Goodbye 2015

As far as years go, I’ve had worse ones, but I’ve also had much better ones.

It feels naive to pin lofty hopes on 2016, that the clock will strike 12:00 and everything will magically improve. I know that’s not how it works. Each year brings a mixed bag of tricks — some delightful, others not so much. The secret, I suppose, is to enjoy the unveiling, and to seek a gem of goodness in everything, no matter what shows up. For most of us, though, that’s the challenging part.

Lately, I’ve been plagued by a restlessness that feels larger than anything I’ve ever known. Like carrying a giant toddler, it’s impossible to ignore. It commands my attention while crushing in on me, threatening to squash me from its demands. My life, now half over, has become stagnant. Is this all there is — an unending cycle of work and bills and responsibility? I feel called to step outside of my little box, to do more, to feel more, to be more. I’m done with austerity; it’s time for more.

If I can ask anything of 2016, it’s that I’ll find greater opportunities to learn about myself and my purpose for being here. I wish for enough security that I’m able to trust myself and take risks but not so much security that I relax into complacency. I want the freedom to experience new things instead of using all of my energy in maintaining the old ones.

I long for something to set my soul on fire.

It’s with both trepidation and expectant waiting that I’ll greet the new year. I’m eager to see what unfolds, while at the same time, hoping that whatever it is, it's merciful.

Be gentle with me, 2016.

Gardening? No Thank You. I’d Rather Clean the Bathroom

(I can't grow anything else but these are nice, right?)

There are few activities that I dislike more than gardening. Between the bugs, the dirt, the heat, and my aching back, it’s impossible to tell which I hate more. Combined with the fact that I’m rarely successful at growing anything that isn't a weed, it’s easy to see why I would rather clean the bathroom, go to the dentist, and call the cable company than engage in any yard work.

A large part of the reason that nothing thrives in my yard is due to the fact that I’m terribly inconsistent when it comes to watering plants. I start out OK in June, when the weather is still mild, but by July, I've lost complete interest in it. Honestly, is there anything more mind-numbing that spending an hour a night spraying plants with a leaky, drippy, hose?  

That's why in my yard, it’s survival of the fittest. To live here, a plant has to be able to survive without my assistance. I may be many things, but no one would ever accuse me of being a plant coddler.

The only flower I have any kind of success with is the day lily. I have tons of them in every color imaginable. They’re my ideal plant: they don’t need to be watered constantly and are tough to kill, probably because they’re really weeds at heart. No one has to water or fertilize their wild cousins that line country roads in a riot of orange color each summer.

Weeding is another problem. I can handle the weeds (sort of) in May and June, when they’re tiny little baby weeds, but not in July when they've suddenly morphed into Audrey from Little Shop of Horrors, complete with thorns and big teeth. By August, you need a hacksaw and dynamite to cut down those bad boys.  

Not to sound as if I'm bragging or anything, but my yard has more than its fair share of weeds. At one time, it used to be a field and has been committed to overthrowing my efforts in order to return to its natural state ever since.  By mid-summer, I’m inclined to let it, having had my fill of the entire gardening experience.

This year, in an attempt to choose the right plants for my yard and my ability, I've consulted with an expert on the subject. Even though he’s 17 and only works at the Home Depot on weekends, I’m quite sure the young man I spoke with knows what he’s talking about when it comes to gardening.

            “Can you please help me?  I’m looking for some plants for my yard.”

            “Ok, sure.  What sort of plants are you looking for?”

            “Oh, any kind will be fine, as long as it doesn't need to be watered and won’t die.”

            “Well, that certainly narrows it down, doesn't it?”

It’s at this point that I’m sent on my way with yet another day lily. Who knew that the kid at Home Depot was some kind of botanical genius?

              

Of Square Pegs

When my son Ryan was born, I was certain he was the most magnificent being I'd ever seen.  As he grew, I became even more convinced of his brilliance.  From an early age, Ryan's intelligence, curiosity, and sensitivity were apparent.  Clearly my child was on this earth to do great things and I was proud to be his mother.  It wasn't until he started school that I was informed otherwise.

 

For some reason, my square peg kid never quite fit into those round peg holes that would earn glowing remarks at school conferences.  More likely, I would hear plenty of examples suggesting that my perfectly wonderful child wasn't nearly so perfect - or wonderful.

During one particular teacher conference when Ryan was in fourth grade, my husband Dan and I prepared ourselves for the usual comments:  Ryan talks too much.  Ryan completes his work too fast and then becomes disruptive.  Ryan isn't organized.

 

We weren't disappointed.  Evidently all of Ryan's flaws had followed him into fourth grade, and his teacher couldn't wait to tell us about them.  While none were serious or harmful to others, I still longed for some positive comment, some concrete evidence, that we hadn't completely failed as a parents.

As we listened to the usual litany of Ryan's shortcomings, his teacher, Mr. Andrew, grew serious.  He leaned in close to Dan and me as if to reveal a great secret.  For a moment, I thought he might finally confess to seeing my child as I see him:  smart, respectful, loving, and empathic.

 

"Last week," the teacher began, "Ryan did something highly inappropriate during our field trip to the art museum."

Dan and I looked at one another.  What could Ryan possibly have done to elicit such a grave response from his teacher?  Yes, he could be unorganized and overly exuberant, but we've never known him to be hurtful or disrespectful toward others.

Mr. Andrew continued, "At the museum, we were greeted by the museum curator.  She told the children that they had to follow the rules of the museum and asked if any of them could guess what those rules were."

I held my breath, certain that whatever infraction Ryan had committed was going to be a doozy.

"Many of the children raised their hands and answered what they thought the museum's rules might be.  Some said 'no running,' 'no touching the artwork,' and 'no bringing food inside.'"

Against my better judgment, I asked, "Did Ryan say anything?"

"He most certainly did," Mr. Andrew huffed indignantly.  "Ryan responded in a most unsuitable way."

My mind flashed to earlier in the week when I'd lost my temper after dropping a soup can on my toe.  Had Ryan mimicked my unsavory language?  Visions of school detentions and expulsions raced through my head.

Mr. Andrew continued, his voice dripping with contempt. "Instead of offering a useful rule, Ryan chose to be a comedian and yelled out, 'no shoes, no shirt, no service.'"

No shoes, no shirt, no service?  Parroting words he'd seen on the doors of retail stores was the crime our son had committed?  I clasped my hand over my mouth, struggling to contain my laughter.  Whether it was Ryan's cleverness or my relief at learning that this really big deal wasn't such a big deal at all, I suddenly felt tons lighter.  I glanced at Dan, who had his head down.  I swear I saw him trying to suppress a smile.

At the end of the conference, we thanked Ryan's teacher and promised to talk to Ryan about behaving more appropriately.  We walked to the car in silence.

Inside the car, though, we burst out laughing.

 

"Can you believe what Ryan said?" Dan asked after a few minutes.

"No," I replied, tears trickling down my face from laughing so hard.  "I had no idea he could be that witty!"

"At least we know he's reading all those store signs about wearing clothes and shoes," Dan laughed, recalling Ryan's recent fascination with the sign on the door of our local convenience store.

Dan and I high-fived each other, celebrating our newly-realized confidence that our son would be just fine.  After all, if it wasn't for our own ability to find the humor in life, we would have been burdened more often by its challenges.  If Ryan has already learned to not take himself or his situations too seriously, he's destined to grow into a more resilient person, one capable of weathering whatever life has in store for him.  As far as we were concerned, a sense of humor would serve him better than conformity ever would.

Later at home, Ryan asked about the conference.

"It couldn't have gone any better," I replied.  And this time, it was true.

The Cool-ish Mom

Growing up, I was what could be considered "cool."  Well, "cool" in that somewhat nerdy, loves-to-read-and-stay-out-of-trouble way.

Then I had kids and they made it their job to remind me - at every opportunity - of precisely how UNcool I've become.  They don't believe me when I say that wearing sensible shoes and getting enough sleep ARE cool, but one of these days, they'll come around.  No way can you look hip if you're sporting bunions and dark circles all the time.

A few weeks back, while believing that I had sufficient coolness to recognize what was currently hip and trendy, I ordered Evan a winter coat.  This was incredibly brave of me, considering he's a teenager with very specific ideas of what constitutes "hip" and "cool."  Still, the coat was an amazing deal on Amazon, and it had been really cold outside.  For the few misguided moments it took to purchase the coat, I truly believed that Evan would like it.  After all, I made sure it did not have any of the characteristics of coats he'd complained about in the past (too puffy, too heavy, too long, etc.) 

My next mistake was sharing my excitement about the coat with Evan. 

            "Hey, Evan, guess what I ordered for you today?"

            "What?" he asked suspiciously, certain that it couldn't possibly be anything good.

            "I ordered you a hip new coat!"

A look of terror came over Evan's face.  "Hip?  Mom, I don't mean to be rude or anything, but your idea of "hip" and my idea of "hip" are very different."

            "I know, I know," I said, "but you're going to love this one.  It really is hip and stylish.  In fact, I bet there are a lot of really cool kids at your school wearing this same coat right now."

Evan was dubious, but agreed to give the coat a fair chance once it arrived.

A few days later, he surprised me by asking when the coat would be delivered.  Aha, I thought; he IS excited about it.  I felt even more certain that I'd chosen a winner.  He would love this coat and I would forever be known as The Cool Mom, the one who understands her teen, the one who actually finds clothes he's excited to wear.

When UPS delivered Evan's coat, I was so excited.  Evan was at school, but I opened the box to make sure the coat was still as hip and cool as I remembered it being when I ordered it.  It was!  The color, the style - all perfect.  I just knew Evan was going to love it.  I put it near his seat at the kitchen table so it would be the first thing he saw when he came home from school.

Those of you with teenagers can probably guess what happened next.  Evan did not love the coat.  In fact, he didn't even pretend to like it.

            "You don't like it, do you?" I asked after seeing the visible disappointment on his face.

            "I'm sorry, Mom, but I would never wear this."

            "But I thought it was hip. I thought I'd gotten it right this time."

            "Actually, it IS hip.  It's just not for me."  Evan tried to break my heart gently.

            "Can you at least try to like it?"

            "MOM!"

            "OK, OK, I'll send it back."

The only thing that gave me any satisfaction was Evan admitting the coat WAS hip.  Oh, and a second thing:  writing on the return form to Amazon that my kid has no taste.

(dedicated to the memory of my friend, Lynn Borders Caldwell, who was cool without even trying.)