Max, my son, was named after the boy in the wolf suit in the Maurice Sendak story. From the moment I first felt him move inside, I somehow knew he would be my wild thing. And I loved him and his untamable spirit with every bit of my soul. No other name would do.
Where the Wild Things Are is one of my all time favorite books. I loved it as a child. I loved it as a teacher. I love it as a parent. And now, I cannot believe that they are making a movie out of it.
What is life if it is not an epic journey in a boat we create out of hope and fear? Who are we if we are not all sweet tender children in wolf costumes, angry and imperfect, but authentic, taming our monsters and loving them all the same, embracing our fears and then setting sail back home to ourselves to our hearts to everyone who loved us exactly as we are,fierce costume or not.
I cannot wait.
This was the scene at my house yesterday evening.
The mother (that would be me) was hunched over her computer, paying bills and trying to solve yet another money issue.
The Boy: Mom, is this a permanent marker?
The Mom: Um…show it to me?
The boy thrust the marker in front of his mother’s computer screen. She did not look at the child-just the marker.
The Mom: Nope. No babe…Its not permanent
The Boy: Oh thank goodness.
The Mom: Max…why thank goodness?
And then she looked..
.
Thank goodness nothing is permanent.
When I drop Max off at school lately he has taken to asking me, “When will I see you again?”. He asks with an urgency that is heartbreaking.
Not that long ago, he would beg me to drop him off at the curbside, let him walk into the school and find his way to his classroom. Now he wants me to walk him all the way to his teacher, hug him twice, kiss him and answer his question with specifics. He needs to know.
I have wondered why this sudden change…worried about it really. After all isn’t he supposed to be moving in a straight, linear path toward independence? Isn’t he? Or is it more like a spiral, a rising and falling, a cycle, a coming and going…
This fall, we have had some disruption in our life, in our routine. Max has had to face cancer, see it on the worried faces of our loved ones, feel it in the absence of his Nana. Every day there is a different schedule, a patchwork of makeshift solutions. There is a lot of spinning, no wonder he wants to hold on tight.
But I also wonder how much of it is simply the rhythm of growing up, the venturing out to come running home again. I wonder how much of it is that he has grown so big so fast that he needs to retreat and find his footing. He needs to anchor himself in the everlovin’ arms of mama.
I find myself drawn to this rhythm, this cycle, this venturing out in the world only to return to that which we know is true and safe. That it is the coming home again that makes it possible to set out again. We are always in movement, sometimes forward and sometimes back again. I guess the biggest mistake I ever made was thinking that it was all forward motion. Its circular around and about, a walk into the center of ourselves, to the heart of the matter, to our centers and out again. Round and round.
This week I discovered a small labyrinth only two blocks from my office. In the bitter cold I have gone and walked around and around, following the winding path, before ending at the center and then turning to walk back out again. I have been all by myself in the quiet, the rose garden bare, the wind brutal. But I go nevertheless. Its an exercise in coming home I suppose, in riding the cycles–the giving and receiving, the coming and the going and the coming back again. It is grounding and it quiets the voice inside me, the one that wants to plaintively cry out, “When you will come back again?”
I know before long, my little one will be off on his own again. Filled up with love, strengthened and secure he will set out again to explore, to be his own person. He will roll his eyes when he sees me coming. He will stop asking when I will return. I may feel worried in a new way then I suppose until I remember its all just one big spiral, one cycle, and the expansion will one day contract again anew.
On Saturday night, after dropping off a dear friend with her family, Max and I went to the Festival of Lights at the Mormon Temple just outside of DC. It was bitterly cold and Max and I snuggled together under the extra layer of my coat, walking like a three legged monster through the fairy land. Each barren tree was transformed into a firewords display–frozen in the height of its glory.
“Mama,” Max asked me “Why do we decorate with all these lights at Christmas?” I reached deep into my knowing to answer him, not satisfied with pat answers such as ”tradition” in a place that seemed so full of magic.
“Well, baby…See its like this. This is the deepest, darkest, coldest time of the year. Its the time of year when it seems like summer will never come again. But the light reminds us of God’s love. We decorate the trees and our house with the lights to remind us that even in the darkest hours that God’s light is here. When Jesus was born he brought light to this world and thats what we celebrate at Christmas. Truth is baby, we all carry God’s light inside us. The Christmas lights remind us that we need to let that light shine–even when–especially when the night is darkest.”
“Cool”, he said.
Cool indeed.
This season has been especially still and quiet on our end. We have had few parties and instead have opted to stay in and go to bed early. It has felt right. This season, I have felt so much like one of those shepherds. Those shepherds keeping watch in the deep dark night, not sure what will come, but trusting, trusting that they shouldn’t be afraid.
For the last week or so these words are the ones that echo over and over again in my head
A thrill of hope, a weary world rejoices…For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn
Fall on your knees…oh hear the angel voices….Oh night divine…Oh night when Christ was born
No matter our religous beliefs, no matter what we what we call it, Christ, God made human, is born over and over again in each of us. We are called out of the dark, still, silent night to love unconditionally, and be light for one another. This is our birthday, each of us. This is the reminder of the light that was given to us when we were born. This light–this magical light…Let it shine, tonight and every night.
May you have a blessed and beautiful Christmas and may you know stillness, inner peace and light.
Here in the crisp dark cold early Monday morning, the week stretches out before me infinitely. It feels like it will be a thousand years before I see you again. A thousand years and a thousands disappointments, before you climb into my lap and wrap your arms around me again, whispering Mama. My heart is aching seven ways this morning and I haven’t even left yet.
Life moves on. It marches in a way that feels unexplainable. Every time I am there I am not here. I don’t want to be anywhere else. All around me people are going about their lives. They are cleaning and working and lifting and doing. I am watching, from 10,000 feet up–maybe even 30,000–wanting to be there with you. I want to help you move that couch. I want to help you decorate that tree. I want to help you do that grocery shopping. I want to help you write that essay, cook that meal, fix that car, do that homework, sing that song, plan that trip.
I miss you.
Jeff and Max off exploring new spaces at sunset.
Love is a messy thing.
Recently Max has felt pretty clingy and undone–there is so much swirl going on in our life–so much instability. Odette’s illness this fall really rocked his world, and the recent cancer diagnoses in our world have him feeling unstable, unsure and scared. He has been clinging to those he loves like a life raft. And he loves Jeff. Deeply.
Recently Max told me that he sometimes wished our friend Jeff was his dad. Not that long ago he told me that he felt like Jeff was his “second dad” and another time “just like a dad”. And suddenly, each time he utters the “d” word, I have come a bit undone myself.
Jeff plays a special role in Max’s life, one that is hard to define. They go swimming together and share a love for hockey. Jeff offers a safe lap for Max to crawl into when he is feeling a bit wounded. He tells stories and wrestles with Max. Jeff offers these gifts to so many of the kids in the neighborhood–he shows no favorites– but to Max the attention means so much more than it does to the others–the ones with dads that are home and involved. To Max the attention he gets from Jeff is love, pure and simple, and it fills up the empty places in his heart–the ones left vacant by a father who chooses not to be around so much.
And so over the course of many months and over the span of more than a year, we have all given into this love Max has for Jeff. We have started to live into it, letting it carry us along like a river. Its opened up new ways of seeing for me. Its made the world a little sweeter…a little lighter. Its allowed me to really believe that others will help me shepherd Max into independence and awaken to the fact that I am just chief among his many guides. Its transformed me and Max and how we relate to our whole community.
Normally, we manage this dance quite gracefully–this ancient village parenting style. I sometimes feel like I am captain of TeamMax–the larger group of our community that is trying to help Max find his way in this world.
But other times we find ourselves tripping up and stomping on each other’s wounded toes. The boundaries don’t feel obvious or neat. Its so hard without the titles that define our relationships to guide us. The titles that establish the rules and give us comfort. Titles like “dad”. So I could see why Max was desperate to assign one to the member of his extended tribe he loves most.
But Max’s use of the word “dad” sent up a thousand red flags for me. Mostly it triggered a great fear that Max would now create suffering in the most positive male relationship in his life because he would suddenly attach unrealistic expectations to it, expectations that Jeff wouldn’t be able to fulfill. I wasn’t sure exactly what “dad” meant to Max–but I was sure that at least a few of those qualifications Jeff would never meet–no matter how much he loves Max and no matter how much Max wants him to play that role.
And so I set about trying to set him straight or as straight as one can set anyone on this crooked path called life and to help him see the reality of this unusual situation. And in the course of it what I learned is that really, what Max wanted, the foundation of his wish, was simply to know that he was loved, that he is dear to Jeff and always would be. He needed assurances that no matter what storms came floating through our life that Jeff would not stop loving him. The only way he knew how to ask for unconditional love was to use the word “dad”.
But in exploring it with him I also learned that he had, in using the adopting the word “dad”, already started to inadvertently attach a slew of expectations that might if he holds onto them too tightly leave him disappointed…without setting Jeff up to fail him.
Truth is, I don’t know how to put this we have for Jeff in any box with a label either. In a world where we “friend” practical strangers on Facebook and assure our spouses that someone doesn’t mean much to us by saying, “they are just a friend”, the word friend seems completely and utterly inadequate. Yet every other term out there that we search for ranges from vaguely inauthentic to downright untrue. He is neither uncle nor brother, dad nor partner, stepfather, half-father, or coach. In many ways he could act like any of these things to either of us at any moment but really at the most fundamental and basic ways none of these labels apply at all.
At another time in my life, this lack of definition could have been a matter of great frustration, but as I lay tossing and turning this morning, it dawned on me that it was nothing short of a gift. For the truth is, whenever love seems to fit neatly into cleanly labeled boxes, we all set ourselves up to fail and immediately open the door to unending disappointment and complete and utter doom.
How many hours have any of us spent in therapy trying to sort out suffering and grief because our mother or father didn’t live up to our expectations of “Mother” or “Father”? How many years of hurt and pain arise from partners who don’t behave as we think partners should? How many times have brothers or sisters disappointed us when they did not rise to the occasion of the title that was granted to them simply by the accident of shared parentage? How many times have we missed the gifts given to us by our loved ones simply because we were looking for something else? I don’t know about you, but for me the number runs into the thousands…
But Jeff with his big open heart that does not neatly fit anywhere offers us the opportunity to stay in this open space of no definition, to love without labels, without explanations and without the code-words that ultimately trip us up.
Why do we need to tame love with labels? Instead of trying to define Jeff and our affection for him by using words like friend, brother or dad, why not just let it be what it is…and not try and name it?
It certainly means messy moments as we stumble along without a map. We are going to need to work to define the boundaries instead of having some word lazily do it for us. What does it mean to play this nameless role in our “tribe”? What is appropriate and comfortable? We are going to have to draw these lines ourselves over and over again from scratch. We are setting out to explore uncharted terrain and are not playing by templates. This is hard enough for a 39 year old woman to do..can I ask my child to come along on this ride? But when considering the consequences, the thousands of missed opportunities, how could I not?
That is hard and scary and makes my stomach do all sorts of flips. It calls for nothing short of raw naked authenticity of the bravest kind. It calls for fearlessness and trust and for the willingness to see things, not as we want them to be but how they are. It calls for a willingness to let go of everything including our expectations and hopes of being loved back…yipes.
Yet, something tells me, if I can, if Max can, if we can somehow learn to navigate the path of our love for Jeff without labeling it, without metaphors or similes, we just might be able to do it in all our relationships…or at least in some of our relationships. We can undo some of the hurt that was caused when the people we labeled failed us by not living up to that label. We can let go of our need to put people in little boxes. And then maybe we can open a tiny space for love to flow more freely. And then maybe, just maybe the world will have space to breathe and to heal, just a tiny wee bit.
Or maybe we will just end up here where we started. Simply Exploring. Without a map.
Golden light under bright blue skies, caramel apples sticky and slightly burnt, a baby boy cow named Elmo that nudged and licked Max so much he thought he might just eat him for lunch, finding apples in the far end of the orchard that everyone thought was overpicked: beautiful pink lady apples, crisp and slightly sour in their sweetness, stopping for hot chocolate on the way home and reading the funny papers with Max at the coffee shop, roasted sweet potatoes and a relish of carmelized onions alongside my roast chicken, watching hockey with my boy snuggled on my lap.
Savoring the day for all the magic that it brought. How about you? What gifts have you uncovered?
I took a two day class at Tai Sophia this past weekend. It meant leaving the house by 8 am each day and not returning home until after well after 5:30. The class was thought provoking and heart softenting. It was a restful, restorative way for me to spend my 48 hours away from work. And it had real consequences for Max, the only child of a single mother.
Max, precious Max, spent his weekend being traded like a card, being passed off, being neither here nor there in the middle of everyone’s very busy schedule.
Sunday morning found Max at his friend Jake’s house. He was picked up by his dad who shepherded him to his swimming class and then took him for lunch. Juan dropped him off with my friend Michelle who took him with her kids to the park for a couple of hours. Michelle then dropped him off with his favorite teenage babysitter Katherine. By the time I reached him it was almost dinner time and he had been in the care of no fewer than four different families.
One of my friends was worried about Max’s day. She thought Max would feel fractured and discombobulated. Insecure and unrooted. At loose ends and a little unloved. She had me a little concerned too.
Yet, something interesting happened. When I picked Max up he was glowing. It was clear that Sunday had been one of his favoritest days ever. As he recounted his day it was clear that he had experienced it not as an orphan being shuffled around but rather as beloved child being passed gently from one set of waiting arms to another. He had experienced it as one big epic adventure. His conclusion was that our community was wide and deep–that he was well loved–that there were many experiences to be lived–that he could trust many.
It amazes me how the very same set of facts could elicit such different interpretations. It reminds me that our lives are really just stories, and while we have little control over many of the events in our lives we do have the power to write our own stories about what happened as those events unfolded. Max could have written a story about being left by his mother and schleped about no one having more than a few hours to give him. Instead he chose to write a story about adventure, deep love and a community who cherishes him and shares him. I would like to think he wrote a bigger story, a story that was wide and deep enough to protect him versus one that was shallow and left him feeling vulnerable.
Children are such brilliant storytellers. They find a way to breathe magic and good into any set of events–that is until we teach them otherwise when we pass on our own tiny stories. When we teach them that their stories are fantastical and dare I say wrong.
Too often I find myself living in my smallish little stories. I go about believing them for no other reason than its because I always have. They are convenient, automatic and don’t take much brainpower. But oh…when I look under the hood of my tender sweet soul and I see how these stories drain my heart of its power.
***********
One of our favorite games here at work, when Stephen, and I are bored and distracted, is to imagine what Winne the Pooh characters we might be that day. So often he is Tigger with boundless energy. I used to frequently be Piglet, often fretting but buzzy too, sometime I am Kanga nurturing and sweet. At times I have been Rabbit, with his schemes and his plans and his bossy nature but lately I have felt that I am Christopher Robin. Does he even really count as a character? He has cool boots but is pretty much on the sidelines of the story, unimportant and relatively uninvolved. That’s me, I tell myself over and over again. The one that doesn’t matter, who is doing so little to keep this ship afloat, the one who is sitting on the sidelines. It wasn’t until one of my favorite colleagues said to me yesterday that she was Christopher Robin that I could see how to breathe into a different story. Suddenly I saw my own “Christopher Robin-hood” in a new light. For Christopher is the one who carries all the animals of the Hundred Acre Woods as beloveds. He holds the space. Without his love there would be no story. He is quiet and still but his love breathes life into those woods. Just, dare I say it, like me.
*******
I have to admit, I have stopped and started this post, wondering where on earth this is going, how on earth I can conclude. With a call to action? With yet another reminder to myself to be more like my son, with yet another set of words that sneakily tell me that I am something less than perfect exactly as I am.
It gives me pause, this dilemma, this koan, this questioning, this holding of stories that expand not contract. Is there any way to end at story about stories? Is there any other way than this….
And she lived happily ever after.
Leaving the New Year dinner tonight, Max had a meltdown. He was crouched in the back of the car, on the floor, sobbing, his big boy seven year old body shaking from the force of his sorrow. He was crushed, laid out and completely undone because he was unable to hug our friend Jeff goodbye tonight. Jeff was busy helping with the cleanup and helping our hostess get her own kids upstairs to bed and so Max was rushed out of the house without his customary hug.
On an ordinary day, this might have been fine but Max is suffering from a cold that won’t go away. And he was up way past his bedtime. And he is feeling a little like the world is spinning out of control. Our dear Odette has been holed up in her room now for over a month, recovering from surgery and has been unable to play with him. There are rotting vegetables in the kitchen, and dirty dishes piled up very high in the sink. And all around him the adults are murmuring things about bailouts and stock accounts and layoffs and while he doesn’t know exactly what any of that is he is sensing that it is probably not good.
It is in moments like these that we most need to hold on to the ones who give us security, the ones who make us feel safe. We deeply long to be seen, to be hugged, to know that in the end, at least we have each other. Not in an intellectual way, but in a physical, real and tactile way.
I know what Max was feeling. These days, I am feeling a kind of new fragility that comes from being somewhat new. While it is generally good, there are moments when life, the sights and colors and bright lights and intense emotions can be a bit overwhelming. There are days when I am acutely aware of how little I understand, how little I can really grasp. And I am aware of how, like a newborn child, I have no words to explain it all to those around me. In these moments all I want to do is to crawl up into the lap of my loved ones. I want to be passed from one lovin’ set of arms to another. I don’t want to have to be big or grownup or understand about commitments. I want to be seen, and have that seeing acknowledged with real, tangible physical assurance. I need to know in a way that is neither intellectual or abstract that they are there. And when they can’t be, I can find myself in a metaphorical ball on the floor of the car.
It was for all these reasons that I was able to stifle my sighs and turn off the car and go inside to get Jeff. While it was true that Max would see Jeff tomorrow, and Wednesday and Friday too, the truth is sometimes, when it comes to love, all we have is now and promises of tomorrow aren’t enough. And while I hesitated a second, thinking that this was really just attention getting behavior it occurred to me that sometimes attention is really what is needed.
In the dark, Max crawled off the floor and into Jeff’s lap and lay a weary head on his shoulder. His little boy/big boy body relaxed out of the tight tight ball into a mushy kind of puddle. He was able to go, knowing that he was seen, that that seeing was real and that love finds a way, even out to the dark car.
And this not only comforted him but lifted him and made him laugh.
It made me laugh too as I turned to wrap my own arms around Jeff and just for a second lay my own head on his shoulder and breathed in the tangible, the solid, the real love that is my friend.
Dear Maxidoodle-
Last month in the car you asked me how old I was when the best thing that ever happened to me happened. I was 31, almost 32. In fact it was seven years ago today–at exactly 10:07. That was the day you were born. That was the day you changed my life.
I can’t believe it has already been seven years. The time has flown so quickly. All those milestones seem to have happened at rapid fire speed, first smile, first steps, first words, first friends, first days of school, first lost tooth. Sometimes I feel that our days together will never end but mostly I feel that you, your sweet childhood, it is slipping through my fingers. And I want to stop time, or slow it down–all the better to savor these years we get to spend together.
They say that a mother’s work is that of a teacher and guide. I do my best to teach you about healthy eating and to brush your teeth everyday and the importance of baths. I try and teach you about saying thank you and good study habits. I think all that is sinking in–but mostly I am struck by how the roles have been reversed. How much of our time together I have been the student and you, my precious boy, have been the teacher.
You are my funny guy–the one who is quick with a punchline, who will crack a joke to make me laugh just when I feel the worst. You are silly and you have a laugh that is infectious. You will make me hula hoop for hours. You will beg me to twirl with you on the grass until we both fall down. You will drag me into the rain to dance with you. You will turn the hose on me when the temperature climbs above 90. You have taught me about joy.
You are my compassionate child. You spend your own allowance on phone cards for O-O so she can call her girls when she is lonely. You bring me cool wash cloths when migraines ravage my body. Dogs and cats love you. You are gentle with them and you seem to speak their language–know just what they need to be comfortable. You open your heart to the strangers who have become our friends. You wrap your arms around them and are not afraid to ask them to care. You have shown me how to love fearlessly.
I admire how you jump into new social situation and try new things. Even when you are afraid, you embrace the challenges life sets before you and do amazing new things. You climb mountains, ride horses, jump in with whole new gangs of kids with confidence and enthusiasm. You have taught me how to live fearlessly.
You are my wild child. Whenever we are anywhere near the woods, you strip down to your shorts. You find your perfect stick and within minutes you are running free, your curly hair streaked by the sun. You pay attention to the bugs, the animals, the fish. You notice them. You have taught me how to be.
You know how to push my every button. You challenge me. You make a mess and don’t clean it up. You talk back. You teach me patience over and over again. When I lose my patience you teach me about forgiveness.
Being your mama has been the greatest adventure of my life. I am privledged and honored to be in this role–the role of driver and washer and cleaner and cooker and to get to spend so much time with a person so wise and funny and loving.
Happy Birthday my boy. I love you to the moon and back again a hundred thousand times.
your Mommy
