From You, I Learn: A Year of Growth

June 3, 2013 By Kelle

It didn’t go like I had planned is, I must say, a common theme around here. Like when my friend, Claire Bidwell Smith (who I met in NY on this trip and who guest posted here), came in from L.A. last week to chill out with us and I welcomed her with bad lemonade and an empty toilet paper roll.

Let me back up.

Here’s the thing–I like to welcome new friends in a somewhat impressive way. Something like house is clean, candles are flickering, Diana Krall is crooning, cheese plate is calling, wine is pouring, people are smiling. It used to happen like that all the time, but now not so much. And I know I could completely cut myself slack with that you-have-three-kids-now-give-it-up thing, but I like candles flickering and Diana Krall crooning. It makes me happy. I love having people over and having things feel calm and inviting and all wine and cheese plate-ish. I’m okay with still striving for that but not always making the mark. Sometimes we will make it. Sometimes we won’t. I don’t think people who always make the mark have their priorities wrong, and I don’t think people who never make the mark are lazy. I think both are awesome, and I am pretty sure I will always be the lady in between–a few times Holy Home Run!, and the rest like that one time Claire Bidwell Smith came over to my house for the first time.

I gave her crappy lemonade and carried three bags of chips out to our lanai where I scooted dirty patio furniture to the side to make room for her to sit. I didn’t have anything to make dip so I pushed a bowl of plain sour cream in the middle of the table. I felt a little bit silly that things where all disheveled but I also felt a little bit awesome that things were disheveled. We ate chips dipped in plain sour cream and watched our kids swim. And then she excused herself to use the bathroom. While she was in there, a cup of water spilled on the tile right as her littlest was walking toward it. And the baby slipped and fell and started screaming. And then her older sister ran to help her but didn’t make it because there was a puddle of water. She slipped and fell in it too. And they were both screaming for their mom, except she couldn’t come get them. Because she was hollering from my bathroom that there was no toilet paper. And I should say that there was no toilet paper because it was unraveled all over the living room floor from that time the kids used it to make casts for their pretend clinic.

And here is where you laugh. You laugh and say “hey, we will always remember this.” And there will be many more times where things aren’t put together. But there will also be those home runs. Cheese plates and Diana Krall and slick counters that reflect flickering candlelight. I love that I have both. And I love the sweet time we enjoyed with our friends this week.

With that said, a little something new here. I’ve written things for my children–thoughts and lessons and intentions I want to pass on to them. But I wanted to start a “From You, I Learn” series–the things they are teaching me. Because sometimes children have it figured out far better than we do. We tend to make things so complicated. From the minds, from the mouths, from the hearts of babes–it’s a comforting place to return to find the greatest truths sometimes.

*****

Dear Lainey,

Today was the kindergarten end-of-year party for your class. The classroom was cleaned up, no longer decorated with projects and papers from you and your friends, and a victorious energy was obviously present–that little “we’re big now, we did it” feeling radiating from nineteen proud kindergarteners.

I watched you–newly six–embrace this environment you’ve grown so confident with this past year, and I can’t help but think about the painful day for both of us–the one that initiated this school journey. I remember sitting in the parking lot that first morning, my heart shredded with empathy for what I knew you were feeling–nervous, afraid and alone. And no matter what Daddy and I told you about how it would get better, you just had to figure it out yourself. And though I told you about how it would get better and how one day you wouldn’t miss us and how I promise, promise, promised you’d own those halls someday, I think what meant most to you those first few days was simply consistent love. The hugs, the morning kisses, the “Have a great day”s, and the sight of me waiting for you every day when that bell rang.

And somewhere in those first weeks, you just leaned in. Not because we told you to, not because you were pushed, but because you decided on your own that it was time to lean in to that experience and all that you’d gain from it. I’d love to think that something I said or did created that turning point for you so that I could repeat it in parenting dilemmas in the future, but I’m going to have to say it was all you, baby. You had to experience it, you had to wait, you had to be uncomfortable for a while and you had to feel when it was safe and good and fun enough for your standards to let go and enjoy it. All I had to do was continually love you, hug you, wipe your tears, and show up every day to drop you off, pick you up and, in doing so, remind you that I. Am. Here. Always. And from that, I’ve learned that’s really the foundation of this parenting thing. We put a lot of pressure on ourselves and carry a lot of guilt for what we are or aren’t doing in raising children, but it’s often so unnecessary. Loving by example is so much more important than loving with the right things to say. And kids? Well, you guys will be okay because you’re smart and strong and resilient and naturally equipped with so much to handle life.

As I think about sending your sister to school in coming years and the added fears with that, I’ll look back at what you’ve shown me. In fact, you’ll probably be holding her hand, leading her there, whispering “I was scared too.” She’ll be okay. It might be hard. But we love and we hug and we kiss and we show up every single day, so that you know we’re there. We’re always there.

And next time I’m all hard on myself wanting to snap out of a mood or a struggle or an insecurity *right this second*, I’ll remember your little but oh-so-big kindergarten experience. It just takes time. Relax. Breathe. When it’s time to lean in, I’ll know. And then I’ll do just like you’ve done. I’ll let go and learn. And it will sometimes be hard but most of the time fun.

Like I tell you all the time, “I wish I had a little girl like you”
And like you impishly smile and reply…”Mama, you do. I’m yours.”

From you, I learn.
Love you forever.
Mom

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