Carrying a Tent in Heels

I’m sitting at my dining table, filled with a happy sense of accomplishment because I successfully carried a six person tent on my back from REI’s top level down to flights of metal stairs, out the door and across the street to my Prius, in high heel boots.  I’m filled with the  “I can do anything” feeling of having survived two natural childbirths, only less painful and a little sexier.

It’s eleven o’clock and Nika and I are making signs for my Love’s birthday celebration. The tent is for him. Nika crafts one poster that says, “It’s your day, not ours.” I write one that says, “It’s your birthday; do whatever you want!” It seems we have a theme. Maybe it’s because, as the older females in the family, we sense that our guy, whether in the role of father or lover, perpetually puts others first. It’s his way.

What is my 7 1/2 year-old doing home making celebratory signs on a Monday at eleven o’clock am, you may ask?

Well, when she woke up, the girl asked me for a day to get better from her cold. With no fever, I was tempted to force my young daughter to go to school. Thoughts of giving up my precious few hours of silent house space, with the freedom to come and go as I please traded for inevitable interruptions and possibly irritating needs or requests filled me with dreadful trepidation. My kids’ eyes implored me and I felt under compulsion to turn her off, like an annoying alarm. It felt like “my needs vs. your needs,” which is how it often feels.

The ironic thing is, fear just has this unfortunate habit of making things worse. Instead of quashing a challenge or evading it, fear has an innate talent for causing problems to either implode or explode. Take our current economic situation. Fear makes banks stop lending, instead of creating accountable structures to help them lend responsibly; men and women cut spending as if cutting out a tumor, instead of creating viable financial habits that foster fiscal wellness for individuals and communities. Or take war. Onne nation feels like its needs or wants are being either obstructed or trampled on by the interests of another nation, so they decide to kill their innocent sons and daughters. See, it doesn’t make sense at all, when you think about it, but that’s the thing about fear — people who are freaked out don’t think; their frontal lobs where thinking occurs is ignored, bypassed, whatever — and their kill or be killed, fight or flight response is the one literally leading thing charge or the escape. Outside-the-box, win-win, synergistic solutions just don’t emerge out of that kind of brain state. You may as well as the mosquito you are about to squash if he has any suggestions of peaceful co-existence. Operating from fear typically leads to outcomes in which neither parties ultimate needs are understood or honored. Whether you’re a president or a parent, Leading from fear as a parent comes with the same types of problems: mutual resentment, cold wars, full blown battles, tears of remorse, deep loss. I looked in her eyes and told her I’d go take a little time to listen to my intuition and to ask God about it.

In the bathroom, struggling to hear the still small whisper of truth, I found myself instead hearing noisy emotional static. Even so, I mustered enough presence of mind to ask myself what decision would be the highest and truest looking back twenty years from now. First I became convinced that looking back, having seen her eyes, I’d be hard pressed not to regret making her go, and Two, if I did make her go, it would be a decision bred out of fear, not love.  I’m not a fan of intentionally contradicting own values. I wished I heard something like God’s whisper, rather than simply following a personal thought process to it’s natural conclusion, but maybe That Ultimate Friend figured common sense was what the doctor ordered.

Once I owned the fact that love had to win over fear, however scared I was to choose love in the first place,  it was just a matter of minutes of wrestling it out with myself before I emerged from the bathroom and turned to face my daughter.

“Well, what did God say?” She asked, expectantly, peering at me with hope, eagerness and a hint of concern in her young face.

“I didn’t really hear God say anything this time, but I’m pretty sure that my reason for making you go would be based on fear that if I let you stay home, I’d end up not getting enough time to myself, or you would end up needing things from me and I wouldn’t be able to help you out and take care of myself. Since I think it’s much better to make choices based on love than out of fear, and I can see this is important for you, I’m going to leap out on a limb and trust that there is a way for us both to be happy.”

“So what’s your decision??

“What do you think?”

“Uh…I can stay home?” Her face turned up in a grin stretched out like an enthusiastic banana.

And so my girl ended up here with me, hanging out making Happy Birthday signs.

It is a lovely morning. With ease and connection, Nika and let each other be and overlap with a naturalness that is a breath of fresh air. The one time she starts involving me in more than I bargained for, I offer a quiet reminder and she immediately get’s it. “Oh yeah,” she says with recognition. That’s what it’s about, isn’t it? When we find our peace, our groove with each other, in a sense it’s like we recognize each other. Then, like a happy surprise you couldn’t have imagined,  it’s easy to say Yes to Love.

“I’m really glad I got to have a home day -  I think I really needed it and I’m already feeling better,” Nika says earnestly. After I do a little work on the computer, the two of us snuggle in bed and watch the last half of Princess Diaries II. During the long kisses, she hides under the blankets.

Later in the day, when our man is finally post-call and in our living room, we chomp on gluten-free pizza, dance to my favorite new Pandora station and sing off key as I unveil the ice cream cake the kids and I made last evening. The crust is mostly melted down oreo-analogus and the ice cream isn’t ice cream — it’s a montage of Minty and Chocolaty Coconut Bliss, with some Mint Chocolate Chip Temp, which is made out of hemp milk. I have to say, it’s good! We offer cards and wishes and eventually play the guessing game about the birthday-man’s gift. With help, he gets it on the fourth try and at last we unveil it. The tent is a winner, but more importantly, I can tell our man feels loved and happy, even on 1/2 an ounce of sleep.

We turn on Here Come The 123s – a They Might Be Giants music video for kids that includes mathematical concepts like zero and everything and 8 plus 8. While music fills the air, my Love and I snuggle. Gabe and Avsi watch the video; their older sister falls fast asleep. I guess she really did need a day of rest! I As my friend Lu says, “Foresight is 20/20.” I’m so happy today I looked through those lenses.  Like my sleeping daughter, I am exhausted and grateful.  I thank God for the love that fills our family; for the little people who bring it to life; for the wonderful, incredible man who is my lover, partner and father of my kids; for a day – one of the first, in fact — without a single observable regret. Yes, Thank you.

To Like or Not To Like

Love is fairly simple, at least in principle: If your life were at stake, I’d jump in front of a bus for you, even if at the time I happen to by so angry with you that I have half a mind to kill you myself. Love is a recognition that there’ something in someone that’s precious, , holy, of infinite, unconditional, undefinable worth, even if something (s) in someone simultaneously elicits a strong impetus to run around pulling out our hair and making monkey noises — or worse.

But what about “Like.”? Is “Like” a preference for what, or who you like to be be around? Is it about who they are or is it about how they make you feel? Is it a commentary on what environmental stimuli feel enjoyable or pleasurable? Or could it be an orientation of joyful appreciation of something or something that comes from inside, rather than outside? Is it found at the ground of being, or is it a transient state, like happiness, anger, sleepiness or arousal or feeling chilly?

I’m not posing these questions purely in the theoretical. The fact is, day to day, my kids have this habit of saying, somewhat capriciously that they like or don’t like various people, for a spectrum of reasons, in a variety of situations. Sometimes they say it for kicks, with a glint in their eye to catch a reaction. Sometimes they “don’t like you” if they really love you and you’re about to leave, or if you’re the sitter and you’re about to let a parent off the hook for an hour or so. The also say it from time to time if you just you chose to say “No” to something they wanted, or you didn’t do “It,” whatever “It” was, in the preferred way, or if a sibling persists in doing something the other finds aggravating, as in when Gabe says, “I don’t like Avs because she’s annoying me.” Is liking or not liking someone sometimes more or less than a preference?

Is it a way of expressing, “You and your willful choice to act contrary to my interests are the obstacle between me and what I want or need?  Is it a form of lunging for power when we feel powerless, a way of attacking a person’s self-worth when we have found other methods of eliciting a helpful response ineffective — a sign that we feel defeated, yet unwilling to surrender?

Today, before the clock strikes 7 in the morning, I get on the floor, at eye level with my child and sink to an incredible low. Avriana had woken up before six on the wrong side of the bed, for that 3rd day in a row, this time demanding that I close her shades, then sending me away and telling me to come back under various intricate conditions, like “I don’t want you to come in my room first…I want you to go back to bed, but don’t snuggle Daddy;  then come back in one minute, but put your shirt on first…but first I want you to go in the bathroom.” I don’t take well to being told what to do by pretty much anyone, much less my toddler, and though I “get her” because we are fairly alike in a lot of ways, and I often let go of my preferences to flow with her preferences, I get to a certain limit where I’m sorta done. Especially when it’s before 6am and the kid wants to me to keep getting in and out of bed and perform various tasks according to irrational specs. I’m happy to offer help, but this freakin ridiculous. Even congress doesn’t attach such crazy riders to an unrelated bill. Isn’t it enough that I’m happy to get up and help her with the shades when I would prefer to remain cozy in my bed with the guy I love for a few more minutes before he leaves for an evening of call? I had somehow managed to stay calm and patient, even as I felt my blood rising to my skin with irritation at this child’s now habitual combination of irrational requests and strong will at such an early hour.  I try to send peace and love to everyone involved – her, myself, my husband and continue to repeat calmly, with resolve, “I’d be happy to help you with the shades, but just like you don’t like to be told what to do, I don’t like it either, so I will help you when you stop telling me what to do about my shirt and my bed and going to the bathroom.” Eventually we get through it, I don’t know how.

A few minutes later, I’m in the bathroom brushing my hair and I hear a fight ensuing with the screeching-tone that indicates I better check because someone may be about to get hurt. Avriana is yelling at Gabe to stop annoying her and he is looking impish and making low-key humming noises. I see Avriana shaking as her frustration level tops off and she throws a glass full of purple grape juice up in the air and I watch it crash and splatter on the light beige rug.  I take a deep breath and calmly tell Avriana it’s okay to be frustrated, but it isn’t the best idea to throw her juice. I give her a cloth to clean it up and nicely ask her to do so. I even help her get a start. I explain that it’s okay to ask for help, but that if someone in the family spills, it’s mainly there job to clean it up. I talk about how if I spill, nice if other people help, however it’s my job to clean it up. I mention how the rug will always look the way it does right now, with a big purple splotch, unless she cleans it up.

“No! I’m not gonna clean it up because I don’t want to clean it up. YOU clean it up, cause I don’t want to!”

Oops, the kettle that had been whistling softly since before six is now shrieking, like when there’s no more water to boil and the thing starts to scream.

“CLEAN IT UP!” I belt out. Avriana briefly picks up the cloth, then drops it and goes into the kitchen, where she sits on her knees, with a few tears and a resolute jaw.

I’m so done. “If you don’t clean it up…” I can’t think of anything I can do to get her to clean it up and I’m so infuriated at this point that I don’t know what to do so I blurt out, in a voice that sounds exactly like hers, “If you don’t clean it up, then I’m not…I’m not gonna like you!”

I quickly follow up with, “I’ll always love you, but for right now I’m not gonna like you.” Which five minutes later I amend to, “Deep down I always like you, I was just so frustrated that I felt like I didn’t like you, but the real truth is I like YOU, but I didn’t like what you did or how you were acting and I was feeling angry inside. I’m so sorry for yelling and for my mean words. I’m sorry for hurting your feelings.”

I offer a hug. “Um, I’m too sad right now. I think I want a hug later.”

We talk about what happened and she is focused on the part about Gabe annoying her, and then she spilled the grape juice. Then she has practical concerns, because she is wet.

“Mom, can you take off my pants and my pull-up?”

We do that.

The entire issue of separating a child’s personhood from their actions, choices, attitudes and difficult emotional charges calls into the light the question of who is “the child”? It’s one thing when the kid has an isolated occurrence of a choice that isn’t the greatest. But how about when you don’t like how they are “being” — their energy, their body language, their patterns of acting that reflect at least one expression of some aspect of their personality? What, or Who is underneath the kid’s genetic predispositions, temperament tendencies, neuronal habits, willful choices, complicated emotions expressed in unpleasant ways, deeply felt needs immaturely conveyed and developmental milestones crossed at the possible expense of parental sanity?

Who is the essence of our kid,  the consciousness, entity, person or emergent totality that inherently underlies and somehow transcends the way our son or daughter shows up (or doesn’t) in various circumstances? I’m gonna throw out there that, whether you call it the soul,  spirit,  consciousness, light, higher self or essence, or whatever,  there is THAT dimension of our kids if we have the intention and openness to see it and listen for it. THAT dimension is who we love unconditionally, and that’s the part of them that we can like unconditionally too — if liking is about them instead of us. If liking is about us, then it it isn’t about the child. Which is great, because it means that while it’s fully possible to dislike your own feelings, unless you truly believe your child to be only the sum of her genes, body and brain biology,  it’s impossible to dislike the ultimate core of your child. Of course, as my own case illustrates, if we forget the essence of our child, it’s easy to convince ourselves that, at least temporarily, we don’t like the kid in front of us. I guess that’s the “forgetting” that some traditions say lies at the root of human sin. Ironically, it’s when we forget our kids spirituality that we inadvertently treat them as less than human. When we remember that our kids are more than human, that our offspring are innately worthy, infinite, precious, holy expressions of Someone, or Something Huge and Wonderful beyond concept, it creates space for their humanness without limiting them to it. When we look the essence of our kids’ in the eye, instead of limiting them to their temperament, traits or choices, we can feel empowered to respond to their challenging expressions in humane ways that demonstrate both love and like for their intrinsic Self.

I’ll try to keep that in mind for next time.

In the meantime, it’s time for what my friend Lu calls “Repair.” I meet Avsi, Gabe and our sitter in the lobby of our building. Avsi has a book about the Arctic.  I look into her eyes. “Would you like me to read you your favorite page?”

“Sure.”

While I’m strapping Avriana in her car seat, I ask her if I can tell her something. “No, you can’t tell me something,” she says, smiling and covering her hears. Then she uncovers her ears and says, “I want you to tell me a secret.” So I whisper in her ear, “I love you and I like you. I’m sorry for yelling and saying those mean words, and for hurting your feelings. Will you forgive me?”

“Yeah.” She nods her head firmly, as if lowering the gavel on her decision to forgive. I smile as the buckle goes click. I walk around to my side and hop in. I put in reverse to find a way forward out of the dark garage onto the open road.

Off we go to preschool.

The Upside of the Curb

I’m looking for a spot to park at New Seasons, which is a go-local, funky version of Whole Foods. I see a spot close to the entrance, only it’s a little small. Not too small, I think. I’m just a little car — or more accurately, I’m a little woman, toting my two littlest kids in a little car. I think we can fit in this spot cause I’m sure we’ve squeezed into smaller. Only I’m not so good with geometry. If “Angles and how to use them while driving and parking” were a course, I’d have flunked it. I can parallel park fairly well, but that’s cause it feels intuitive.

I’m pulling into this little spot, and, for some inexplicable reason, I keep hitting curb. No amount of backing up and pulling forward while steering the wheel this way or that seems to be improving things, but I’m not not prepared to let an unfortunate angle interfere with today’s shopping trip — I just need a few important items like deli turkey for lunches and a truckload of Coconut Bliss (our family’s favorite ice cream substitute,) for my Love’s upcoming birthday party.

I figure, if I can’t avoid the curb, I’ll just pull all the way up on it and, when the time comes, back off it nice and easy on the way out. I’ve done that before. Not great for the car, but done carefully, certainly no worse than hitting a speed while traveling over the 5 mile an hour speed limit. I confidently extract the kids from their car seats and we head for the store. The two munchkins head straight for on of those car-carts that kids love so much and engaged in the usual dance of squishing, sharing, squabbling and switching, until after a few minutes, Gabe takes me up on an invitation to join me as my special helper, leaving the wheel to his little sister.

By the time we leave, we have at least five containers of Coconut Bliss, a long, lean, feminine-looking dessert plant for $599, honey roasted turkey and a few other things, all of which fit easily into two bags. The checkout lady gives the kids stickers and Avsi, no surprisingly wants me to have one too. Gabe picks out a yellow car for me. “Where shall I put it?” I ask.

“Right there,” Avsi says, pointing to my cheek. So out we walk, our little troop pretty content, with me toting a yellow car sticker on my cheek. I’m feeling pretty happy and a light breeze blows by, as if to acknowledge that, Yes, life is good and there is much to be thankful for today.

Confidently, I turn on the Prius and looking over my shoulder, begin to calmly and slowly press the gas pedal, intending to ease off the curb. The car moves back a little and then something drops…it’s not the feeling of solid ground, like the other times I’ve had to back off a curb. It’s not like that at all. What has happened? I try adding some umph to the gas pedal. The wheeels spin resolutely, spewing brown mud like a sprinkler system with a bad case of diarreah. Hmmmm. This isn’t what I had in mind, exactly. I step out the car to have a look. Instead of dismounting the curb, I find the wheel profoundly lodged in a thick, deep puddle on the far side of the curb. The wheel looks like it has no intention of going anywhere and the puddle looks like it wants to be an African watering hole when it grows up. It seems clear enough that I’m not going to back my way out of this one without a tow truck.

Somehow, the combination of feeling confident that come the end of the day everyone and everything will be largely fine, with the fact that it’s crystal clear that my car isn’t going anywhere without intervention, has me feeling quite positive and empowered. The line between what I can do and what I can’t do is clear, and the path of action is clear and open: I’m confident someone in the store a) has a phone I can borrow, since I’m one of the holdouts without a cell phone, and b) will be nice enough to let me use it to call Triple A.

I calmly explain what’s happening to the kids and extract them lovingly from their seats. I’m so happy they are peaceful and in a fine mood. I would totally rather be dealing with a stuck car than a fussy afternoon or a tarrying tantrum. Everything is fine if everyone is happy, as far as I’m concerned. I hope I’ll make it in time to pick up my oldest from French, but even if I’m delayed, it’s easy enough to look up the schools contact info and let the office know. I’m sure they’ll let her hang out til I get there.

I’m holding Gabe and Avsi’s small hands in mine as we look both ways to cross the parking lot and go back inside New Seasons when a blue van pulls in front of us, causing us to halt and take a step back.  Out of the blue van steps a 40-ish, well-built man with dark hair and a salt and pepper goatee. He approaches the kids and me, surveying us and the car. “Are you the ones stuck here?” he inquires.

“Yese,” I say, almost proudly. It’s not that I’m proud about either my driving skills or the situation I find myself in, it’s just that I’m proud that I’m having this attitude of “Life’s an adventure,” and I’m not having a panic attack or getting angry or anything, which totally could have been an option.

The man with the goatee thinks he can get my car out. He looks energized and focused, like he’s pretty happy to have an opportunity to do something potent and heroic. He says something about finding some wood.

I see Gabe looking concerned, his face contorting with held-back tears. “How will we get home, Mommy?” He says. Of all my kids, he is the homebody. The helper. One who likes predictability and a plan. Of the three kids, he is the only one who was planned — and he was planned literally to the week of his Daddy’s winter break during med school. So that could have something to do with why he likes structure more than my girls who like to be like the wind and follow whimsy where it leads.

I smooth Gabe’s soft, light brown hair and wipe his little tearlets as I tell him that either this man will help our car get unstuck or we will call Triple A and they will use a tow truck to pull our car out of the mud puddle so we can drive it home. I’m thinking it’s gonna be Triple A, but I don’t want to steal this man’s enthusiasm or put a damper on heroism. God only knows we need more people acting on impulse to help, to connect, to be an everyday hero.

When I look up from wiping my son’s tears (Avriana, unsurprisingly is totally unfazed,) I see that a whole entourage of people is streaming toward us and our stuck car. Young men and women in uniform (New Season’s employees where blue smocks,) and everyday Portlanders, both old and young have gathered to join the cause. I have never had so many people flock to help me for any reason, at any time, ever. I’m stunned, grateful and amused.

Several guys and a girl (who smiles and says she is the buffest,) brainstorm what to do, discussing the use of cardboard, wood, car mechanics and strategic angles. I’m impressed. A few guys have a try at pushing the car with the pure brute strength of their muscles. As one guy is giving it his best, unsuccessful shot, an onlooker comments, “His eyes were bigger than his muscles.” You have to laugh at well-intentioned testosterone in action.

I hear a taunting voice addressing me. It’s one of the guys who has been discussing the situation intelligently with the others. This is a guy who clearly would have passed “Geometry for drivers,” “Or how to not beat up your car while parking” with flying colors. ” Right now he’s staring at the rear view mirror I snapped off on a post backing out our building’s parking garage when I was in a rush to pick up the kids from preschool one day.

“Where did you get your license, Oregon or New Jersey?”

“Both” I say, a little embarrassed.

“Are you sure it’s not a fake?” says the guy.

He walks around to the other side of the car. Looking at some chalky scratched he laughs in disbelief.”How’d you do this?”

“I did that in the parking garage too. On a post”

This fellow clearly thinks I’m an idiot, and when it comes to posts and curbs, it’s a fact. I walk into posts, drive up against them, hit curbs and trip walking down the sidewalk. I used to get lost and bump into things in the dining hall during undergrad. I was known for it.

I feel the need to feel a little smart. Cardboard has been inserted strategically under my tire, along with a stick of wood. Someone is in the driver’s seat of my car, trying to turn it on. I explain to him that you don’t need to insert the key — the car senses it. “Oooh, fancy. Around here we use keys,” He says, teasing. He tries to turn it on. It’s not on.

“You have to have your foot on the brake when you turn it on,” I say. The car is still not on. I walk over, and throw the rolled-down window, I press the Power button. The dashboard lights up, all of a sudden and I smile.

“I may not be able to park, but at least I can turn on the car,” I say in an effort to playfully reclaim a little dignity.

The time has come to test the collective power of the men and women present. I usher Gabe and Avs  away from the area and out of the line of mud-spray soon to come.

The man with the goatee nods to me and revs the engine. Oh, Oh, YES! There is movement, the wheel is moving, it’s up on the curb, it’s coming out of the mud! I hear someone yell, “Gun it!” It’s thrilling to watch. I can feel the excitement building as the car finally crests over the edge and lands without injury within the white lines of a normal little parking spot.

“Wahoo!” I scream like a cheerleader, jumping up and down, still holding hands with Gabe & Avsi. Elation and relief. THANK YOU. Iook around at all these strangers. People whose names I don’t even know, who took there time to help a beat up Prius find its way out of the mud. Took the time to help us, not because they had to, but because they wanted to.

I could have called Triple A. But this was so much better. I saw people come together, work as a team and live heroes. I felt like part of a freakin’ community. So of course I wanted to communicate the lesson from this adventure to my kids. So as I’m walking them back to the car, and I say, “Did you see that, guys? Did you see how everyone helped us? Did you see how everyone worked together as a…” Suddenly, as I say “team,” I feel my foot plunge into a murky, dark puddle that looks like it wants to be an African watering hole when it grows up. As muddy water infiltrates my week-old sneakers, I smile at my kids.

So, while my foot soaks in muddy waters from which our car was helped, we chat about helping others, working as a team and feeling thankful for caring people. I may not have fully learned my lesson about curbs and puddles and parking angles, but at least my kids seem to be absorbing the more important lesson about community.

I’m swimming in a sea of gratitude and comedy and muddy water and I don’t really know what to make of all the people who wanted to help us, except that it seems possibly like life at its most wonderful. Crazy? Yes. I’m okay with that.