I like to think of myself as a glass half full, optimistic kind of girl. And in many ways that’s right.
But every now and again, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realize how I easily I can get stuck in the “no” position. Perhaps it is because life can sometimes get complicated and whatever is in front of me starts to feel impossible and undoable. It’s easy to get tired in that place and start to think that we are in a survival mode. Suddenly I start to look at everything through that lens. Like a deer caught in the headlights or a warrior fending off an attack, I start to put up a shield, trying to limit, control, keep the chaos to a minimum.
When I am in that space, the answer to most questions suddenly becomes no.
Are you coming north for a visit? (no–can’t afford it)
Are you coming over tonight? (no–I am too tired)
Can we go to the pool? (no–I have chores to do)
Can I have an Italian ice? (no–because I said so)
There are lots of good reasons to say no. Personal safety. Health. Exhaustion. A need for some quiet time. A need to set boundaries. No is a perfectly good answer to lots of questions, especially when it is well thought through. The problem is that I can sometimes, without thinking, start to wield “no” like a shield–an attempt to block out life until I can get a grip. No becomes the default position out of fear. No can be an excuse not to move forward, to embark on adventure or connect in a new way.
And then I wonder why I can sometimes find myself feeling stuck.
Over and over I have learned that the way I create magic in my life is when I thoughtfully and deliberately, open up and say yes. Say yes to impossible things. Say yes to thinks that make no sense but just seem right. Open our heart, open the door, open the house and say welcome–come in, yes, please, do. The best decisions in my life miraculous did not start with an anguished debate but rather unfolded from a simple yes. Without fail, over and over again I learn that simply switching from a no to a yes frame of mind is a key that unlocks a world of magic. Sometimes the best way to shift your entire outlook, your entire heart, your entire mood is to simply say yes.
Especially when the question is something like this:
“Mama…I love her so much. Can we please take her home?”
Saying yes changes everything.
It gives someone hope. It creates the space for love. It opens the doors to miracles.
Welcome Tabitha Tessa Casey-Bolanos. Many adventures await you and your boy.
Inspired by Jen and her supersisters over at PBS:
25 Things I Know Now As a Parent
1. That I really don’t know much.
2. But actually, if I listen to my heart, I can always find the way.
3. That waking up a 4:30 am to catch a morning flight to the meeting so I can stay at home for the swim meet is always worth it.
4. That every thing changes and nothing stays the same and the harder we hold on, the faster it slips away.
5. Breakfast for dinner is always acceptable.
6. Kindness is learned just like language–by imitating your parents.
7. Laser tag is actually a fun thing to do on a rainy winter night.
8. Physical affection is like water–kids can die without it. Unlike water there is always an infinite amount flowing as long as we pay attention.
9. Board games are a great invention.
10. Making an itunes playlist of favorite songs and saying “we need to work until the music is done” is a great way to make chores fun.
11 Especially if the chores are the kind you can do while dancing.
12 When doing chores, it is really critical to make space for dancing.
13 Fear is kind of like a fog that dissipates as soon as you acknowledge it and give it its due.
14 Italian ice is generally not an acceptable dinner but sometimes when it is too hot, its ok to say “just this once”.
15 Noone is ever too old to be read out loud to.
16. Chores are great for self esteem.
17. Creating a regular practice of being quiet for a time is helpful for everyone in the family.
18. There are days, weekends and even whole weeks at a time when chores need to go out the window.
19. Bubbles are fabulous to store in the car and pull out when you are stuck in crazy bumper to bumper traffic.
20. Sometimes, your role is to be the center of your kids universe. Sometimes it is to be the captain of a team of other people who will show them the way.
21. There is something magical about trading cards. Especially hockey cards.
22. Sleep is really important. It can change everything.
23. No one knows my kid the way I do. Noone who knows how to respond like I do. But still, its useful sometimes to see him through the lens of the other people who love him.
24. It is really important to model trying new things and being ridiculously unpracticed at them.
25. Teaching my son to to learn from his failures is more important than teaching him to succeed.
Play along with Jen by making your own list on your blog or facebook and link to it in the comments in Jen’s post over at PBS!
Standing on the edge of the pool I am blown away by these kids, the ones who swim like lightning, the ones who make it all seem so effortless, and the ones that struggle through and push hard. The ones whose googles fall off and keep going anyway, the ones who shave seconds off their time. I never could do anything like that when I was a child and so their movement, their ease, their courage, their dedication, their endurance seems magical to me and at the end of every event, I want to celebrate them, jump up and down, kiss them on the head and bless them–exclaim to the world that they are a miracle.
Instead, I tell them their time as they climb out of the pool and whisper something like “great swim”, “that rocked”, “great focus”. The quiet encouragement is what they need right then, as they make off to celebrate or lick their wounds or jump up and down and scream their heads off for their teammates. So I tell them their time and sneak in a silent blessing, a quiet alleluia for their growing up, their personal victory.
This swim is something that is theirs alone.
No parent, or teacher, coach or teammate pulled them along or won for them. But man, how they all did yell.
It is gorgeous to watch them, the kids lined up along the deck, screaming and cheering for each other. They hover behind me, their teammates, and they say things like, “wow–best time ever” to the kid who came in last, the one who is improving steadily steadily week after week. Every kid is made to feel a rock star, a prize fighter, a hero in the moment of their struggle. It makes my heart swell to think of all they are learning. To think of how kindness and encouragement flow like water here. To think that this is the real strength training, here at the poolside.
Every personal battle is just one swimmer in a pool–moving as gracefully as she can. Hoping to keep it together, do a little bit better than last time. He is racing against himself. No one can do it for her. No one else will make or break this for him. And yet he knows that the cheers, the yells, the high fives and the hand to pull her out of the pool are what keep her going hard. The team and their love–it is what allows each swimmer to pull the strength out of his belly and do one more stroke.
From my perch on the sidelines, I am amazed how everyday you are different. The little boy who once was afraid of the deep end is now leaping in a rainbow arch playing sharks and minnows with the middle schoolers. The bow backed stand, arms crossed, goggles atop your head. I am a perpetual witness to this miracle, your life so full and so not defined by me.
Your freckles are mine, your fine Irish skin, but your life amazes me, shocks me, is so different from mine. And I know that with each day that passes, your life will be more and more a mystery. The code you speak, the language of boys, your posture, your stance. The way you move through the water, across the ice, on a field–such a mystery to me who trips over her own shadow and runs from a ball. Once upon a time, I knew every boo-boo, every scrape, every hurt feeling and could understand the storms of your moods. Once upon a time you came to me for answers and accepted what I said, but now you are certain I have no idea how things are–and to some extent you are right. I know nothing of sports and boys who play them. I can’t tell you how to shoot a puck better or how to slice a second of your backstroke. I am flummoxed about what to say to the team ball-hog, to the playground bully you stand up to.
And yet there are still, those holiest of moments, often in the evenings, or during a thunderstorm, when your wrap your arms around me, and ask me if I can keep a secret, and the sweet sorrow in your tender heart comes pouring out and I know you are still my baby boy, and that I am still the one who knows the landscape of your heart. While the details are fuzzy, I know the contours, the hills and valleys and know where the land is scarred and where it is more forgiving. And in those moments you and I remember that what I know is about being broken and being human, and falling apart and trying again and being human and loving and kind. And that really it is al that matters. I pray each day that you will continue to trust my broken mama self and know that this is a safe space to just be. I trust I will always be a keeper of your heart or the safe place where you come to be.
But for for now your being is in the water, at the pools edge, or in the snack shack and begging me not to take photos. For now your being is wrapped in a green towel looking for a ping pong partner, carrying a tupperware container of coins you saved up to buy junk food, loaning a dime to the big kids, wondering if it will buy you something more. For now your being is wrapped up in the learning that you can no longer learn from me, except when in broken failure (or something that feels like that) you sneak into my lap when no one is looking and whisper my name and time, the time that is flying by, stops still for you and me.
Things have been silent over here while I shift into a new space, a new yin and quiet place. It is a good thing to learn to be receptive. So many ideas run through my brain these days on wonderful things to write about. Fear not, when the time is ripe I will write again. I am not blocked. Just in a silent place.
But one of the joys of being in that yin receptive space is being able to notice, see and express gratitude for all the small and simple things in life. Like a great teacher. So when I saw this post over at PBS Supersisters on their Day of Gratitude I couldn’t resist breaking the silence and posting.
I want to take a few minutes to talk about a teacher who made a huge difference in my son’s life. A tiny Chinese woman who taught Max last year in first grade. Ms Cai. She had a reputation as a strict teacher. To be honest, Max quaked in fear the day he learned he had her for first grade. He had heard she would push him and that scared him. But after the first day of class everything changed. First grade would be a magical year.
Not too long into the school year, Max told me, “Mom, I feel like Ms Cai has been my teacher for a thousand years.” He said it with such earnestness that I knew it to be true. Max’s reading soared in first grade. For one reason and one reason only. Ms Cai believed in him. She told him every day. She told him how smart he was. She told him he could catch up to the kids in the top reading group. She never said things like, “if you try harder” or “if you do more”. Sure she encouraged him to work but she never ever gave him the impression he was lacking anything. She just said he would learn and grow simply by being himself. His wonderful self. And he did. He rose to her every expectation.
Ms Cai taught Max and his classmates how to give oral presentations, how to stand up with confidence and speak like a pro and give a book report. She taught him how to connect with his audience, how to fake it even if he was scared. She taught him to believe that everything he had to say was fascinating and interesting and something that every child in the room needed to know.
Ms Cai made a big deal out of it when Max defended the new girl on the playground. Even though there was a price to pay, in terms of teasing from the mean kids when he stood up for her, Ms Cai taught him that what he did was not simply “kind” but “heroic” and he never forgot how she made him feel extraordinary for being so brave.
Ms Cai reflected back at Max all the good things he is. She was a mirror for him. He was appreciative, kind, smart, creative, loving and he knew it every day because this powerful tiny loving woman made sure he knew.
This year Max has a wonderful teacher who has opened up a whole new world of literature to him. He is in a reading group of one and there they talk about great books, as well as what he is doing in the school mandated primer. But he still talks about Ms Cai and misses her terribly. He visits when he can. He prays that she will decide to teach 3rd grade next year and that he would be lucky enough to get her. When I ask her what he loves most about Ms Cai he tells me, “She believes in me”. But I think its something even more powerful. She teaches him to believe in himself.
Grilled cheese is Max’s favorite food. I make it a lot and for any meal. Sometimes, what he wants most in the morning is toasty buttery bread with cheese. Who can blame him?
Max is also the pickiest of eaters. Potatoe bread, not whole wheat. Yellow American cheese, not swiss or cheddar. And real butter. Not margarine or bacon grease or olive oil.
So I go about making his sandwiches with love. I butter the bread. Use my cast-iron frying pan. Set the heat on the gas stove to 6 so as to not scorch the butter or bread. I layer on the cheese. Two slices–carefully arranged. Watch. Wait. Flip.
But I have learned that all these steps mean nothing if I miss one crucial ingredient. Attention. I have learned all too often that the difference between a perfectly grilled, brownish delight of toasty deliciousness and a blackened, overly crunchy sandwich that needs to be scraped is just a short breath. All too often, I have attempted to multi-task my morning only to suddenly lift my head to the faint whifs of smoke, the sizzling sound that tells me the sandwich has gone too far.
The art of making a perfectly grilled grilled cheese comes down to this: Paying Attention.
I can’t imagine a better lesson to remind myself of every morning.
It had to start here. In the city of brotherly love, where I first learned to love this game. Well, technically to be accurate, I learned to love the game in a New Jersey suburb, sprawled out on the floor, watching a team with my very big kid neighbor John and my mother who would tell me, “Only God saves more than Bernie Parent”
It had to start here in the city of brotherly love, because my brother does love this team so. He loves them because he was born here or at least born nearby. He loves them because he spent so many of his highschool and college years here too.
It had to start here, because there is no other team that Max and I love to hate more than the Philadelphia Flyers. It started with my childhood realization that the “Broad Street Bullies” were just that–bullies. It intensified when these Flyers knocked our beloved Caps out of the playoffs in overtime in game 7 in 2008.
We had to start here because here is in fact, where it all started.
So, after Max’s karate on Saturday, we threw our bags in the car, hooked up the i-pod to the car stereo and set off across a frozen tundra called I-95 to make a trek north to Philadelphia for our first stop on the “Great Hockey Road Trip”. We were going to see the Flyers play Tampa Bay Lightening.
To be honest, neither Max nor I were excited to see the Flyers play the Bolts. Really, ‘ what we wanted more than anything was to kick off our trip by watching our boys in Red squash those Flyers. We wanted to stand proud and red and feel the wrath of Philly fans as our guys scored goal after goal and we chanted C-A-P-S…Caps, Caps, Caps. But, as luck would have it, we had a conflict every time those Caps played Philadelphia and after a bit of discussion we decided the point WAS to see the Flyers at home and the tickets were cheap and why not? Sometimes the only way forward is just to go.
So go we did. I booked us a hotel room in walking distance to the mighty Wachovia Center, there on Broad Street, next to the old Spectrum. I filled our itinerary with plans to visit the Franklin Institute, the Mummer’s Museum, other places from my childhood. But as we pulled into South Philly, Max had a request. “Mom–can we make this trip all about the game and skip that other stuff?” It was as though he had read my mind. A late-ish start combined with an agenda that was way overpacked was beginning to stress me out. The other wonders of Philadelphia could keep for a warm summer getaway. This wintery weekend was about one thing–hockey–and we would stay in South Philly.
To top it off, Max is at an age where nothing is more exciting than a hotel room. Even a shabby one like this Holiday Inn. A giant bed that faces a TV with movies on demand. Pure bliss to this 8 year old. So we cuddled up and rented Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs while we practiced our Tampa Bay chants and looked at the hotel restaurant menu.
We started to walk over to the arena at 5:30. The wind was bitter cold, numbed our legs and stung our ears. But every block held a wonder. All of Philadelphia’s sports teams play in this South Philly neighborhood–it is a big playground of gigantic playing fields and parking lots. The walk to Wachovia took us past Citizen’s Bank Baseball Field, Lincoln Financial Field where the Eagles play, the old Spectrum.
Max had heard stories about Flyer fans. The legends told of rough and tumble men who would throw beer at you for routing on the away team. He wrestled about whether he would stand and scream his support when Tampa Bay scored or whether he would just cheer from his seat. He decided to stand and made a plan for how he would react when the inevitable barage of beer and hotdogs rained down on him. He told me he would stand and face the perpetrators with his arms spread out and yell…”Show some class will you–I hate the Rangers too!” He was in for a full experience of Philly fans he explained.
We were not disappointed. When we took our seats we found ourselves surrounded by die hards. Two grizzly season ticket holders to our right, a women’s hockey team behind us. In front of us was a row of 4 women who all wore signed jerseys and talked about a young prospect as though they were his family. And at last, as the game started, two huge, 20-something guys, exactly like the guys Max had heard legends about, sat to our left. They had thick accents. They carried multiple beers. They were serious about the Flyers. They started talking to us and didn’t stop. Max didn’t find them scary, as he thought he might. He found enchanting. They made him laugh. They were polite and apologized to me for swearing. They talked to Max about the players. They assumed we were all family. Before we knew it we were yucking it up with the whole lot.
And then, in the second period, Tampa Bay scored. You could hear a pin drop in the arena and so when Max jumped up and screamed, “Wahoo” our new friends noticed.
One of the women’s ice hockey team members was the only one who spoke.
“What…was….that…about?”
Max did not experience a rain of beer or hotdogs as he imagined. He was not boo-ed. He wasn’t even treated unkindly. His new friends were simply surprised and stunned into silence. They had no idea he was supporting a different team. He was crushed though, thinking that he might disappoint them. He buried his head in my shoulder for a minute.
And then he spoke. “Mom,” he said, “Do you think maybe we should cheer for Philadelphia?” We had an emergency conference. I didn’t want him to feel pressured to switch sides for the love of strangers, even for the love of me, but on the other hand–we were in Philly and maybe this was a teachable moment about trying out new things.
“I think we should do what you want to do, sweet boy” I said, wanting to support him. But he was clearly confused. “I don’t know what to do, Mom. I want YOUR opinion.”
“Well,” I said. “On the one hand, I am proud of you for standing up even though you were all alone. That took guts. If you want to keep cheering for Tampa, I will cheer with you. On the other hand, truth is, we don’t really like Tampa. We are only cheering for them because they are NOT the Flyers. Maybe that’s a good enough reason, but you know, it might be kind of fun to try out what it feels like to be a Flyer fan. I mean…this might be our only chance. We could shift perspective and see how it feels to cheer for the orange, what it feels like to be a Philly fan here in Philadelphia. It could be good for us to see life from the other side. Just this once.”
“Well…I do like Mike Richards…” Max said. He was conflicted but intrigued. Maybe we could try it on–see the world from the perspective of the hated Flyers. We could go back tomorrow. Or maybe we would cross over into a murky world where all sides are just illusions anyway.
“You see…” he explained to his new found friends from Philly, “I am from Washington. I am a Caps fan.” They all looked a little pained but nodded. “Truth is,” he admitted boldly, “I really am not a fan of the Flyers. Especially after the 2008 playoffs.” His friends nodded sympathetically again. “But I think,” he said, “that I can be a fan just for tonight.”
Philly scored twice more that game. Max jumped up and high fived every one around us, hooted, hollered and sang. He even got beer spilled on him. He had the full Philly fan experience.
As we dashed back across the parking lot to the hotel I asked him, “What was it like to be a FLYER fan tonight?”
“You know Mom,” he said, “It wasn’t all that different. Just being a fan.”
“And does this change how you feel about the Flyers, babe?”
“Not one bit–but it changes the way I think about Flyers fans. They are nice–even if they are rowdy. I guess we are not all that different. Just fans lovin’ the game…”
At that moment I knew, every penny I spent on tickets, on the hotel, on the Mike Richards T-shirt was worth its weight in gold for the lesson of walking in someone else’s shoes…or skating in someone else’s skates.
I am in the process of becoming more and more the person I already am, the person I have already been. I am on a journey that takes me home, right here to myself.
I recently had the occasion to hold a new born baby.
Babies are funny creatures.
They are completely capable of receiving love, deep love in all its forms without reservation. They receive it all effortlessly–the practical (food, diaper changes), the physical (nursing, cuddles), the smiles and cuddles what ever comes their way. They don’t think about it, or question the motive. They don’t wonder if they deserve it. They just take it in–indeed their very survival depends on it.
Likewise, babies are capable of bringing forth joy and gratitude, simply by their being. They open up spaces of lightness. They can make the grouchiest old fart smile. They aren’t trying to prove anything. They don’t yet know that there is anything to prove.
We are brought into this world to accept love and to bring forth joy and gratitude. We don’t ever need to learn how. It is who we are. Inherently.
We then spend much our young lives forgetting everything we ever needed to know about ourselves, and then, if we are lucky, wise or awake, we spend another portion of our lives forgetting the forgetting and just coming back home to ourselves. and to the perfect way we always knew how to be before a series of somethings false made us question what we know so deep we need not language to express it.
Sometimes silliness is all the world needs.
Sometimes the cure for the war with the gremlins in your head is a death-match in a moon bounce with 4 mini-warriors (age 4-8) who morph into lions and gods and super heros and tackle you and demand hugs and monster-like growls so they can have the excuse to tackle you again. Eventually the only thing to do is surrender.
Max and I went to a party on Saturday night. A party with a moon bounce. The kids had an hour of hilarity before the sun went down before they tromped in to settle down for the night. After all the kids had settled in in front of the movie, Max came and pulled me from my fire side chat with the civilized adults. He whispered conspiratorially, “Mom, I want to bounce some more.”
“Ok,” I said and excused myself to supervise, even though it was dark. A parked car was providing light Max told me. And the moon too. “Why not,” I thought. How often is one in the presence of a giant castle made of rubber and air.
Max climbed in and turned around. “You coming?” he asked as though the answer was already clear. I shrugged. I took off my grown-up shoes and crawled in after him. A boy can’t bounce alone.
Tumbling, and falling down and getting up and laughing. He is Lord Poseidon, God of the Sea and I am Kronos the Titan king. He is a dog and I am a cat. He is a summo wrestler superhero and I MUST be taken down. He is pure joy. Radiant like the moon that allows me to see him in the shadows as he prepares to bounce once more into my arms.
Later, after dinner he finds me again in front of the fire. “Mom, a bunch of us want to go back outside but we need a grown-up.” There are four shining expectant faces looking up at me. It is mission impossible and I am their last hope. I put down my glass, my plate of finger food and head for the door, assuring the parents that a responsible adult will supervise. I hoist the little ones in, Max crawls in last. He looks behind me with a look on his face I wish I could bottle–I look that says, “I dare you not to bathe in joy”. “You coming?” he says. “Absolutely” I say answering his challenge as I hoist up my dress and kick off my shoes.
The way to tame the gremlins inside is to simply jump. Jump high. Jump until your skirt threatens to fly over your head. Jump until the laughter is so loud that you draw the crowd away from the warm toasty inside, as they all comes to see what is so marvelous that five voices laugh like 50.
Later that night as I was snuggling Max before sleep, he whispers to me, “Mama. That was the most fun I have had in years.” I kiss him on the forehead and hold my whole life made right, made whole, made complete.
Max looking worried as the Caps lost their two goal lead and we headed into overtime…
Last Easter weekend Max and I went out for Mexican food at our favorite restaurant. Many of our friends were away for spring break. The beach. The mountains. They had all fled while we decided to stay. Money. Work. I have to admit, I was envious.
And so my mind was on travel. I started telling Max about some amazing trips friends of ours would take this year. Vacations that had been dreamed about for years. Ari was going to China. Jackie and family to Guatemala. I wanted to start dreaming with my boy, to make a plan to go someplace amazing. I wanted to be able to sit and look at books and smile wistfully and say, “Someday…”, scrimp and save. So I asked Max, my wise old 8 year old, the question that was burning in my heart. “If you could go anywhere in the world…ANYWHERE…If you could plan your dream vacation…Where would you go?”
Max sat and contemplated this very important question. He furrowed his brow. He was uncharacteristically quiet. He looked up and said with great seriousness:
“Detroit”.
This was not the answer I had hoped for. I wanted him to say “Italy” or “India” or maybe “Vietnam”. I wanted him to speak of far away places, of the exotic, of the new.
“What?” I said. “Detroit? Really?”
“Yes mom. My dream trip. Detroit.”
“Wow Max, that’s interesting.” I tried to sound excited about Detroit, about the wonders it might hold. I was failing terribly. “Why Detroit?”
Max looked crushed. How could I, his mother, the woman who gave him life, NOT understand this dream. His voice got strained. “Because MOM…Its my second hometown.”
Now I should say for the record that, to the best of my knowledge, no member of my family (or Juan’s) hails from Detroit. We have never been there. We have never even flown through the airport with Max. But I also need to say for the record, that while Max’s heart belongs to the Washington Capitals, his second favorite team in the NHL–his favorite team in the Western Conference, is the Detroit Redwings.
I must still have looked confused, because Max’s voice rose a bit and sounded strained. “Duh…mom…the REDWINGS….”
As it turns out, all Max really wants to do is go to the arena and watch his boys play. And then, come to think of it, he wouldn’t mind seeing the Blackhawks play in Chicago or the Rangers play at Madison Square Garden.
And suddenly, the dream trip that I had been salivating about started materializing before our very eyes. Not as one fantasy vacation but as a journey, a quest. To go home, see them play at home. Over and over again. Route for the home team. At home.
“Mom,” said Max. “Lets try and get to all 30 NHL arenas before I graduate from college.” I thought about it. Fourteen years. This could be doable. And even if we didn’t do all 30 arenas, we could try. It could be an excuse to see parts of America we would never have dared go, explore cities we would have long ignored. Its an excuse to find old friends in New York, Vancouver and Minneapolis/St. Paul. To uncover old stories and tell new ones as we drive. I started to think of all my old friends, long lost, recently found who live in great hockey cities. I think about the stories I would tell Max knowing we would see them soon. Stories I might never have thought to tell. All the ways this journey would lead me home to some hidden part of myself. It could be a quest. Not for the Holy Grail, but for hometowns. And for finding our loved ones, our heros, our enemies, perfect strangers at home.
Max declared that all the previous games we had been to at the Verizon Center did not count. No–it had to start in October. And it had to start at home. So last Monday, it did. Because in the end, its really all about returning there.
