She Knows and Loves Herself

“You may give them your love but not your thoughts, For they have their own thoughts.You may house their bodies but not their souls,For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.”

Khalil Gibran, “On Children” (from The Prophet)

I just finished reading another book by Sarah Addison Allen. She crafts beautiful stories set in the mountains of North Carolina and infuses them with just the right amount of whimsical magical realism. Her characters are endearing and flawed, often on a journey of self-discovery and realizing their true, unique nature. Her novels are a comfortable landing place for me. When I want to get swept up in a story, she always delivers a captivating escape. This latest book was no different. She revisited characters from a previous novel: the Waverly family brimming with thoughtfulness, quirkiness and originality. She writes of two sisters doing their best to raise daughters. “Motherhood is hard enough without judgment from others who don’t know the whole story.” Amen, sisters. I can relate.

It just so happens that this magical storyline came along at exactly the right time. In raising my daughter, I carry the tremendous weight of concern for her big spirit. Lately, I have worried about her loud personality and the fact that she does not have a tight-knit social group. Is she an outcast? Has she brought this on herself with her passionate, dramatic reactions to everything from food to games at recess? And what was I hoping? Do I want her to conform? Follow the crowd? Do I want her to blend in rather than stand out?

Allen shows this complexity when her two characters discuss the teenage daughter, Bay. The rational sister shuts down the mother’s paranoias.

“I think she is doing fine. Bay knows herself. She likes herself. She doesn’t care what other people think...You want her to be popular...She doesn’t want to be popular. She wants to be herself.”

I gasped upon reading these lines. It was as though the character was hurling meteors of parental advice directly at my face. I could sub in my daughter’s name, and the paragraph worked perfectly. Yes, she likes herself. How much time have I spent beating myself up and scraping by with insecurities and harsh personal criticism? My daughter, free as a bird, soars above those painful moments of self-loathing because she knows herself and, most importantly, likes what she knows.

My daughter as Mother Nature for her school's Fairy Tale Ball.

When my children were younger, they were prone to alarmingly high fevers whenever they got sick. A fever of 104-105 was not uncommon with a typical, run of the mill ear infection. The wise, simple advice from our pediatrician talked me down from numerous paranoid, new-mother meltdowns: “Don’t worry so much about the number. Pay attention to their behavior. If they act lethargic and unresponsive, that is more important than a number.” Basically, she told me to trust my gut and pay attention. Perhaps this advice is still relevant and important in other aspects of my kids’ lives.

I cannot get caught up in counting their friends to measure social success, but I can pay attention to their behavior. The number is one indicator, but I can tell far more by seeing the whole child. In my case, the child I see is living a big, full and happy life. I have moments of panic because I just can’t decipher what her true self will look like at 16, 18 or even 21. There is no formula or box she will fit into, but I wouldn’t want her to fit in any box. When I become hyper-sensitive or nervous watching her interact with her peers, I begin to see situations through my motherhood lens. I want to shield her from rejection or ridicule, guard her from situations where she will be the ultimate black sheep, but as my husband candidly reminded me, “Why would you want her to fit in with the crowd? YOU are a black sheep.” My daughter, at nine years old, has figured out that she is unique, and she is perfectly content. If she is too much for some people, she moves on to a new audience or adjusts accordingly. At times, there are natural consequences. She might have to offer up apologies or adjust her tone, occasionally shedding some tears, but ultimately, her identity is found in herself rather than the acceptance or approval of her peers. It has taken me too long to realize this is not a matter of concern but a cause for celebration.

A few weeks ago, my daughter accompanied me to a local health food store for our weekly shopping. There is a man who happens to be there almost every time I go. He wears a vibrant robe, sandals, carries a cross-body purse and flaunts his majestic, silvery striped afro. My daughter immediately spotted him and stopped me. “Mom, look at that man! He is wonderful! He doesn’t care what other people think!” I wanted to scoop her up and twirl her around. She teaches me so much. “Yes. Isn’t it beautiful to see someone so free and comfortable in his own skin?” I responded. Before I knew what was happening, she ran over to the man. “Hey, I LOVE your hair.” His warm smile seemed to say, “The light in me salutes the light in you, little girl.” They were kindred spirits and fast friends.

As a mother, it is crucial that I remember the definition of success and happiness is relative to each individual child, not based on our personal experience. Our children do not need to follow our prescribed paths; furthermore, it is unfair to project our insecurities and fears onto them. Towards the end of Allen’s novel, the teenager’s mother has a realization. “Maybe you don’t have to be led into the future. Maybe you can pick your own path.” Yes!  A hundred times YES! I can lead by example, but my daughter will forge her own unique path that suits the person she knows and loves - herself.

Acceptance

“Whoever is present are the right people. Whenever it begins is the right time. Whatever happens is the only thing that could have happened. And when it's over, it's over.”

Anne Lamott, Some Assembly Required: A Journal of My Son's First Son

Remember times in life when you were so happy to gain acceptance? I was accepted to Appalachian State University, New York University, and different internships or programs. It was means for celebration. Then, this week my mom got her final letter of acceptance. Hospice welcomed her into their care. Only this acceptance was an unforeseen, debilitating punch in the gut that doubled me over in instant nausea.

Here I sit trying to process this news. Mom will receive home health care. Dad will get the extra help he needs. She will stop taking her medications. They will provide her medical care and work to keep her comfortable. It should be welcome news at this stage, but I am still working on convincing myself.

I just read yet another amazing book by Anne Lamott. Anyone who knows me knows that I want to be her best friend. I have said it for years. She has practically helped raise me. My advisor and mentor during my under grad gave me her first book. I have read all Lamott’s books at every stage of my life. She helped me when I was a stumbling, paranoid mess as a new mother. She got me. She always knew just what to say. When I started asking the difficult questions in life - there she was trying to figure it all out. Her raw, gorgeous and terrifying vulnerability reverberated and echoed through the chambers of my heart. Through the years her words have been a lighthouse guiding me back to my true self, so it would only make sense that she would show up to offer her unique concoction of humor, experience and naked truth when my mom is dying.

Whoever is present are the right people.

Hospice are the right people for this job even though I am annoyed and angry at the moment that they get to be the ones to “accept” my mom into the last six months of her life. They decided she was close enough to death to deserve their help. According to their website, “At the center of hospice and palliative care is the belief that each of us has the right to die pain-free and with dignity, and that our families will receive the necessary support to allow us to do so.” Ugh.

But I know you are right again, Anne Lamott. They are the right people. My boss, who recently lost a parent and a close family friend, has been a steady source of encouragement. She described Hospice from her recent experience: “They are wonderful people. If we could only begin to see it as representing comfort rather than death.” Comfort, yes we could take some of that right now. The family, specifically my dad, will get some much-needed support.

Whenever it begins is the right time.

Is there ever really a good time for your mom to die? We know the answer to that question. Days like Christmas and Mother’s Day will sting regardless. It won't be easier when I am a year older. Winter cold won't help to numb the pain. Summer heat will not burn away the tears. The time is now, and it will be right.

A close friend sent me this shattering and beautifully haunting text the day mom got her acceptance letter:

“You've been learning to dance with a limp for a while now and it's been a beautifully courageous process to witness. This is your experience and only you can fully appreciate it. But you will not go through it alone. You are never alone. So go vomit, scream, cry, laugh, play and live. Be confused, angry, sad and happy. Lean on your tribe and share your experiences.”

See, Anne Lamott, you were more right than you ever knew. This awful, painful, humbling and piercing moment is exactly right. My quirky and passionate tribe will help me catch the shattering pieces and let me step all over their toes as I stumble to put one foot in front of the other.

Whatever happens is the only thing that could have happened.

What in the world did I expect? Mom is in the final stages of Alzheimer's. It's not like she was going to get better. It has to end, and now we have people trained to help us take the final steps of this closing chapter.

If she could understand, I would tell mom that this ending would make her proud. “Dad gave his all loving you for every single minute, Mom.” He welcomed Hospice because it meant he could have the help he needed for mom to end her life at home with him by her side, not in a nursing facility. In that regard, maybe this is not the only thing that could have happened, but it is our story and how we handled the tattered and torn hand we were dealt.

And when it's over, it's over.

Last week, I told a few of my best friends that I had decided everything was going to be okay. Mom was going to die, and I would be okay. She will let go, and it will be over. I would be lying if I didn't admit I will breathe a huge sigh of relief somewhere in between my sobbing bouts of anguish. There will be relief that she no longer has to exist in this hollow shell. She will be free. Her work here will be done - and it was beautiful work.

Yes, it will be over. The battle will be over. The sickness and deterioration will be over. The balled fists and clenched teeth of frustration will be over. But when one thing ends, another must begin. I will start anew in this world without my mom. Don't they say you are never truly grown until you lose a parent? Alas, I will arrive at the gates of true adulthood.

Raising the Girl I Never Was

"If we want to give our children what they need to thrive, we must honor their basic nature- boyish or girlish, introverted or extroverted, wild or mellow."
-Wendy Mogel, The Blessing of a Skinned Knee: Using Jewish Teachings to Raise Self-Reliant Children

The other day my eight year old daughter stood beside me in front of the bathroom mirror. “I look like you today, Mommy.” Clad in tank tops, leggings and messy buns, we were ready to start our weekend. I stood there looking down at her white blonde hair and twinkling blue/green eyes. In those moments when she wants to be just like me, I am taken aback. If she only knew how hard I fight to become the girl she wakes up as every day.

My son does not try to look like me or imitate me. He doesn’t need to; he was born like me. He has all my neurotic, Type A tendencies. My daughter, on the other hand, draws nose rings on her face and decorates her skin with self-designed tattoos using her tool of choice. I envy her innate gusto for living. She is equally excited when she gets a new set of colored pencils or when the family gets a new frying pan. Her energy and laughter are infectious. She makes her own clothes because, unlike me, she is crafty and Pinteresty. She is also brave in a way I may never be. I didn’t become comfortable in my own skin until my mid-thirties, and here she is living each day in such a big way before even hitting double digits. She told me her motto: “In the end we only regret the chances we did not take.” With jazz hands framing her shiny face she exclaims, “I take ALL the chances!” As you can imagine, she is quite terrifying to parent.

Yet, she is funny and passionate. There is always a light in her eyes and a song in her heart.  She is disciplined and practices self-control as a gymnast, but most of her time is spent wide open, exploring her surroundings with an imaginative and boisterous spirit. Her room is a disaster, a self-constructed shrine of “Life with Lila.” But best of all, when she grabs my head and aggressively smashes her face against my cheek for a welcome-home kiss, her love is palpable. Still, none of these details reveal the reality that so much of my time is spent pulling my hair out asking, “WHY?”

In my favorite parenting book, The Blessing of a Skinned Knee, Wendy Mogel writes that whatever traits we see in our children that make us crazy will one day become their greatest strengths. Almost daily, I try to remind myself of this silver lining as I battle with my free-spirited child to finish a task she has started, clean up after herself, consider using a filter before speaking her mind, or end a dramatic tirade. Her passion can take an explosive turn and quickly trade laughter for tears. Some of her elaborate projects have ruined countless pieces of furniture and various surfaces in our home. Frequently, her active imagination embellishes the truth beyond the acceptable allowance of creative non-fiction. She would rather beg for forgiveness than ask for permission. One day she will probably backpack across Europe, but right now I can't keep her attention for more than two minutes. She lives in a perpetual state of “ants in her pants.” She worries her poor brother to death. “I'm worried Lila will make bad choices and run away with people with mohawks when she is a teenager,” he confides. Me too, Jude, me too. (Our family has nothing against mohawks. I am not sure how this hairstyle became the dreaded symbol of rebellion in his strange little mind.)

Thus, our task as parents is set before us. How do we keep this wild child, spirited and free, from being crushed and shoved into predetermined boxes? Where can she safely spread her wings and be who she is meant to be? Can we help her maintain this bold nature into her teen years, bypassing the usual roller coaster brought about by self-esteem issues and peer pressure? How often will we need to literally save her from herself or some horrible natural consequences? And most importantly, will we be able to maintain our sanity throughout this whole process?

While I don’t pretend to always “get her” and at times want to reign in her big living just a bit, I can immediately recognize when other people try to silence or dull her passions. My instincts kick in, and I fight for her opportunity to be her truest self. I have no desire for her to spend years building a persona to hide her spirit and conform to expectations. While I am busy excavating and connecting with my real identity, she can be fully living in hers. This is why when I saw a school situation where her spirit was not recognized or appreciated, I jumped into action. My girl has no time for labels: bossy, loud, over-active. She can flourish and taste this life in an environment that celebrates the way she takes in the world and inhabits her own body.

Raising this spirited child is not for the faint of heart. Whether I am extinguishing hot glue gun mishaps or unearthing snails and frogs in her pockets, I have moments of complete frustration. I find myself apologizing or wanting to make excuses for her bold behavior. It is so hard to turn off the “I-would-never-do-that” voice in my head. But then I step back and listen to her tell me about her hopes and dreams or direct our gratitude game at dinner. I listen to her defending the beauty pageants I abhor because, “Maybe it’s their passion, Mom, and everyone should be allowed to follow their passion.” I am reminded that I must keep fighting to honor her wild spirit and help her learn to protect that light in her eyes and song in her heart no matter the cost. In the process, perhaps she will inspire me to take a few more chances of my own.