The girl in the polka dot dress

Last night, my girl wearing a now tattered and torn polka dot dress, twirled in it for the last time.

A hand me down dance costume among many, for some reason this one became the most loved. Beginning at the age of three, it was worn hundreds of times and for many an occasion. Sometimes she could get her more tomboyish sister to join in the dress-up fun, but the polka dot dress was the one she almost always chose.

Maybe it was the twirlability of this garment that drew her again and again to put it on. Or maybe it was something else - the feel of the material, the sparkly red trim, or the polka dots. Which of us can fathom the magic that is present when a childhood object becomes our very own velveteen rabbit?

Her petite frame squeezed one last time into this polka dotted space. Today, I fold up this dress and place it back in her memory box. Maybe someday another little girl will embrace this now frayed and worn childhood costume.

As my girl declared that this was her very last trick-or-treating Halloween, I once again felt the co-mingling of joy and sorrow along this journey called motherhood. Her choice of costume is deeply symbolic. One last dance with a swiftly passing childhood.

As I reflect on last night and the history of the polka dot dress, emotion wells up and tears moisten my eyes. The focus of these days is “where will she go to high school?” How did we get here so soon? You would think that as a mom with twenty-nine years in the trenches, I would not get surprised. I know where this pathway leads. Yet the speed at which a childhood goes by has once again ambushed my mother’s heart.

As I take another step toward letting her go out into the world, I hope that she always remembers how to twirl. I hope that the sheer abandon and joy that she expresses when she hits the dance floor is always accessible to her. I hope that she knows how very deep and wide and piercing and profound is the love that her mom feels for her. I dream of days ahead when there are still moments and days in which we twirl in and out of each other’s lives. 

ADHD and Parenting

Two days in a row, I heard the exact same message from two different people, living in two different parts of the country.  I highly respect each of them as both parents and human beings. One described an argument that he had with his mother-in-law, and the other posted on her Facebook page. Each of them communicated almost verbatim “ADHD is not caused by bad parenting.” Each of them has been accused of this.

My initial reaction was, “Wow. Are there people out there who truly believe that the reasons for ADHD have to do with parenting?” As I listened to each of my friends, I could hear frustration, anger, and hurt beneath their words. Which of us doesn’t feel the same when we are unjustly accused?

ADHD is not alone in this category. At times in history as well as today, there are those who work to explain children’s characteristics and behaviors as a direct result of “bad parenting.” Addiction, homosexuality, and autism are just a few that have spent time in this space. Much pain and suffering has been caused by such ignorant indictments.

photo credit: hrringleader.com

As I received my friends’ stories, I also tried to put myself in the place of their accusers. Whenever I have felt this type of judgment toward others, it is always accompanied by a great deal of pride and arrogance along with great fear. Such a hurtful stance is most often born out of the utterly terrifying vulnerability that comes with being a mom.  The myriad of things that are simply out of my parental control is overwhelming. When I can lay the blame of any problematic situation at the feet of “bad parenting,” then in some twisted way I convince myself that “this could never happen in my family.” I believe that I am in control. I cling to a lie.

Such a judgmental and delusional stance was beaten out of me as I faced my very own overwhelming parenting challenges. A number of years ago, I wrote the following words:

“Living life with a child that demands we march to the beat of a different drummer is indeed a gift. It is like going to the school of what really matters. It is a crash course in getting over pleasing other people. If embraced, this new perspective quickly leads to a far less judgmental stance toward others. We are acutely aware that we never truly know what is under the behavior of that screaming child in the grocery store or that teenager who is “acting out.”

Rather than judge and put myself in categories separate from parents struggling in some way, I join their ranks. Compassion arises for myself and for others as we all do our best to parent the particular children we are gifted for such a short time. Rather than look for a cause and effect to explain all things challenging as a mom, I will try to make peace with the unknown and the mystery. When I don’t truly understand or have not walked the path of another, I will seek to be silent and offer a listening ear. I hope that others will offer the same gift to me on my most difficult days.

Selah

According to Wikipedia, the word selah appears seventy-one times in the book of Psalms. Though it does not have a direct translation, two possible meanings are “stop and listen” and “pause, and think of that.” Psalms are often read as songs or poems, and the selah reminder woven throughout seems most appropriate. As I travel through life, I very often need prompts to stop or pause, as well as to listen and think of that.

I am grateful that my husband Mark and I have had the gift of selah over the past several days. Thanks to my parents, we were able to get away to a lovely bed and breakfast in the mountains of western North Carolina. The Buck House Inn was the perfect place to pause.

We ventured up to Bald Mountain and spent a few hours trekking along the Appalachian Trail. This journey sparked my imagination about the millions of moments of selah that have taken place along this 2190 mile trail that stretches from Georgia to Maine. I said out loud to my husband, “There is nowhere within our city life that we can experience this depth of silence.” Quiet restores my soul.

The mountaintops peak up through the clouds below us

The white rectangular trail markers were sprinkled all along our way. I imagine that the blue marker has invited many a weary traveler to refill the necessary water supplies for each particular journey.

When we saw this sign up on a tree, we decided to veer off and explore. We met four hikers who had spent a selah night in the midst of a two day hike. The basic shelter provided was much different than where we were spending our nights.

As we interacted with others staying at the inn, we heard much talk of Hurricane Matthew since many loved ones of those we met were in the path of this storm. All the chatter took me back to my own South Florida childhood and a particular time when we met our neighbors out on the cul-de-sac where I lived. The skies were blue and there was great calm. But it only lasted for a short time as we all headed back inside. It was the eye of the hurricane, an eerily silent and calm respite in the midst of chaos. It was a chance to stop and listen to the eerie yet peaceful silence in between the roaring wind and pounding rain on either side of the pause.

We were escorted up the mountain in an ATV, all terrain vehicle. On the bumpy journey, we crossed paths with a bride and groom who had planned to be married in Charleston, South Carolina on Saturday. That was before the hurricane evacuation. They scrambled and were tending to myriad details in their new wedding venue, a beautiful outdoor mountain pavilion, over 300 miles away from their original plan. I wish for them times of selah after this weekend as they both celebrate and recover after a whirlwind of change for bride, groom, and over one hundred guests.

This little vehicle can climb up steep and rugged terrain. It makes a lot of noise as it does so, but the experience still provided a pause in the routines of my life.

Whether you are in the midst of a storm or just living life at a pace of busyness and amidst clutter that rarely offers silence, I hope you can find places of selah. How do you stop and listen in the midst of the everyday? How do you pause, and think of that, when life feels out of control?

What's in a name?

Names matter. I always feel seen and respected when someone I barely know remembers my name. I often feel irritated if I have interacted with someone a number of times and they obviously can’t recall my name. I am trying to be mindful to say and retain the names of others while giving grace to those who can’t bring to mind my own.

At our local YMCA, the employees wear nametags. Rather than just be transactional with the person who scans in my membership card, I try to read the nametag and speak to them by name. It often leads to a true knowing of their name along with the added bonus of short yet sweet human interactions. This has not always been my practice.

Each of our sons have middle names that honor someone in our family. We picked their first names because we liked the way they sounded. When I was a child, I was embarrassed and sometimes teased about my middle name, Adair. Now I think it is exotic, different, and I am proud of it.

Our daughters were each named by one of their big brothers. One of them was named after a middle school crush. The other by a brother with aesthetic sensibility. Their four-part names include a fragment of their Chinese name. Big names for such petite girls. Grace and Joy stand amidst their names. A foreshadowing of the gifts they offer to each one in our family.

I tend to remember the names of children before adults. Just the other day as I stood watching a cross-country race, I said, “I remember your daughter’s name, but please remind me of your own.” I had just been introduced to this mom a few minutes before.

Our neighbor is of Iraqi descent though born in California. She was hanging out at our home recently. Her name is lovely, but it is not common in this country. “My name never shows up on anything. Not even the first letter, Y, is anywhere to be found.” This conversation called up memories of Disney World and Cracker Barrel as I would stand and twirl the bike license plate, key chain, or any other kitschy treasure display searching for Tricia. It was almost never there. Patricia or Pat often made the cut, but rarely my particular called name. I felt left out and a little irritated that my brother’s common name, Mike, was readily available.

My auto mechanic recently bemoaned her given name. “My mother gave me a name that means “little princess.” She sure didn’t know me!” She rides a Harley, runs an auto mechanic shop, and enjoys life with her partner. I imagine that her mom had a different vision for her baby girl at the bestowal of her name.

Names are powerful. Sometimes they represent the hopes and dreams of our parents. They often are gleaned from family names and honor those we love. Each of us feel a shot of “I matter” when someone calls us by name. Taking in the name of another requires a level of presence and attention during introductions.

I have a mid-year resolution, a desire to pay closer attention to the names of others. This simple act is often a powerful connector. When we use names, it can open up hearts to a little deeper interaction and knowledge of those whose paths we cross. There are a lot of interesting people all around. With a little extra effort, I hope to retain and say out loud the names of others.

I would love to hear any name stories you have to share -things about your own name or how you remember the names of others or any old thing on the topic of names.

When grandfather was a kid

I have the gift and privilege of knowing all four of my grandparents. None of them left this earth until I was well into young adulthood. I also spent significant time with one great-grandmother and have a vague memory of visiting another in a nursing home. At the age of 54, I still have a 97 year-old living grandmother. She had my mom at the age of 19, mom had me at 21, my firstborn arrived when I was 24. Early motherhood and old age both run in the family.

My aunt is a family historian and is gracious to share with others. Yesterday, she shared this photo with us:

My Papa is the groom in this childhood wedding enactment, aka in the 1920's a Tom Thumb wedding*. He is so very handsome, and I see great resemblance to the grandfather of my memory. He was a man of few words, at least words directed at me. I remember a lot of humming, cross word puzzle working, and time spent out in his immaculately organized workshop. He could build or fix just about anything.

He was young for a grandfather and was always working full time when I visited as a child. He rose at 5 am and ate two eggs, bacon, and toast prepared by my grandmother almost every single morning. I know that he went to a warehouse and seemed tired when he returned. He sometimes brought home free boxes and boxes of full sized candy bars that we got to take home and eat.

For hobby and pleasure, he was an AKC dog trainer. Some of my very best remembrances of him are when I could tag along and watch him work his canine magic. His home always housed pets of some sort, and that made it a fun place for me, the animal lover, to visit. He patiently drove a boat while I learned to slalom ski.

Reflections on Papa lead me to thoughts and memories of my other grandfather, Grandaddy. A retired railroad man, he always had time and energy and fun to offer his grandkids. He too was a man of few words, but he spoke his love in tangible ways. Every day spent with him involved a trip to his garden, a walk to feed the ducks, riding the small attractions at the park down the road, or buying treats of the Icee or Dairy Queen variety.

Not a childhood photo but it reminds me his always present hat and railroad ties.

We did not have many conversations, but he always had time to read out loud to me. That is the way that I experienced his voice. Goldilocks and the Three Bears was a treat and I can still hear Papa bear and the baby bear voices in my mind’s ear. He had a special nickname for me. To this day, “Patrish” echoes through my heart and mind.

As I mull over my grandfathers and my experience of them, it leads to thoughts of their very own childhoods. The photo of Papa above certainly sparks my imagination. Why were they both so quiet? What did their childhood days contain? Whisperings of an alcoholic father on one side. How did their experiences form them and then affect my parents and then touch me? Each and every family unit offers up both functional and dysfunctional ways of living. What did each of them take and leave behind from their family of origin?

If I could sit down with them today, I might attempt to understand them more fully. But chances are, I wouldn’t get satisfactory answers. They weren’t chatty or self-revealing kinds of men. But I am grateful to have known them. This week, my curiosity has been peaked around when grandfather was a kid. There is much to consider.

What is your experience? How much or little do you know of your grandparents and the intimacies of their lives? I’d love to hear from you.

*Charles Sherwood Stratton was a dwarf who attained fame as General Tom Thumb in the circus. In the 1920"s, P.T. Barnum promoted GeneralTom Thumb and his recent bride. It seems that one thing people did for entertainment during this time was to recreate the wedding by using children as participants. As to my Papa's experience, I agree with my Aunt Barbara who says, "It appears they went all out with the clothes and pictures. Somehow the boys don't seem all that pleased!" Actually, no one but the bride looks happy. Maybe there was discord around who would get that role.

Thank you to my Aunt Barbara for days of dreaming and wondering.