First Day

Liam Thomas.  First Grader.

This day has loomed, large and significant, for many years.  The first day of first grade would be a milestone for Liam, more so than the first day of kindergarten.  I’d thought about this day many times over the years but always with the awareness that it was far off, a ways a way, in some future time and place I couldn’t really fathom.

And then suddenly, yesterday morning, it was there.

I marveled all morning at how relaxed our morning felt.  Liam slept a whole 30 minutes later than he’d been able to on school days in the past.  And we still had 45 more minutes to get ourselves out the door. I glanced at the clock while I made breakfast and informed Liam that if he was still going to Child’s Voice the bus would have already arrived by now (or maybe not- the bus company wasn’t the most reliable…).

After finishing his cereal and apple slices Liam asked if he needed to get his shoes on.  I said no, he had some time to play, to which he responded, “Oh yea!  RyRy, do you want to go play?” and they were off, scampering to some imaginative world of their own creation.

I didn’t feel anxious yet, taking my cues from Liam who seemed remarkably calm and normal about this day which was A Big Day.  The only indication he carried any nerves about the day ahead had come at 1:30 am that morning when he came to my side of the bed weepy, claiming he couldn’t sleep.  I puttered him back to his bed and then climbed in with him, wordlessly wrapping my arms around him and holding him tight, an attempt to squeeze the anxiety out of his little body.  I lay with him until he was almost asleep then nuzzled his neck and slipped out of bed, saying another fervent prayer for a good day.

But now, as we ate breakfast and got dressed he seemed cheerful and excited about the day ahead.

We took our obligatory first day of school pics.  And then, with my mom at home to watch the girls, we set out to walk to school.

After years of taking a bus 45 minutes to school each day a 7 minute walk feels like a luxury.  He held my hand while we walked, not yet too cool for such displays of affection.  While we walked I felt the significance of this day begin to settle in me, a heaviness in the pit of my stomach.  I tried to understand why this felt so big.  It was not the full day aspect of first grade; Liam has been attending 7 hours of school daily since he turned three.  I wasn’t worried about his teacher or the academics; his teacher knew the ins and outs of Liam’s hearing loss and Liam himself was more than ready for first grade.  Was I worried about the other kids?  Worried that some brat would make fun of “those things on his ears,” a scenario I’d previously never had to contemplate as all the kids at his school had things on their ears?  Maybe, but first graders weren’t yet cruel really.  Maybe by third or fourth grade we’d need to steel ourselves for that.

As we got closer to school Liam got quieter and his grip on my hand a little tighter.  By the time we’d made our way to door 7 where all the first and second graders lined up to begin their day I saw the anxiety on Liam’s face and knew it mirrored my own.  It was the newness of it all.  For the first time in five years we were at a new school, a place we didn’t know, with people who didn’t know us.  And because we were jumping in a year later it felt like everyone else knew the drill but us.  

Liam and I found the 1H line.  I tried to step back, to let him stand in line with the other kids alone but he reached out for my hand, a panicked look in his eyes.  And so I stood next to him as his eyes darted around.  I could practically see the fear and anxiety levels rising in him and his brain tried desperately to figure out what was happening, what he could expect, what he needed to know.  

I thought about how anxious Tommy got at the zoo on Sunday when I asked him to refill our zoo cup at an unfamiliar location, recognizing how similar Liam is in new settings.  I knelt down and told him not to worry, it was everyone’s first day and no one knew exactly what was going to happen next.  The teachers would tell him what to do and where to go.  He started blinking back tears then, and I knew my words had touched on a point of anxiety for him.

His attempts to fight the tears that were threatening to push through was all it took to pull my own out.  And there we were, blinking back tears, desperate to appear as though we were not about to lose it in this crowd of moms and kids all more ready for the first day of school than we were.

I wanted to shout, “I’m not a crazy over-protective mom!  This is not a normal first day of school for us!  This is a BIG deal!”  But again, I couldn’t quite articulate in my own heart why this felt like such a big deal.  

But it did feel new and scary and big.  He felt like a pioneer, charting new territory: the first deaf kid the school had ever had.  Would the kids be nice?  Would the teachers know what to do?  Would he feel all alone and lost, unable to advocate for himself?

Rationally I knew the kids would be so kind, some already were.  I knew there would be a learning curve with the teachers but that they also wanted to do right by him.  Because he was the only one with hearing loss they weren’t going to let him fall through the cracks.  And I knew his old school had done everything, and I mean everything, to prepare him for this moment, for the moments to come when he’d need to advocate for himself.  He was ready.  And I was too.  We just didn’t know it yet.

And so, with tears in both our eyes and hugs and whispers that it was going to be awesome, that he was going to be awesome, his teacher led his class into the school and I watched him go.  I walked off by myself and let the tears fall freely, calling Tommy to unload my anxiety about our boy.

By 3:30 we were all more than ready to see Liam.  Tommy had come home early and we stood, double stroller filled with little sisters, waiting at door 7.  Liam rushed out, scanning the crowd for my familiar face.  I caught his eye and he came hurdling towards me arms out.  After a big hug that brought both of us much needed relief I asked him how his first day of first grade went.  And he said, “It was awesome!”  

Which was all I needed to hear.  We survived our first day.  And it was awesome.

Good

My husband’s dearly loved uncle passed away last month.  Yesterday the family gathered to celebrate his life and mourn his passing.  Uncle Byron died at the age of 82 leaving behind a beloved wife, three devoted children and seven incredible grandchildren, not to mention the rest of us, siblings, nieces and nephews, cousins and dear friends. 

Uncle Byron was one of a kind.  I heard tales of Byron before I’d ever actually met him.  My friend Casey babysat for Byron and Carol’s next door neighbors in high school.  She described the older man that lived next door as “hilarious and also inappropriate,” which could have been his tagline: Byron Powell: hilarious and inappropriate since 1934.  Years later I would end up marrying his nephew and would have the privilege of calling him Uncle Byron.  My kids called him Papa Byron.  

He was warm and funny, welcoming and kind.  He worked hard and served his church and community.  He was loved by everyone who knew him.  And he was playful, goodness he was playful.  Byron had a giggle that was infectious and he was the kind of adult that never lost his childlike heart.  He played games and poked fun but always with love; if he teased you it made you feel like you were in, one of his favorites, loved.

When we moved to Wheaton, the town where Tommy and I grew up and Uncle Byron still lived, I loved running into him more frequently, seeing him multiple times a week at the Sports Center, the gym we both belonged to.  Sometimes, if I was lucky, I’d catch him on the track and we’d walk a few laps together, catching up on life and whatnot.  He was dear to me and I had a special soft spot in my heart for Uncle Byron. 

So many lovely things were said at his service but a common theme surrounded his very goodness.  His son Dave spoke about that word, “good” and it’s underratedness.  In today’s age of overselling and exaggeration the word good often goes unappreciated.  But that was exactly what his dad was, good, and the life he built the same.  I couldn’t have agreed more.  Uncle Byron was good, a good man, a good husband, a good father, good brother and uncle.  

For me, that word good reveals so much meaning behind those four letters.  Good has depth and richness.  To be good is to be honest and trustworthy, sturdy and true.  Good makes selfless decisions and loves long and well.  Goodness goes down to one’s core.  It is not a quality that comes and goes depending on the situation; those whom we call good live it deeply and in all circumstances. 

Uncle Byron was good.  My dad was good.  I hope I am writing a life with that kind of goodness.

When a good man like Uncle Byron dies I am reminded again of my deep appreciation for those people who live their lives the way Uncle Byron did.  He was kind to those around him.  He gave the best parts of himself to his family and friends.  He drank deeply from the well of joy and enjoyed the hell out of life.  He left a legacy of love and connectedness.  When the world tells us that prominence and success, prestige and money are the things that matter, I only have to look at a life like Uncle Byron’s to know that it’s a lie.  Goodness, love, family, connection.  These are the things that matter.  

Uncle Byron helped to build something beautiful in his lifetime and last night, as all the kids, grandkids, nieces and nephews, and great-nieces and nephews gathered, I witnessed it in all its glory.  Uncle Byron was good and he built a life that reflected that goodness.  And we are so lucky to have been a part of it.

Well done Uncle Byron.  You will be missed.

Introducing Lou...

It's been quiet here for a spell.  Because now I have three kids and I'm here to inform you that three is more that two.  A lot more.

Almost three weeks ago, on May 20th at 6:45 pm this little lady entered our lives.

Meet Louisa.  We will call her Lou.  There are lots of stories to tell already regarding sweet Lou.  Her birth is a story in and of itself (spoiler alert- it was fast, furious and dramatic), and there's more to her name than meets the eye.  Her siblings adore her and we think she's pretty great too.  Soon, I hope, and in the months to come I will tell those stories and more.

In the meantime I'd like to introduce you to our newest addition.  From here on out Lou will be called "Red" because surprisingly (and also not so surprisingly) she has hints of red in her hair.  Enough to make us think she may just be a ginger, like her grandfather before her.  He would have loved this little detail.  He would have loved her even more.

For Amy, On Her Wedding Day

I met Amy almost 9 years ago.  I remember one of our first conversations, on the corner in Tribeca where our church met.  She carried her guitar case and told me about her recent time living in Australia.  She had beautiful red hair and was living the office worker by day/ musician by night New York life.  I knew instantly that I liked her and that maybe, just maybe, she’d be my first New York friend.  As a native of Nebraska she shared my Midwest sensibility but as a fellow 20-somethings living in New York City we shared the same sense of adventure and dreaming that people who moved to New York after college carry with them.

She became the first of my New York girls, a group of women who changed my life and loved me so very completely.  During my first year in the city Amy was at times my only friend but throughout the course of that year we built community.  First it was with Aimee and Bob and Ben.  Then, at the beginning of that second year Amy and Aimee and I began a little “small group” of sorts, joined by Rachel and April, Kim and Becca.  These women were my family in the Big Apple.  They were the best things I took with me when I left.

Amy was always the start of it all and the one I continued to return to over the years.  She was the one to stand up for me at my wedding and the one to show up for my dad’s funeral.  She is beautiful, inside and out.  An incredibly talented singer and songwriter, Amy wrote the song she played at our wedding that I still cherish to this day.  She loves others so well.  She cares for her people, works hard to keep in touch with the friends she’s made around the world.  She shows up when she needs to, listens well and doesn’t judge.  Amy is the kind of friend everyone should have- loyal, loving and true.  I’ve been so blessed by her love and friendship.

Today is her wedding day.  Because I am 38 weeks pregnant and her wedding is in DC, I am not wearing the beautiful gray bridesmaid dress and standing by her side as she says her vows like I wanted to be.  Instead I am home, thinking about my sweet friend and what this day means.

I’ve walked with Amy through the past nine years as she’s courageously opened her heart to the wrong guys or the right-on-paper guys or the almost enough guys.  I’ve watched her take chances and put herself out there in big, brave ways.  I’ve watched her get hurt and heal and grow.  I’ve always known that Amy was a gem and that someday the right guy would see all that I’ve seen.  I knew if she was patient enough and continued to open her heart even though it had been mishandled before, the guy that was worth it would finally show up.    

And he did.  Her future husband knew instantly what I’ve always known; this is one you don’t let get away.  He was honest and up front and played no games.  He cherished her and valued her and took her aback with his straightforwardness.  And he himself is as much of a gem as she is. 

Today, on her wedding day, I want her to know how proud I am of her.  She had every reason to close her heart and stay small and safe.  She could have chosen not to take another risk, to let heartbreak and wrong guys jade and harden her.  But she instead chose the more difficult path of vulnerability.  She chose to stay open.  To take a chance.  To continue to love big.  I’m so very proud of her for this choice. 

She chose to stay true to herself.  To not compromise for the wrong guy.  She chose to wait for the one who loved her for her.  I’m so thankful she did.

Today, on her wedding day, I hope she knows how loved she is.  I hope she knows how many people are so excited for this day.  I hope she knows that we all cheering to know that she is marrying someone who is worthy, who values her in all the ways she deserves to be valued, who is an equal partner. 

Today, on her wedding day, I pray that she can feel all the joy, love and happiness that surround her.  I pray that this day, the beginning of the journey, is one that is filled with laughter and joyful tears, and enough certain happiness to sustain her through the eventual hard times every marriage encounters.  I pray that she knows she is surrounded by a community of people who are rooting for her marriage, committed to support it along the way.  I pray that my sweet friend knows how loved she is.

Happy wedding day Amy.  I am so very sad that I can’t be there.  But know I am thinking of you all day, loving you from afar and cheering for you in spirit.   This is a happy, happy day.

On Mothers

Moving back in with my parents a few years after becoming a parent myself was not really in my master plan.  I prided myself on never having moved home after college.  Two weeks after graduation I packed my suitcases and moved to the big apple never again to claim my childhood home’s address as my own again.  Well, until now that is.  Twelve years after leaving for college, one husband and two kids later, I’m back in the room of my teenage years.  Well played God, well played.

Inevitably this move comes with some tension, some awkwardness, some growing pains.  I find myself reverting to ways of interacting with my parents that I haven’t employed for years.  It is normal, I’ve been told, to fall back on these familiar patterns of living with those who raised you.

Most days I cook dinner for everyone.  Cooking dinner is causing a large amount of anxiety in me.  Suddenly every night feels like a high stakes dinner party.  Before moving in with my parents my culinary feats were consumed by Toots, who eats everything you put in front of her, Monster, who only eats one big meal every three days and employs no rhyme or reason to what he will and won’t eat on a particular day, and Tommy who eats pretty much everything and will make a frozen pizza for second dinner if necessary.  Low stakes at their finest here.  Now I’m cooking for people more finely tuned palates and I’m terrified.  (Perhaps I need to go back and read my own advice…)

A few weeks ago, as I prepared dinner for us all, I found myself battling the insecurity and anxiety that accompanies the five-o-clock hour now.  My dad asked me a pretty innocent question about how I was preparing the meal.  I responded with a flustered, anxiety ridden half answer followed by “that’s-probably-not-a-good-idea-what-do-you-think-I-should-do-and-how-do-you-usually-make-this?!”

My mother, calmly and encouragingly said, “that sounds great.  Do it how you would normally cook it.  It’ll be great.”  It was a simple, motherly statement, infusing confidence into her (grown) daughter.  I’m sure my mother has been saying things like this to me my whole life, but in that instance I truly saw it for what it was.  I recognized that tone, the loving patience.  It is the same voice and inflection I use with Monster as his little hands work to manipulate scissors and Toots as her body struggles to string steps together into bona fide walking.  They are the voice and words of a mother trying to help her baby take clumsy, awkward steps towards self-confidence and blessed assuredness.

And there she was, her baby now 30 years old, my mother still mothering.  My mother could still recognize my insecurity and parented the best way she knew how… towards self-confidence and blessed assuredness.

We never really stop being mothers do we?  It’s strangely comforting this thought.  To all the mothers out there, from those who’ve been at this game for decades to those who are snuggling fresh new babes and all those in between, happy day.  Thanks for mothering the best way you know how, and for never truly stopping.