpoAeiZ5Z_rNee7X/s1600/DSC_1931.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This week, I showed him the pictures again and told him it
was time to do a little project with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Before I could finish my thought, he excitedly announced that he wanted
to write a poem and ran off to find pencil and paper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is what he wrote:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg18XV0O-SntUWNCDmIMcqbrC412DE9vEZ1TWJTit2z1CJCAyvo22cmbYKKFmZa2wW2vsru0aqRuptoXF5fGwj-oQLgyN1Fb_wvvqg8mjUrNwoPiYhK9I5q-paUV1FYcesroW3omRCuMJdj/s1600/Harrison's+body+posm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg18XV0O-SntUWNCDmIMcqbrC412DE9vEZ1TWJTit2z1CJCAyvo22cmbYKKFmZa2wW2vsru0aqRuptoXF5fGwj-oQLgyN1Fb_wvvqg8mjUrNwoPiYhK9I5q-paUV1FYcesroW3omRCuMJdj/s1600/Harrison's+body+posm.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">[*Although I have never used the word “skinny” to describe
Froggy’s body, I, also, have never presented the word as negative, just as a
neutral descriptor.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">I think he used it
to contrast his current ideas about his body with the notion that he previously
thought his stomach wasn’t flat enough.]</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I think this poem positively <i>oozes</i> confidence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I feel the teeniest bit of accomplishment
that maybe he is acknowledging my role in that confidence. (I, also, LOVE that the poem
doesn’t rhyme!)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Once Froggy had completed his poem, we sat down to
brainstorm more about his body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wrote
this letter to him:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: center;">Dear Froggy,</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: center;"> </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I look at your body, I see:</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Big, grey eyes, framed by enviably long lashes, that make me
melt whenever you look at me.</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A smile that lights up your face and makes it impossible for
others not to smile in your joyful presence.</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Cheeks that still hold memories of fullness from years of
thumb sucking.</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Strong, broad shoulders that remind me of Daddy’s and that
might carry my grandchildren home from the playground one day.</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Arms and hands full of love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Arms that give me “sweetest hugs,” tenderly bathe little Monkey, and
lovingly massage my tired shoulders at the end of the day.</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Strong legs that are non-stop bundles of energy, that run,
jump, kick, peddle, skip, and gallop until you fall into your bed, exhausted,
each night.</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I love every inch of you.</span><o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Love,</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mommy</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I read it to him while he giggled. Then I asked him to tell me his favorite body part and to
list other body parts he loves and why.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He dictated this note:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My favorite part of my body is my chest because it’s strong
and it can puff out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love my stomach
because I like it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love my legs
because they walk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love my toes
because they wiggle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love my head
because it thinks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love my eyes because
they help me see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love my ears because
they help me hear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I love my mouth
because my mouth helps me eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love my
tongue because it helps me taste.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love
my back because it helps me move.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love
my hands because they help me build stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I love my bottom because it helps me poo to get all the food out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love my knees because they help me move my
legs to walk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love my feet because
they help me walk, too, because they move when I’m walking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love my bones because they’re my body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love my teeth because they help me chew.</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When he was done, he asked me to print out his dictation and add a picture so he could put it on his magnet board and remember why he
loves his body.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After I had compiled all of our work, I asked him if I could
share our conversations and pictures and notes here with you all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He hardly hesitated before agreeing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know body image issues might rear their
ugly head again, but for now, this feels like progress.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Katherine Welchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274001630481246089noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4432118607958077660.post-65786485180583890732014-07-11T06:31:00.000-07:002014-07-11T06:31:49.090-07:00What's in a Name?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUy51c5yB4yPV14z3MgYsQFLhXXHSY0XJEo5XJFH-AbFwQqufpip0njsljSI0BvmBKjio_nR5IqyeZSCYzzow7aJfi27BgbIi3gG85TR0-aRVGgu5M488Qn_jeK4Ue76uZ-FwUs8ShuzbG/s1600/giggly+Cubs+boys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUy51c5yB4yPV14z3MgYsQFLhXXHSY0XJEo5XJFH-AbFwQqufpip0njsljSI0BvmBKjio_nR5IqyeZSCYzzow7aJfi27BgbIi3gG85TR0-aRVGgu5M488Qn_jeK4Ue76uZ-FwUs8ShuzbG/s1600/giggly+Cubs+boys.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I decided I was really going to do this thing, I was
really going to start writing a blog, I knew I needed a name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It needed to reflect who I am and what people
might find in this space.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I made a list. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">[Actually, that’s how I tackle lots of things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I make lists, I research, I cry, I talk my
husband’s ear off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(He prefers my list
making.)]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And when I had a list of a couple dozen words I liked, I
realized I kept coming back to just a few of them, including “muddle” and “joy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I used to think of joy as an emotion akin to happiness,
maybe just a bit more so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I was
intrigued to read about how C. S. Lewis defines “joy,” sometimes referring to
it as a longing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In Surprised by Joy, he
says, “<span style="background: white; border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #373737; padding: 0in;">[I]t is that of an unsatisfied desire which is itself more
desirable than any other satisfaction. I call it Joy, which is a technical term
and must be sharply distinguished both from Happiness and Pleasure. Joy (in my
sense) has indeed one characteristic, and one only, in common with them; the
fact that anyone who has experienced it will want it again. Apart from that,
and considered only in its quality, it might almost equally well be called a
particular kind of unhappiness or grief. But then it is a kind we want. I doubt
whether anyone who has tasted it would ever, if both were in his power,
exchange it for all the pleasure in the world. But then Joy is never in our
power and pleasure often is.”</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #373737; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I remember the first time I recognized this
feeling of joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was sitting in the
window seat of my previous home, looking into the front yard, onto our
beautiful dogwood in full bloom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
precious longing swelled inside of me, bringing both a tiny smile to my lips
and tears to my eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s what I feel when I’m on vacation,
reading a good book, with the ocean breeze on my face, as I hear the boys
giggle in the distance while tromping through the woods.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel it each winter when the enormous,
neighborhood sycamore tree drops its leaves, and I can see the white branches
twist toward the impossibly blue sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
overcomes me when I catch my boys snuggled up with my husband.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is my favorite emotion, the one that makes me feel the most connected
to God and the Universe, even more so than Love.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #373737; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But being an perfectly imperfect human means that
I mess up Joy often, and so my life is often better described by the word “muddle.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s what I do when I need to get to the
grocery store so I can bring the kindergarten snack tomorrow, but my oldest
just vomited and my husband is traveling for work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s how I managed an oldest who wanted to
play a game, a middle son who wanted to be read a book, and a baby who needed
to be nursed… at the same time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
what I did when I found out weeks before moving out of state so my husband
could begin graduate school that the job I accepted months before no longer
existed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One step at a time, one minute
at a time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There may be tears and sharp
words – they may not be my most elegant moments -- but somehow I always muddle
through.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background: white; border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #373737; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I try to remember as best I can, amidst the
muddling, to keep my eyes open for those fleeting moments of Joy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<span style="background: white; border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #373737; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is my muddled, joyful life.</span></span><!--EndFragment-->Katherine Welchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274001630481246089noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4432118607958077660.post-79856239916259720142014-07-09T13:34:00.000-07:002014-07-09T13:35:53.922-07:00This Happened<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsjlD52qImTrzhOot6SaAtCYQDfVFoebzlmwy3yI_Tpc96i8RihNa76wa5IFbIgXNfDxjROZS9ylBM9pcC-CiF7CDbw5BnXAZj5QsOwhBMD7O7Rv4sDAnBVCWOHwWnG2w7WPgmUbNA9oiX/s1600/tulip+for+blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsjlD52qImTrzhOot6SaAtCYQDfVFoebzlmwy3yI_Tpc96i8RihNa76wa5IFbIgXNfDxjROZS9ylBM9pcC-CiF7CDbw5BnXAZj5QsOwhBMD7O7Rv4sDAnBVCWOHwWnG2w7WPgmUbNA9oiX/s1600/tulip+for+blog.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For the entire month of June, our family battled a brutal GI
bug. The symptoms themselves were fairly
routinely awful; it was, rather, the course of the illness that was so
bad. The bug had a weeklong incubation
period and an approximately two-week course, so by the time my two-week course
wrapped up, it was fully four weeks after Monkey had initially gotten
sick. For most of us, the illness was
biphasic; we were sick for a couple of days in the beginning, then had an extended
period of no or minimal symptoms, followed by a brief (but intense) resurgence
about two weeks after the initial onset.
But Froggy was intermittently sick throughout his two and a half week
course. Given the unusual course of the
illness, we couldn’t string together more than two or three nights in a row
when someone wasn’t actively ill.
Brutal.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was exhausted, both physically and mentally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A week and a half into the illness, I stopped
sleeping well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I startled at every bump
in the night, sure one of the boys was sick again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I over-analyzed every twinge in my body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I worried when one of the boys wasn’t
hungry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I peppered the boys with
questions about their trips to the bathroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I fretted over how many people we must have inadvertently exposed to the
bug because we kept thinking over and over again that, surely, we must be at the
end. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The big boys missed the last two
days of school (plus many others) and year-end pool and class parties.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trips to visit grandparents were
postponed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A family weekend away was
cancelled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We finally just stopped
making plans to do anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I consoled
disappointed children at each turn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
cried every day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even now, a week and a
half since the GI bug apparently released its grip on us, I’m relearning how to
relax at night, and sweet Froggy still cannot sleep without the “puke bucket”
next to his pillow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On what turned out to be the final day Froggy was sick, he
had such debilitating abdominal pain that I took him to the pediatric Emergency
Room one night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was our fourth trip
to the doctor for this illness, the first to the ER (which is especially
notable because I am not a mother who takes her children to the doctor for
every fever or cough).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was desperate
for someone to explain what was happening to us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was struggling with feelings of
helplessness that I couldn’t make my children better, that I was failing them
as a mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Froggy was in agony and
scared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I was on the verge of tears,
yet again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Five minutes after being brought to our bay in the ER,
Froggy vomited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was an attending
just outside our bay, and I called out for help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She came right in, quickly explained that a
4-year-old drowning victim who was receiving CPR was in route by ambulance and arriving
momentarily, so she only had a minute to help us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, no, no, no,
no, no.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please, no.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The history I had given to the doctors before, that I had
rehearsed on the way to the ER, stuck in my throat, as the tears welled in my
eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I caught my breath for just long
enough to provide some semblance of a history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The doctor ordered a Zofran and hurried out, closing the curtain behind
her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I never heard the paramedics come in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no audible flurry of activity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No doors banged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one yelled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only reason I knew the boy had arrived
was because I heard his mother tearfully telling the staff that her son was
healthy and that she was praying, praying that the doctors could get him back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Part of me longed to go to her, to hug her, mother
to mother.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was eerily quiet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Until fifteen minutes later, when I heard the wail.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hope someone was there to catch her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I fell on top of Froggy, who wondered aloud about the wail
but didn’t ask for an explanation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I held
him and silently cried, willing my body not to shake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Under the curtain to our bay, I saw the shoes
of the attending who had ordered Froggy’s Zofran.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I heard her trying to stifle her sobs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our nurse returned and communicated with her eyes what I
already knew: The boy was gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Emergency Room remained quiet for the rest of our time
there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I stepped out of the bay
while Froggy got an abdominal X-ray, I was surprised to see several police
officers standing in the halls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later,
when we returned from ultrasound, no one closed our curtain, and I watched as
an orderly and nurse solemnly wheeled the boy’s body out of the ER.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Part of the way I process tragic or frightening or
unsettling events in my life is to be intentional in looking for something that
I have learned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Certainly, I was
reminded that I, as a mother, cannot perfectly protect my children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was overcome with the fragility of life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But these ideas are neither new nor
particularly insightful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, I
found myself wanting – needing – to tell and retell the events of that night,
not because it provided a new perspective but because I couldn’t carry the
burden alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I needed to tell people
that this happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I needed
connection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I needed to continue to bear
witness to the last moments of this precious child’s life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On Saturday, June 28, 2014 at approximately 9:00 p.m., a
four-year-old boy was found by another child in a friend’s pool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While I was in the Emergency Room with my
sick son, this little boy arrived with his mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The paramedics and the doctors could not
revive him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was pronounced dead feet
from me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I heard the mother’s agonizing reaction
to the news that her son was gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
heard the doctor’s stifled sobs for a life she could not save.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I watched as the boy’s body left the ER.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I bore witness to some of the last moments of
a child’s life, and I am forever changed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This happened.
And I simply need you to know.</span></span><!--EndFragment-->Katherine Welchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274001630481246089noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4432118607958077660.post-49364008799994655662014-07-08T17:10:00.000-07:002014-07-08T17:56:50.384-07:00Why A(nother) Blog?<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because I am a writer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is hard to put into words just how scary that is to see
written out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can feel the anxiety
creep in, even now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have been avoiding
the label “writer” for a long time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had
fallen into the trap of believing that one has to make a living writing or
possess the ability to write exceptionally well in order call oneself a
“writer.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">But I have come to believe that being a writer has less to do with
precise grammar and exquisite turns of phrase than with processing the world
through the written word</b>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I
don’t hold myself to similar standards when using other labels, like mother,
wife, friend, singer, Christian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not
sure I do any of these things particularly well (and I certainly don’t make a
living doing any of them), yet I use these labels freely.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am a writer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">learned </i>to write
when I was in in grade school – when I diagrammed sentences in sixth grade,
when I learned how to support my arguments in high school literature classes,
when my mother guided me in how to write a proper thank you note.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">became</i>
a writer in college – when I would curl up in my loft and write letters and
essays and poetry to help me work through a tumultuous sophomore year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">developed</i>
as a writer in my genetic counseling career – when I authored journal articles
and book chapters, when my writing became more clear and precise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">realized</i>
I was a writer when I left my job – when I no longer had the outlet of
scientific writing, when I found myself getting lost in the swirl of ideas in
my mind, when I longed for the time to sit and write and for the clarity that
would bring, when I felt the catharsis of occasionally posting my thoughts on
Facebook, when my friends would respond to my writing, “Me, too.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am a writer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Last year, I made the decision to let my genetic counseling
certification lapse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I made <a href="http://www.muddledjoy.com/2014/07/on-finding-career-i-loved-and-giving-it.html" target="_blank">thisannouncement</a> on my Facebook page, I said I didn’t know what would come next and
was grateful for the flexibility of time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I wondered aloud about learning to use my camera and picking up my
guitar again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I said service would take
a big role in my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(It will.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">But
what I didn’t say was the one thing I most longed to, the scariest thing I
could imagine saying out loud: I want to write.</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But that nagging feeling that I was ignoring a calling grew
too intense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It started to drown out the
doubts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And everything I read seemed to
be about tackling the one thing you’re afraid to, that you fear you’re ill
equipped to take on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am a writer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m not beginning this blogging adventure because I have
aspirations of being read by thousands or making a living through blogging or
getting a book deal. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My thoughts may
never reach more than a few dozen, and that’s okay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(If anything, I’m more afraid of the
tremendous responsibility that would come with more people paying attention to
what I’m saying.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m writing because
I’m a writer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I process the world best
through the written word, and part of this process is sharing my words, seeking
connections with people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m finally
ready to say that out loud and do something about it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am a writer.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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Katherine Welchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06274001630481246089noreply@blogger.com2