Time May Change Me, But I Can’t Trace Time

 

Changes. Some changes simply happen. You age, the sun rises and sets, the earth rotates. Other changes take effort and consciousness, patience and readiness. But, we do pass through time every moment of every day, why not make that continuous change a positive one whenever and wherever we can?

I recently read—on a randomnly Googled website—a wonderful description of this. Jose Vilson calls himself an educator, writer, poet, web designer, activist. And that he is. Check him out at www.thejosevilson.com. He used the same title line above from David Bowie’s Changes to define and explain the concept of slope in mathematics. He talks of walking forward, backward, standing still. This is your variable y. Time is your x. Whatever your y does or is, your x still and always changes. Time moves even when we stand still. Mr. Vilson, I hope I didn’t butcher your explanation too much, please know that it resonated with me.

Wherever I go, whatever I do, the choices I make—these all move through time, an x variable I am powerless to change. That being the case, I can focus on my y variable. What choices will I make? What changes will I make to y such that in the end, my slope will be a positive one?

I am on the edge of changes now. I can feel it. Some I am resisting. They are mostly personal, not about friends or family, just me as a woman, a writer, a person. My world is full with love and support within the confines of the walls that make my home, in the community where I live, with my friends, my family spread across the country, even within my cyber-community. I am blessed.

But and so, who am I and where do I want to go? What is my next y? I see paths ahead in some cases. In others, the path winds, I don’t see the next step. Some scare me because they mean choices I don’t want to make. Even something as seemingly minor as changing a beverage choice: giving up my daily Diet Coke. Some are larger, what’s next for me in my work? Is the second novel bubbling at the surface? What stories do I need to tell?

I am not a patient person. I have always known that. Growing older and having children was good for me, it helped me to learn (some) patience. I get anxious about what’s next and sometimes rush in to it rather than wait to feel it, be guided by it. My instincts are good when I listen to them. Because to paraphrase Bowie, who is indeed never wrong, pretty soon I’m gonna get a little older.

Strange fascination, fascinating me

Ah, changes are taking the pace I’m going through.

Here’s to y variables. Here’s to positive change.

Not Guilty

 

I’m having “Mom” guilt. Actually, I have being a mom guilt as well as daughter guilt. I’m getting hit at both ends and it’s because I’m allowing it. And enough is enough. Enough of feeling guilty and enough of thinking I’m not enough. Not doing enough, giving enough, engaging my kids in enough, with them enough, cooking from scratch enough, cuddling long enough . . . do you see? Do you see the number I do on myself? There will be no proven guilty here because I am declaring myself not only innocent, but enough. Not just good enough but great enough.

At the same time, ironically, interestingly, in juxtaposition that should put it all in perspective, I feel like I am not giving enough to my own mother. I’m working through some “stuff” for lack of a better word, some leftover anger, disappointment from childhood that I recognize it’s time to move on from. Knowing it’s time to move on is not the same as moving on. I’m being patient with myself and allowing time. And it’s working. I can feel the tides turning. I am gaining strength. In the meantime, I asked for space from my mother. I haven’t cut off all contact, I have simply switched to email rather than phone, and I have my kids call her directly. Last week I even had them do a Skype call with her. I was in the other room the whole time and when it was time to hang up—decided by me, on my terms—I called to my kids “It’s time for dinner now, say good-bye to Gramma.” And then I went to the computer and just said “OK Mom, we have to go eat dinner, talk to you later. “ Since she is as overwhelmed by Skype as most people are by their tax returns, it took a few minutes for her to hang up. While she was doing this, I caught her expression and body language. It was as if she was trying to reach for me through the computer screen. Her face looked drawn and old and sad. I had a familiar pang of anxiety, of guilt. I should call her now, I thought, she needs more. But, I did not call her back. I had set my boundary and honored it. When I recounted this to a friend she called her a “psychic vampire,” someone who sucks the life out of you. And it was apt. It will never be enough what I give to my mother. No matter how much I do, call, share, give, it is never enough. And that’s not about me. It’s about her. So, I need to give and do what works for me. I need to feel good about what that is and be OK with it. I want to get past my “stuff” with her and I can feel it happening. That feels good. I also want to be true to myself and honor my needs. I do love my mother and she loves me, but I won’t be the victim of psychic vampirism.

I also want to give to my own children. And, I do. In buckets. Buckets full of love. I want them to feel loved and cared for and I know they do. Writing that about my own mother helps me to see just how different I am with them than she was with me. I’m not perfect, but who is and what message would that send my kids? They have space, security, love, and positive energy around them. And they are so loved. They are cuddled and read to and engaged with. They are given down time when they need it, hugs, kisses, tickles, ice cream and cookies and pizza sometimes because everyone should, healthy food most of the time, because everyone should do that too. They take swimming lessons, and go to museums and movies and play and ride bikes and go on vacation and have two parents who love them and each other. They have two cats, Star Wars Legos, Batman underpants, at least one parent to put them to bed almost every night—and usually both—to give kisses and cuddles. They are loved enough and more than enough and that is pure innocence.

Sitting In Limbo

 

Our house is on the market. It has been since early December.  And this state of limbo, of Open Houses, of packing up and storing possessions, of clearing out with cats and children and all traces of lived-in-ness has made me feel something deeply, something I already knew, but am starting to appreciate now more and more. Home is sweet home.

Growing up, I had many homes and no home at all. My parents split up when I was five and I shuttled back and forth in odd configurations of days, changing schools frequently, neighborhoods and friends. Keeping track of what clothes were where, did I have my school project or clean underpants or my Halloween costume for the school parade; those things were always on my mind and I managed them without the help of an adult. I was on my own.  My parents often lived in different neighborhoods meaning I took public transportation both to and from school and their homes, trains, buses—I was self-sufficient before my time. Both moved frequently and not until I was in high school and chose to live solely with my mother did my father finally buy a house near my mom’s. At that point, she had been stable somewhere for a few years. As an added bonus, these homes were near my sister’s school. My sister is five years younger so this arrangement helped her significantly. By this point, I was up and getting ready to be out, off to college, fed up frankly. At the time, choosing one parent had seemed a good thing. I guess it was. It did create a rift between me and my father which has since been closed, at least as much as it will ever be.

As a young adult, I lived in many places, always searching for some elusive feeling of what I thought home should feel like. I’d never really known. But I do now. I had adventures living in Italy and in several different cities there, then in Philadelphia again, and finally in my late 20s realizing I needed to find a place that might become home. Sometimes, you have to create it.

So, when it came time to go to graduate school, Seattle called to me. I ended up here and knew I was home, even in that state of limbo one is in when a grad student. Fast forward eighteen years and my husband and I have put our house on the market. Our first house together (my third). We have lived here over a decade, been through hard years of marriage, wonderful years of marriage, having babies, raising our children. Our sons are now seven and four and we have a home that feels warm and full and replete with love and security. Something I missed; something I longed for. I love to be at home now. And, as I look at my watch now and see it is past four p.m., I know that our Open House is over. I can go home. Maybe we found our buyer today. Maybe it will be another day. But, we will move to our new house together and we will make it our home. Our home sweet home. Meanwhile, here I am . . .

Sitting here in limbo, waiting for the dice to roll.

Sitting here in limbo, got some time to search my soul.

Give Till It Doesn’t Hurt Anymore

 

‘Tis the season, right? The season of giving, thinking of others, of flooding food banks, putting spare change in the Salvation Army bucket, letting the person next to you in line go first.

Why isn’t it always the season of giving? Why don’t kindness and patience, love, friendship, and acceptance fill our hearts and homes, our offices and schools every day? Think of how amazing the world would be if we lived lives of love and giving all the time.

And then there’s the woman who gave out my cell number, randomly chosen I’m sure, and a fake insurance policy number at a recent fender-bender. Her victim, also named Jenny, called me and left a voice mail. She was confused by my outgoing message, she could tell she hadn’t reached Christina, or whoever it was who hit her. She said “If you’re Christina or know her, please call me back. I called your insurance company and they said the policy number you gave me has too many numbers. Anyway, thanks.” I called her back immediately. “I’m so sorry, Jenny. I think you’ve been had.” I felt awful telling her she’d been lied to. She was devastated; admitted to having been upset at the time. She hadn’t actually looked at the woman’s paperwork.  She did, however, get her license plate number. “I’m sure what she did is considered a felony,” I said. “You should call the police.” I felt slightly less than charitable when I wished bad things for Christina. But the lesson, whether “Christina” learns it now when arrested for felony hit-and-run, or later when the karma train comes around again, is that you get what you give. All year, every day, every minute. That’s what this life is about. It’s about living a life of love and giving rather than one of deception, of entitlement. Christina may never learn this. But maybe Jenny and I learned it a little more just crossing paths.

Yesterday was my birthday. I had family time in the morning and then later my husband and I went to see the movie “Invictus” about South Africa’s Rugby World Cup win in 1995. After that we had dinner at our favorite restaurant. The movie was wonderful, mostly because it is true.  Think about a man, Nelson Mandela, imprisoned and persecuted for close to three decades and when he was released, he turned to his captors and said, “I forgive you. I forgive you and I welcome you to join me in a community of love and acceptance. Now, let’s play some rugby!” I wept a lot during that movie.  

When we got to dinner, my husband gave me my present. It was a tryptich-type picture frame and in the outer two slots he placed the lyrics to the song “The Story” by Brandi Carlile. I wept some more. He said “I love that song and it makes me think of you, of our life together.”

Because these stories don’t mean anything

When you’ve got no one to tell them to

It’s true . . .

I was made for you.

The middle panel is empty for now; it awaits a recent photo of just us. Our kids are our family. But he and I are “The Story.” Just us. I thought I’d be safe opening my gift at the table. Tim didn’t expect such emotion either. Instead our waiter experienced true awkward as he brought us a shared Caesar while I openly wept with joy and gratitude, and it wasn’t for the Caesar. And I felt just how much I am loved. And this is my wish for Christmas, that everyone feels that. Maybe you will from a family member, a lover, a colleague, or even from a stranger who does a good deed. Somehow, let’s all do what Nelson Mandela did. It’s in simple actions and complex ones. Do whatever you can. It just needs doing. Let’s create a world of love and acceptance, not one of anger and fear. Let’s give till it doesn’t hurt anymore. Ever.

Act As If

 

There is something that I want. I mean really bad. Or is it badly? No, it’s not badly because that would mean I was bad at wanting the thing. No, I want it bad. I can’t say what it is yet but I’m operating under the assumption that it’s going to happen. I have to; I want it that much. It’s within my grasp—actually our grasp because this is a family thing.

I remember when I decided I wanted to move to Seattle. It’s that kind of wanting. I was living in Philadelphia and had just split up with a boyfriend. It was the epitome of amicable as break-ups go. I was mid-twenties, ready for graduate school and our goals, once in sync, had diverged.  When I realized I wanted an MBA, I initially thought Temple University. It’s in Philly and it’s not Wharton. I didn’t think I could get in to Wharton let alone pay for it. And there was Chris to consider. But then I stopped considering Chris. We stopped considering each other. What did I want? It wasn’t Philly anymore, not for school and not for living. And I love Philly. My bones are steeped in Philly but I needed a change.

As I researched schools, I came up with a few. I can’t recall all of them. Penn State was my safety school but I didn’t want that either. Washington University in St. Louis appealed to me; it seemed a kinder, gentler MBA program if you will. One that stressed teamwork. One that was known to be financially sound, flush even. One that would likely give a lot of financial aid to a twenty-something financially independent marketing gopher with a BA in English. But the University of Washington, Seattle. That was my Promised Land. I was sold on the program and affordable tuition. And then there was the city, the long-term prospects, and strange how that came to be. I had never been to Seattle nor did I visit before I made my choice. I was convinced it was where I’d want to live. I felt it. I wasn’t interested in doing graduate work without putting down long-term roots at the same time. I was making two decisions in one. Where did I want to get my MBA and where did I want to live as a young adult, create community, make lasting friendships, get married someday. Seattle beckoned. And Seattle teased.

I got my rejections from some and acceptances from others far in advance of any word from Seattle. I got a generous aid package from Washington University in St. Louis. It would have been a good choice. But I wanted Seattle. And I still felt the University of Washington was the best place for me.  And I believe I did think it so. It was right. It felt right and true, so much so that I waited to accept anywhere else. I put off choosing, I pushed deadlines. Anyone who knows me at all knows this is atypical. I’m a “do it now” person, sometimes to a fault. But I waited. 

One early summer afternoon I came home from work to my tiny stinky little sublet on the University of Pennsylvania campus—when Chris and I split, my ability to pay for a nice apartment split too, and I was saving for grad school—it was May or June I think and the phone rang. If I had dawdled from Center City across the Spring Garden Street Bridge I’d have missed it.  It was the University of Washington calling and I was in. I’m sure it was a routine call for the Business School office, one of many made that day. But for me it was life changing. I can still hear that phone ringing. It was just a ringing phone. No ring tones or volume options, no cordless extension, just a brrring piercing the stuffy summer air. I can still feel myself walking across the creaky hardwood floor to a standard black corded phone, solid square base, beveled—it could double as a weapon if you clocked someone in the head just so—and I picked it up and it was the call. And that was 1991. Here I am today. Home in Seattle almost two decades later. Think it so. Act as if.

Time Out

 

I need a time out. Athletes get them. Misbehaving or overtired children get them. I need one. I need one that lasts a week. I won’t get that but I better do something. And fast. 

I’m out of balance again, still. OK, so today I am and have been for over two weeks. Losing my balance this time was a cumulative thing. First a kid got sick then I did, then and during it was Halloween, there were social events, things at school, life decisions looming, computers were acting up so I wasn’t writing regularly—in fact, I’m writing this first draft long-hand—then there was a weekend of one thing after another. Monday rolled around and my husband was out one night and then had late afternoon work emergencies so I’ve been on kid duty, bedtime, baths for days in a row. I’m whining, I know. I’m venting, yes. Starting to feel free, that too.

Let’s not dramatize—feelings are not forever things. They ebb and flow and the sooner I internalize that the easier it will be to go with the feeling and not frantically try to make it go away. That frantic need to get past a feeling prevents me from moving through it. What better way to ensure feeling-acid-reflux than a half-assed pass at it in the first place? So, I’m off kilter and I’m having trouble being there. I need to feel it.

So it has been acknowledged, I need a time out. One thing I have kept up on is exercise, my usual saving grace. But I need a break from that too. Desperate times and all that—my body aches for a break. I have a chronic health problem and I can easily overdo it. I’m there now. My body, mind, soul all need to regenerate and if I continue to push, I will be even sorrier than I am tonight. When I get to this point I need rest and alone time. Quiet and calm.

I have missed writing but I have been thinking about it for days and have been resisting because I knew I couldn’t take a lot of time for it.  My computer has been acting up so I’m now writing this blog post as an email to myself. It’s not my preferred method of writing, transcribing from long-hand, emailing myself, but it is still writing. And it is working. I’m tipping the scales back slowly, gently and with creativity rather than throwing up my hands and saying “I can’t, it’s too hard.” Because that’s crap. It’s hard yes, but I can handle it. Sometimes things fall off the priority list. My kids aren’t going to swimming lessons tonight because I am so incredibly exhausted that if I take them, I will not only tip my scales further, I will bitch at them the whole time. So instead, they are watching the TV version of the “Olivia” books. Thirty minutes of bliss both for me and for them.

And now it’s post macaroni and cheese dinner, still no husband and my four year old wants to play blocks so I will do that and cobble this post together later and know that I am on the road to getting my time out. I will feel better soon. Early to bed and tomorrow after school drop-offs, the house is mine. I will put my lists aside. I will leave the dishes in the sink and I will put myself in “time out.” And I will like it.

Pillow Talk

 

“Mom, when you were a girl, did you have toys?”

My four year old asked me this a few nights ago and thus began a new ritual: talking about my childhood. He asks questions. I tell stories. We do this after we read books, cuddled together at bedtime. Pillow talk is my new favorite time of the day. Inhibitions are gone; we are close and warm. The air is palpably sweet and ripe like before a good summer rain. We’re one in a semi-dark room, shadows cast by a night light and I’m falling in love with him over and over again, each night in a new way as he changes, grows, asks questions, shows himself to me.

I smiled and said “Yes, sweetie. I had toys.”

“Like Spiderman?”

“I didn’t have Spiderman but I had dolls and a doll house. I had blocks. Oh, and I had a little oven that made tiny cakes. Real cakes.”

“I want to make tiny cakes, Mom. I want that oven.” I want that oven again too; my Easy Bake Oven—a truly prized possession.

As we talk I stumble, struggling to remember. But he is patient. He is still against me, thumb poised to go back in his mouth after he finishes talking, blanket in hand, stuffed elephant snuggled against his shoulder. And it helps me to remember, the stillness of being with him, watching him, fascinated by his interest.

“I had a quilt,” I tell him. “A blanket like yours that I slept with and it always cheered me up when I was sad.” I’d forgotten about that quilt but can now literally feel the cool weight of it against my body. I buried that quilt with my cat Dante. He died three weeks before my first child was born.

My older son asks me questions too but it’s very different. They are so different, my boys. I have spent so much (good) energy on my older son, getting to know him, watching him as his personality sharpens, that I am now in awe of the process happening in my younger boy—almost as if I forgot it would. At just over four years old, he is becoming himself in a new and beautiful way. 

Sometimes the thought of putting my kids to bed is daunting. By the time I get to 7:30 I am so drained I cannot imagine giving another ounce of myself. And then they surprise me. It is they who do the giving. It is my four year old who, completely unbidden, said as I tucked him in one night, “Momma, I love ya’ love ya’ love ya’.” And that has become our new catch phrase. It is my seven year old who wants to cuddle every night and who is so tall that I end up with my head on his chest as we settle in to sleep. “I just love you so much, Mom and I love to cuddle with you,” he routinely says to me. “I’m so happy.”

My younger boy and I have talked a lot these past few nights. I told him about the different cats I had growing up and tried to explain why he couldn’t meet them. He asked where I lived and went to school and when I said “Philadelphia.” He said, “That’s far far away,” trying to fit me in his world today and now, to imagine me doing the things that he does.

So now when I struggle to get them motivated to brush teeth, do PJs, get moving for cryin’ out loud, I will think ahead just a few minutes to the ultimate gift I am about to get. The gift they will give me of love, curiosity, thanks, love, appreciation, memory, joy, and oh, did I mention it already—love?

Protect Yourself

 

This is not a blog about safe sex. But, you should do it. Be safe I mean. And have sex.

Think about all the ways we protect ourselves. Safe sex is certainly one of them. Umbrellas and Gore-tex are useful—today it is raining buckets. When I went out this morning to Pilates I had the wrong coat—fleece. Not protected. Then in class, my lower back screamed at me “no thank you, not this move” so I eased off and stretched instead. Protected. Later, going to Costco with every other Saturday morning errand-runner, I had my Gore-tex. I was ready. But this is all basic stuff. Condoms, raincoats, listening to our bodies, it’s physical and tangible. Easy. Sometimes, the need for emotional protection is the toughest to recognize, the hardest to do and yet the most critical. I’d rather get soaked in a rainstorm than have my heart stomped on for no reason. Mind you, I’m not talking about being closed off to emotional intimacy which can lead to pain and growth, but rather of recognizing emotional toxicity and of running for cover, putting up the drawbridge, doing what it takes to protect yourself.

Author Cheryl Richardson uses the term “protect your sensitivity” and I like it. She talks about knowing what your hot buttons are and of proactively making sure they don’t get pushed. And why not? At a recent seminar I attended, she talked about a speech she gave after which she was mobbed by the audience with accolades. As she saw a lone woman approach her with a forceful stride and a frown, her hackles went up and when the woman said to her “I need to give you some constructive criticism,” Cheryl said “I don’t want to hear it.” She was protecting herself. She knew that even with the hundreds of people who had loved her talk; the so-called constructive criticism from this woman would hurt. It would be destructive. I am like this too. I am working on it, but I know myself well enough to know I can hear between lines that aren’t there. I can take heaps of praise and an ounce of criticism and like a dog with a bone, fixate on that criticism no matter the source or the validity. No matter what.

So in protecting myself, I also get to celebrate my sensitivity. Rather than de-sensitize myself, to stop seeing the nuance in relationships, perceive the subtlest of clues about what might be going on with myself and others, I chose to be sensitive. Sensitivity serves me well. I use it to be a better listener, friend, parent, wife, member of a larger community. But, I also get my feelings hurt easily. I am out there and sometimes being out there, I get hurt. So, I’m working on seeing the warning signs. My instinct is powerful if I listen to it and when something doesn’t feel right, when I feel worse rather than better after an event or an interaction, I’m going to protect myself.

Let’s all protect ourselves. Go out in the rain but wear a raincoat. Exercise but listen to your body. Have sex, damn it, but be safe. And open your heart but listen to your instinct. Protect your sensitivity. I know I will.

Let It Be

 

How many books are written about break-ups? What about songs or movies? The end of a love affair is big business and is universal. But what about the end of a friendship? How do we “break-up” with a friend? Sometimes, the evolution of a friendship is organic and easy. We take the hint, phone calls go unanswered and we realize, “huh, guess we’re not close anymore” and it doesn’t hurt. We let it be. We move on; it’s an example of how lives change, things are fluid. You used to work together and now you don’t. Your kids aren’t in the same class anymore. It’s not a huge emotional issue, it just is. This happens a lot, even with close friends. The best thing about these types of break-ups is that they are often not break-ups at all. You might cross paths with this friend sometime again, be it years or even decades later, and pick up right where you left off. Circumstances have brought you together again and it’s wonderful.

Other times, there is an awkward shift. Whether gradual or sudden, expectations no longer match, values change, someone does something “unforgiveable” or, quite simply, one person wants more out of the friendship than the other. Feelings do get hurt. I’ve been on both ends of this. Tonight as I write this, I am thinking about a woman, a friend who I can no longer call a close friend and it hurts. She broke up with me simply by being unresponsive. I used to tell myself it was her nature (and frankly, it is, she’s very scattered and can be unreliable, even when we were equally invested friends). But I know definitively, that we are no longer constants in each other’s lives because she doesn’t want it. It doesn’t mean anything to her anymore to be connected to me and that makes me sad. And, it makes me question just how close we were. What did I mean to her? And, finally, is this line of questioning akin to self-inflicted paper cuts followed by a shaker of salt?

Most likely, and I am proud to be able to be both objective and adult enough to write these words, we have just drifted apart. It could very well be that her dance card is full. We no longer live in the same state. We met at work years ago and clicked easily. We trained together for my first triathlon—she pursued me as friend/training partner, the thought of doing a triathlon had never entered my mind. I was terrified and she was an amazing training partner and became a close friend. To say our training runs were like therapy sessions doesn’t do them justice. Those soul baring early summer morning runs were spectacular. My workout partner had always been my Walkman (yes, Walkman, this was the 90s). Instead, I had a new friend and we both soaked each other in with reciprocal love and respect. It sounds borderline romantic as I write these words; it was nothing of the sort. I don’t think we give friendships enough credit for just how intimate and deep they can be. I was real with this friend and she loved me just the same. And, she felt the same about me.

So, perhaps that is why I still, over a decade later, feel a twinge as I write this and I see her name come up on my “Chat” drop down box on Facebook. There she is, right now, just a keystroke away. But in fact she’s much farther still. And, through the nightmare that is social networking, I see that she is still in touch with other people from that time in our lives. And I am not, at least not in the same way nor do I want to be. Let it be.

I have made attempts at reconnection. She did eventually respond to a message I sent some months ago, but I let it go as her response was an excuse and not a reaching out. It was, again, another explanation of why so much time had passed since her last contact. “Doc, it hurts when I bang my head against the wall.” I think I get it now. It may be me and it may not but it’s time to back away from the wall. And, it doesn’t matter anymore, it can’t. I am setting her free. I am going to remember with fondness and love the years of friendship we shared, and let go of the disappointment I felt because of what is not now.

Remember Helen Seinfeld’s familiar refrain on “Seinfeld?” Jerry tells his mother, “Not everyone likes me.” “Oh, that’s ridiculous,” she says “how could anyone not like you?” It is possible for someone to not like me, or to have liked or loved me once but to have moved on. And for it to not be about me. There’s no bad blood, no need for closure or emotional rehashing of this or that. It just is. Things change, people change. And I will always have the memory of early morning runs, ours a beautiful wooded path that wove past a creek, horses, a serene duck pond, light on our feet and in our hearts, talking and laughing with my dear and special friend.

How’s Your Mental Health?

 

 

My seven year old took a mental health day today. It didn’t quite start that way. He has been sniffling all week, coughing a little, dark circles under his eyes, and then yesterday complaining of a pain in his mouth that turned out to be a canker sore and “voices in his head.” That last one gave me pause when he first mentioned it, but was able to help him better identify that his ears felt stuffed up and he was hearing an echo when he talked. Phew.

This morning something clicked for me as he complained again about his ears—not in any way vying for a day off—that he needed one. In addition to a minor and typical start-of-school illness, he has been emotional lately, out of sorts, having trouble adjusting to the routine of school and schedule. I have been alternating between frustration and to my credit, mostly compassion for my little boy who is now a bigger boy and frankly overwhelmed by what life is throwing at him.

As we discussed what would happen if he stayed home, not going to the evening movie event at the school, resting, drinking lots of liquids, it became clear to me just how much he needed a break. The change in his demeanor was jarring. His body relaxed, he smiled.

I called the doctor and got an appointment to have his ears checked and we walked over enjoying the sunshine and time together. As I’d expected, he’s fine and just has a cold. But, he got his flu mist for Fall while we were there, I got my flu shot, and we had a nice walk. By the time we were done, it was lunchtime so we walked to the nearby bagel shop. The weather was perfect, sun, a breeze, not too hot, Fall smells in the air. And, my son skipped along the sidewalk.

I don’t buy in to the notion that you have to be technically “sick” to need caring for. Think of the many ingrained phrases in our casual speech that imply a mental health day equals weakness. “Tough it out.” “Buck up.” “Suck it up.” “Be a man.” “Soldier on.” Soldier on?! He’s not a soldier, he’s seven! Yes, a soldier in the desert of Afghanistan, sadly, must soldier on. My son will miss a spelling test that he can take Monday. What he gained —and I for spending quality time with him and actually mothering (some) things better—was far more valuable.