tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38033962438068046132024-02-20T23:06:33.316-08:00Mona's BlogMona Shandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12885290932377642286noreply@blogger.comBlogger133125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3803396243806804613.post-32495406649596620832017-09-08T09:56:00.001-07:002017-09-08T09:56:18.796-07:00I Had The Glide of My Life: Gratitude for a Chair and All It Brought Of all the overwhelming and seemingly impossible decisions I faced as parenthood approached for the first time (breast vs. bottle? Co-sleep or cry it out? Return to work or stay at home?), one was a no-brainer: I knew I wanted a glider chair for the nursery.<br />
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Not a traditional rocking chair that could trap chubby baby fingers or an unsuspecting cat's tail under its weight, but a smooth, padded, back and forth glider- the kind advertised to bring comfort to both baby and mother.<br />
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After turning my investigative reporter's mind to the various makes and models, our selected glider was delivered, assembled, and installed in our spare bedroom, which was still transitioning to nursery status. It stood there in the midst of unopened boxes and piles of packages, gentle and welcoming, and I couldn't resist its draw.<br />
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I eased my pregnant self down into the chair and began to glide. I closed my eyes and let it carry me where it would. Back and forth. Childhood to motherhood. Dreams to reality. Back and forth. Hopes and fears. Back and forth.<br />
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In the evenings when I returned from work, I'd sit in the glider and watch my husband as he patiently put together the stuff of parenthood- the crib, the changing table, the white wooden toy box under the window. I'd move back and forth as he worked, watching the man I fell in love with glide into fatherhood before my eyes.<br />
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When baby finally arrived, the glider was our first stop upon entering the house. I settled in cautiously, worried there wouldn't be room for both of us, but its arms seemed to magically expand to cradle us both.<br />
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Back and forth, that baby and I glided through sleepless, colicky nights. With the warm weight of his body on my chest, we glided through through insecurities and imperfections, rocked our way past hurts and scars. As we'd settle into our nightly rhythm and glide back and forth, I felt old wounds close, seemingly soothed and healed by the motion. No matter how much I wanted to stay back, the glider always lead me forward, staying on track, so sure of its path, despite my own lack of direction.<br />
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Science says the feeling of love comes from a chemical reaction in the brain. I can only assume that process is accelerated by a gentle glide, back and forth, in a cozy, padded chair.<br />
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Eventually, I rocked another baby in the glider. And then another. And then eventually, the glider went where all the soft, fuzzy pieces of babyhood go when the babies are babies no more: into storage. As our lives- now filled with sturdy student desk chairs and angular folding benches- moved forward, the cozy, padded glider tucked in the basement closet, its arms now holding plastic bins of toy trucks and trains, a concrete reminder of what was packed away.<br />
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There would be no more gliding into the wee hours of the night with a baby's warm, milky breath perfuming the room. No more midnight, moonlit lullabies. No more back. Only forth. So much ahead, and yet so much left behind.<br />
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Last week, we brought the glider up from the basement, loaded it into the back of my car, and drove it to my parents' house, where it would soon meet its new owner- a radiant, expectant new mother, who in a full-circle twist, helps care for my father.<br />
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We unloaded it and dusted it off, and as the kids scampered off to play, right there in the middle of my parents' garage, I sat down for one last glide.<br />
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I pushed back, closed my eyes, and tried with all my might to imprint the chair's gentle rhythm on my soul.<br />
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As I finally got up and began to walk back to my family, I looked over my shoulder and noticed that my momentum had kept the glider moving back and forth.<br />
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I like to think it was the chair's way of saying that it was time for me to stand and let someone else take a seat.<br />
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And that the glide will always go on.<br />
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<br />Mona Shandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12885290932377642286noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3803396243806804613.post-3814245072603952002017-08-07T11:45:00.002-07:002017-08-07T11:48:13.511-07:00Stuck In The Middle: Do the Screws in My New Hip Match My Dress? <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I spend most Saturday mornings in my happy place: the lap pool. That's where, in an attempt to channel my inner Katie Ledecky (or maybe her mom...or a very cool aunt), I stuff my voluminous curls into a latex cap, adjust my prescription goggles, and get my freestyle on.<br />
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Boom! I swear, I feel like I'm 25 again as I slice through the water: vibrant, young, and free, but this time minus the relationship angst or the adult onset acne.<br />
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An hour later, I climb out of the pool, feeling refreshed and vibrant, and head to the locker room to swap surgery stories and arthritis advice with the nice ladies getting ready for Senior Splash Aerobics.<br />
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Could someone grab my housecoat and make me a mug of chamomile tea? Because just like that, I'm 85.<br />
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In reality, of course, I'm neither. Just stuck somewhere near the awkward intersection of Not-So-Young but Not-Really-Old, and I'm not quite sure what to make of it. That's right folks, my name is Mona, I'm 44, and I'm too old to be hip, and too young to have just had a total hip replacement.<br />
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At times it's dizzying enough to make my head ache, but the good news is that my hip really doesn't anymore. At least nowhere near the way it did before. Which I've learned in online support groups now makes me a "hippie," just not the kind who was at Woodstock.<br />
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But to quote the modern sage Shakira, these hips don't lie. And to paraphrase my orthopedic surgeon, neither did those x-rays, which he referred to as a "hot mess," because he's evidently way cooler than I am. And he's also pretty easy on the eyes according to the Senior Splashers who have dubbed him Dr. Cutie Pie. I inquired if he was their McDreamy or McSteamy but they drew a blank on that reference. Ouch.<br />
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Speaking of ouches, I didn't injure my hip all at once. It was a slow decline into hot messiness, thanks to an alignment issue I was probably born with but didn't know anything about until I had put several thousand miles on the joint. Somewhere between an 8-mile road race around Mackinac Island and hiking my 8473rd load of laundry up the stairs, my hip reached its tipping point, and much like my first car, things went south very quickly. That's how I found myself rushing back from a 4th grade field trip to attend the required Joint Replacement Boot Camp, where I pre-registered for my surgery. Spoiler alert: it turned out to be nothing like the boot camp classes I used to attend. Or teach.<br />
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As I removed my name tag from the planetarium and swapped it for the hospital-issued variety, the nurse in charge asked if I would be taking notes for my mother or father? That day alone, I think at least 5 people posed the $64 million dollar question: "Why are you getting a hip replacement? You're too young!"<br />
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In fact, if I had a dime for every person who has asked me that, I could probably pay cash for my total hip replacement. And the arthroscopic surgery that came before that. And the MRIs, arthrograms, 2.5 years of physical therapy, multiple cortisone injections, and failed stem cell treatment. But I digress.<br />
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I used to be known for the spring in my step, but for the past two years I've been gimping around with a decidedly unhip limp. Snap, Crackle, and Pop were not just for breakfast- they resonated from my lower region as I inched my way up and down the stairs, one painful step at a time. 44 may seem too young for a total hip replacement, but it's also too young to be an invalid. Or in chronic pain. Or a sideline parent to your young, active children.<br />
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So when I finally found the surgeon who was ready to upgrade me to a sleek, shiny new model, I wanted to do a happy dance. An age appropriate, hip-friendly one, of course. Is there something between a twerk and a jig? I wanted to shout for joy. Is there something between "hip hip hooray" and "Fo'shizzle?"<br />
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As I was wheeled back for surgery, I high-fived the doctor. It may have had something to do with the delicious cocktail of drugs I had just downed, but I'd like to think it was pure happiness. Don't get me wrong- I'm very thankful for all my old hip did for me. It carried me across marathon finish lines, scaled Ayers Rock, and took in more majestic sights and ocean views than any one joint deserves. Together we rocked an entire decade of step aerobics, and it was even kind enough to make room for 3 babies. I have nothing but love for that old ball-and-socket, and I promise to celebrate it every year on May 30, my surgeryversary. Maybe I'll bake it a cake. Or is there something...hipper? Maybe bone broth?<br />
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But for now, it's on to a new chapter, working title: Titanium is the New Black.<br />
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One day, I'm going to show this new hip the world, but right now, we're still getting to know each other. We like to Netflix and chill...as in a movie and an icepack. We enjoy long, slow walks through the neighborhood where we're still learning each others gait. Leisurely breakfasts where we linger over egg white veggie omelets with a large side of gratitude. Steaming hot cups of coffee on the deck where we simultaneously feel alive and ponder our mortality.<br />
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It's really <span style="text-align: center;">not such a bad place to be. </span><br />
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Especially Saturday mornings when my new hip and I head to the pool, and somewhere between the blue water and the blue-haired ladies, we dive right into the sweet spot.Mona Shandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12885290932377642286noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3803396243806804613.post-50269074509816140372017-05-13T07:21:00.001-07:002017-05-13T07:21:16.852-07:00The Box: A Story About The Stories We Tell Ourselves <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This is a story about a box. A small box, roughly six inches high and six inches wide. It's a story about the power objects have over us, and their ability to make us feel boxed in.<br />
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This is also a story about the stories we tell ourselves. The boxes we put ourselves into. </div>
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But let me back up a bit...all the way to my 30th birthday, which requires throwing the car into reverse for quite a few miles.<br />
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My husband and I got married 3 days before I turned 30, so I passed that major mile marker on the road to adulthood in a bit of a blur. In fact, it didn't really hit me until the dust had settled on the wedding festivities. All of a sudden I had a new name, a new title, a new home, and a new number in front of my age. I was someone's wife. I was Mrs. Shand. I was a homeowner. And I was 30.<br />
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To give you an idea of how the transition went, shortly after we returned from our honeymoon, I sat in a doctor's waiting room reading my magazine as the nurse repeatedly called "Mrs. Shand? Mrs. Shand? Shand!" I just sat there, thinking to myself what a coincidence it was that someone there had the same exact name as my my husband's mom.<br />
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And the new house? Though it was just a few miles from where I had been living, and I had moved many, many times before, across the country and even around the world, something about this move was different. The neighborhood was lovely, but the neat rows of bungalow houses all looked exactly the same to me, with nearly identical streets forming a nondescript grid. The first time I went out for a run, intending to go about 3 miles, I got so lost I ended up running 9.<br />
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This was a house my husband had been living in for years. He had remodeled it from top to bottom with his own two hands. He knew every inch of that house from the inside out, every creaky floorboard, what every switch on the wall did. I didn't even know where to put my socks.<br />
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But even more disorienting was the idea that I was supposed to be an adult. I had a job, a roof over my head, and cupboards stacked with linens, cups, and dishes. But let's face it: I didn't have a clue. I felt like I was playing house. Pretending to be a grownup.<br />
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Mostly, I felt lost. Confused. Out of sorts. Who was I?<br />
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A few weeks later I came back from a run- just 3 miles this time- and found a package on the porch, marked "fragile" and covered in postmarks and stamps. Since this was back in the Stone Age of online shopping, a dark period in our history I refer to as Before Amazon Prime, this was still a bit of a rarity.<br />
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I took it inside, unwrapped it and pulled out the most beautiful, intricately decorated ceramic box. It was off-white, but painted in brilliant hues of green, orange, burgundy, and teal, with a tribal, almost aboriginal pattern of swirls and dots. I had never seen anything like it. I traced the ins and outs of pattern with my fingers, feeling the bumps and grooves of the artist's work. It was stunning, but it was just the beginning. The box had a hinged lid, and I lifted it and reached inside to reveal a gorgeous pair of dangly, beautifully beaded earrings. I held them up to my face in the mirror, their delicate sparkle ridiculously incongruous against the backdrop of my sweat-stained face and, messy, post-run ponytail.<br />
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I dug around in the package and pulled out a small, handwritten note. "Dear Mona," it read. "I was in Bangkok last week, saw these, and thought of you. Happy belated 30th birthday, sweet friend. Hugs and kisses, X" Of course, her name really isn't X, but we'll call her that to protect the innocent. X was a British woman I had met at a youth hostel in Australia years prior. At the time, I was a recent college grad with not much of a plan beyond that trip. She was successful documentary filmmaker "on holiday" as the Brits say. Together, we backpacked through the land down under- at one point we even took a temporary job picking grapes at a vineyard, and probably drank more wine than we helped produce. Then, we went our separate ways- me, back to the United States, on to grad school, and eventually to my married life. She relocated to San Francisco, where she continued her documentary work with a human rights organization, and never married. We kept in only sporadic touch, but she always remembered my birthday- even before Facebook notifications.<br />
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As this gift perfectly illustrated, she was in so many ways the kind of person I wanted to be. The kind with a rewarding career that was making a difference in the world. The kind who picked up exotic souvenirs just because she was thinking of her friends...and then proceeded to actually send them!<br />
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I carried the box and the earrings up to my bedroom, wondering all the way what my friend's home looked like. I imagined it was a funky city loft full of tribal artwork and exotic pieces she'd collected in her travels, each one telling the story of some oppressed group and their struggle for basic freedoms. I wondered about the box. Did it, too come from Bangkok? Or perhaps another faraway land? Maybe the African savanna. Or a jungle in Central America. Who were the artisans who toiled over it? What story did that beautiful pattern tell? What secrets did it hold?<br />
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I put the earrings away and wondered where I could find a dress to match them. And a life to match the dress. I hoped they would do OK in metro Detroit, in my life, where I was in the midst of a career change and quite possibly the oldest unpaid intern to ever make coffee in a television newsroom.<br />
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The box I carefully carried to my bedside, and over to my nightstand. It looked like hopelessly out of place next to the Pottery Barn catalogue, but I figured we'd adapt. Or maybe what I really hoped was that it would rub off on me. That somehow if I kept the box and kept it close, I would have magically have all it seemed to represent- the international career, the beautifully decorated home, the global stories.<br />
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You can imagine how well that worked out.<br />
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Years went by, and the box stayed in that same spot next to my bed. When my good friend insomnia came for its nightly visit, I'd lie in bed and trace the patterns with my finger. I was pregnant with our first child and wondering how in the world I was supposed to take care of another human being when I still hadn't figured out this whole grownup thing for myself. I wondered what we had thrown ourselves into. I wondered if I should get throw pillows to match that box. I wondered if we had any matches so I could light some candles. I wondered what my future kids would think of a parent that didn't even have their act together enough to light candles or have throw pillows. I looked to the box for answers- it had none.<br />
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Mostly, I felt lost. Confused. Out of sorts. Who was I?<br />
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Along with the new baby, the next few years brought a new house in a new city. Another new baby. And then another one. The box, of course, came with us and still sat in its mismatched place of honor next to my bed. Of course, there were many, many more sleepless nights. More staring at that box at 3am, wondering why my life's twists and turns weren't as beautiful as its swirls. Why my life didn't seem as vibrant as its rich hues. Why my relationships weren't as harmonious as its patterns. I'd trace the path of each curlycue, praying that I had taken the right one in my own life. While nursing my babies in the middle of the night, I would reach over and slowly open and shut its lid, over and over- trying to find my own rhythm in its gentle snap. It was a habit I'd developed as a child, with another box- a pale blue Holly Hobbie lunchbox, as I sat, more often than not, alone in the school cafeteria. I'd focus on opening and closing its metal clasp, hearing that satisfying snap so I wouldn't have to hear the silence all around me.<br />
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Back then as a child, and once again a grownup, I felt lost. Confused. Out of sorts. Who was I?<br />
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A few years later I remembered hearing that if you couldn't sleep, you should try writing down all the things that are bothering you in an attempt to clear your head before bed. Between the kids, my work, my parents' failing health, my own health challenges, and my guilt and personal neuroses about pretty much everything, I had enough to fill a novel, but instead, I decided to fill that box. Armed with a pack of post-its and a pen, every night I tried to take the weight of the world off my shoulders and quite literally box it up.<br />
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I started with the easy stuff- the things that danced around the edges of my mind during the busy daytime hours, but really came out to party at 3am like: Research summer camps. Dig out bins of summer clothes. Organize bins of clothes. Be more organized. Try not to yell so much. Teach her to stand up to mean girls. Figure out why girls are so mean. Figure out why grown women are so mean. Did I hug my kids enough today? Did I hug my husband at all? Do they all know how much I love them? I shoved all of that in the box...but still found myself wide awake, staring at it every night. Sometimes it even seemed to taunt me, its curves and twists making me think of the ones I had taken...and the ones I had left behind.<br />
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So I dug deeper. I'd write down things in my life that I really hated and stuff them in the box. Parkinson's Disease. Septic shock. Aphasia. Femoral acetabular impingement syndrome. Religious persecution. Sectarian violence. The children of Syria. Oh, magic box, why can't you take these struggles away? Take them to your far away home on a remote tropical island, or a desolate hillside, or the rainforest, or wherever it is you came from. Just take them away from me. The box betrayed me yet again.<br />
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A few months later my own health issues came to a head and I found myself more lost, confused, out of sorts, and unsure of who I was than ever. I was a writer with nothing to say. A runner who could no longer run. A mother who could barely take care of her kids. One night I hobbled up to my bedroom on crutches, trying so hard to hold it all together. As I eased myself down onto the bed my crutch went flying, I reached out to grab it, only to be hit with a dagger of pain to the surgical site. In the process, the box was knocked to the floor where it spilled open, scattering all the pieces of paper around the room. Tears poured out as I looked down at the mess.<br />
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I HATE THIS STUPID, STUPID BOX! I yelled, slinking painfully to the floor. Seeing it there, it all became clear- on the outside, that box was everything I wanted to be but wasn't. And on the inside, everything I was, but didn't want to be. I wanted to smash it to bits, but that would just be one more mess in my life I couldn't clean up. So I glared at it, and for the first time noticed something on the bottom. I used a crutch to reel it in, hoping it was the artists' name or initials so I could at least curse him or her more personally. But what I saw when I pulled it closer was strangely familiar. A little too familiar.<br />
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It said, Kirkland Signature.<br />
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That's right. My box...the one that had tortured me for years...my artsy fartsy, indiginous, free range, free trade, artisanal box...was from COSTCO.<br />
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It didn't come from a tribe deep in the Amazon, or a war-torn East African jungle. It wasn't carved with the tears of ten thousand weeping widows or coated with the ground up dust of unicorn hooves.<br />
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No, it came from Costco, somewhere between five dollar rotisserie chicken and the 50 pound bag of cat litter, with the melodic sound of the seafood roadshow in the background.<br />
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Let's be clear- this has nothing to do with my lovely friend X who sent me the box. She did nothing but offer a gesture of kindness. I was the one who covered it in magical, mystical, powers and measured myself against it for years. And as it turned out, it was just an ordinary box. A box that probably came in a 6-pack of other boxes. I cleaned up the papers the best I could, picked up the box, and stuffed it in the bottom of my closet.<br />
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Not long after, my daughter was wrapping up work on a big 2nd grade project. Together, the class builds a community, with each child completing a building for the town inside...you guessed it, a box. She had worked diligently on it for weeks, and brought it over to show me when she was done.<br />
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"You did a beautiful job," I congratulated her. "It's perfect."<br />
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"Mom, it's not perfect," she corrected me with me, her tiny hands on her hips. "But it's my box, and I love it."<br />
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That night I once again found myself awake, my heart racing as I stared at the ceiling since the box was no longer by my bedside. I got up, pausing to watch my loving husband snore...I mean sleep. I went from room to room, peeking in on each of our slumbering children, watching their chests move slowly up and down until my own breathing slowed to matched theirs. I ran my hand over the spots on the walls where the paint was peeling, the moldings we've never gotten around to finishing, the jumble of family photos in mismatched frames on the table, the crucifix on the wall.<br />
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"It's not perfect." I told myself. "But it's my box, and I love it."<br />
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The next morning when I woke up, I dug the ceramic box out of my closet, took it to the garbage can, and threw it away.<br />
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Don't get me wrong- more often than not, I still feel lost, confused, out of sorts. And I probably won't get this grownup thing down until it's much too late. But I guess little by little I'm figuring out who I am and this much I know:<br />
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I'm someone who is learning to think outside the box.<br />
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Mona Shandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12885290932377642286noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3803396243806804613.post-53291171869429215662017-04-02T11:37:00.002-07:002017-04-02T11:37:48.603-07:00Thanks for Nothing, April the Giraffe. Really- I Mean That! <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy: Animal Adventure Park </td></tr>
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If you would have told me a month ago that I'd be spending what little free time I have watching a pregnant giraffe pace around her pen and not have a baby...well, I probably wouldn't have answered because I was very busy watching a pregnant giraffe pace around her pen not have a baby. I mean, seriously- April has been "close to labor" FOREVER. I'm starting to think I might give birth to a baby giraffe before she does. But back to my original point, if you had told me TWO months ago that I'd be spending ANY time watching a pregnant giraffe do ANYTHING, I would have said you were nuts. And yet, here I am, locked in a dysfunctional relationship via my computer screen with a silent animal hundreds of miles away. Ain't technology grand?<br />
<br />
For those of you who haven't yet been formally introduced, April's story simple: it's a classic girl giraffe meets boy giraffe meets <a href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UClnQCgFa9lCBL-KXZMOoO9Q/live" target="_blank">livestream webcam</a> meets entire world kind of thing. And I, like millions of other people, can't seem to get enough.<br />
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Though April has been a viral internet sensation for some time, the first few times I tuned in, I didn't really see the appeal. After all, she was just standing there, looking...well, giraffe-ish. You know, enormous and spotted and gangly-legged. I watched for a few minutes and then turned it off, because it was kind of boring. It's not like giraffes make a lot of noise, or do much of any interest besides eat and poop...and quite frankly I see enough of those behaviors around my house. There just wasn't much happening.<br />
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But then for some reason, I kept checking back, and the more I did, the more I realized that was the best part: there just wasn't much happening. I've watched her eat, drink, walk around and occasionally canoodle with her baby daddy Oliver. Some days, I've even watched her sleep. It's about as simplistic as entertainment gets, and given the ever-crazier-by-the-minute world we're living in, that's a pretty amazing thing.<br />
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When you get right down to it, April is just a big, goofy-looking animal who is perfectly content in her own patchwork quilt skin. Some say giraffes are an example of God's majesty, but I think they point more to his sense of humor.<br />
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She's having a baby, which many of us can relate to, but she sure is a heck of a lot more calm about it than any expecting mom I've ever seen. I was two weeks overdue with my first child, and had there been a live broadcast of my behavior, my husband and I would still be paying off the FCC fines.<br />
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With April, there's no obsessive compulsion to decorate the nursery, or guilt at not having done so. No mommy wars of any sort. There's also no talk of Russian scandals, executive orders, or FBI investigations. I haven't asked her, but I think it's pretty safe to say April is a non-partisan giraffe with no opinion on the current administration, the role of the media, or the proposed federal budget.<br />
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She's just a mom-to-be, waiting on nature to take its course, and reminding us that it will happen when it happens. I believe that's a special something many of us used to possess called "patience."<br />
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I've heard some experts speculate that April's lure has something to do with giving us a glimpse into a world we'd otherwise not see. But I think it has less to do with the lure of the exotic than the calm of the familiar.<br />
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When I see April, I remember long, sweet walks through the zoo with my dad when I was a little girl, and the way he pronounced it "gee-RAHF." I remember my own world before my babies came into it- the hopes, dreams, and expectations I carried right along with each pregnancy. I remember that it is possible to just be.<br />
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To be honest, I'm not even interested in watching the birth of the baby- that sound very messy. So for now, I will soak in these last minutes with April and be thankful that relief and escape are just a livestream away.<br />
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<br />Mona Shandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12885290932377642286noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3803396243806804613.post-74642312832142517672017-02-03T10:54:00.000-08:002017-02-03T11:00:47.808-08:00He Put on a Hat and Everything Changed <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've never been a hat person. I have way too much hair and it's far too unruly to be contained under any dome-shaped contraption. If I try, it will either adhere itself directly to my head, or rebel completely and explode out the sides. Or both. Hats are just not my friend.<br />
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And now, I have another bone to pick with hats. You see, my oldest son- he's almost ten. In so many ways, he's still a child, and even though he's getting bigger and stronger, deep down he's still my little boy with the baby-soft skin and the stuffed animals lined up on his bed. But he grew up one day all at once, and I blame his hat.<br />
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It was a chilly November morning and he was getting ready to run a local 5k. My son came downstairs in his version of winter weather-appropriate running gear, which is another way of saying "shorts and a t-shirt."<br />
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"You'll need to bundle up- it's really cold out there," I told him, which of course is Mom Code for "You are NOT leaving the house like that!"<br />
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He went into the mudroom and put on a sweatshirt, gloves, a knit hat with tassels, and at least five years.<br />
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As he walked back into the kitchen, my jaw hung low as I searched in vain for my child who seemed to have been replaced by this much older, more confident boy with the hat on his head.<br />
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He pulled the hat down over his ears, the edges skimming chiseled cheekbones I'd never noticed, and framing eyes that held secrets no adult could not unlock, even if they tried to remember.<br />
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I marveled at the newly developed muscles rippling under his skin as he laced up his shoes.<br />
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I squinted in an attempt to bring the 9-year-old back in focus, and I caught a glimpse of something I'd never seen in him- never even considered might be lurking underneath.<br />
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A man?<br />
<br />
I watched him without words, like you watch your favorite movie, my brain attempting to binge on the vision in front of me.<br />
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My heart was racing as if I'd already gone for a run. What had I done? I wanted to rip that hat off his head, to hold him close until the little boy reappeared- the one with the chubby cheeks who wore clothes sized with the letter "T" and smelled like baby wash and maple syrup.<br />
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But what kind of mother would I be if I sent my son out in the cold without his hat?<br />
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And so he ran- that older boy with the hat- he ran really fast. So fast that he worked up a sweat and removed the offending headwear. As he peeled it off to reveal his matted, damp hair, I saw his familiar goofy grin reflected in the finisher's medal around his neck and finally felt the earth return to its normal orbit. I exhaled for the first time in what seemed like hours and felt my breath slow right along with my little boy's.<br />
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He was back, and even as I squinted at him in the morning sun, I couldn't find any trace of the future man who had tried to take his place.<br />
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A few weeks ago we were at a large family gathering and when it was time for my father to go, he asked me to help him with his hat. <br />
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It was the same hat he's had since my childhood- the big, furry, oblong kind with flaps that come down over the ears. The kind more suited to winter in Siberia than suburban Detroit. I picked it up and took it over to him, and bent over his wheelchair so I could put it on his head.<br />
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As I held the hat in my hands, its soft, downy fur tickled my hands, melted my heart, and transported me three decades back. That hat smelled like Old Spice and Brylcreem, like winter mornings of my youth, when my dad, freshly showered and shaved, firmly pulled his rubber shoe protectors over his polished Rockports and placed his hat on his slicked-back hair before heading to work.<br />
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I looked at him and saw my 8-year-old self reflected back in his thick bifocals. I squinted and tried to bring the memory more sharply into focus, but before I could grab it, before I could dive back in time, it was gone.<br />
<br />
I wanted to rip the hat off his head, to hold it close and keep it all to myself. But what kind of daughter would I be if I sent my dad out in the cold without his hat?<br />
<br />
I focused all my attention on him as my son helped push the wheelchair out, the way you focus on the last few chapters of your favorite book, not wanting to miss a single word before the beautiful story concludes.<br />
<br />
When it was time for us to leave I gathered up the kids, their shoes, coats and other assorted winter gear.<br />
<br />
"Put your hats and mittens on- it's really cold out," I warned them.<br />
<br />
"I didn't bring a hat, Mom," my oldest confessed.<br />
<br />
"It's OK, my love," I told him as I bent down to kiss him, burying my face in his hair so he wouldn't see the relief in my eyes.<br />
<br />
I put one hand on the top of his head- partly to guide him, and partly to steady myself- and together we headed out to brave the cold.Mona Shandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12885290932377642286noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3803396243806804613.post-47586910616162043972017-01-02T04:27:00.000-08:002017-01-02T04:27:29.297-08:00Snow Day Survival Guide They are the two words every child wants to hear in the winter: "SNOW DAY!" But having kids home all day can be a challenge for parents. Here are a few ideas to get you through the day.<br />
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First and foremost, get the kids outside! If you don't already have child-sized shovels, they're a great investment. Snow toys like brick builders and snowball makers come in handy as well. One of our favorite things to do is to fill a squirt bottle with water and food coloring, and use that to make snow art. It's a great way for little ones to practice letter formation as well!<br />
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We also love to bring the snow inside...to make snow ice cream! The <a href="http://www.wikihow.com/Make-Ice-Cream-with-Snow" target="_blank">recipe</a> is simple, the results are delicious!<br />
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And who says you need to go outside to make a snowman? No offense to Elsa and Anna, but the only ones I wanna build are made out of marshmallows.<br />
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Snowflakes are fun to make this time of year- they will take any adult right back to their childhood! For the simplest version, just use a coffee filter (what else are you going to do with that stack, now that you've switched to a Keurig?). If you're ready to get a bit more sophisticated, try a 3-D paper snowflake. They only require paper, tape, and scissors, and older kids can easily complete them. You'll find the instructions <a href="http://www.instructables.com/id/3D-Paper-Snowflake-In-Four-Easy-Steps/?ALLSTEPS" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
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Our final snowflake was a fun science experiment- it takes 8-12 hours, but hey- it's a snow day so you've got nothing but time! My oldest loved making these Borax rystal snowflakes, but we also made other cool shapes, including his initial. Instructions are <a href="http://chemistry.about.com/video/Borax-Crystal-Snowflakes.htm" target="_blank">here</a>. </div>
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I'm a big fan of projects the older kids can do with the younger ones, and <a href="http://www.playdoughrecipe.com/" target="_blank">homemade playdough</a> and <a href="http://earth911.com/inspire/diy/diy-non-toxic-finger-paint-recipes-so-easy-a-kid-could-do-it/" target="_blank">finger paint</a> both fit that bill. With a little supervision at the stove, older kids can mix these up and then the whole crew can create...because you're never too old for arts and crafts! Both of these are made with common pantry ingredients and are non-toxic. </div>
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A snow day is also a great chance to help your fine feathered friends...birds actually have a much harder time finding food when the snow hits, so take the opportunity to make a few easy bird feeders with your kids. You and the birds will reap the benefits all winter. Here are some<a href="http://frogsandsnailsandpuppydogtail.com/10-bird-feeders-kids-love-to-make/" target="_blank"> ideas. </a></div>
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Another great way to pass the time on a snow day is with some simple games- we keep busy with indoor obstacle races, and the many "Minute to Win It" style games you can find on <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/" target="_blank">Pinterest</a>. One of our favorites is this one where the kids have 1 minute to move as many M&Ms as they can from one plate to another using a straw. </div>
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Thanks to WDIV for having us on to share these ideas- happy snow day to all! </div>
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<span id="goog_1092426088"></span><span id="goog_1092426089"></span><br />Mona Shandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12885290932377642286noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3803396243806804613.post-12203046819138341532017-01-01T17:08:00.000-08:002017-01-01T17:08:00.306-08:00Finding My Voice: From A Chance Encounter Years Ago To A New Year's Goal <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Most broadcasters get their start in small markets- places like Glendive, Montana; or Alpena, Michigan, but my first gig was international.<br />
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It was 1994, I had recently graduated from college, and I was stranded in the Australian capital of Canberra. How I got there is a long story that involves first love, first heartbreak, and an overnight bus ride, but I'll save that for another time. Suffice it to say I found myself with several hours to kill in an unfamiliar place.<br />
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The sun was barely peeking out of the early morning sky, and in my teary, weary, travel-ragged state, I was hardly in the mood to tour the sights. Still, part of me knew this was quite possibly the only time in my life I'd have the chance to see Canberra, so I'd better pull myself together and take advantage of it. Surely there were national treasures, museums, and galleries that I should visit so that I could broaden my worldview and deepen my understanding of that great nation on the other side of the world.<br />
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Just one problem: it was 7am on a Sunday morning and all the bastions of Australian culture were closed. I had about 5 hours to kill before my next bus, so I stashed my backpack in a locker, grabbed a cup of coffee from a corner deli and wandered the streets.<br />
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About an hour into my aimless jaunt, I stumbled across a large building that looked interesting, and by that I mean it appeared to actually be open. It was the Australian Institute of Sport.<br />
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I walked up the steps, pushed open the door, and found myself face-to-face with a dark-haired, red-nosed man sitting behind a desk, surrounded by a pile of Kleenex, a manual of some sort, and a telephone.<br />
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"(Sniff) Well, good morning (cough cough cough)," he sputtered, and then continued in an extremely hoarse voice. "We're not quite open (sniff sniff) but now that you're here, I'm going to need to you do something..."<br />
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"Umm...what??" I replied nervously, as headlines of international kidnappings and trafficking rings flashed before my eyes, and I wondered why I couldn't have just wandered right past this place. It's not like I even understood cricket. Or rugby. Or Australian men. (oops, I digress again...)<br />
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"We just got a new phone system (GIANT COUGH) and I need to record (SNIFF) the outgoing message on it, but as you can see...or well, hear...(SNEEZE), I'm a bit under the weather. Could you do it for me?"<br />
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Relief flooded through me. "I guess I could, but in case you can't tell, I'm from the United States. Shouldn't the official message for the Australian Institute of Sport sound a little more....Australian?" I asked.<br />
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He looked right at me said, "You have a voice- that's what matters."<br />
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So right there and then, I scored my first paid job in the industry: I recorded the outgoing answering machine message, giving the days and hours the Institute was open in exchange for free admission and a refill of my coffee.<br />
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Shortly after my splashy debut on the international broadcasting scene, I caught a bus back to Sydney, and eventually a very long flight back to my regularly scheduled life in the US. I think it's safe to assume that my message has long since been erased from the phone system of the Australian Institute of Sport, but that random stranger's message to me was permanently archived on my brain: You have a voice- that's what matters.<br />
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I thought about it in those emotional, jet-lagged days upon my return to the States, where I felt lost and silent.<br />
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I thought about it in the years that followed, as I tried different career paths and countries; all those years when I said too much, struggling to fit in.<br />
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I think about it now, as I grow deeper into motherhood, when it often feels simultaneously like no one and everyone is listening. <br />
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It's no coincidence that "voice" and "vocation" come from the same root: the Latin "vocare," which means "to call." When I think of what it means to have a "voice," I think of the bridge that connects our inner and outer worlds. It's the sweet spot where body, heart, mind, and spirit overlap. It's not just the sound that comes from our mouths, but the one we make in the world.<br />
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As this new year begins, those words speak to me once again: "You have a voice- that's all that matters." Will I be strong enough to be a voice for justice and a voice for love? A voice of truth and compassion? A voice that says what it means, and isn't afraid to say no? A voice that is unafraid to speak alone? Because that's what matters.<br />
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About a month ago, my daughter gave her first book report of the school year. Despite being a voracious reader, and the daughter of a broadcast journalist, she's a shy flower who breaks out in a sweat at the mere thought of speaking in front of her class.<br />
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"Mommy- I don't want to do it," she cried that morning, her voice shaking with fear. "Why can't I let someone else read my book report for me?"<br />
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I took her on my lap, held her hands in mine, and looked right in her eyes.<br />
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"Because there's only one YOU," I told her firmly. "You don't have to be the loudest, you won't always have all the answers, and not everyone will always like what you have to say. But nobody, NOBODY can speak for you, sweet girl."<br />
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"You have a voice- that's what matters."<br />
<br />Mona Shandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12885290932377642286noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3803396243806804613.post-83481066923446799852016-12-23T13:06:00.000-08:002016-12-23T13:06:23.414-08:00Have Yourself A Poopy Little Christmas: Finding Light In A Time Of Darkness <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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If love means never having to say "I'm sorry," then loving two little boys means never having to say "I'm sorry, this bathroom is just too clean for words!" Oh, there are plenty of words to describe the typical state of a bathroom in our house, but most of them are not fit to print.<br />
<br />
I can't even identify some of the things I've found in the kids' bathroom, because quite frankly I don't want to get close enough to try. Let's be honest: boys are a symphony of gross, and the bathroom is their masterpiece concerto of yuck. And I don't want to completely let my little princess off the hook, since her bedroom could easily be featured on an episode of Elementary School Hoarders. Given that anatomy is on her side, she does generally manage to keep the toilet seat clean, although actually flushing the device is apparently frowned upon in her kingdom.<br />
<br />
That goes for all the kids in the house; that's because right now we are three kids deep in one of the poopiest phases of parenting. Everyone is out of diapers, but now they're gripped with a fascination with all things excrement-related. Bathroom humor is the only kind of humor in our house. When they do Mad Libs, I can be relatively certain that the choice of nouns and verbs will fall into just two categories: bodily functions or the parts that produce them. My daughter, if given the opportunity to play with my phone, will bypass all the sweet, smiley faced emojis and head right for the picture of the toilet or the brown lump of poop. And the first time we traveled to Mackinac Island, Michigan's storied getaway where cars are not allowed and horse drawn carriages are a main mode of transportation, the bulk of the 4-hour trip north was devoted to the topic of horse poop. Do they just poop in the ROAD? Who cleans it up? Where do they put it? What happens to it after that?<br />
<br />
So it should come as no surprise, given their obsession, that one of my children would find a way to bring poop into the picture of one of the most holy, divine moments in all of religion: the birth of Christ.<br />
<br />
It was shortly after Thanksgiving and my youngest was setting up the nativity scene by the fireplace while I worked on the tree in the other room with his siblings.<br />
<br />
"Mom, what's a manger?" he called out.<br />
<br />
I peeked in to see him tossing the plastic manger in the air (we purchased a kid-friendly set after the unfortunate year where several donkeys were decapitated during a Bethlehem brawl).<br />
<br />
"Umm...it's that thing in your hands...you know, the place where Mary laid baby Jesus after he was born?"<br />
<br />
"But what IS it when He's not in it? Is it a bed...for a sheep?" he wondered, his chunky kindergarten fingers not finding success at shoving a plastic animal into the manger.<br />
<br />
"Well, not exactly," I replied. "I think it's more like a food trough- the place where the animals ate. Remember how there was no room for Mary and Joseph inside? They had to stay out with the animals. Then Jesus was born, and Mary wrapped him up and put him in there.<br />
<br />
He considered this thoughtfully for a second and then his face lit up with excitement.<br />
<br />
"So all these animals were there?" he gestured to the plastic menagerie.<br />
<br />
"Yes..."<br />
<br />
"So was there...(sharp inhale of excitement)...POOP? When Jesus was born? WAS THERE POOP EVERYWHERE? BECAUSE ANIMALS POOP! I'VE SEEN THEM AT THE FARM AND IT SMELLS SOOOOOO BAD REMEMBER WHEN WE WENT ON THAT FIELD TRIP IN PRESCHOOL AND THAT COW POOPED AND THEN ALL THE CHICKENS WERE POOPING IN THEIR HOUSE AND THERE WAS POOP ON THE GROUND AND I STEPPED IN IT AND YOU MADE ME WIPE MY FEET ON THE GRASS BEFORE I GOT IN THE CAR..." <br />
<br />
Clearly, the poop train had left the station. He became so engrossed in his recollection of barnyard poop (and reenacting it with the nativity scene animals) that he forgot he had even asked the question, so I took it upon myself to walk away and not have to deal with another poopy conversation. But his question stayed with me, and not just because I had to scrub the toilets that afternoon.<br />
<br />
Though it's my most favorite time of year, I'd been having a hard time getting in the Christmas spirit. Despite the holiday lights all around, things just hadn't seemed very bright. Between the never-ending political drama in our country, the unthinkable atrocities unfolding in Syria, the bombing of churches in my family's homeland, the suffering of loved ones, and my own chronic pain from an injury that just won't heal, light had been in short supply.<br />
<br />
Maybe that's why I started wondering- WAS there poop when Jesus was born?<br />
<br />
I guess there probably was, both literally and figuratively. In our minds, in images, and in the songs we sing this time of year, the birth of Christ is such a gentle, magical time. We think of Christmas as a time of light, which of course it was (and is), but we often forget to mention that Jesus was born in the middle of a time of great darkness. The people of God were under oppressive rule. The nation of Israel was fracturing. Riots were common. Persecution was the way of life. 9 months pregnant, Mary and Joseph made an arduous, 100-mile journey by DONKEY over hills and streams, only to deliver the baby outdoors, without family or hospitality. These were very dark times, or as my kids my say, poopy. And that's not even talking about the animals.<br />
<br />
I am no biblical scholar, but I do have to believe that was no accident. There's a reason the Son of God didn't arrive on a calm, clear day, with Mary and Joseph comfortably registered at the Labor and Delivery unit of their local hospital, birth plan in hand, with a crowd of family and friends in the waiting room as lavender essential oils were diffused into the birthing suite.<br />
<br />
No, He was born into a world that I can't help but think was very similar to the one we're living in today: a broken, dark, and poopy one.<br />
<br />
And that's where I guess this year I find the meaning of Christmas: in the poop. Christmas is about waiting for God to break forth into our world, despite the poop. It's waiting for the reassurance that hope is alive, that peace will prevail, that joy will be found, and that love will always win. It's the belief that nothing we can do as humans is so dark- not even the poopy condition in which we've left the world- that it can separate us from that light, and I've never found that thought more comforting than today.<br />
<br />
Our world is a tough place to live in, but the Christmas story reminds us that just as hope, peace, joy and love started with an innocent child born in a humble manger surrounded (I surmise) by poop, it also starts at home in our poopy lives every single day. Christmas starts here. Christmas starts with us. It starts with cleaning up the poop.<br />
<br />
Later that day, I found my sweet five-year-old, put him on my lap and asked him, "Buddy, do you remember earlier when you asked if there was poop when Jesus was born?"<br />
<br />
After the requisite 10 minutes of laughing because MOM SAID POOP, he settled down. "Yeah..."<br />
<br />
"Well, I wasn't there, and there's nothing written about that in the Bible, but I think we can guess there was. Like you said, there were all these animals, and animals poop. But that's not all. There were a lot of people behaving in a pretty poopy way back then. The world was dark and scary. And God wasn't afraid of any of that. Not the poop or the dark. He still isn't. He sent us light. That's a big part of Christmas- we need to look at all the ways we are poopy- not just in the bathroom, but in the way we talk, behave, and most of all, treat other people. We need to look for God, because he's here. We need to look for him in each other, in strangers, in people we can help. We need to look for that light, and we need to BE that light. And we REALLY need to clean up the poop in our lives."<br />
<br />
I wanted to tell him so much more. I wanted to tell him how guilty I feel when I look around at all the poop that surrounds us- the politics, the pain, the suffering- and realize how lucky I am that the majority of the excrement in my life is confined to the bathroom.<br />
<br />
I wanted to tell him how every mother, of every creed and every color, in every part of the world, has seen the great light that's been passed down through history with the first glance into in her child's eyes.<br />
<br />
How sometimes my heart simultaneously aches with equal parts joy and guilt when I think about how whole our life is in the midst of our very broken world.<br />
<br />
I wanted to tell him all of that, but it seemed a bit heavy for a 5-year-old, so instead I just kissed the top of his curly head, held him a bit too long until he squirmed out of my arms, and told him to go clean the bathroom.<br />
<br />
<br />Mona Shandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12885290932377642286noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3803396243806804613.post-53245508936947780612016-12-07T07:12:00.001-08:002016-12-07T07:12:03.398-08:00The Angel: Seeing The World Through A Child's Eyes <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Holiday celebrations are some of the best parts of living in a small town, and my town does not disappoint. As Christmas approaches, our Main Street. is decked out in wreaths and ribbons, with beautiful storefront window displays glittering and gleaming in the soft white lights.<br />
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Early in the season, the entire downtown closes to traffic for an evening to make room for Santa's sleigh, where, after several hours of music and merry-making, the crowd gathers for a countdown at the end of which Santa magically turns on the Christmas lights that surround downtown's centerpiece, the Millpond (we won't dwell on that one year we counted down like six times but the lights still wouldn't go on- even Santa has technical difficulties). It's a pretty big deal around here.<br />
<br />
Many of the homes leading into downtown take their celebrations just as seriously. There's the house with the nearly 50-foot pine tree that is adorned from top to bottom with ornaments the size of watermelons. Smiling snowmen on every corner. Enough reindeer to pull a dozen sleighs. And my favorite- a giant lighted angel which stands in front of a quaint, brick gingerbread-style home on Main St. I look forward to seeing its warm glow every year, and then I forget about it until the next. Christmas angels aren't there when it's not Christmas, right?<br />
<br />
Unless they are and you just don't see them.<br />
<br />
Fortunately, someone in my world does.<br />
<br />
I think it began around sometime around February or March. We'd be driving through downtown and all of a sudden, my then 6-year-old daughter would nearly leap out of her booster seat with excitement.<br />
<br />
"Mama- there's the most beautiful angel standing there, and she's holding a present in her hands! What do you think is in it? Do you think it's for me?" She'd breathlessly blurt out as we navigated the roundabout in the middle of town.<br />
<br />
"Mmm hmm...," I'm sure I muttered distractedly, the first few times, glancing up about 2 blocks after the fact, which is typically the time it takes a verbal message to trudge through the muck of my overloaded brain, and to trigger some sort of a response. Of course by then, I saw nothing.<br />
<br />
But she wouldn't stop. Whether it was on the way to ballet, coming home from the grocery store, or heading to a friend's house, she saw an angel. I saw nothing but places to go, errands to run, and time ticking away on the clock.<br />
<br />
Though she only mentioned the angel when the two of us were alone together in the car, on those rare occasions I was a passenger, I'd try to remind myself to look for it. Unfortunately, by the time we got close to downtown, my attention had been pulled away by a beep or a buzz or a tweet or a tap or a swipe. But never an angel.<br />
<br />
Finally one day, I remembered. As we made our way downtown on the way to dance class, I told her to tell me when we were getting close to the angel. I slowed waaayyy down until I heard her gleefully squeal: "There she is!"<br />
<br />
Sure enough, she was right- there stood the frame of the giant lighted angel I so look forward to seeing each Christmas. I'll be honest- in the light of day, she looked a little shabby- just a twisted shell of metal and wires on a soggy, bare lawn.<br />
<br />
"Oh, you mean the Christmas angel!" I said. "I didn't see her because the lights aren't on this time of year."<br />
<br />
"She's not just a Christmas angel, mama- she's there all the time," she insisted. "It doesn't matter if the lights are on. She's an angel- she's always shining. I see her all the time. You just didn't LOOK for her. "<br />
<br />
DUH.<br />
<br />
And just like that, my thought process sped through the roundabout and took a hard right turn into the oh-so-familiar parking lot of Mommy Guilt. Between work, activities, obligations, and the pressure of getting everyone from Point A to B (and points C-Z), what else had I been missing?<br />
<br />
But then I realized- maybe we're not meant to see it all alone. Sure, my little girl sees things where I don't- she looks at a puddle and sees nothing but joy. I see a stealth mess that's looking to attach itself to a host so it can spread entirely new messes throughout the house. She sees cotton candy dinosaurs on a cloudy day, while I mourn the absence of the sun. And she sees angels shining even when the lights aren't on.<br />
<br />
But I know it works both ways- it's my job to see things that she can't yet understand. To shield her as best I can from harmful germs and harmful strangers, bumps on her leg and bumps in the night. To guard her heart and raise her to see the world with both wisdom and joy.<br />
<br />
Light and dark.<br />
<br />
Angels and demons.<br />
<br />
Between the two of us, I think it will work out just fine.<br />
<br />
She'll be my angel and I'll be hers.Mona Shandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12885290932377642286noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3803396243806804613.post-24955146715381836632016-10-03T07:19:00.000-07:002016-10-03T07:19:36.051-07:00What Happened To the Magic Words? A Mom's Plea For More "Please" and "Thank You"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've heard it said that parenting is a thankless job. The hours are awful, the pay is terrible, and the working conditions often include high-level HAZ MAT situations involving various forms of human DNA.<br />
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Sure, raising children is certainly difficult, often physically and mentally exhausting, and occasionally downright disgusting. But thankless? Hardly.<br />
<br />
My kids are currently 9, 7, and 5 years old, and from the very beginning, we've done our best to instill in them the power of the "magic words" and the importance of a grateful spirit. They are far from perfect, but more often than not, they say "please" when they ask for something, and "thank you" when it's been received. So not only are we verbally receiving thanks multiple times per day, but we're "paid" in frequent hugs, deep belly laughs, and the cautious optimism that we're not raising entitled brats. Even with the 24-7 on-call shifts, I'd call that a hefty payoff. OK, a decent payoff. OK, fine- but I would still not call it "thankless."<br />
<br />
Now dealing with adults, on the other hand- there's your thankless job. Actually, it's more like a "thanksless" job, as in a shocking lack of use of the word "thanks." It can also be a "pleaseless" job, sometimes a "you're welcomeless" job, and almost always a "sorryless" one.<br />
<br />
At least once a day I am shocked by the most basic lack of manners among adults, and I'm not even talking about the level of incivility that passes for discourse online. Believe me, I'd sooner put my bare hand in a blender than read the comments section of any news article, especially during election season.<br />
<br />
I'm simply referring to what it feels like the almost total extinction of "please" and "thank you" in everyday life. You're probably familiar with the scenario: someone provides a service for another person. This could be anything from holding open a door to simply providing information via email, text, or other messaging means. Whatever the details, the response is often the same: Crickets. Nothing. Nada. AND IT MAKES ME CRAZY. When did saying "thank you" become optional? And when did so many people decide to opt out? The mom in me constantly fights an overwhelming urge to prompt people with a sugary, "What do we say?" or put a friend/acquaintance/total stranger in time out for what I consider abhorrent behavior.<br />
<br />
Want some examples? The other day I was in the checkout line at the grocery store, when I noticed the child in the cart in front of me had dropped her toy. I picked it up and gave it to her mother, whose only response was, "Oh geez, did she drop that again?" You're welcome. Later that same day, I was out to dinner with my family, and I couldn't help but notice that when the waitress set down plates of food at the table next to us and they immediately said...grace. I'm all for that- really, I am. But shouldn't the process of giving thanks for one's food include thanking the person who brought it to the table? Directly, and not just through the intercession of a higher power?<br />
<br />
Before you accuse me of being over-sensitive, consider what those words actually mean. Saying "thank you" isn't just a trivial throwaway. On the most basic level, it communicates acknowledgement of the act that took place, or receipt of the information that was communicated. Those things are rational, but saying "thank you" is mostly an emotional act. It connects one person to another. Saying "thank you" doesn't just acknowledge someone's effort, thoughtfulness, intent, or action. It acknowledges the person himself. And that is our basic responsibility as human beings living in community with each other. It's part of the unwritten contract we sign as co-inhabitants of the planet. And we're violating it right and left.<br />
<br />
I often see "open letter" style thank yous, where people offer their profound gratitude very publicly to someone they often failed to thank privately. I'm sure you know the type of post I'm referring to- it usually has a title like: "To the Kind Woman In The Trader Joe's Parking Lot," or "Dear Lady Wearing The Black Swimsuit at the Splash Park." In the tradition of grand intellectuals like Emile Zola and Martin Luther King, Jr., the writer clearly feels his or her communication should not be limited to the mundane reality of either personal one-on-one missives. These letters often go viral, but they change nothing, and serve mainly to put the focus on the writer. That's not really what gratitude is all about. You know what I'd love to see go viral? Good old fashioned thanks.<br />
<br />
A few years back I made what ultimately ended up to be a very brief stop in corporate America, taking a job in public relations. It was one of those "too good to pass up" opportunities, so even though I had a feeling it wasn't quite the right job for me, I gave it a go. A few days into the job, I needed to email a senior vice president for some information, which he promptly provided. "Thanks so much!" I replied. The same scenario played out over the next few days, and each time I replied with my thanks. Later that week, Mr. Very Important Senior Management Guy paid an unexpected visit to my desk.<br />
<br />
"Hey, I get that you're new here and you're trying to be friendly," he boomed, loud enough for the entire cubicle farm to hear. "But you're clogging up my email with all your replies. You don't need to say 'thank you' for everything around here- we don't have time for that."<br />
<br />
My jaw hit my my desk. "Umm...OK..." I stammered to his back as he importantly walked away. "Thanks...I mean, not thanks...I mean I'm sorry...wait, do we have time for 'sorry' here?"<br />
<br />
For the record, I did thank him for the opportunity when I submitted my letter of resignation not long after that.<br />
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Contrast that to a day 35 years ago this month- one of my earliest memories of the power of the magic words. I came home from school to something my 8-year-old eyes had never seen: both my parents in tears. Anwar Sadat, the president of their native Egypt, had been assassinated as he marched in a parade commemorating the anniversary of the 1973 war with Israel. For days to come, we watched the footage over and over again, with audible sobs heard over the whir of the VCR in rewind mode. My parents and their Egyptian friends poured over news clippings taken from papers around the world, and discussed the implications in hushed voices.<br />
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I did not come close to understanding the nuances of the situation at that time- heck, I hardly do today. On the one hand, Sadat was a man who had not made life easy for Egypt's Christian minority, to which my family belongs. He had gone as far as to imprison the church patriarch in a remote desert monastery after accusing him of inciting sectarian unrest. On the other hand, he was the first Arab leader to sign a peace accord with Israel, a feat for which he was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, and which ultimately lead to his death at the hands of extremists who considered him a traitor.<br />
<br />
As my parents struggled to digest all of that, what rose to the top on October 6, 1981, was that the leader of their beloved homeland had been killed, and from thousands of miles away, they mourned the piece of their history that died along with him.<br />
<br />
In the days that followed, one of our closest family friends paid a visit. A devout Jew, she had been my parents' very first next door neighbor, and their relationship seemed a testament to the amazing possibilities this country held. No doubt, she was working to reconcile her own jumble of emotions over the events that had unfolded. But this was not the time for debate.<br />
<br />
She walked over to my mom, took her hands, and held them to her heart.<br />
<br />
They stood that way for some time, not speaking, both with tears streaming down their cheeks.<br />
<br />
"Thank you," my mom eventually said.<br />
<br />
And it was more than enough.<br />
<br />Mona Shandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12885290932377642286noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3803396243806804613.post-34285974040612610622016-09-21T12:28:00.005-07:002016-09-22T07:32:16.926-07:00Beach Memories: A Vacation To The Place Where Nostalgia, Love, and Loss Live On <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Some people find peace in majestic mountains, others in wide open plains. My source of calm and comfort has always been the ocean.<br />
<br />
Within the first few breaths of that salty ocean air, I feel my lungs tingle, my muscles relax, and my heart finds a familiar rhythm in the waves.<br />
<br />
Because we've been coming to the beach since I was a child, those waves hold memories that churn up against each other, the past and present getting tossed together like tiny seashells. Over the years, the force of the water and time whittles them down and eventually deposits them back on shore. As I walk the beach, I see glimmers of those memories sparkling like shells in the sun. Sometimes, I can grab them before the next wave comes rolling in, but other times they retreat into the sea, teasing me with their barely visible edges.<br />
<br />
My kids are beach creatures as well, easily spending hours jumping up and down in the waves, body surfing back to shore, and digging for shells in the wet sand. We walk together down the same beach I visited with my parents at their age, and the memories stretch out in front and behind us as far and wide as the sea itself.<br />
<br />
I sit down to watch them splash in the water and in the crash of the waves against the shore, I hear the crack of the dice against the side of the backgammon board, my dad and his best friend locked in a heated game more than three decades ago, the afternoon sun gleaming off the intricate, mother-of-pearl inlaid tiles.<br />
<br />
As the waves retreat in a fizzy farewell, I can almost taste the icy cold cans of Fresca we'd drink by the case, the citrusy bubbles soothing our throats in the midday heat. I hear laughter and sometimes I can't quite tell where it's coming from- past or present? My kids or my childhood? In the end, it doesn't really matter.<br />
<br />
Every trip to the ocean reminds me of the one my own parents crossed, of what they brought with them, and what they were forced to leave behind. The water gives so much life and joy, but it also separates and divides, carves canyons from rock.<br />
<br />
Just a few weeks before our trip this year, our close-knit Egyptian community was rocked by the sudden, unexplainable death of a bright, young star. Just 34 years old, his light was extinguished before it even had the chance to dazzle in the way everyone who knew him knew was his destiny. His loss felt like a giant tidal wave that swept over us, uprooting everything in its path, including destiny. The normal order of generations was undone as a mother buried her son, and children held their parents close. Feelings ran to extremes but words held no meaning. How could love hurt so much?<br />
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I longed to let the salty ocean water wash over all of us and carry this grief back down to its depths. I needed reassurance from the pull of the tides that the forces of nature were still in their proper places. I ached for the beach.<br />
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One night during our trip we went for an evening walk under the full moon. I held my daughter's hand as the surf tickled our ankles. My legs were heavy as the grief was still there, holding on, refusing to be cast off into the sea. We stood for a long time letting the waves roll in and out and eventually, I did feel its grip loosen slightly. I watched our footsteps appear and disappear in the sand, and said a silent prayer that the beach would hold them forever just below the surface.Mona Shandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12885290932377642286noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3803396243806804613.post-16087840083185339262016-07-17T16:21:00.001-07:002016-07-17T16:21:35.622-07:00Thoughts On Pain And Its Purpose: The Surprising Upside Of Injury <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've been thinking a lot about pain lately, mainly because I've been experiencing a lot of it. Not just the usual heartache that comes with being an oversensitive, exhausted, working parent of three young kids, but actual physical pain.<br />
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It all began about eight months ago, when the usual post-run stiffness and soreness in my right hip simply wouldn't go away, no matter how much I rested, iced, or stretched it. The pain got so bad it literally stopped me in my tracks mid-run one day, and I ended up limping 4 miles home.<br />
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Several trips to the doctor eventually lead to a round of physical therapy, which lead to an MRI, which lead to an orthopedic surgeon, which finally lead to a diagnosis of a labral tear, bursitis, bone spurs, and a condition called Femoroacetabular Impingement, which basically translates to the ball and socket of the hip joint not fitting together properly.<br />
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In layman's terms, that means a structural issue with my hip, combined with a family history of arthritis, combined with two decades of high impact exercise have made for the perfect storm that is currently raging in my right side. Surgery is the only option to fix the myriad issues, and in my case, September (when the kids are back in school) is the only option to have the surgery.<br />
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So that means two more months of dealing with the pain, which is increasing by the day. Sometimes by the hour. Two more months of feeling every single step, never knowing which one will land safely and which one will lead to the entire joint buckling under me. Two more months of carefully easing down into chairs and using my upper body to compensate. Two more months in which everyday tasks like putting on socks, going up and down stairs, or reaching for an item on a shelf are oftentimes impossible, and almost always excruciating.<br />
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Running- my stress reliever/sanity saver/social outlet/source of inspiration has been taken away, indefinitely. Walking for any significant time is also too painful, and on any given day the same can be said for sitting, standing, and even sleeping. The fickle nature of this particular injury means that even on good days, one wrong move in any particular direction can throw the entire joint out of whack, resulting in a shooting pain so strong it brings me to my knees...figuratively, since I have nowhere near that range of motion right now. Only the pool and its delicious weightlessness offers a temporary respite from the pain and a vague sense of normal movement.<br />
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But I don't tell you all this so that you will feel sorry for me. I'm not looking for sympathy or a pat on the back. While I wouldn't wish this particular condition on anyone, I guess I'm not sorry it happened.<br />
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The pain has made me walk more slowly, talk more slowly, and to think before I move. This internal injury that can't be seen has profoundly changed the way I see everything around me, and caused me to retreat into myself in a way I have not done before. As a result of feeling so much in one part of my body, I believe I have become more sensitized in every area of my life.<br />
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And that's a real blessing, because it sure seems like we're living through times where no one wants to feel a darn thing. When tragedy hits- a shooting, a bombing, a toddler ripped away from his parents by a wild animal- we react. We judge. We criticize. We take sides. We insert our personal politics where they don't belong and throw verbal arrows from the comfort of our computer screens. Anything to keep from feeling the pain.<br />
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I get it. I get that when life hurts this much, when there is so much chaos and loss in the world, it's tempting to armor up, to shield ourselves from the intense vulnerability of the how much we, ourselves, have to lose. In other people's tragedies, our own are always present, as the instability of life reveals itself. Rather than face the possibility of something similar happening to us, of how many loved ones could be lost, how many cherished places destroyed, or how many dreams dashed, our instinct is to try to protect it all- to grasp it tightly and keep it safe- to control it, so that there's no chance we can be hurt.<br />
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But sometimes, we need to be hurt.<br />
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Medical professionals will tell you that pain serves a purpose. Acute pain, for instance, is protective. That's the kind of pain that lets you know that something is wrong and that you need to get checked out. For example, if you have chest pain when you're having a heart attack, that's a good thing if it makes you go to the hospital. If you touch a hot stove and feel pain, even though it's severe, it's a good thing because it makes you move your hand away.<br />
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Pain also serves a unifying and correcting purpose. It tells us that something is wrong. If we didn't feel pain, we wouldn't know we were sick, and we wouldn't seek an answer. It's a healthy body that responds to pain, after all.<br />
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Emotional pain, I believe, can serve a similar purpose. We can't take care of what we do not feel, so if we anesthetize ourselves from every possible hurt, how will we ever address the root cause? We've become so fragmented as a nation, perhaps as a world, so hardened, that we feel almost nothing but anger...or worse, indifference. If the health of our society is measured by the way it responds to pain; to the hurting, the helpless, the broken, the bruised, the battered, the bleeding, and the impoverished among us...then we are in big trouble.<br />
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You may be telling yourself you feel fine. You're not in any pain. I guess I'm not sure that's enough anymore. Before I hurt my hip, I wasn't walking around rejoicing over its functionality. I didn't really have any feelings toward the joint which now occupies so much of my time and energy. But you'd better believe that once the surgery, rehab, and recovery have come to an end, I will feel differently about the ability to move without pain. The absence of pain is not the same as the presence of joy.<br />
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I don't mean to suggest we all need to go out and injure ourselves just to find meaning in our lives- there's plenty of suffering in the world to go around. But the next time you find yourself in or near a painful situation, whether it is physical or emotional, whether it is yours or someone else's, before you do anything else, take a moment to sit with the pain.<br />
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Ease into it, and allow it to serve its purpose.<br />
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Take a moment to pray not just for, but in solidarity with those who suffer, to mourn with those who mourn.<br />
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Remember that pain softens the heart, as fire softens iron.<br />
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Feel someone else's pain, and allow them to feel yours.<br />
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And maybe together, we will begin to heal.<br />
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Mona Shandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12885290932377642286noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3803396243806804613.post-34351891949384146742016-07-05T09:52:00.000-07:002016-07-05T09:59:26.933-07:00The Orange Flowers On The Hill: Finding Strength In Unusual Places <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Like many moms, I put a lot of miles on my car. And like many moms, I put the exact same miles on my car day after day...after day. In fact, it's less of a car and more of a school-sports-activity-grocery store shuttle.<br />
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We live in a relatively small community, so varying the routes to those same places isn't even a realistic option. So that means I drive down the exact same stretch of road multiple times each day. Most of the time, I'm on autopilot, as the same old scenery whizzes by. Golf course, restaurant, barn, hill, curve, curve, stoplight. Then later in reverse: stoplight, curve, curve, hill, barn, restaurant, golf course. As is often the case with the things most familiar to us, I see them so many times, I tend not to see them at all.<br />
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But I do remember the first time I saw the orange flowers on the hill.<br />
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It was one of the first few days of July, five years ago. At that time, I had a 3-week-old baby boy, a two-year-old daughter, and another son inching up on his fourth birthday. To say I was overwhelmed doesn't begin to come close. As if the physical and mental exhaustion of life with a newborn (and two toddlers) wasn't enough, with my husband working long hours, preschool done for the summer, and no family or any real support system nearby, I was breaking. Whether it was food, comfort, diapers, milk, or the blue sippy cup but NOT the red cup, from morning until night, and then right back into morning, someone needed something from me All. The. Time. Though I had little people attached to various parts of me virtually round-the-clock, I had never felt more alone.<br />
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My solution was to get the heck out of the house as much as possible, and just GO. Anywhere. Tire them out then pray for sleep. Though it felt more like preparing for the Invasion of Normandy than a trip to the park, I would pack up the diaper bag(s), load our motley crew into the car (unloading to change the baby, feed the baby, and change the baby one more time), and set off. Borrowing a page from Dory, my mantra in those days was "Just Keep Swimming...Until Naptime."<br />
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On one of those days, we had loaded up our royal motorcade for a morning at the local library, where Optimistic Me envisioned a few hours of cozy cuddling amongst the stacks as I exposed my little darlings to the joys of literature. Of course, with three kids under age 4, what unfolded was a tad different. My oldest threw a fit when he couldn't find the train book he wanted. I set the two year old down to help him, and another child ran over her finger with a rocking child. Her shrieking woke up the baby in the carrier, who seemed to think it was an invitation to a crying contest that he was NOT about to lose. Optimistic Me was nowhere to be found, but Real Me was left standing in the middle of the library, covered in a mix of sweat, tears, breastmilk, and other DNA samples not necessarily emanating from my body.<br />
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"That's IT! We're going home!" I yelled, gathering up whatever seemed to belong to me (children included) through teary eyes, and slinking out without looking back.<br />
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We piled back in the car, all of us sobbing. I turned up the volume on the radio hoping the music would soothe someone, anyone in this miserable lot. The rain was now coming down in sheets, and I sat for a few minutes in the library parking lot with water streaming down my windshield and my face.<br />
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Finally, I put the car in drive and headed home, down that same stretch of road I'd traveled so many times before. The rain was relentless, coming at us sideways and making huge puddles on the road. I hit one of those puddles just right, and my car began to hydroplane, sliding crazily around as I tightened my grip on the wheel and prayed for it to end.<br />
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Thankfully, it did, and though I was only about a mile from home, I pulled down the closest street to catch my breath. It was a private drive- a street I hadn't been down before, and for a moment I didn't recognize where I was. For that matter, I didn't even recognize myself. Or my life.<br />
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A few deep breaths later, my hands had nearly stopped shaking and the rain had all but stopped. I shakily turned the car around and got ready to return to the familiar road. I pulled up to the intersection, wiped one last tear from my eye, and pulled out. As I did, I looked straight ahead to see the hillside in front of me covered from to top to bottom in vibrant, beautiful orange wildflowers.<br />
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I was mesmerized. How many times had I driven past that same hill, and never noticed those flowers? Where did they come from? When did they bloom? I looked at my three beautiful children, now sound asleep in the rearview mirror, then at the flowers one more time before taking a deep breath and continuing down the road.<br />
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In the days that followed, I saw those flowers everywhere- scattered along the roadside, hiding next to mailboxes, growing seemingly out of nowhere, but standing tall and proud in the most unlikely places. Their fiery color and resilience were in such stark contrast to my mood, and I began to intentionally seek them out everywhere I went. Each one I saw felt like a little boost. A hidden message just for me. A reminder that you can't stop to smell the flowers if you don't even see them.<br />
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That summer passed and just as quickly as they appeared, the orange flowers were gone. It's now been five years since I first saw them, and every summer, right around this time, I look forward to their return. I drive by the hill and point them out to my children, making sure they clearly see what I was blind to for so long. I take note of how they much they've grown, despite being dormant for so long<br />
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I wish I could pick those flowers and hand deliver a bouquet to every new mother out there with a note that says "You CAN do this." I wish I could bottle up their scent and dab a little behind my ears on those days I need a little more strength. I long to press their petals in the pages of my life, to run my fingers across them in those dark chapters where fear tries to triumph over faith.<br />
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But it's enough just to see them, to watch them grow, then fade away, to know that they will be back, and to remember that this is but a season.<br />
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I don't know the actual name of those flowers- I'm told they are some sort of daylily- but to be honest, I don't really care.<br />
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In my mind, they will forever be known as "Hope Blossoms." <br />
<br />Mona Shandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12885290932377642286noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3803396243806804613.post-75623570223150575362016-06-02T15:02:00.000-07:002016-06-10T06:25:31.100-07:00My Youngest Child Is Graduating From Preschool And So Am I When I was a freshman in high school, a book of short essays by the American pastor Robert Fulghum called "All I Really Need to Know I learned in Kindergarten," was published, and quickly rose to great popularity. The title of the book was taken from the first essay, in which the author explains how the world would be improved if adults adhered to the same basic rules as children, i.e. sharing, being kind to one another, cleaning up after themselves, and living a balanced life of work, play, and learning.<br />
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It was a lovely little book full of sage advice, and it gave me nightmares. </div>
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You see, I didn't actually GO to kindergarten, at least not for very long. I think I attended for about a week, and then, at the teacher's recommendation, I was moved to 1st grade. The details of how it all unfolded are kind of sketchy- after all, this was 1978, well before helicopter parents staged a mass landing on the education scene. There was no social media, not that my mom and dad would have ever crowdsourced the decision in a parenting forum, or allowed a bunch of strangers to weigh in on whether or not their five-year-old was academically or socially ready for the challenge. I'm guessing the conversation went something like this: </div>
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Teacher: Mr. and Mrs. Boulos, we've talked it over and we think it would be in your daughter's best interest to skip kindergarten. </div>
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Mom and Dad: OK, thank you.<br />
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And off I went to first grade.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Second row, second from the right. Don't I look thrilled?</td></tr>
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I never once second guessed their decision until that book came out, alleging that the one year I skipped turned out to be the lynchpin of the entire educational experience. What huge holes did I have in my learning as a result? Were the other 20 years I spent pursuing educational goals of various sorts a waste of time? Could I somehow make up the year, perhaps in a kindergarten online correspondence course?<br />
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All these years later, I think I've finally come to terms with my kindergarten deficit, mainly because I've spent the past six years in preschool. Technically, my three kids were the ones attending preschool, but after six consecutive years of thrice weekly dropoffs and pickups, six years of goodbye hugs of varying intensities, six years of walking (sometimes pacing, sometimes casually strolling) the hallways where my children grew and thrived, it felt like I was enrolled right along with them. And leaving preschool will not be easy.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">September 2010</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">September 2012</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">September 2014</td></tr>
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That's because in a world where adult expectations and activities are so quickly thrust upon children, a world where toddlers get professional manicures and first graders must decide which travel sports team might best suit their athletic needs, preschool has remained a place for child's play. A place that is colorful and messy. A place that feels safe and secure, where friendships form in a matter of seconds, hugs flow freely, and creativity lines the walls.<br />
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In many ways, time has stood still for us over these past six years. As our children, each two years apart, each spent two years in preschool, up until this point there has always one more behind them to immediately carry on the preschool torch. As our older kids have moved into the big, wide, world of homework, spelling tests, and playground drama, having one foot firmly planted in preschool has been a grounding force, and a way to connect not just to my children, but perhaps to childhood as a whole.<br />
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Over these past six years of preschool, my kids had the same teachers, took the same field trips, and even made many of the same projects. And at some point, their lessons became my own.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The more things change, the more they stay the same (except for my hair). </td></tr>
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In my six years of preschool, I've learned how difficult it is to let go- from letting go of a loved one's hand to letting go of control. But I've also learned how necessary it is.</div>
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From the dedicated teachers, I've learned what a blessing it is to allow someone other than yourself the opportunity to love and nurture your child. Someone who sees them in a different light, who appreciates things about them that even we as parents might completely miss. My heart aches with gratitude for each of them.<br />
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From my fellow preschool parents, I've learned that support, advice, and competition-free companionship are not just things we should offer our kids.<br />
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From the preschoolers I've learned that you should laugh- at yourself, at your friends, and at anything that seems even remotely funny. And you should cry, because you know what? Stuff hurts. And tears help. So there.</div>
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I've learned to dream, because when you're surrounded by a roomful of aspiring astronaut/princess/ballerina/police officer/garbage collectors, how can you you not imagine what you, too would like to be when/if you ever decide/are obligated to grow up?<br />
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So today my youngest will join his older siblings in walking across the stage to collect his preschool certificate. I admit- it's more than a little comical, seeing these tiny beings decked out in mortar boards, their goofy grins a stark contrast to the undue solemnity of "Pomp and Circumstance" as they parade down the aisle. In the past, it has made me laugh so hard I cried.<br />
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But this time, I might just skip the laughter and go straight for tears, because it is certainly the end of an era, and in many ways it feels like the end of innocence. This time, as my baby boy walks across that stage, I must force myself to accept that we are both walking away from these precious younger years.<br />
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Society has little time for childhood, and even less for adults with childlike spirits. While children are masters of the moment, the senses, and the pure heart, in little more than the blink of an eye, doing will overtake being, and thinking will overtake feeling.<br />
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So my prayer for my pint-sized graduate is that together we will always carry the lessons of these preschool years close to our heart, and not just because I have an entire jewelry chest's worth of macaroni necklaces.<br />
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Preschool has been good to us- I don't know that we've learned ALL we need to know, but I do know my child is ready to graduate to the next step. I only hope that I am, too.<br />
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Mona Shandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12885290932377642286noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3803396243806804613.post-51647247324895773852016-05-06T12:23:00.002-07:002016-05-06T12:23:40.810-07:00Braiding Hair And Braiding Love: A Mother's Work <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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"Mama, will you braid my hair?" my little girl asks sweetly.<br />
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Truth be told, while my styling ability is minimal, I relish any opportunity I get to run my fingers through my daughter's silky-soft hair. Though she wriggles and complains as I pull at the knots, the mere act of brushing activates some sort of primal response and soothes me to my core. I wish combing the tangles didn’t hurt her. I wish my fingers possessed greater skill. But I still love the feeling of those dark strands dancing across my hands, tickling my wrists and arms like the velvet edges of a monarch butterfly.<br />
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And so I begin, parting her hair in three sections and twisting one over the other, pulling tight in between. Her eyes meet her reflection in the mirror and I see them dance with joy and the unabashed self-love of a 6-year-old. I try to remember a time when my own child self, or my adult self for that matter, felt so happy seeing my face staring back at me. I braid those strands and pray that through the tugging and pulling, she will always feel God's love for her as she twists and turns and weaves her way through life. I pray that she knew as a baby, and knows now as a child, and will come to know ever more surely as a woman, that divine love comes not from how she looks, but from who she is.<br />
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As we continue, I am struck by the fact that I am better and more confident than I used to be at this braiding business, and perhaps at motherhood as well. But then I notice that the part is a bit crooked, and little wisps are beginning to escape from the sides. Pushing my own feelings of inadequacy away, I kiss the top of her head.<br />
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"There's a teeny tiny spot up here where I can see right though you and straight down into your beautiful heart," I tease.<br />
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Her nose crinkles as she smiles, but my hands now work more cautiously, timidly, as I think my own mother, who tugged at my hair as I pressed my palms against my head in protest. I remember the surrogate grandmother who lived with us throughout my childhood, and how her fingers flew through my hair like a skilled surgeon. It would be years, decades even before I truly understood the messages their fingers imparted.<br />
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"Mama, how do you even braid hair?" she asks, interrupting my thoughts. <br />
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"It's not hard," I tell her. "You just split it into three sections, and then take the left piece over the center, and then take the right piece over the center. Pull it tight in between. Just keep repeating that, and it makes a braid. See?" I show her in the mirror.<br />
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"Can you teach me how to do it?" she asks. <br />
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"Sure, go get your doll," I tell her.<br />
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So there we sit, my daughter in my lap, and her dollie in her lap, my hands on top of hers. We split the dolls hair in three sections and I instruct her, those tiny fingers moving slowly at first:<br />
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Left over center, then right over center. Pull tight in between.<br />
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At first it won't hold. Her tiny fingers can't keep the sections separate, and the strands tumble and tangle.<br />
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"It's too hard, Mama," she insists. "My fingers can't do it!"<br />
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"They'll learn," I tell her. "Just give them time."<br />
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We start over again. And again. And again. But eventually she gets the hang of it, twisting left over center, right over center, pulling tight in between.<br />
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The finished product is more than a little crooked, with strands rebelling at every curve, poking out in different directions.<br />
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"It's so lovely," I say, and I mean it.<br />
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Because this is what we do. This is a mother's work: combing out the tangles, weaving the past and the present, the good and the bad, one side over the other. Left over center, right over center, pull tight in between.<br />
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Taking joy from one place and sadness from another.<br />
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Mistakes and triumphs.<br />
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Regrets and delights.<br />
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Happiness and sorrow.<br />
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The impossible of yesterday and the dreams of tomorrow.<br />
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Starting over, but never from scratch.<br />
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Twisting one generation around the next.<br />
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Creating something perfectly imperfect, stronger than all its pieces, woven with love, and held together by the divine.<br />
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That's how you make a braid, my darling daughter.<br />
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Left over center, then right over center. Pull tight in between.<br />
<br />Mona Shandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12885290932377642286noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3803396243806804613.post-37535222672070409592016-04-29T07:47:00.000-07:002016-04-29T07:47:03.044-07:00A Tale Of Many Easters, And The Time I Celebrated In August <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The first time I ever celebrated Easter, I mean REALLY celebrated Easter, was in my living room on a hot, sticky Friday afternoon in August.<br />
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Let me back up a bit. I am what is sometimes referred to as a "cradle Christian" and consider myself a person of great faith. I've attended Holy Week and Easter services my entire life, usually doing double duty, celebrating the resurrection of Christ as it falls on the Western calendar as well as on the ancient Julian calendar according to the Eastern Orthodox tradition in which I was raised. Occasionally, my worlds collide and both Easter celebrations occur on the same day, but they can be anywhere from one to as much as six weeks apart.<br />
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The difference in dates was a great source of frustration for me as a child and even young adult. My scholarly father offered the historical explanation: that the Eastern Orthodox Church, in accordance with the Council of Nicea in 325 AD, adheres to a rule that Easter is to be celebrated on the first Sunday after the first full moon, following the vernal equinox, but always after Jewish Passover; while Western churches do not use the astronomically determined date for the vernal equinox, but a fixed date (March 21). And by full moon it does not mean the astronomical full moon but the "ecclesiastical moon," which is based on tables created by the church and may or may not follow Passover. Got that? Me neither. My direct, to-the-point mom had a more Nike-esque answer: because the church says so, we just do it.<br />
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But I was still hung up on why we were feasting on lamb at the end of April, when my American friends had long since hunted for eggs and consumed all their jelly beans. Were we not "many parts, but all one body?" Why would we the whole body not be together in this holiest of holy days, the one that truly made us who we are? How could the love of Christ, which "surpasses all understanding" not surpass and transcend the political schism that put members of His family on opposite sides of the same coin?<br />
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But let's fast forward a few decades and return to my living room. There I was on that August afternoon, a brand new mom, home alone with my newborn son. My colicky, fussy, wanting-to-eat-all-the-time newborn son. If he wasn't eating, he was crying. Which meant that if I wasn't feeding him, I was probably crying, too.<br />
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I tried everything I could think of to comfort him. We went for long walks in the stroller. We snuggled. We swaddled. We bounced. But the only thing that consistently soothed him was music. More specifically, my singing. Now, I can carry a tune, but I am not someone you want to hear in solo concert all the livelong day. But since it seemed to pacify my little one, I did the only thing I could: I sang.<br />
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I sang nursery rhymes, children's song, pop music, show tunes- you name it. I sang church hymns in Arabic, church hymns in English, church hymns to which I couldn't remember the words, all the while praying that God would forgive me for my crimes against music and to be my soundtrack on this new and somewhat terrifying path of motherhood.<br />
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One day, during a particularly awful crying spell (for both of us), I picked him up, closed my eyes, held him close, and sang the chorus of a hymn that for some reason popped into my head:<br />
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We remember how You loved us, to Your death,<br />
And still we celebrate, for You are with us here.<br />
And we believe that we will see You, when You come,<br />
In Your glory, Lord,<br />
We remember, we celebrate, we believe.<br />
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At the end of that verse (the only one I knew), I cautiously opened one eye and peeked down at the tiny face clutched to my chest. He was silent...briefly...but after a few seconds, the crying began again...so I sang it again. And again. And again.<br />
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I'm not sure how long this went on, but at some point, he fell asleep. I set him down in the swing, buckled him in, and collapsed to my knees. Tears flowed from my eyes as a realization set in: this child had made me into someone new. Someone fiercely protective. Sacrificially giving. Unconditionally loving.<br />
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As I knelt down, I looked closely at him, and for the first time, I knew deep in my bones, that should the need arise, I would die for my child.<br />
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I watched him swing back and forth and thought about how much I loved him, and how that love was giving me a glimpse into God's heart. How my feelings for this innocent baby were a mere whisper of the love God has for me, and for all His children.<br />
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Hot tears stung my eyes and ran down my face as I thought about how He could sacrifice his perfect Son on a torturous cross for the sins of humanity.<br />
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I cried that day as I thought about it all: pain and suffering, sin and salvation. I cried for motherhood, and for the Mother of us all who watched her son die. But mostly, I cried for love beyond all comprehension. The love of a parent for a child. The love of the Father for His son.<br />
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I cried for Easter.<br />
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And all the while, the words from that hymn ran through my head:<br />
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We remember how You loved us, to Your death,<br />
And still we celebrate, for You are with us here.<br />
And we believe that we will see You, when You come,<br />
In Your glory, Lord,<br />
We remember, we celebrate, we believe.<br />
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I never spoke of that day, not even to my husband, who returned from work to find both of us still asleep: the baby still swinging, and me at his feet, exhausted but at peace on the floor. An ordinary, but extraordinary Friday.<br />
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I still pray that one day all of God's family will celebrate Easter together, on the same day- Lord knows we need each other now more than ever. But the different dates don't bother me nearly as much as they used to, because now I truly understand that what matters more than Easter on the calendar is Easter in your heart.<br />
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And every time I hear that hymn, every time I see my kids, every time I feel that tug in my heart,<br />
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I remember<br />
I celebrate,<br />
I believe.Mona Shandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12885290932377642286noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3803396243806804613.post-81316237612321401982016-03-13T08:35:00.000-07:002016-03-13T08:35:32.377-07:00Three Funerals And A Wedding: On Love And Loss <br />
The movie <i>Four Weddings and a Funeral</i> came out the year I graduated from college, and I distinctly remember wanting to jump through the screen and be transported directly into that world. It was a place where somewhat awkward British singles were navigating the complex world of love and loss, all while attending lavish social occasions and overnighting in castles and pubs. This was Hugh Grant at his quirky, bumbling, finest- pre-Divine Brown self, surrounded by a group that blurred the lines between friends and family. It seemed, at the time, to be the perfect portrait of a group of ordinary people dealing with the extraordinary burden that can only come from genuine love and heartache.<br />
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Fast forward more than two decades and I am happily married to my very own floppy-haired dreamboat with no scandals that I'm aware of. We have three children we love, a large, loud, extended family that brings us immeasurable joy and just enough crazy to keep things interesting, and a circle of friends, both old and new, we can count on for both laughter and support. If I had to sum it up in movie terms, I'd say our life is <i>My Big Fat Greek Wedding</i>, Egyptian version meets <i>Steel Magnolias</i>, Midwestern Edition, with heavy notes of <i>Toy Story</i> drizzled on top.<br />
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But last week, my wish to dive into <i>Four Weddings and a Funeral </i>almost became a reality...just backwards. In one of life's stranger plot lines, I found myself having to attend three funerals and a wedding, all within the span of 5 days.<br />
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First, I heard of the passing of my friend's mother who had been quite ill for some time. Then, two days later, another friend's mother was laid to rest after a brave battle with Alzheimer's. The next day, I learned that a former colleague had lost his wife. I became fearful of even logging on to Facebook, since my newsfeed seemed to be stuck on heartbreak mode.<br />
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To say the week was a bit strange is like saying <i>Gigli </i>was a bit of a bummer. I'd spend a typical summer day with the kids, delivering them to swim practice, Vacation Bible School and the like, all scramble to get my own work done, and then quickly shed my "Mom uniform" of shorts and a tee for a simple black dress the minute my husband came home. As I headed out to watch two daughters, now moms themselves, say a final goodbye to their own mothers, my eyes filled with tears as my own little girl hugged me tightly and said, "Come right back, Mama."<br />
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In one of the most bizarre moments of the whole week, we actually stopped at the third funeral on the way to the wedding. Within the span of one hour, we witnessed one man promise to love, honor, and cherish until death do them part, and another one grieve that it had done just that. It was a circle of life that would leave even Mufasa, in all his <i>Lion King</i> glory, feeling dizzy.<br />
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As my husband and I sat, hand in hand, at the wedding, it occurred to me that I haven't actually been to a very many funerals in my life. My grandparents and other close relatives died overseas. My parents lost close friends as I was growing up, but the funerals were always adult affairs- not something often even discussed around kids.<br />
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I come from a culture that is very good at celebrating love. We LOVE love, as was evidenced by the 500+ people (an average-sized crowd for our peeps) that had gathered to eat, drink, and be very merry alongside the bride and groom. From heaping platters of food to live music and belly dancing, we are VERY good at weddings, not to mention engagements, bridal showers, baby showers, and random Thursday nights. But loss? That one we struggle with.<br />
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In recent years, I've been to funerals described as "Celebrations of Life." It's a difficult concept for me to understand, because when the cloud of grief descends over our community, everything grows dark. There is not a lot of laughter, or light, and certainly no celebration. In the funeral homes, there is often silence, punctuated only by weeping and fervent recitation of prayer. Widows and close family members of the deceased will traditionally wear all black for one full year after their loved one's passing, and sometimes for the rest of their lives. Perhaps when you love with every ounce of your being, the loss of that love leaves too deep a wound to ever close. But is there a way for love and loss to coexist?<br />
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The poet Rumi believed that sorrow and joy were deeply intertwined. He wrote, “Sorrow prepares you for joy. It violently sweeps everything out of your house, so that new joy can find space to enter. It shakes the yellow leaves from the bough of your heart, so that fresh, green leaves can grow in their place. It pulls up the rotten roots, so that new roots hidden beneath have room to grow. Whatever sorrow shakes from your heart, far better things will take their place.”<br />
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I thought about that quote the day after the final credits rolled on Three Funerals and a Wedding. That morning, I attended church with my family, after which my youngest insisted we light a candle. I held his hand and together we dipped the long match into the flame of an already lit candle, and touched it to a new wick.<br />
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I watched his face light up as he saw it spring to life, the back-and-forth, in-and-out, flickering all reflected in his warm, brown eyes. It was like that instant your favorite movie comes to life on the big screen, or the moment it fades away.<br />
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The place where ever so briefly, light and darkness dance together.<br />
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<br />Mona Shandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12885290932377642286noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3803396243806804613.post-53854502987292563152016-03-11T08:10:00.000-08:002017-06-18T09:24:33.869-07:00My Dad, The Egyptian Astronaut <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When I was five, I was relatively certain my dad could fly and was living a secret life as an astronaut.<br />
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Though he was a mild-mannered Egyptian immigrant who worked as a radiologist by day, around that time he began disappearing more frequently in the evenings and weekends. He claimed to be at the hospital, but on multiple occasions I overheard him tell my mom he was needed at "the satellite." Once I even caught him admitting how difficult it was to be "moonlighting." That's right- MY dad was in charge of illuminating the moon. No wonder he looked so tired in the morning! I searched his briefcase and car diligently for his space gear, but all I found were pamphlets about the hospital's expansion plans. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
But that's not all. On Sundays we'd gather with our extended family after church (even space travelers observed a day of rest), and I'd stand behind the living room door to eavesdrop on the adults locked in heated conversation. The words flew by in a blur of English and Arabic, and though I had no idea what a "visa" or "naturalization" was, you'd better believe I understood exactly what it meant when my dad mentioned "aliens." ALIENS! </div>
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<div>
He didn't exactly fit the profile of an astronaut: he wasn't tall or muscular, he wore thick, horn-rimmed glasses, and had no flight experience aside from Pan Am's JFK-Cairo route. Still, there was no denying the mounting evidence. And clearly there was life on other planets- life with broken bones and herniated discs- because my dad was out there treating it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I was bursting at the seams to tell someone, anyone, about his forays into other galaxies, but I swore myself to secrecy. My only communication on the matter took place late at night when I'd sneak out of bed, gaze skyward, and bid him good night. </div>
<div>
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Every morning, he somehow landed back in the kitchen, standing over the stove, brewing an extra strong cup of Turkish coffee with his typical serene gaze. I would simply nod, too afraid to speak, hoping to silently convey my admiration for his otherworldly exploits. </div>
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Eight years ago my dad was diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease, a cruel twist of fate for a man who devoted his life to neurological science. In that time, I've watched his muscles slowly betray him, his movements become involuntary, and gravity imprison him in its grasp. But despite the pain and frustration I know he must feel, he's never once complained, never once questioned "Why me?" </div>
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Today, I am 42, and as he looks at me with that same serene gaze from his wheelchair, I'm more certain than ever my dad can fly.<br />
<br />
<i>*This essay was awarded Honorable Mention in the 2016 Erma Bombeck Writing Contest, an honor the author dedicates to her superhero father. </i></div>
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Mona Shandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12885290932377642286noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3803396243806804613.post-67685984100353709832016-03-08T06:12:00.000-08:002016-03-08T11:50:32.369-08:00Thoughts On Tradition At Christmas I think I was about eight years old when I first saw the musical "Fiddler on the Roof." Aside from being a classic production, it is my very first memory of a live theater experience. My dad, a big fan of the arts, had taken me on a special outing to Detroit's Fisher Theater, where I was awestruck before the show even began. Mesmerized by the the intricate tiled ceiling, the colorful murals, and the shimmering gold-plated walls, it was clear this was a place that held great things within its walls.<br />
<br />
While no doubt the storyline resonated with my immigrant father, I was probably too young at the time to grasp the underlying issues: a father struggling to maintain his religious and cultural heritage as outside influences encroach upon the family's Orthodox life. But the show was still every bit as magical as I had anticipated. I held my breath with wonder as the dancers twirled by with their swirling peasant skirts. laughed as Tevye belted out "If I Were a Rich Man," teared up during "Sunrise, Sunset." I never wanted it to end.<br />
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But when it finally did and we walked out of that colorful, melodic world, one word repeated throughout the show, the one that is even the title of the opening song, echoed in my head: "Tradition!" I don't know that I could accurately define it at that age, but I could, and certainly did hum it, sing it, and reenact it on my canopy bed stage for months afterwards.<br />
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Tradition. It's a word I alternately embraced and shunned in the years to come, particularly during the holiday season. My parents, who left their home country a few years before I was born, walked the difficult path of assimilating into this new land while holding on to what they could from their past. That meant that like so many first generation children of immigrants, I grew up straddling two very different worlds. Never was this more apparent than at Christmas.<br />
<br />
Let me be clear- it's not like my parents were unfamiliar with Christmas. Devout Orthodox Christians, each year they eagerly awaited the celebration of the Savior's birth in much the same solemn way their ancestors have done since about the middle of the first century.<br />
<br />
But Christmas in America isn't just about Jesus' birthday; it also comes with a hefty hankering for hot cocoa and Bing Crosby, tales of flying wildlife, a spiral sliced Honeybaked ham, and a jolly albeit obese man who breaks into your home bearing gifts. That part, they struggled with. And so did I.<br />
<br />
While my American friends were feasting on chocolates, gleefully singing carols, and making out their Christmas lists, we were observing the 40 day Nativity Fast, sacrificing all animal products in an attempt to temper bodily desires as well as worldly ones. Not only did we celebrate Christmas on the wrong day (January 7th according to the ancient Julian calendar), it felt like we celebrated it in the wrong way.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong- when it came to gifts, we wanted for nothing at Christmas or any other time of the year. My parents were, and continue to be, beyond generous, with presents piled higher than the tree. But the things I wanted most at the time, they simply weren't able to provide.<br />
<br />
I craved holiday songs from yesteryear, not hymns from centuries past.<br />
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I longed for heirloom ornaments passed down from generations.<br />
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I hungered for Santa-shaped cookie cutters and sugar cookie dough, not flaky phyllo pastry and pistachios.<br />
<br />
I thirsted for mugs of eggnog, even though I hated the taste.<br />
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In short, I wanted traditions we didn't have, and rejected the ones we did.<br />
<br />
Mostly, I just wanted Christmas to be over so I wouldn't feel quite so different.<br />
<br />
It's taken me decades, and the experience of raising my own family, one additional generation removed from the Motherland, to reconcile these feelings and weave them into what's become the patchwork quilt of traditions and culture I now pull close around my heart. Because now I see things differently.<br />
<br />
I see a stream of refugees fleeing their homeland, making that painful, arduous march toward a new life, and realize how incredibly brave it is to leave all you have and all you know behind.<br />
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I see hatred and fear rising all around us, and I recognize that we are called to be simultaneously stronger and gentler than the voices of intolerance and ignorance, both with ourselves and with others.<br />
<br />
I see that what makes us different is what makes us...us.<br />
<br />
And I see that our most powerful tradition arrived in a form many rejected: a humble infant, offering love and hope to all.<br />
<br />
So now I sit back and watch as my boys decorate their Egyptian parents' Christmas tree, gently lifting out the ornaments that have become heirlooms. I place my hands over my daughters' as we roll out cookies each year, both in late December and again in early January. I watch my husband in the candlelit glow of a golden sanctuary filled with icons, singing hymns of praise in a language he does not speak.<br />
<br />
I look at my family and see bits of the past and hope for the future, and I know that tradition isn't about recipes or objects or any one particular time of year.<br />
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It's about keeping the light alive.<br />
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<br />Mona Shandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12885290932377642286noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3803396243806804613.post-34034733165473108122015-12-16T08:08:00.001-08:002016-03-09T08:04:26.589-08:00Dancing Through The Pain: Thoughts on Coping With A Loved One's Illness I can't say that I've ever been a big fan of Mondays.<br />
<br />
Sure, sometimes Mondays are a bit of a relief- a respite from the craziness that more than 48 solid hours of sports events, social activities, church, family, and general togetherness can bring. And as someone who works from home, by Monday morning I desperately need everyone to vacate my "office."<br />
<br />
But like a bad airplane flight, the reentry into the work/school week is never without a little bit of turbulence. No matter how smoothly you sail through the friendly weekend skies, come Monday morning you'd better fasten your seatbelt because things are about to get bumpy.<br />
<br />
After using the jaws of life to separate child from mattress, Monday mornings will typically bring spilled milk (and the inevitable albeit useless tears), runaway permission slips, phantom homework assignments, and/or...Surprise!...3-hour conference calls that magically appear on your schedule. <br />
<br />
As if Mondays aren't difficult enough, they also happen to be the one day of the week when we have simultaneously overlapping child activities, resulting in a life-sized version of Parental Taxi Twister: Put your right hand on cross country practice at the park, your left foot on dance class across town, now just contort your entire upper body into a lovely pretzel shape as you streeeettttccchhh your left hand over to the crockpot to make sure everyone somehow gets fed. Now grab the spinner and see what homework awaits should you ever get out of traction. By the time chores and baths are done on Monday night, I'm not sure whether to laugh or cry, and I usually lack the strength to do either. Everything about the day leaves me feeling drained, constrained, and often, pained. <br />
<br />
But my daughter, on the other hand- she LOVES Mondays, and not just because she's six years old and first grade is pretty much the best thing to ever happen since...well, kindergarten.<br />
<br />
For her, school is just the appetizer to Monday's deliciousness. The main course is served at 5:30pm, when she has ballet. Every week at the appointed time, I marvel as my shy little flower is totally transformed, shedding all her normal inhibitions and putting on some kind of invisible coat of armor along with her leotard and tights. For one perfect hour, I watch her blissfully twirl and swirl across the room, and I wonder what it's like to feel so free.<br />
<br />
I wonder if my dad, whose movements are no longer his own, remembers what that's like. Do his muscles, now ravaged by disease, hold deep within them the memories of carefree walks on the beach? Do his limbs, now subject to spasms and tremors and forced into a wheelchair's submission, ache to be stretched and glide on their own?<br />
<br />
I wonder if I could twirl fast enough or leap high enough to escape my own sadness over his plight, or my guilt of not being able to make everything better.<br />
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I wonder how to shield my little girl from the sheer heft of certain situations that can stop us from even leaving the ground when we try to leap.<br />
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I watch her spin and find it hard to imagine there was ever a time I moved through life with such joyful abandon, unburdened by the weight of life. Did I once whirl fearlessly through my days, never fearing what was around the corner?<br />
<br />
Watching a parent suffer from a physically debilitating disease means learning to appreciate life in a different way. In the absence of movement, you must find the beauty and joy in stillness. It's always there, but sometimes, you can't help but wonder what it would be like to dance again.<br />
<br />
A few months ago my daughter performed in her very first ballet recital. It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon when she took to the stage, and through a miraculous combination of divine intervention and modern wheelchair transport service, her grandfather was there to see it.<br />
<br />
As the house lights went down and the spotlight came up, the music started and I felt myself truly exhale for the first time in months. For that one brief hour, there were no thoughts of hospitals, therapists, wheelchairs, or medications. No dark, scary tunnels in the mind. No pain or suffering. There was only music and dancing. Lightness and light.<br />
<br />
So now, when I start to feel myself sinking deep into a case of the Mondays, that's where I go: to a place filled with movement and freedom. A place where we soar and we leap. A place not bound by gravity or any other worldly force. A place where the dance never ends.<br />
<br />
And I know I'm not alone. As she slides her tiny feet out of her pink slippers at the end of class my little ballerina looks at me with sad, tear-filled eyes.<br />
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"Mama, I don't like it when it's time to stop dancing," she says.<br />
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Then I see a twinkle in her eyes as she leans in close and whispers in my ear.<br />
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"That's why I dance in my dreams."<br />
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<br />Mona Shandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12885290932377642286noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3803396243806804613.post-58624259787728886082015-11-24T18:07:00.002-08:002016-03-13T08:22:14.598-07:00A Letter Of Thanks To My Youngest Son's Blanket <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Dear Blankie,<br />
<br />
I'm sorry to wake you- I know you've had a rough few nights, between the whole "Monsters In The Closet" thing and that emergency 3am wash cycle (I blame both the monsters in the closet and the extra glass of lemonade at dinner), but given that it is the season for giving thanks, I just wanted to take a few minutes to let you know how very thankful I am for you.<br />
<br />
I know, some may find it strange that I'm expressing my gratitude for an inanimate, ragged bundle of cotton and thread, but it's really no exaggeration to say you are part of the family. After all, for the past several years, anywhere we go, you go, kind of like a fourth child. A very quiet, well-behaved, fourth child with a blessedly small appetite.<br />
<br />
And like most children at the bottom of the totem pole, the trickle-down parenting effect has not always been kind to you. I'm embarrassed to admit I don't even know where you came from. And I have no idea how or when you became so important to our youngest son (aka, Little Linus). But alas, here we are, the two of you intertwined in his bed in a tangle of limbs and cotton, and me watching with awe (and maybe just the tiniest bit of jealousy) at the bond you share.<br />
<br />
I just want you to know that while I might be a little sketchy on some of the details of your life, and you may feel like you're invisible at times, rest assured that I see you and I am fully aware of the role you play in all of our lives.<br />
<br />
After all, you're the first thing he looks for in the morning and the last thing he asks for before bed. You join us for meals (occasionally transforming into a napkin), accompany us on vacations (the ultimate travel pillow), and wiggle your way into family pictures across the globe (can you say photobomb?). <br />
<br />
I'll never forget your first day of preschool (nice work hiding in little man's backpack), and how encouraging you were when a certain someone needed one last nuzzle to get him through the door.<br />
<br />
Remember that time our guy woke up and declared it to be your 684th birthday? I hope you enjoyed the party, and I have to say, we should all look so good at your age.<br />
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And who could forget the Week of the Flu? You experienced such unspeakable horror during that stretch, yet you never failed to show up for duty, working day and night under brutal conditions, pausing only for trips to the wash. And trust me- as a mom, there are few chores more odious than the load of laundry which separates boy from blanket. It's up there with separating toilet from pee stains. <br />
<br />
As long as we are speaking of the unspeakable, you've been such a source of comfort at the doctor's office over the years that I really think you might want to consider a career in medicine.<br />
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So from every fiber of my being, to every fiber of your...fibers, I offer you my thanks. Because while I'd like to think that there's a little bit of me sewn into you, when you get right down to it, you are everything I strive to be.<br />
<br />
You stay soft and pliable even when I am hard.<br />
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You offer comfort when I cannot.<br />
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You take the night shift- no questions asked, and still wake up ready for the day.<br />
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You are best friend and trusted confidante, never judgmental or sharp-tongued.<br />
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You dry tears and calm fears.<br />
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One minute a cape, the next a parachute, you are endlessly entertaining and literally his soft place to land.<br />
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With the threadbare spots where you've been rubbed raw, your holes, and your many bumps and lumps, you remind me that love is never perfect, often messy, and rarely in the package we expect.<br />
<br />
Now with kindergarten right around the corner, I know you might be worried about the future and what's to come. I wish I could say that your fears aren't valid, but you and I both know what eventually happens to even the most cherished toys, stuffed animals, and lovies as the kids grow older. Remember Toy Story 3? (How could you forget? I'm pretty sure we've sobbed through it together on the couch...about a dozen times).<br />
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But Blankie, you have my word: I am not going to let that happen- there will be no box in the attic or bag at the cub for you. After all you've done for us, after all you've been for us, it's my turn to offer YOU protection and comfort. Consider this my...well, my blanket statement: when that day comes that little man no longer clings to you, I promise to pick up where he leaves off.<br />
<br />
I will keep you safe and cherish you, and on tough days (translation: the teenage years), when harsh words begin to fly I will rest my head on you and hear the faint echo of toddler belly laughs.<br />
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When attitudes harden I will rub your fluffy fleece and remember that there is a soft spot inside all of us.<br />
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And in those stinkiest of times, I will hold you close and inhale that magical, mystical, sweet-smelling scent that is the very essence of childhood.<br />
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For all the years you've warmed my child from the outside in and given him the strength and security to grow, I just want you to know that no matter what happens, this time I've got YOU covered.<br />
<br />
xoxo<br />
A grateful mom<br />
<br />
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<br />Mona Shandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12885290932377642286noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3803396243806804613.post-61462931956447953132015-09-08T07:34:00.001-07:002015-09-08T11:07:54.220-07:00Thoughts On Counting And The Syrian Crisis <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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My youngest child is obsessed with counting. He counts everything he sees: school buses in the morning, ants on the sidewalk in the afternoon sun, peas on his plate at dinner. But most of the time, he just counts for the sake of counting, a look of deep concentration on his face as he works to build sequence out of chaos. If not for his enormous mop of curly brown hair, you could surely see the neurons firing in his brain.<br />
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He doesn't want my help counting, just the occasional course correction. "Sixty-eight, Sixty-nine, sixty-ten. Sixty-ten, Mama?" he'll call out, knowing that something just isn't right about that.<br />
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"SEVENTY," I'll tell him, and then he's back on track for at least another nine numbers.<br />
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He's a typical preschooler: curious and charming, caught between equally strong desires to do it all himself and to be coddled like a baby. And as I sit and listen to the numbers pour out of him, I can't help but see another little boy who didn't get to count nearly high enough.<br />
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The photos of three-year-old Aylan Kurdi, the Syrian refugee whose body washed ashore last week, have haunted me, not just because I see my own children in him, but because I see myself.<br />
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My parents also crossed an ocean, fleeing religious persecution in their homeland, leaving family, friends, and all things familiar. While my mother, still just a newlywed, didn't hold me in her arms on that boat trip as Aylan's mom did, I have no doubt she held the very idea of her future children tightly in her heart as she left everything and everyone she knew behind.<br />
<br />
Aylan's grief-stricken father says his wife clung to her baby boy, as any mother would, but when the boat capsized, he slipped out. But the truth is, that child didn't just slip though his mother's arms- he slipped through all of ours.<br />
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We live in a world where we fiercely debate budget deficits and debt crises, we talk at great length about border security and immigration policy, and then we sit back and lob nasty comments at each other from the comfort of our computer screens. And as we do so, dead children are washing up on beaches.<br />
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The Syrian crisis has raged for four years now. Hundreds of thousands of migrants have fled by whatever means possible, some walking for days, even months, only to be turned away. An estimated 2600 people have drowned trying to cross the Mediterranean this year alone, making it the most deadly migrant crossing in the world. How many more mothers will cling to their babies on rough seas as they pack into overcrowded boats? How many more families will undertake treacherous journeys in the hopes of finding safety, only to end in tragedy? You'd think as a human race we'd understand at this point that there is a very real cost to inaction, one that leaves a blemish on all of our souls.<br />
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The Bible is pretty clear on what to do in situations like this: "When a stranger resides with you in your land, you shall not do him wrong. The stranger who resides with you shall be to you as the native among you, and you shall love him as yourself." (Leviticus 19:34). I'm not suggesting the specifics of immigration policy will be found in ancient text, but the underlying principles certainly are.<br />
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Aylan's life measured in years only numbered 1, 2, and 3. But I hope that one day we'll look back on his death and see that it was a turning point for the world in terms of compassion, empathy, and action.<br />
<br />
We can't give Aylan more numbers, but we can make his life count.<br />
<br />
<i>Click <a href="http://www.pri.org/stories/2015-09-03/5-groups-doing-important-work-help-refugees-you-may-not-have-heard" target="_blank">here</a> for more information about six organizations that are actively working to help the Syrian refugees. </i>Mona Shandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12885290932377642286noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3803396243806804613.post-63228436276015389962015-08-30T18:34:00.003-07:002015-09-06T09:58:52.696-07:00A Rock, A Mess, And A Back To School Wish While he did not inherit my hair color, eye color, or complexion, my oldest son definitely got my early morning tendencies. But while I require some silent, solo time with a cup of coffee and a 4-mile run to ease into the day, he jumps right in with a splashy cannonball, needing to immediately vocalize every thought that popped into his head overnight.<br />
<br />
In the spirit of compromise and an effort to preserve my sanity, we've made a deal that no matter what time he gets up, he has to stay in his room until 7am. You can more or less set your watch to the opening of his door, except on days where he is absolutely exhausted, in which case he has been known to snooze all the way to 7:03.<br />
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This summer we've fallen into a pretty blissful morning routine: he gets up, makes himself breakfast if I'm still exercising, and then we read some Harry Potter together on the couch. When my post-workout stink becomes unbearable, I head up to shower and he heads to the playroom to find an art project to work on until his younger siblings wake up.<br />
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Unfortunately, he also inherited my complete and total lack of any artistic ability.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Left: "Giraffe" by Mona Shand, circa 1979; Right: "Zebra" by Noah Shand, 2013</td></tr>
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But I give the kid props: he's completely undeterred by this fact, and has spent a good portion of the making crafts. He now knows how to navigate Pinterest and search for things like "Easy Construction Paper Projects" or "Things To Do With Popsicle Sticks," which are of course cross-referenced under "Stuff Moms Throw Out When Kids Are Not Looking."<br />
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One day during this penultimate summer week, it was rock painting that he settled on. I consider it a sign of my love, confidence, and deep-seeded trust in him that I left him alone downstairs with what many consider to be a weapon of mass domestic destruction: glitter glue.<br />
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20 minutes later, I came back down to find a rock covered in globs of glitter and a very proud 8-year-old. "It has a secret message written on it!" he said excitedly, as I squinted to decipher the shiny streaks. Maybe it was in cursive? Or Mandarin? Or cursive Mandarin? Not wanting to heap false praise upon the thing, I told him it was an interesting use of color.<br />
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But 5 minutes later his glee had turned to dismay; it seems in attempting to move the rock, he had smudged his work beyond repair. "IT'S RUINED! IT'S A BIG GIANT MESS!!!" he wailed. Unsure of how to respond (and trying not to burn the pancakes), I kept my mouth shut and left him to deal with his artistic crisis on his own.<br />
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A few minutes passed and he came back, even more proud than before, the smudged streaks all gone, the entire surface of the rock now shining and shimmering in the light.<br />
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"Hey mom- check it out: I turned my mess into something great!" he said, and then bolted up the stairs, leaving me with the rock.<br />
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I keep hearing about how kids today lack resilience, how they are coddled and cuddled to the point where they feel entitled to success, and are utterly unprepared for the inevitable failures that come with being human. They hashtag all day long about the struggle being real, but the fact is, too few have actually done much in the way of struggling, or reaping the benefits of that fight.<br />
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I find it terrifying.<br />
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I watched the sunlight dance across the different colors on that rock and it reminded me of so many hopes I have for my kids: that they will grow to be strong and grounded; that they may find beauty where others see none; that they will learn to shine on their own, and not look to anyone else to light them up; that they will realize that our greatest accomplishments often rise from our greatest mistakes.<br />
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And so while it may sound odd, but as my kids start this new school year I wish them success, but also failure.<br />
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I wish them happiness, but also difficulty.<br />
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I wish them luck, both good and bad. <br />
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I wish them messes that turn into something great.<br />
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<br />Mona Shandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12885290932377642286noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3803396243806804613.post-56784399413762142452015-07-21T13:07:00.000-07:002015-07-23T07:09:53.159-07:00Battling The Birthday Blues: Thoughts On Turning 42 For many people in this country, turning 21 is a REALLY big deal. For me...not so much. Because I skipped a grade, I didn't hit that milestone until the summer after I finished college, so it was a tad anticlimactic. The majority of my classmates and friends had scattered in different directions after celebrating graduation (at bars I couldn't join them at, given my age), and I was already working full-time at O'Hare airport in Chicago as a passenger service agent for Air France.<br />
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So on the big day, after making the boarding announcement for the departing flight to Paris (in English and French, bien sûr) and folding up strollers at the end of the jetway, a few of my colleagues joined me at the somewhat sketchy bar in at the far end of the international terminal for my first legal drink. Given that most of them were French, they spent most of the time criticizing the wine list and looking generally displeased. It was not terribly festive.<br />
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And that was fine with me. Birthdays, at least my own, have just never been my thing. While I love baking cakes, decorating, and generally showering my kids and other family members with birthday love, when my turn comes around I tend to suffer from an annual case of the Birthday Blues. It typically lasts about one week and symptoms include, but are not limited to, compulsive over-introspection, a distinct feeling of not having accomplished enough in life, and the overwhelming desire to bury one's head in the sand. Or a jar of Nutella.<br />
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But this year, as I feel the familiar tug toward the pantry, I'm determined to stop the Birthday Blues in their tracks. So today, the day before my 42nd birthday, I'm doing my best to reflect on all the ways this is going to be twice as good as turning 21.<br />
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I've noticed that the older we get, the more we tend to idealize youth as a time of carefree, independent hedonism. But just between us, I was a hot mess. Of course, I didn't see it that way at the time.<br />
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<b>In my 20s, I thought I was fearless. </b>I solo backpacked through Europe. Worked my way across Australia. Took jobs in states I had never even visited. Climbed to the top of the Alps, and dove to the bottom of the Red Sea. But the truth is, I was afraid of pretty much everything.<br />
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I was afraid I'd never find my calling, so I picked up the career phone every single time it rang, trying on vocations like they were a stack of jeans at the Gap.<br />
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I was afraid I'd spend my life alone and never find Mr. Right, so I clung desperately to Mr. Wrong(s).<br />
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I was afraid I'd never be worthy of the love that was right in front of me, so I made myself as unloveable as I could.<br />
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I was afraid I wasn't strong enough, so I took on every physical challenge I could find.<br />
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I was afraid I hadn't had enough fun in my life, so I had way too much fun. (OK, this is not exactly a major regret.)<br />
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I was afraid I didn't know enough, so I pretended to know it all.<br />
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I was afraid of being wrong, so I never admitted it when I was.<br />
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I was afraid I'd never have enough, so I envied and coveted what everyone else had.<br />
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I was afraid of who I was, so I tried to be someone else.<br />
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<b>In my 40s, I no longer think of myself as fearless, but I do fear less. </b><br />
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I now know that in order to find my calling, I need to do a lot less talking and much more listening. Because no matter how much you turn up the volume, you can't drown out the voice inside. More importantly, I've learned you shouldn't even try.<br />
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I've learned that you don't have to be Ms. Perfect to find Mr. Right. And in letting go of your perceived imperfections, you open yourself up to the possibility being loved by someone else- flaws and all.<br />
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I now understand the immeasurable ocean of love a parent has for their child, and that nothing they ever do or say will change that.<br />
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I now see that strength comes not just from the things we choose to do, but in how we react to the things that are out of our control. My mom battled cancer over Thanksgiving break, and returned to work without missing a day. My dad is now physically unable to run, walk, or even stand unassisted, but lives life with a full heart and no complaints.<br />
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I'm still working on having enough fun. I'll keep you posted.<br />
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At this point I think I have enough advanced degrees and certificates from the School of Life to be the first to admit that I don't know very much. In fact, my kids remind me of it on a daily basis. But I've learned that the simple act of saying "I don't know," is yet another way to release yourself from the prison of perfection-seeking.<br />
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The same goes for being wrong. At least a dozen times a day, in my side career as a child referee, I find myself telling one party to say "I'm sorry" to another. Now I understand both how difficult, and how profound those words truly are, especially when followed by, "Please forgive me."<br />
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While I admit to still ogling this person's granite countertops, or that person's seemingly laid back lifestyle, today I've (mostly) stopped aching for what others have. I've learned that God doesn't give us what we want, he gives us what we need to move on. And whether it's joy or sadness, success or failure, it's always enough.<br />
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And perhaps that's the biggest thing I've learned: that I am enough. That includes my flaws, neuroses, saggy parts, and all.<br />
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Sure, there are things I still fear, because the world never appears more dangerous than the day you bring a child into it.<br />
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I fear the cars that speed down our cul-de-sac will fail to see a toddler on a trike. I fear that rollercoasters will disconnect in midair. I fear black widow spiders hiding in bags of grapes, creepers hiding on the Internet, and the dark...side of life.<br />
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But mostly I fear not having enough time with the ones I love.<br />
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I fear not using that time wisely and loving them as deeply as I can.<br />
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I fear not fully using the gifts that I've been given- and I don't mean the kind in a box or a bag.<br />
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And so those are the fears I'll work on conquering as I turn 42.<br />
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Just you wait- by the time I hit 84, I might actually have this figured out.<br />
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<br />Mona Shandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12885290932377642286noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3803396243806804613.post-63171201291687894092015-07-12T15:41:00.000-07:002015-07-12T15:41:58.165-07:00In Defense Of Frequent Bathing For Kids If your kids are anything like mine, they spend a lot of the summer soaking wet- either from the pool, one of the many lakes we're fortunate enough to be surrounded by, the sprinklers (sorry for my use of the "s" word, Californians), the hose, or whatever water toy is on the clearance rack at <a href="http://www.target.com/" target="_blank">Target</a>.<br />
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Because of the frequency with which water meets child, it's tempting to skip, or at least reduce the frequency of, the actual bathing of children during the summer months. Many <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/news/parenting/wp/2015/02/26/why-you-should-stop-giving-your-kid-a-bath-every-night/" target="_blank">recent articles</a> and experts have weighed in on the case against frequent baths, citing the harmful effects of antibacterial products on children's skin, immune systems, and the environment.<br />
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I get it. I really do. And on top of all that, bathing kids is a lot of work. When they're infants, it's downright terrifying. Mere hours after delivering our firstborn, the nurse had us watch a (horror) movie on proper baby bathing techniques and I almost threw up. Just holding that floppy-headed mess of wriggling limbs is scary enough- now you want me to add water? And soap? Over a hard tile floor? Does the phrase "Slippery When Wet" mean nothing?<br />
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For the first few weeks of their lives, all of our kids took "baths" on a giant yellow sponge placed on top of our guest room bed...which was layered with a stack of towels...on top of the down comforter...on top of plush carpeting. It just seemed safer. As you can see, the experience was a big hit all around.<br />
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But soon, they grew to love the bath, and I grew to let my husband handle it. I realized early on that after a long day of work/home/family activity, I was better suited to washing inanimate objects like the dishes. It was my time to zone out, collect my thoughts, and enjoy that rare commodity known as silence. Meanwhile, my husband for the most part genuinely enjoyed the Category 3 hurricane that blew through our bathroom on a semi-nightly basis in a way that I never could...at least not without an awful lot of Xanax.<br />
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So given the scientific reasons for skipping baths, and the inherent dangers and difficulties of bathing children, you might find it odd that I would advocate for MORE of it, but I'm fully in favor of frequent baths for kids, particularly in the summer months.<br />
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There's something primordial and borderline magical that happens to children when they are bathed. It has less to do with removing layers of accumulated dirt and much more to do with shedding the grungier parts of the day...and of oneself. I'm guessing that's one of reasons Jesus didn't give his followers a pat down with a damp towel and a sprinkling of talcum powder. Heck, even the prison ladies of Orange Is The New Black understood the transformational, freeing power of a good soak. (Spoiler alert) When they had a shot at freedom, they didn't run for the hills- they took a dunk in the lake.<br />
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Our house is certainly not a correctional facility, but with 3 kids and a work-from-home mom all under one roof, summer is a time when emotions seem to run high: both the good and the bad. So I wait for that moment all day, when they emerge from whatever purification ritual takes place in the upstairs bathroom.<br />
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I'm not sure how it happens, but I can testify to the fact that most nights three grumpy, tired children ascend the staircase, only to reappear 30 minutes later in a miraculously kinder, gentler state. Baptized in bubbles, anointed in lotion, and clothed new in pajamas, they have somehow managed to wash the weight of the day right down the drain, their memories rinsed as clean as their fingernails. "No more tears" seems like an actual possibility- for all of us.<br />
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In the children's book <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Stellaluna-Janell-Cannon/dp/0152062874" target="_blank">Stellaluna</a></i>, a newborn baby bat is attacked by an owl and knocked out of her mother's loving embrace. Stellaluna survives but ends up living in a bird's nest, until she is finally reunited with a group of bats. As she recounts the story of her escape from the owl, another bat overhears and rushes over to sniff her fur. One whiff, and she knows- THAT is her baby: her Stellaluna.<br />
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Every mother can relate to that story, as we all remember the first time the baby was placed in our arms, and we leaned down to inhale that sweet, intoxicating, unique smell radiating off the top of his or her head. I'm convinced that spot is reactivated by water, because no matter how big my kids get, when they are freshly bathed, one whiff of their heads and I am transported back 8 years, 6 years, 4 years...or perhaps a million years in this ritual that predates all of us. <br />
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The evening bath reminds us that every day offers the opportunity to renew the promises we made as we first held those precious babies: to love them unconditionally, protect them from all attacks, and shield them from the mess of life. On some level, in bathing them, we too, are washed clean.<br />
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I know that our days of evening bathing are coming to an end. My oldest son now has more hair products than the rest of us combined, and has partially transitioned to morning showers so that he is groomed for the day ahead. My little girl is beginning to understand the concept of bathroom privacy (though not as it relates to her mother and the toilet), and their little brother bathes himself in whatever his siblings are doing. It won't be long before bathroom doors are slammed and pounded and whatever else teenagers use in lieu of actual communication.<br />
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So while it's tempting to consider some bubbles and a squirt gun a decent summer substitute for a shampoo and rinse in the tub, I'm going to hold onto these summer baths as long and as often as I can.<br />
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Because while THEY might not need them, I certainly do.Mona Shandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12885290932377642286noreply@blogger.com0