Climb In

My students are wilting.

They are sitting at their desks, trying to follow as I connect the theme of To Kill a Mockingbird to their own lives.

Today it is so hot in my classroom that, even with every window open, there is no room for breath. My fourth block is registered to capacity. I have 30 sophomore students sitting with the backs of their legs sweat-glued to their chairs.

We decide to push desks out of the way and gather on the tile in an effort to get some relief from the heat. It feels good to shape ourselves in a circle and discuss The Scottsboro Boys as we absorb the cold of the floor.

They can't wait for the summer.
I can't either.

Although I find great comfort, reward and challenge in my career, I miss being home with my children. Being a working mother-a high school English teacher- is a choice that I made when I left my original career in marketing and returned to school for my Master's degree in education. I chose a career that afforded me the ability to be both things. I work while my children are at school. I work really, really hard. And teaching allows me to share with my children the same days off. The same vacations. To be both a stay at home and working mother. But it also lands me evenings full of essays to correct. Parents to contact. Children to worry about. Because this year, this semester, in addition to my two children, I have 80 more. 80 15-18 year olds.

There are many times when I do miss being home full-time. I miss those years after Zoe was born that I stayed home with my babies. I miss lazy mornings and sprinkler-running. Crafts on the lawn. Early afternoon baths for the kiddos because there was nothing else to do. Trips to the library. Weekday outings to pick blueberries and strawberries. To cut flowers and feed goats. I do those things now, still, but they are scheduled. They do not necessarily happen without me planning.

Blogs and writing on the topic of mothering are hot button issues, so I will put forth this universal disclaimer: Just because it works for me does not mean that it works for everyone. You are a good mom whether you choose to enrich your children with sports or music. With organic or Doritos. With no activities at all. Whether you are Gay. Straight. Married. Single. If you work to be present for your children- if their very happiness runs through your heart like a constant pulse, a need, a drive- then you are a good mom.

Because, when you become a mother, it stops being about you.

So, it doesn't matter that our morning schedule has made me tired this year. I pack lunches the night before. Fill the coffee pot. Check and re-check backpacks, permission slips and teacher notes. I write checks for field trips and make sure library books are packed ahead of time for the night during the week-day that the children are not with me. When my alarm rings at 5AM, I sleepwalk to the shower.  I load the kids in the car by 6:45 to drop them, one at a time, before I fly to make it to my own classroom by the bell. I do the reverse pick up almost every afternoon. And then, of course, it is homework and dinner. Baths and reading. I work to make sure we get outside. That I toss the football with Zach or gather the kids for a bike ride or a run or a water gun fight.

There is family time.
I make sure the children have space for themselves.
I make sure there is quiet and noise.
I make sure that if Zachary or Zoe is feeling sadness about the divorce or a move or a school change, that we talk about it. And that talking about it is often gut churning. 

Just tonight, Zoe asked (as if it were the first time and not many months later), what divorce means. As I help her understand what to tell her friends in school, as she shares with Zachary and I her worries and fears, as she cries and confesses that she thought that Daddy's new house meant that she was being taken away and would never again see me, as she wonders why the rules are so different in two households, I feel inadequate and less-than. 

I worry that my love is not enough. 
That my house doesn't have fast toys. 
That I am not as fun or cool. 
That my home is not as glamorous. 

Sometimes, like tonight, I cry when I talk to them.

The children ask questions.
And the questions can be asked, as Zoe demonstrated this evening, just moments from a bedtime that I am counting on to give me an hour or so of quiet.

And I can't explain everything because they are children. I can't explain the nuances of a relationship because they are 4 and 7. And so, I hold them. I work and work and cuddle them and help them to share what is on their hearts. I give life to their words and emotions. The kids are talking and being held the way that they need to be.

That is what is real.
That is what it is like, sometimes, to walk this road.
And, after, I sit with my head in my hands tired and emotionally wrung to my core.
But the entire time, there are hands to hold. 
Two very beautiful. Very innocent. Hands to hold.

It has been exhausting, but, in general, it has been rewarding.
Strengthening. 
As my mother says, it is possible to be afraid and brave at the same time.

Carol Burnett once described what labor pains feel like by saying, “Take your bottom lip and pull it over your head.”

You want to know what Divorce feels like? Take your top lip and pull it down over your toes. And do that while naked. In the middle of an earthquake taking place on the precipice of an erupting volcano with lava chasing your very heart while holding your breath in the face of being called every name you can imagine in front of everyone whom you value most. Don't sleep. Don’t eat. Worry all of the time. Stuff tears while in a staff meeting. Let them run down your cheeks as you drive in the car to pick up the children. Apply a new face of make-up before you kiss them hello.

You want to know what Divorce feels like?

Take your world, everything you had planned, everything you value, everything that encompasses your identity and pride and vulnerability—Your very being—and explode it in one seismic bang.

Blow it up in one gigantic earth shattering mother-of-all-fireclouds.

Divorce. Sucks.

In the past year I have acquired scars I never knew I would earn.
I have lived through nights where I felt as if someone had surgically attached ice-cubes to my lungs.

In the past year, I have felt afraid.
Exposed.

Shaken.

I spent hours counting every dime. Trying to figure out how to buy groceries or new clothes for the children. I created intricate color coded spreadsheets estimating budget and timing and cash-flow. I scheduled doctors appointments and coordinated drop offs and pick ups. 

And then, like the roller coaster I described in my most recent post, it all ends.
And I stand in the rubble.
Bleeding. Hemorrhaging, maybe.
I blink in the settling dust.
And I think: I am alive.

I lived.
I survived.

And, on the other side, there is laughter.
Nights like tonight are more and more rare.

They are smiling. I am smiling
There is light and love.
There is music and song.
There is play and relief and unconditional communication and support.

So, today, as I spoke to my fourth block class about a novel written many decades ago, I felt thankful for the heat. For the cool of the floor. For my wilting students.

I felt grateful that I was once again strong and solid enough to lecture about the innocence of Harper Lee's protagonist as she watches someone she loves take a stand for something in which they believe.

For, as Atticus Finch explains to his daughter so eloquently in chapter 3, "if you can learn a simple trick, Scout, you'll get along a lot better with all kinds of folks. You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view […] until you climb into his skin and walk around in it."

Climb in.

Mass Measure

I’m afraid of heights, but I love roller-coasters.

The rush of the drop. The sail into the return space.

The click-click-knowing the adventure is done and I’ve taken a chance.

The ride is scary, but the arrival—-with the sudden absence of wind blowing and screaming and plummets and rises-—the arrival at the end, is what the roller coaster is all about.

I never scream on roller coasters. I stuff the sound in and hold tight to the rail. I feel embarrassed to let the noise out. What will those around me think?

Those around me. The ones I worry about? They are too busy carrying on with their hands in the air. 

All the same, I stay silent. 

Exhilarated. 

Quiet. processing.

Over a year ago, I write a blog about wanting to ride in a convertible. Feeling comfort in a black interior. A thrill as the roof rolls back. A freedom in my hair blowing everywhere. It is that freedom in looking outward that I crave. The feeling of flying yet being in control. I speak of destination. I feel sure that I know where I am going.

In April of 2014, I take a trip with my girlfriends. I cry hard on the return flight and clutch the hand of my best friend as she hands me tissue after tissue. I sob as she encourages me to let it out. To not mask what I am feeling. I hold her hand silently and pray as we fly. I look out the window to the clouds below and remember what it was like to be a child with the confidence that walking on those clouds was possible. 

I wonder about prayer and G-d at that moment. About if it would be possible, somehow, to measure force or velocity or weight of prayer in large group gatherings. To measure Mass. 

Mass of prayer. A prayer Mass. 

It makes sense. 

During horrific events like a plane crash or a bombing, if we were able to hook victims up to some sort of wave device, would we be able to move the needle simply with the massive force of hope? Could their prayer and power be harnessed and measured? Surely, at that moment, humanity all cries out with the same sentiments.

Save me.

Save me.

Help me.

Please. Please.

Give me strength.

Give me strength.

I wonder, as I place my fingers between those of my best friend, if prayer is its own cloud. Tangible. Tactile. Touchable.

A cottony covering on which we may tread.

A belief we hold as children that evolves to a faith we nurture as adults.

I jot down these words as we begin our descent:

The Landing of Flight 1670

Collective bargaining agreement

you can measure, 

prayer power,

on departure. Take off.

Arrival. Death and Birth. The end and start.

The bumps increase the most;

the tangible forcefield created 

by shared hopes and dreams.

He is a Son.

A Hand.

A Spirit.

Allah or Mohammed.

Adonai.

A deity direct dial from any

locale.

Call collect or, no,

no,

No phone necessary.

Why search for proof?

Does it matter?

Tap into the seismograph

waves of your soul.

White lace and gossamer breath.

I’ve spent my entire life being sure.

I planned.

I perfected.

I appeased stringent and invisible guidelines.

I smiled visible smiles.

I held onto the rails and did.not.scream.

I ran endurance races earned Masters Cum Laude nailed interviews had parties cleaned and cooked and washed and folded and sat in the NICU and the PICU and sang and danced and read and mothered and — I stopped.

Stop.

I needed to stop. I needed to say give me strength. 

Give me. Strength. 

Hear me. Speak.

I thought I knew where I was going.  I am so glad, now, that I didn’t. I am glad for that roller coaster drop. For the ride in the convertible. 

I am glad that I am no longer afraid. I am so fortunate that I have been taught to let sound out.

To drop the mask.

To take a hand.

To trust.

To open myself.

To walk back into the classroom. To teach. Write. Breathe.

To have faith. In so many things. 

In love. 

In my children.

In myself.

I believe we will all get where we are going.

That scary roller-coaster drop into the return space is merely an arrival at a destination.

And the rail we can choose to hold? That’s faith.

I have learned to not look at the others carrying on with their hands in the air.

The only one watching, the one that matters,

is You.

Unicornism

When did unicorns become a thing? Was it right around the time that kids starting saying everything was awkward? Perhaps it was brought on by Charlie going viral. Maybe it was encouraged along by double rainbow guy.

Either way, it’s cool to like unicorns now in a weird, hipster-I’m-original-if-you-like-it-too kind of way.

But, just so you know, I liked unicorns first. When it wasn’t mainstream or ironic.

Seriously, you can totally ask my mom.

It’s  1989. I am 10. I am in full unicorn collecting heaven. I receive unicorn collateral for every holiday, birthday and vacation. My yellow walled room is filled with snow globes and stuffed animals. Books and music.

All unicorn.

All the time.

My favorite unicorn paraphernalia is an anthology of stories with vivid pictures. In one, a princess is sitting on a mossy forest floor with her arms around the neck of the sleeping animal.

That picture would take my 10 year old breath away. I wanted to be her so badly. I would close my eyes and pretend as hard as I could that I was the princess. That I was the one in the forest. That I was the one in the fantasy.

When my parents would take my brother and me on trips to Acadia or Franconia Notch, I would hike through the birch woods and look for hoof prints.

Evidence of existence.

One Halloween, my mother upcycled an old white Izod shirt in an effort to create the perfect unicorn costume. She had me wear a white sweatshirt underneath. She trimmed the collar and sleeves with fur. She glued a Styrofoam cone (twirled in gold glitter) to the top of the hood. She stitched on pink felt ears. She threw that sucker on me and-presto-I was in magic happy land.

I was a unicorn.

I remember when I realized that they weren’t real. I was incredibly sad. I felt juvenile and overly naïve. I couldn’t stand that I had allowed myself-that others had allowed me-to believe in something impossible for so long. Where was the justice? How was that fair?

The shimmering mirage disappeared and unveiled a reality that felt harsh and cold. I didn’t look for the creature in the forest or in dappled sunlight. I didn’t sit on the wall to wall green rug in my room and dream of possibility. I put my books away and stashed my snowglobes.

I grew up.

And yet. And yet.

We are all still looking for the unicorn. It just symbolizes something else, doesn’t it? It comes in many forms of perfectionism and idealism and achieving of the impossible.

It is as simple as cooking and serving a beautiful meal to children who are rested and relaxed enough to partake in conversation at the dinner table. It is as simple as comparing oneself to others who we feel have somehow managed to attain a reality that is beyond our grasp.

What I am going to deem Unicornism, is nourished in overly perfect social media posts. It is cultivated at craft fairs. In songs. In movies. At get-togethers and community gatherings. It thrives in an environment of false perception.

Unicornism is the wish and the hope and the gut clutching desire to throw the golden noose around the neck of a dream that has to be there. It has to be there.

Put away your snow globes people. You don’t need a golden noose. You don’t need a fabled anthology.

You need simply to step out of the forest and into the sunlight and open your eyes. There might be a creature out there somewhere galloping, just as there might be a Loch ness swimming lazily in Scotland. But those fictions don’t matter.

What matters is the belief that whatever you want to achieve or accomplish is achievable or accomplishable. It’s not always pretty. But it’s real. And it’s honest.

I trust that.

Out there are people who see the belief and trust inside you and nourish it. That allow you to nourish it. There are people who love you without your unicorn. It’s a group effort of acceptance.

Suddenly, the lines blur and it becomes clear. The clouds part; you watch the idea of the unicorn gallop away into the forest in a trail of glitter and spectrum, and you feel happy.

Adara

In 17 days my Grandmother will be 97.

I chose my daughter’s Hebrew name in honor of my grandmother.

Zoe is Miriam Adara.

Miriam, the sister of Moses and a poet, is my Grandmother’s Hebrew name. Zoe’s second Hebrew name, Adara, means fire. I chose this intentionally. My daughter is fire; she personifies this image. I love her for it. Adore her for her hypnotizing personality. Her soft sharpness.

I adore even more the fact that she is blessed with my Grandmother’s name.

Because my grandmother is strong.

She is full of life.

Grandma came over and spent some time on the porch with me today. She sat in my white rocking chair looking at the front yard. Her cane was at her side; her wheelchair tucked unassumingly into a corner. She can still walk, but slowly, so the wheelchair helps when we need to give her a little speed. She wore a red sweater and blue boot cut jeans. Soft black slip on shoes. Her hair is white white white and short. She has carefully applied her makeup. Her huge blue eyes gaze into mine.

Sometimes I think I feel your grandfather with me, she says.

She tells me that she likes to think that his spirit is watching over her. She swears that she feels him with her. I ask her if she believes in the afterlife. She tells me that she isn’t sure. She can’t prove anything and is skeptical and, yet, she feels him.

She tells me that their hearts are connected.

She begins recounting memories of their life together: In your grandfather’s eyes, she says, I could do no wrong.

I laugh and ask her what she thinks about that sentiment.

She pauses and says to me: Doing no wrong is impossible. But for him, in me, it was possible.

She pauses for a while and enjoys the warm wind and talks to me about my wind chime. She is frustrated that it doesn’t make noise. I explain to her that I bought it while on vacation because Zachary liked it. I agree with her, it doesn’t do very well at its job; it rarely makes noise. It was relatively inexpensive though, and Zach liked the color and the way it felt in his hands. I ring it sometimes just to hear its sound. But, other than that, it serves as a memory of time spent.

We sit in the quiet. I step inside to grab an apple and a notebook to record her thoughts.

I tell her a story about Zoe’s tenacity around the topic of bath time. She grins and assures me I am in for it when Zoe is a teenager. I tell her that I know. Zoe is going to be a challenge of challenges.

Grandma wishes out loud that she could be there to see it.

I propose a promise. I request that if, after she’s gone, she finds there is a way to send me a message or a feeling, to please do so. That I would like to feel her with me. She agrees.

Again, for minutes, we sit together in the warm air. We look at the changing leaves. She asks about my lawn.

She says she’d like me to send my grandfather an email. I agree that I will, in the form of this blog, and ask what she would like me to say.

She dictates:

Dear Joe,

We are waiting for you. We want you to see our little girl.

Our Zachy. He’s so big now, Joe.

I think you would enjoy Zoe. She’s spicy like her mommy…

Grandma trails off and looks at me. She tells me that she reads my blog every day. I am surprised. I had not known this. She explains that when there is not a new one, she feels disappointed. I promise her I will write. I explain that I had been writing in other ways over the past few weeks.

She touches her green emerald ring.

Her hands are knotty and smooth.

Her nails are clean.

She complains of the failing batteries in her hearing aids.

She tells me that she needs a new bra because her breasts have fallen down.

She tells me I am beautiful.

I ask if she has eaten.

If she’d like a glass of water or some cheese.

She is not hungry and happy just to pass the time with me.

I’m happy to pass the time with her because I don’t know how much time there is left to pass.

In a week, in my front yard, I will host a wedding. Grandma will be there. She will watch my children dance.

I will watch her watch them and take note of the strength of her spirit. I will memorize the feeling so that I can look for it again in the future when Zoe stamps her foot and disregards some trivial request I make.

I will memorize Grandma’s love for me and hold carefully its weight.

I will listen for the silences.

In them, are the answers.

Gravity

My college girlfriends are super heroes.

Top tier women. Type A personalities. Alpha level brain power.

If, however, you were to examine us as a group, I think our best achievement is not an academic degree.

As a group, our most enviable quality is our ability to hone in on when anything may be wrong with any one of us.

And, no matter what or where, whatever is needed, is given (even if the person who needs the attention aren’t themselves aware that they need it). They have a sixth sense, my girlfriends, to know what needs to be said and what doesn’t.

They save the speeches and pile on the love.

Of those of us that live in the area and have children (there are a few of us who live further away and one or two who don’t have kids and, consequently, get to do things like have hangovers and glass coffee tables) there are over 20 kids under the age of 6.

15 of those 20 children and their parents (including the super hero mommies) invaded my home a short while ago. They came piling in with too much food and pumpkin beer and toddlers with runny noses. They brought laughter and tricycles and noise. The men set up a folding table in the driveway. Chips were served out of bags. Chili was eaten out of red Solo cups.

There wasn’t a Pinterest creation in sight. 

My girls clustered into the kitchen, grabbed a drink and the laughter began.

The day quickly took shape as my home turned, for just a few hours, into a little village. Kids didn’t belong to anyone, really. They just ran around and whoever was nearby would pick up a binky or tie a shoe or buckle a bike helmet.

Zachary, the oldest by 2 years, lured the little ones with Oreo cookies. They followed him like puppies. Zoe walked around screaming for “orange pickles!!” (Fritos cheesy Poofs) and Arrow graciously accepted the children’s attempts to ride him like a horse.

Dinner was served as it was ready and sweatshirts were handed out as needed. As the skies got dark, the group piled inside. We turned on The Game. The kids took out every toy. There was a massive pajama changing party.

A few weeks ago, while out to dinner with a smaller conglomeration of the ladies and their husbands, we had a frank (wine-fueled) discussion about gravity.

Why is it that our children are perfectly capable of holding a cup when they are inside of the house but, when they are buckled into their seats in the car they suddenly lose the ability to grasp anything with any efficiency whatsoever?

We get into the car armed with sippy cups and snacks in baggies because, even though we just fed them 7 minutes ago, they will be starving as soon as we pull out of the driveway.

We dislocate our arms and hand them their snacks and drinks while keeping both eyes on the road. We use one arm to adjust the volume on the radio and, if we had an in-car blender and spiced rum, could mix up a mean mixed drink.

No sooner do we return our hands to ten and two than do we hear the screams:

Mommy! I dropped my water.

My Milk….my Necklace…my lovey!

Get them! Mom!

We wonder why these same children who are so freakishly strong when trying to resist being put into their pajamas are physically incapable of holding on to their stuff once we enter a vehicle. It’s a mystery.

Meanwhile, back in the car:

A babydoll has been dropped and found its way under the seat to the only spot we can’t reach.

A long forgotten cup has opened up and water (or old milk) is spilling all over the crackers the children dropped three days ago.

The car rug looks like the floor of our favorite College bar after the lights switch on at two in the morning; There’s stuff there no one ever wants to touch.

Anyway, the kids are pissed.

At themselves?

No way.

They are red-faced-sweaty-crazy-llama-mad at gravity.

They don’t know that they are mad at a scientific force, but I assure you this is what is happening.

My children fight with gravity when building forts* in the living room.

*In my house I tell the kids to build a fort only when I have exhausted all other options.

 My children call fort construction: making a sleep over.

I call it: making mommy want to take a plane to the Caribbean.

In movies and commercials, happy children build gauzy forts while warm rain streams down the window. They are smiling in matching PJ’s. The mother brings granola cookies. The children eat them while reading age appropriate books.

In my house, the happiness ends as soon as the materials are gathered. Then, it becomes my job to build Walt Disney World out of a stained duvet cover, an old dog bed and a potholder.

Sometimes I try using binder clips. Kitchen chairs. Couch cushions.

Every time the kids whine: It’s not tall enough. Dark enough. Light enough.

It doesn’t smell like fruit roll ups and lawn chalk.  

Then, one of them gets the idea that the blanket needs to hang suspended from the ceiling. Seriously. Just hang there.

I explain every time why that isn’t possible and, every time, they lose their minds with frustration.

Zoe gets mad at gravity when she is standing still (seriously, as in not moving) in her princess dress and, out of nowhere, falls down.

Zachary goes nutso when he can’t build a tower of legos (horizontally) from his bed to the dresser.

During the get together at my home, one of the children got a lesson in gravity as he drove his ride on tractor full force over a cliff and into a stream.

The parents were watching, of course, but gravity was keeping us in our chairs holding onto our drinks. We laughed as a few of us ran to rescue the little trooper.

We watched the kids run around and scream.

We smiled at each other.

My college girlfriends are super heroes.

Golden

I’ve got this little trick I do when I am writing and I get stumped.

When the words fail me and my thoughts get fractured:

I take a walk.

I force myself to drop everything and move away from the journal.

The computer.

The post-it note.

I force myself to push down the panic rising in my chest stemming from the fear that I won’t find the answer or the way. I reason that if I can step away for a moment and allow my head the time that it needs to process, that the answer will swim towards the surface of my mind to where I can grasp it in my fingers.

Something tangible.

Something workable.

Something with a sheen and a body and a weight.

I head out the door and start down the driveway and think. I give my mind permission to wander and, generally, eventually, the answer presents itself to me.

It is Sunday night. It is 8:30 and very dark. The kids are in bed.

I call the dog and, together, he and I walk to the end of the driveway and back.

To the end of the driveway and back.

To the end of the driveway and back.

I listen to the jingle of his tags and the clip of his nails on the asphalt.

I flip through the mail that hadn’t been taken from the box yesterday.

The dog and I do the driveway walk about five times until I can think again.

The solution reveals itself to me and I become desperate to get a pen back in my hand. I am driven to get the keyboard back beneath my fingertips.

I run upstairs and allow the answer to flow out and out and out.

To clarify. To gel. To emerge.

Then, once it’s there, I can sit back and re-read and analyze and edit and correct. Finally, there it is before me: the message I have been searching for.

Once it’s down on paper it serves as a map to the next piece.

A road to the next road.

An intersection.

A white arrow on black pavement pointing me the way.

Today I read a Huffington Post piece centered around the concept of The Pollen Path.

The Pollen Path refers to a Navajo myth describing the journey to the source of life and the center of existence. The life-seeker and journey-taker know when they are on the correct road because everything around them is covered in a fine gold powder.

In her blog, Jessica Fox describes the search for her own Pollen Path. She relates living a seemingly perfect life and then, seemingly overnight, discarding it for what she knows in her heart to be right.

Don’t worry, I am not packing up my children and moving to live on an ice flow in Antarctica. I am, however, completely taken in by the concept of tuning into the world and yourself in an effort to understand where your heart should be.

I can understand this image.

I can see the light and the joy in it.

I can tilt my head up and see the sun filtering dustily through the trees.

I have to take some time because the concept of the pollen path is tremendous. It overwhelms me because I have to discard the desire to buy into the possibility that once you are on the path it is easy. In fact, I think that is not the case at all.

No path is easy.

Even one that you want to take.

To walk a Pollen Path you need to move slowly.

You may mis-step.

You may need to stop and have a peanut butter sandwich.

Some trail mix.

A sip or two of water.

I have to reason that the path itself may really be a series of stones and to get to each stone you need to take tiny jumps.

Little leaps.

An oxymoronic series of faith flips.

But what of those of us that are too overwhelmed to walk forward? I think the answer for those of us is inward. It is in our guts and in our hearts.

It is easy to walk when you know the way. Yet, there is still relief when you arrive at your destination and see a checkered flag.

What is difficult is walking down a path that you had thought was the Pollen Path but was instead mislabeled.

What then?

How do you look backwards at all that you have built-a job maybe, a career perhaps- and turn in the other direction?

I think the answer there is in reassessing the direction from where you have come. You have to bundle up those things and take them with you. Because no experience or love or job or commitment is without merit.

There are lessons there.

Things to tuck away in your backpack as you push forward towards the way that you know is right.

And no one can tell you your way because they are busy finding theirs.

In her blog, Ms. Fox talks about the importance of following ones instincts and if the instincts “lead us to a cubicle in Manhattan one day and a sub-arctic book shop in Scotland the next, then so be it. The pollen path is a path, after all”.

If you are lucky, you have the space to look around and see that there are others with you on your journey. They can’t tell you where to go or what is right-you have to decide that for yourself. But, they can walk next to you on a path that may be similar to yours.

It’s not always simple.

It’s not always easy.

Take comfort in my secret: Just take a walk and keep your eyes and heart open.

I promise you will get where you allow yourself to go.

First

Zachary tucks his small hand in mine as we walk towards his elementary school for orientation. He stands with his back against me; waits patiently in the alcove with dozens of other incoming first graders and their nervous parents. He allows me to encircle his shoulders with my arms. He plays with the thin jade bracelet on my left wrist. He lays the back of his dark head on my chest.

He is quiet; he chews on the neck of the soft gray t-shirt he is wearing.

His exuberance and curiosity resurface as we explore his colorful classroom. He exclaims and smiles when he discovers old favorite books in the class library. He hugs his teacher. Tests his chair.

The following morning, I beat my alarm by at least 20 minutes. In just over 2 hours Zachary is to board the bus for first grade for the first time.

I wash my face and brush my teeth.

I shrug on a dress and sweep my hair back into a ponytail.

I walk downstairs to the silent kitchen and pour a mug of coffee. I turn on some quiet piano solos and make Zachary’s lunch. I pack items I know he enjoys. I focus on things that will fill him up, but that he can eat quickly and while distracted. Pretzels. Hummus. Cheese. Soft Bread. A ripe peach.

I hear his bare feet on the hardwoods at twenty past six. I scoop him up (he lets me) and we snuggle on the couch. He holds Puppy 1 (his favorite worn stuffed animal) and I reach under his pajama shirt and tickle his back. I can smell his morning breath. I talk to him a bit as he wakes.

I share with him a secret that I happen to know: teachers get nervous, too.

I turn my head away and push down powerful tears and emotions. I find my steadiest voice and assure him that he will be in his special room in my heart’s heart all day. That if he feels unsure, he can turn thoughts to me and know, with unwavering confidence, that I am standing tall and holding him close.

He asks if I have butterflies in my stomach.

I tell him I do.

He tells me he does, too.

I purposely end our time a few moments after that; set my sights on bucking him up and getting him ready. I send him upstairs to pee and brush teeth and get dressed. I toast him a waffle. Cut it into three strips. Give him permission to zone on the couch as he eats.

He is bouncing and smiling and ready by 7:30 (his bus comes at 7:58). I suggest a photo shoot in the front hallway. He complies. Zoe, and her prize winning bed-head, joins us. We walk out the front door. My boy, wearing a backpack twice the width of his little back, sprints ahead of me down the front path. We start towards the end of the driveway.

The sun is out. I step off of the porch and see three hot air balloons flying overhead. I point them out to everyone. The children excitedly reach their hands to try and catch them (a tradition of ours).

By the time we reach the end of the driveway, Zachary’s friend is walking towards the bus stop as well. Zachary has not a sliver of nervousness.

His feet dance in navy crocs.

His knees twist and shake in crooked circles.

He is movement and joy and life.

We wait.

Then, it comes. In slow motion. The image I have seen in my head since I realized my boy would one day grow up: The yellow school bus turns onto the street.

It is the sound of children.

It is the rumble of motor.

It is a moving container of most precious cargo.

The bus rounds the corner. Slows. Stops.

Zachary and his friend walk up the stairs with not a moment’s hesitation. I quickly introduce myself to the bus driver. I tell her to take good care of my son. To be safe.

She smiles.

Tells me it will get easier.

I wave to Zachary as the bus drives away.

And.

Like that.

He is no longer a baby.

He is no longer under my watch. I am no longer holding him safely in my gaze.

He is responsible for learning. For self advocacy. For making friends and fighting battles.

Finding a seat.

Finding a friend.

Finding his way.

I cry, of course.

I walk towards the house.

I look up at the sky and send a powerful thought his way.

I know he feels my love.

Later that afternoon when the bus returns and the doors open, Zachary leaps down the stairs and deftly avoids my arms. He tells me: grown ups don’t need hugs!  

Zach has come back a bit more self assured.

I sling his backpack over my shoulder and follow his little frame down the driveway.

I smile.

It is a day of firsts.

Faith

When I was pregnant with Zoe, I had to explain conception to Zach. He was 3.

Zachary is intelligent. More than that though, he is fiercely curious about how things work and will push forward with questions until he understands the concept.

Not only was he speaking in full paragraphs at age 3, he was also forming highly complex thoughts and concerns. I would frequently remind myself of his age.

The inquisition came one morning in the car. I was about 8 months along. He was snacking on goldfish and a sippy cup of milk when he asked how the baby was going to come out of my body.

I stalled.

Stammered.

I realized that what was keeping me from answering was my concern he would be frightened for my well-being coupled with a fear of choosing the right words.

I decided it was best to simply tell the truth.

I told him.

I watched his shocked reaction in the rearview mirror.

For a few minutes he sat, silently reflecting, in his car seat.

Then, he hit me with the follow-up question (those are always the tough ones):

Ok mommy, if the baby comes out of your vagina, how does it get in there?

Oh man.

He wasn’t willing to let it go and I wasn’t willing to lie.

So, I told him.

I gave a bare bones explanation of man and woman and marriage. Leveraged the schema he already had of planting seeds and expanded on it. Used words like “egg” and “fertilizer” and “growth”.

He seemed satisfied.

A little embarrassed.

I felt good about my explanation.

At that point in time, I thought I had answered the hardest question he would ever ask of me. When I am dealing with explaining something difficult to my children, I think I will never be faced with breaking down anything more challenging.

Now, I know better.

Zachary has been educated on the concept of G-d. He attends synagogue. Knows that G-d is omnipotent and everywhere at the same time. Understands G-d as an all-knowing. Accepts that he can not see G-d, but knows He exists.  Like my love for him, Zachary knows that G-d demonstrates himself in ways that make the intangible, tangible.

The other day, during a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors, Zach “threw” G-d.

I was shocked.

Occasionally, he will “throw” dynamite or a volcano, but never G-d.

I asked him why he had made his choice.

Because, he answered, nothing can beat Him.

Zachary is a science-head. He understands polarity and evaporation. He gets that there are things that exist in our physical world that are too small to see with our eyes.

Atoms.

Cells.

Viruses.

Molecules.

He loves the evolutionary chart and was hard pressed to leave the fossil room at The Museum of Natural History.

Today, again in the car, Zachary hit me with another crusher. He asked me who the first humans were and how they came to be.

I told him that I would enlighten him when we got home. I then spent the remainder of the drive trying to figure out how to explain to a 6 year old the juxtaposition of faith and reality.

I struggled with when to reference the first chapters of Genesis. Which of the two creation narratives to explain. Wrestled with if I should yet communicate the concept of Original Sin (even though it is a belief not shared in Judaism).

How could I clarify the theory of man and woman being created by G-d, in G-d’s image, and in the same breath illustrate the facts of evolution?

I decided that the best thing to do was to describe it all. I watered down the concept of sin in an effort to make it more palatable to a 6 year old; used phrases like “making choices that weren’t so great”. I peppered that explanation with the caveat that we are just human.

I took him through the whole story with my own theory beating steady as an undercurrent.

Before I launched into my lesson, I reasoned with myself: my son wants faith in G-d but also needs a firm understanding of how things work.

When I consider faith, I think also of confidence.

Of complete trust in something.

Someone.

Merging the concepts of faith and reality is a challenge.

Reality is the state of things as they actually exist-rather than how they might be perceived. This reality gives a quality of substance.

I think belief, faith, is a sky-dive jump with an invisible rip cord.

It is the steeled knowledge that you will be caught before you hit the ground.

The best thing to do, then, is acknowledge what you know in your heart to be reality before you leap into the sky with a faithfully packed parachute.

These are the concepts of enormity that clamor in my brain as I explain the origin of man to my son.

Sure, I could have used a carefully illustrated children’s book about the original love story as a learning tool. I could have handed over a well-preserved fossil, revisited the evolutionary chart, and called it a day.

But then, I return to the marriage of reality and belief and know that I want to teach my son that it’s not always easy to understand.

Living an honest life requires thought and difficult explanations.

I hope Zachary will remember that.

Crazy Town

You guys. Seriously. I’ve got a problem over here.

My children are certifiable.

Nutso.

Crazy like a moose running down a highway the wrong way wearing rain-boots and a diaper.

Zoe is The Gremlin. A gremlin with a cute face and huge hair. With a voice that sounds like an old woman who has taken one too many shots of Jack while smoking a pack of Reds. And sucked a helium balloon. Upside down. While eating cookies. Naked.

Zach is The Director. He sits in the corner in a motorized chair made of legos, dirt and hummus. He barks orders while thumbing through the latest issue of Scientific American and skimming the article on electronic conductivity. He holds a megaphone and a moral compass. Periodically he twitches. Shrieks. Twiddles his thumbs. Studies The Gremlin. Sneaks her treats under the table.

There is no gradual wake up period in this house. The Gremlin and The Director go from asleep to “where the hell is my waffle” in under 3 seconds. By the time I get to the evening I am ready to commit myself.

Today, the following exchanges with The Gremlin and The Director took place between 6:17 and 6:41 PM.

No words have been changed.

Punctuation is ignored because Gremlins and Directors think punctuation is stupid.

“Actually, mommy, this pop is not my favorite color… Twinkle twinkle little star, how I know my ABC’s... In the rainbow in the skyyyyy….”

The Gremlin stubs her toe while uttering the above stream of consciousness and heading towards the staircase. She collapses. Screams. Stands. Looks up at me.

“Mommy, I see a little bone sticking out of my leg. Can you get me a sip of wat…”

She smacks her lips. Goes catatonic; comes to a moment later.

“Butt-pop! I be glad to go night night. Can you read me a stor…”

She removes her pants and underwear.

“You can’t get me. Na na na Mickey Mouse”

She sprints up the stairs.

Meanwhile, The Director is downstairs with a tin can telephone made of old yogurt drink containers and hemp rope. He calls me.

“Mom. MOM. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mommy. MOOOOOM. Mom.”

I don’t answer because I am upstairs wrestling with The Gremlin. Trying to get her to stop dancing. Trying to get her to keep her hands out of my shirt. The Director bangs on the door of The Gremlin’s room.

“MOM! I have been calling YOU. I need you to talk to me on my yogurt phone. I have a very important phone call I need to make to put my Death-Star on Ebay. I need something with a motor. I need to take a bath. Mom, if I take a bath can I bring my green boat in the bath? And my scuba mask. Where is my snorkel? But don’t put bubbles in my water this time. MOM! I am talking to you. Can you help me right now?”

I tell The Director to chill out and wait a minute. He retreats. I have time to take half of a half of a breath. My hair has frizzed out to the size of a small planet. He is back. This time wearing a hat and dragging a red wagon in which he has placed a popped balloon.

“MOM! This balloon clearly is not full. I will bring it to Home Depot and glue it together with Gorilla Glue. Mom. Mom. Can we go to Home Depot right now?”

I tell him no. Not at this exact moment. He sulks off. Clearly, there is no worse mother than me. I hear him chase the cat. He returns with her in his arms. He has ditched the wagon and is holding both the cat and a half of a banana.

“Mom. Mommy. Mom? Something is wrong with Cleo. She smells like a Bologna sandwich.”

This is the point in the evening where I flirt precariously with losing the ability to function. I have fantasies of quiet white rooms and soft beds and soothing music.

Fine.

Whatever.

I have fantasies of shots of Tequila. If I shoot Gran Patron, I won’t know if I’m in a soft bed or curled up with cheerios stuck to my knees and an old piñata as a pillow.

It won’t matter though.

They will find me.

They always do.

My children are crazy.