My Kids First Time At Camp

20
Jun

It was 1:30am. My husband slept peacefully beside me. The dog snored from his spot on the floor. The breeze gently stirred the room.

Something was wrong.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

No fans producing background noise.

No nightlights.

No sound of someone flipping over in the bed down the hall, no sound of a hard-backed turtle toy bumping into the wall as someone shifted the sheet.

It was unnerving.

As I tried to make myself sleep, I kept thinking about my two oldest children, Rex and Bobo (special names for them), away at camp for the first time.

Were they going to fall out of their bunk beds?

Were they going whizz in said bunk bed?

Were they going to wake up disoriented in the middle of the night, wonder where they were? Would they cry out for me?

Would their counselor know how to comfort them?

Yeah, and let’s talk about this “counselor” guy anyway.

Who is this child who happens to be taller than me? He looks like a eight year old, with his adorable sprinkle of freckles and quick smile. I bet he hopes he’s setting my fears to rest with that confident conversation and quick demonstration of kind authority, but he can’t do that while looking like a boy dressed in his father’s business suit. How can I entrust my children to this baby? His brain isn’t even fully developed yet!

This is all coming from a person who attended or worked at camps from the age of 9-25.

When I look back at who I was while I worked at camp, I am forced to concede that my boys are probably going to be fine while they’re away over the next few days. The people I worked with at camp were some of the most dedicated, creative, passionate people I’ve ever known. They bent over backwards and literally drove through fire to make camp a spectacular event for each child there.

[I mean it when I say fire. For some reason we thought it would be a great idea and dramatic entrance to a skit to have someone zoom a motorcycle through a line of fire, skid to a stop, and have the passenger, sans helmet, jump off the back. Let’s just say there were a lot of guardian angels flying around that summer.]

That’s the other thing I am quick to forget…

It isn’t only humans at work at camp. God is at work too.

So while I reorganize and try to distract myself from worrying they’ll come home covered in mosquito-bite welts, God reveals more of Himself, draws them closer, independent of the guidance my husband and I provide at home. And this is one of my greatest prayers and desires: that my children would invest in and cultivate their own dynamic relationships with God, independent of my own faith.

Camp is a great way to take that first step of releasing them to do this.

Even if it keeps me awake every night all week.

I’d love to hear some favorite memories of your experience with camp. Do you have any coping suggestions for the mom of some first-timers? How did you and your kids handle it?

Five Minute Friday: Fall

7
Jun

This is after it’s been tidied. Scary.

There are tumbleweeds of dog fur in the corner next to the buffet, the surface of which is covered in papers, pencil boxes and mail, rendering the buffet virtually undetectable.

There is an un-emptied suitcase at the foot of our bed from a trip taken three weeks ago. It’s not that I don’t need the clothes that might be in the suitcase, it’s that I’ve worn the same jeans every day this week, and that makes for a much lighter laundry load.

The children are required to make a path through their rooms from the door to their beds so I don’t trip on stuff, should they need me in the middle of the night. But as for putting away these items, it hasn’t happened lately.

My oldest son was supposed to have a friend over but I forgot to call the parent and solidify details. The gift we bought for our favorite teacher is still sitting on my kitchen counter — school was done last week.

If you wash the rugs in the bathroom, it makes it look like you have probably washed the actual floor.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/67774014@N00/7438145050

Why do I get bothered by these and other things I see as indicators of my own shortcomings?

Why do I expect certain things from myself that I wouldn’t expect from any one else?

In reverse, I make excuses for the things I have done. I made scones for a friend’s visit this week. She complimented them and I downplayed it. Even though it has been raining and generally icky outside, I have managed to split hostas, remove grass and replant or pot up at least 20 plants. But it doesn’t seem like a drop in the bucket compared to the other things on my list, so I decide that effort doesn’t count.What if we all, specifically all of us women and/or mothers, decided to cut ourselves some slack? What if we admitted that we don’t have to have it all figured out every moment of every day? What if we stopped expecting perfection from ourselves?

If that happened, I think we would start to realize no one expected it from us, that it was self-imposed.

And besides, no one was buying the image of perfection we thought we projected.

Let’s allow the façade to fall away and reveal the real imperfect us – quirky, overwhelmed, loving, strong, flawed, fully-human us. And we are amazing. We are beautiful.

This post is part of a link up with Lisa-jo Baker and Five Minute Friday. Check out all the details here: http://lisajobaker.com/ It is open to anyone. Come shake yourself out of the shackles of self-critique and write for the sheer pleasure of it. Today’s word prompt was Fall.

Five Minute Friday: Comfort

10
May

This week’s prompt is: Comfort.

***

Cinch tight the soft cotton blanket until all his flailing parts are swaddled and he feels pulled together again.

Hum quiet tune while running fingertips over spine, shoulder blade, rib bones until breathing slows, deepens, and he drifts off to sleep.

Walk into a familiar room and hear greetings of old friends who have become family.

Heave sobs into pillow and feel warm hand, aching heart soothed with words of peace and hope.

Feel the wash of comfort making subside the fear and clenching of throat and stomach.

Comfort: peace, security, calm, confidence, understanding, connection.

Such a blessing to have, such a gift to offer.

Another form of love, both Divine and earthly.

***

Sortof free-write-y today, huh? Well, that’s what I came up with in five minutes. 🙂

This is part of a link up with Lisa-Jo Baker (http://lisa-jobaker.com) that happens every Friday for anyone who wants to participate. You can read more about it at her website, and I really suggest checking it out — there’s lots of fun blogs to discover!

Why I’m Okay with a Little Sass From My Son

24
Apr

Today I’m so happy to tell you about my sassy son who sasses me while drinking a cold glass of sasafrass in the tall grass. Okay let’s be done with that. I apologize. But I am posting over at my friend’s fantastic blog, Chris Morris Writes. And I really am writing about my son, who is developing a little bit of pre-tween attitude (is pre-tween a term? I should copyright that quick!).

Please click here http://wp.me/p3eHCc-dr to read my post, and while you’re there, be sure to dig into other posts Chris has up. He has a unique perspective and is a real stand-up guy. I know you’ll love his blog.

Five Minute Friday: Here

12
Apr

This post is a part of link-up with Lisa Jo Baker (lisajobaker.com) Here’s what she says about it:…on Fridays a group of people who love to throw caution to the wind and just write without worrying if it’s just right gather to share what five minutes buys them. Just five minutes.

This week’s prompt was the word “Here” and away we go…

My daughter loves to play tiger…or snow leopards or lions or meer cats.

My son loves to play with Legos and create new intricate vehicles.

My other son loves to draw complicated battle scenes.

They all love to tell me about these things in great detail.

I mean exhausting detail.

Mind numbing detail.

It is hard to listen.

It is hard to want to play meer cats again.

But that is a value I’ve tried to cultivate since having kids, to be here, in this present moment together and actively participating in the moment rather than just nodding and saying absent “Uh-huhs” while not really paying attention.There are times when I’m better at it than others.

There are times when I have to tell my kids that I’m taking a break from listening.

They understand my need to turn off my ears for a while.

They also understand that when they speak I listen. I’m all here.

Myth of the Tortured Artist

9
Apr

There is a longstanding attitude that for an artist to be profound, to be able to tap into something deep inside, that person must lead a tortured, angst-filled life.

Being eccentric is helpful.

Curmudgeondry is desirable.

Vagueness is expected, along with an attitude of superiority.

Alcoholism, extremes in weight, isolation and self abuse come with the territory.

Writers love the quote from Hemmingway: “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” I can understand the appeal: I’m a mother and all mothers fight against martyrdom from time to time. There is power in sacrifice, nobility in giving to your own detriment.

There are those who would struggle with depression regardless of profession. There are people who are drawn to dark places. Are these people natural born artists? Not necessarily.

I would like to propose that writing is a joyous, exhilarating adventure.

English: Tortured trees Trees showing the effect of the harsh environment. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Wings.

Dandelion fluff.

Stars.

Mysterious forest.

Quest.

Beauty can be an intense experience, as can love and joy. Intensity of experience doesn’t have to be wrapped in darkness, cruelty or pain. And writing doesn’t have to be a torturous exercise. It can be elating, transcendent, illuminating, full of surprises. Maybe because of where I’ve come from, maybe because of when I returned to creative writing, the process of writing (this is going to sound trite) is a treat for me.

It is a savory meal bubbling as you come in from the cold dampness of the day,

a garden that makes you swoon with full scents of late afternoon,

a full-body fit of laughter that leaves you wiping the tears from your face.

There are times when finding words is hard, when the intimidating blank page dares you to make a peep into its cavernous maw. But nobody said your writing had to arrive perfectly, pristine in the first attempt. And when the words begin to flow, and they will flow no matter how you feel about that prospect in the slow times, that flow is a river that sweeps you away. You lose track of time, lose track of your surroundings and step into the story, similar to what happens when you read a great book…except that you’re on the flip side of that mirror, the creator of those wondrous worlds.

And it will be glorious.

Scared-y Cat

6
Apr

This post is a result of a writing prompt coordinated by Lisa Jo Baker (http://lisajobaker.com/five-minute-friday/) . Here’s what she says about it:

On Fridays around these parts we like to write. Not for comments or traffic or anyone else’s agenda. But for pure love of the written word. For joy at the sound of syllables, sentences and paragraphs all strung together by the voice of the speaker.
We love to just write without worrying if it’s just right or not. For five minutes flat.

Today’s Writing Prompt: After

I tried my first Five Minute Friday post and when I got done with my first five minutes, I balked. Full on chicken moment. It was too personal. It was about childbirth. It was about my daughter. It was about the pain of growing up and common hurts we all face as we grow into adults.

And I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t share it.

I already hide behind a pen name (do you think my parents named me Nita Holiday for real?). It’s mostly in an attempt to separate my writing life and other life. It’s mostly for myself, as an indicator of what hat I’m wearing when I sit down to write.

But it’s also to protect others. My husband. My children. My extended family.

If you don’t know who I am, you can’t judge me. If I keep you at arm’s length, you can’t dismiss me as being too old, too young, too female, too northern. If you deal only with the image I extend to you, then my anonymity keeps me safe.

It also keeps me from dealing with the people around me, making me brave on paper and a people-pleaser in person.

189/365 July 8 – Better Late Than Never (Photo credit: Sharon Drummond)

Hard-Earned Victories Taste Sweetest

2
Apr

Lathe operator machining parts for transport planes at the Consolidated Aircraft Corporation plant, Fort Worth, USA (1942). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Some things are worth doing even if they’re hard.

In college I had a friend for whom everything seemed to come easily. He was from a family with wealth and great connections, he had natural charm and charisma, and he was talented in many areas. It was easy to feel envious of him since, from the outside at least, everything seemed to be handed to him. Every job, every opportunity, every whim, every card seemed to fall in his favor.

In spite of all that, he remained grounded and humble. How did he manage it?

I sometimes wished for the challenge of remaining humble, but when your big plans all seem to be routinely thwarted, you’re automatically kept pretty humble with zero effort.

Flash forward to parenthood.

Our first son (let’s call him Rex) is compliant, pleasant, curious but reserved. He likes to weigh the risks and take in the landscape before trying things.

Contrast that with our second son (we’ll call him Bobo) who is headstrong, bold, intense and a risk-taker.

Sometimes Rex wishes he could be brave like Bobo. But I assure him that it isn’t bravery if you’re not overcoming fear. It doesn’t take courage to enter a situation that doesn’t present you with any danger. And my second son’s danger-gauge is faulty. The victories of parenting are harder won with Bobo. He tests my patience and creativity. He pushes my buttons. And sometimes he just makes me straight-up, plain angry. However, because we’ve had to work so hard to steer him in the appropriate directions, when he chooses those directions freely, it feels like a tidal wave of success.

Rex chooses wisely naturally, so it isn’t that we don’t appreciate his good choices, but the good ones Bobo makes took so much more work, they feel like big deals.

I’ve decided to take this approach to both parenting and writing: Some things are worth the investment of time, even if the results are long in coming.

I love this quote so I’m sharing it even if it’s not the first time:

“Never give up on a dream just because of the time it will take to accomplish it. The time will pass anyway.” Earl Nightingale

Maybe you’ll get rejected hundreds of times. Maybe you’ll want to pull out your hair when you child needs near constant redirection. But the investment of energy in a worthy endeavor is so much more gratifying than energy invested in a flight of fancy that is discarded quickly in favor of some new glittery distraction.

The challenge is to know the difference.

What is the nature of your goal right now? Worthy or glittery? (And a worthy goal can involve glitter, but you know what I mean, right?)

Lace ’em up and get moving.

Once you decide the goal is worth the time it might take to achieve it, then lace up your shoes.

Pull up your big-girl undies. Do what it takes to get off the couch and invest the time.

And when it hurts,

when you think it might not be worth it,

remember why you started.

Remember the relationship goal,

the parenting outcome,

the end result you’re aiming for.

And press on.

I Miss Palm Sunday

25
Mar

Hosanna! (Photo credit: Lawrence OP)

Update: In the original post, I neglected to mention some important information! This blog post is part of a link-up for faith, art and life. To find other blogs that are participating, logon to Twitter and search the Twitter hashtag #faithartlife. There are bound to be a lot of great posts, and I think you’ll be encouraged to discover new bloggers for whom faith is an intricate part of life and art.

My family and I go to a large church in a northern suburb of the Twin Cities. I mean LARGE. And they’ve got great, dynamic, creative kids programming that all my children love being a part of.

But they don’t have Palm Sunday.

At least, they don’t have Palm Sunday the way I had it as a child.

Do you remember?

Remember finally getting to wear the special shoes your mom wouldn’t let you wear unless you were on a rug or carpeted area, even though they were so pretty with their little strap and tiny latch and shiny gold lining?

Remember the fancy dress you got to wear with the lace trim that made it extra-specially special? Maybe it had a petticoat or crinoline if you were really lucky? And you didn’t mind the buttons and how long you had to stand still while someone else buttoned them, as if you were doing them a favor by holding still for so long, rather than seeing what an act of love their buttoning was.

And remember the palm branches the kids all got to wave as they walked through the sanctuary?

“Hosanna, hosanna! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!”

You got to sing

and walk down the aisles

and be the center of attention

English: Description: Left Apsis: Jesus entering Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. Fresco in the Parish Church of Zirl, Austria. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

and wave your palm branch

and wave at your parents

and hit your neighbor in the eye with your palm branch,

then try to explain how it was an accident,

then get pushed away by the injured party,

then forget the self control you promised your mother you’d remember and push the one-eyed kid back, just a little bit,

then wave your palm branch vigorously to cover the rude faces you and the kids were now making at each other while standing on the platform in front of the entire congregation.

Afterwards, you’d get to bring your palm branch home, a small piece of greenery to get your through the rest of the Minnesota snowscape, which may or may not be gone by the time you want to look for your Easter basket seven days later. Nothin’ says spring like going on an Easter egg hunt in your parka and snow pants.

Remind me why my church doesn’t do Palm Sunday like we used to when I was little? Oh that’s right, because the grown-ups finally came to their senses.

Disclaimer: Even though it doesn’t sound like it in this post, I really do miss Palm Sunday for the kids. It was a great part of the rhythm of church life, and even though it was sometimes disorderly and had potential for chaos to break out at any moment, it was a time when the adults and children in the church got to share a moment together. And those moments are precious…even if they are messy.

This is what it looks like in late March, 2013 in Minnesota.

This is late March, 2013, in Minnesota. Happy Spring!

Acknowledge Your Inner Goofball

21
Mar

My first grader had his big program at school this week. We’d been hearing all sorts of songs for weeks, songs about amigos, ribbity frogs, thanks-for-coming songs, a lovely assortment of first grade wonders.

This is only half of the entire first grade class

When you get more than 80 first graders up on stage, there are bound to be some shenanigans. They are up there a long time, with no teachers close enough to control them.

Creative freedom.

And an audience.

As you can imagine, there were some wild dance moves on display, some exaggerated waving episodes, and one time when a student sat down on the risers for a nice long break.

But nothing could prepare me for my son’s actions.

Let me prepare you by telling you that this son is a bit of a live wire. He’s all in. Everything he feels, he feels BIG, whether it is grief or elation. And he likes to be funny.

He might get this from his mother.

That being said, I didn’t realize I should have sent a package of tissues in his pocket because he clearly had a nose issue going on while he was onstage.

He picked his nose almost the entire length of one song. I don’t know if he ever was able to remove the offending item from his nostril.

I should have told him where we planned to sit so he could locate us. The poor child had to make goggles with his hands to aid in finding his family in the large crowd.

And apparently he needed a bath more recently because, while his class was on center stage, he was so concerned with his hygiene that he had to smell his own armpit. Then he had to ask his neighbor to smell it. Then, in order to have a baseline for comparison, his neighbor had to smell HIS armpit. Then they had to smell one another’s armpits.

Look at that stylized body hair! (Photo credit: Michael Tinkler)

After the program, as I was going to pick up my son, I ran into an old friend I’m getting re-acquainted with. I asked how his daughter did. He seemed surprised by the question, said she did fine and then commented,

“Did you see those two boys smelling their armpits?”

I answered, “One of them was my son.”

He grinned and exclaimed, “That’s awesome!”

And if I stop to look at it from an outside perspective, it was pretty hilarious. You’d expect nothing less from a first grader. It is the classic, stereotypical behavior that happens at a first grade program.

The thing that made me slightly pleased with myself was that I didn’t hesitate to claim my son as my own. I didn’t smile and nod when my friend pointed to the armpit smelling, acting like I was an innocent observer (“Yeah, can you believe that boy?”). That kid is mine and even when he’s oblivious of the audience (or more aware of them, I’m not sure which) and volatile and intense, I claim him as mine.

Maybe it is because of my own inner goofball. I don’t have as many outlets for it these days, but in the past, I’d be the one who’d volunteer to dress up as a cat for some school assignment, or be the one to get a pie in the face for a fundraising event. I don’t mind being up front and I have no compunction about being made to look a fool, as long as I’m in on the joke.

There’s power in looking silly and not caring that you do. -Amy Poehler

Being released from conventional definitions of what’s acceptable or proper is freeing. There’s something about embracing your inner goofball that makes you feel more alive.

That might be asking a lot for some of you more mature types. A first step can be to acknowledge that you even have an inner dork. Then try to remove a few ladle-fulls of the massive moat of doubt and analysis that keeps you from saying something you really think. Honesty is refreshing, for speaker and the receiver.

I think that’s the fun of writing. You can make anything happen to any character and as long as it rings true, it will hold up. So maybe the act of writing is a way of embracing one’s inner goofball. And, to steal the words of my friend, “That’s awesome.”

What ways do you “wave your freak flag” or release your inner goofball? How do you support your children’s expression of their personalities? What do you think about allowing yourself to speak your mind rather than censoring or modifying your expressed opinions? I’d love to hear your thoughts!