The Box: A Story About The Stories We Tell Ourselves

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.

This is also a story about the stories we tell ourselves. The boxes we put ourselves into. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Mostly, I felt lost. Confused. Out of sorts. Who was I?

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.

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.

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.

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!

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?

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.

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.

You can imagine how well that worked out.

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.

Mostly, I felt lost. Confused. Out of sorts. Who was I?

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.

Back then as a child, and once again a grownup, I felt lost. Confused. Out of sorts. Who was I?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

It said, Kirkland Signature.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"You did a beautiful job," I congratulated her. "It's perfect."

"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."

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.

"It's not perfect." I told myself. "But it's my box, and I love it."

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.

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:

I'm someone who is learning to think outside the box.

He Put on a Hat and Everything Changed

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.

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.

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."

"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!"

He went into the mudroom and put on a sweatshirt, gloves, a knit hat with tassels, and at least five years.

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.

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.

I marveled at the newly developed muscles rippling under his skin as he laced up his shoes.

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.

A man?

I watched him without words, like you watch your favorite movie, my brain attempting to binge on the vision in front of me.

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.

But what kind of mother would I be if I sent my son out in the cold without his hat?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

When it was time for us to leave I gathered up the kids, their shoes, coats and other assorted winter gear.

"Put your hats and mittens on- it's really cold out," I warned them.

"I didn't bring a hat, Mom," my oldest confessed.

"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.

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.

Have Yourself A Poopy Little Christmas: Finding Light In A Time Of Darkness

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

"Mom, what's a manger?" he called out.

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).

"Umm...it's that thing in your hands...you know, the place where Mary laid baby Jesus after he was born?"

"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.

"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.

He considered this thoughtfully for a second and then his face lit up with excitement.

"So all these animals were there?" he gestured to the plastic menagerie.

"Yes..."

"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..."

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.

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.

Maybe that's why I started wondering- WAS there poop when Jesus was born?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?"

After the requisite 10 minutes of laughing because MOM SAID POOP, he settled down. "Yeah..."

"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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Angel: Seeing The World Through A Child's Eyes

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.

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.

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?

Unless they are and you just don't see them.

Fortunately, someone in my world does.

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.

"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.

"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.

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.

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.

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!"

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.

"Oh, you mean the Christmas angel!" I said. "I didn't see her because the lights aren't on this time of year."

"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. "

DUH.

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?

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.

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.

Light and dark.

Angels and demons.

Between the two of us, I think it will work out just fine.

She'll be my angel and I'll be hers.

The Orange Flowers On The Hill: Finding Strength In Unusual Places

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.

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.

But I do remember the first time I saw the orange flowers on the hill.

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.

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."

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

In my mind, they will forever be known as "Hope Blossoms."

A Letter Of Thanks To My Youngest Son's Blanket

Dear Blankie,

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?).

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

You stay soft and pliable even when I am hard.

You offer comfort when I cannot.

You take the night shift- no questions asked, and still wake up ready for the day.

You are best friend and trusted confidante, never judgmental or sharp-tongued.

You dry tears and calm fears.

One minute a cape, the next a parachute, you are endlessly entertaining and literally his soft place to land.

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.

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).

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.

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.

When attitudes harden I will rub your fluffy fleece and remember that there is a soft spot inside all of us.

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.

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.

xoxo
A grateful mom

Thoughts On Counting And The Syrian Crisis

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.

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.

"SEVENTY," I'll tell him, and then he's back on track for at least another nine numbers.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

We can't give Aylan more numbers, but we can make his life count.

Click here for more information about six organizations that are actively working to help the Syrian refugees. 

In 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 Target.

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 recent articles 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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

In the children's book Stellaluna, 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Because while THEY might not need them, I certainly do.

Spring Cleaning My Identity and My Closet

I'm not a big fan of Spring cleaning, or any other cleaning for that matter. With 3 rapidly growing children, I already feel like I spend half my life changing out closets, digging through giant bins of hand-me-downs, and generally working to keep us from appearing on an episode of Hoarders: Elementary School Edition. I don't need a special season devoted to this onerous task.

But this year the urge to purge my OWN things has been strong. As a result of what we will kindly refer to as my many life transitions, my walk-in closet now suffers from multiple personality disorder. Suits and blouses that have not seen daylight in 5 years hang dejectedly on one side, opposite a row of flowered sun dresses still holding a grudge that I moved them to Michigan from Hawaii's sunny shores, with the 2 pairs of jeans I wear on a rotating basis and all my workout gear hanging out somewhere in between. 

In my attempt to pare down the pairs of shoes and everything else crammed in there, I came across this skirt, and the gears which guide my normally instantaneous "Keep/Donate/Trash" decision came to a grinding halt. 

I bought that skirt during one of my last child-free moments. 41.5 weeks pregnant with a baby who refused to come out, I had just gone in for yet another check-up, yet another hour of being hooked up to monitors, and yet another day of being told "Looks like Baby is just being a little bit stubborn!" 

I remember not knowing whether to feel upset or overjoyed. Wasn't I supposed to be counting the minutes until I could hold that precious baby in my arms? I was, for sure. Most of the time. Except for when I was mourning the impending loss of my previous life. Was that normal? I didn't know, and I was afraid to ask, so I did the only logical thing: I went shopping. 

At the time, my OB-GYN's office was conveniently located in a bustling downtown area. I dragged my ginormous belly into a chic shop and waddled over to what I vaguely recalled my pre-pregnancy size to be. And there it was: the Mom Skirt. Comfortable yet stylish, slimming yet forgiving, it seemed to be calling my name. Chalk it up to the hormones, but somehow I thought this skirt would be the answer to all my problems. I envisioned effortlessly slipping into motherhood as easily as I could tug on that elastic waist. I pictured myself frolicking through fields of flowers with my future children in tow, Sound of Music style, my skirt twirling in the breeze.

So I bought it, and I packed it delicately in my hospital bag, right next to the gender-neutral Coming Home outfit I'd purchased for Baby. The one he peed on as we got ready to come home. He peed on my skirt, too.

Upon entering the house, I ripped off the skirt and searched my drawers in vain for something that would fit. But everything I owned was either too small, too big, too dry clean only, and just generally too non-Mom. As my new baby wailed in the background, I felt embarrassed at how naive I had been to think all I needed was a black skirt to pull this off. Being a mom would require more than a wardrobe- where was my script? My character? My motivation?

Late that night, I did my first child-related load of laundry, and I stuffed the black skirt and all the other garments outfits now laced with some form of DNA in the wash. As the machine filled with water, my eyes overflowed with tears.

I cried because I truly was so happy to have been granted this miracle, this blessing from God. I cried because the weight of that responsibility felt like it just might crush me. I cried for what I already knew and for the great tidal wave of the unknown I feared could pull me under at any moment. I cried because this was where I knew I belonged, and yet part of me wanted nothing more than to run away.

And as I watched that rumpled, dirty black skirt go around and around, I cried because I wanted more than anything to go back to the morning before he was born, back to when the skirt and my role in the show called Motherhood were both still a clean slate. Back to when hope and joy were still packed neatly in my hospital bag and things weren't quite so messy.

I held my sweet baby boy close that first night, and prayed for strength, for wisdom, and for peace. And by the grace of God, as the sun came up on us both it all felt a bit more manageable. I tucked the skirt, and many of my feelings, into the back of the closet and did my best to figure out how, and where, I fit into this new life.

Though I never really cared for its frumpy, neither-here-nor-there length, or its lack of originality, over the years I've pulled that black skirt out and have worn it on more occasions than I'd like to admit, including two more trips home from the hospital (as I said: elastic waistband). Every time I see it, it brings me right back to the moment I bought it, and the first time I wore it. Expectations, reality, and redemption all sewn into one garment. And now, I think it's time for it to go.

I wish I could say I was one of those women who simply slipped right into motherhood, but for me, it took some time to find my own style. Today, I'm the proud mom of three amazing children but I don't divide my life into "before" and "after" kids. It all combines to make me who I am. Motherhood still fills me with the same sense of awe, joy, and fear that it did that first night, and I embrace it. It's not a role I'm playing, and I don't need a costume. It's already stitched in the fabric of my soul.

Confessions of a Non-Shopaholic At Christmas

If there is a shopper's gene, I was not born with it. In fact, I'd put shopping right up there with a root canal on my list of preferred ways to spend an afternoon. But at least with the root canal, you get some sweet drugs to take the edge off.

Like those who suffer from seasonal allergies, my shopping aversion is particularly pronounced this time of year, especially when it comes to the chamber of horrors known as The Mall. Between the parking lot where SUVs (often driven by women in workout gear who apparently save their precious steps for CrossFit or Zumba class) circle like hungry sharks for the closest spot, the operating room strength lights, and the sickly sweet smell of the Cinnabon stand mixed with the awful stench piped in and out of Abercrombie and Fitch, the mall is one of the circles of Hell in my book.

So it may seem odd that one of my favorite memories of Christmases past involves shopping... with my dad, no less, the man from whom I almost certainly inherited my anti-shopping tendencies.

While not a shopper, my dad was always what you might call a browser. When he and my mom first arrived in this country in the late 60s and lived in downtown Detroit, they often enjoyed taking in the sights of the stately J.L Hudson's flagship department store, admiring the holiday decor and the elegant mannequins in the window. Eventually, they moved to a boutique-y suburb where they pushed my brother in a stroller down quaint city streets. I don't think Dad ever actually bought much- but he browsed with interest.

By the time I came around, we lived in a neighborhood with no stores to speak of. With two parents with very demanding careers and two kids with busy lives, holiday shopping was not exactly a top priority. But every year, as the holiday grew near (really near, like Dec. 23), my dad would put his game face on and SHOP. And I would get to go with him.

Because he was a man on a mission, there was only one store we'd hit.  It was a place filled with gadgets and gizmos galore. A place where technology and imagination came together on every shelf. A place that felt like it contained the Gifts of Christmas Future... a place called The Sharper Image.

Once inside, I'd happily sink into a massage chair with a pair of 3D goggles while a robotic butler dog scooted across the floor in front of me, deftly carrying a sonic toothbrush and an ionic jewelry cleaner on his tray. Meanwhile, my dad quickly but methodically picked out gifts for those on his list: stress-relieving microwavable socks for my hard-working, tired-footed mom. A shower radio for my music-loving brother. And don't forget the talking keychain that spoke phrases in 4 different languages for his travel-obsessed daughter...the one he thought I didn't see him sneak to the checkout.

It was never a big production- we were in and out of the store in under an hour, and back home without any fanfare. On Christmas Day, we'd laugh as we'd open his seemingly random (but actually very carefully selected) items. Recognizing his lack of shopping expertise, the gifts were all the sweeter. I never thought much of it at the time, and I honestly haven't thought about it in years, until a certain catalog arrived in the mail a few weeks back.

Flipping through the pages, I was struck by how much has changed over the years (for instance, why is Heidi Klum on the cover- even she looks like she doesn't know what the heck she's doing there?), and how much still remains the same (A soothing heated gel eye mask...for your dog! A lighted salt and pepper grinder, for your loved ones who face dimly lit seasoning emergencies!).

And that is true in my own life as well. My dad no longer shops at The Sharper Image, or anywhere else at Christmas. In fact, now confined to a wheelchair, he's no longer able to do many of the things he once did. But here's what will never change- at Christmas and throughout the year, I will always try to follow my dad's example with what I consider to be his unspoken rules of Christmas shopping:

1) No matter how busy you are, there is always time to think of others.

2) Sometimes the smallest gestures mean the most.

3) Don't apologize for what you can't do: when love is given quietly and simply, it says everything.

I'd like to think that deep down I always knew all that to be true.

Maybe now, I just have... a sharper image.

Picking Up The Pieces When Life Feels Like A Game of Dominoes

It's Celebration Season at our house: 5 weeks containing 4 birthdays, 1 anniversary, dozens of cupcakes, gallons of frosting, oodles of cheer, and presents everywhere you look. By the end of it all, we are stumbling around in a sugar-induced fugue state, reflexively singing the birthday song with every flick of the light switch, unsure of who or what we are celebrating, salivating like Pavlov's dogs each time the oven reaches 350 degrees. The adults in the house have raw fingers from the wrapping paper rolls, the recycling bin runneth over, and the toys.... oh, the toys.

There are toys that beep and toys that buzz. Toys that glitter and toys that shine. Learning toys, cuddly toys, active toys, e-toys, gender neutral toys, dress-up toys. Toys from friends, and toys from family. Toys made in China and toys made in...other parts of China.

And in order to make room for the semi-annual influx of new toys, we set aside a few hours to go through the current stash of toys for those no longer working and no longer wanted. And in addition to those our birthday tradition states that each child is required to find the same number of toys as his/her age to give away.

In the midst of this process, we typically uncover some treasures of birthdays/Christmases past buried in the bins or relegated to the far reaches of the toy chest (aka The Island of Banned Toys):

"Ooh, Mommy! Remember this dollie that really pees and poops when you feed her??? I wonder how she got stuffed in the bottom of this box!"

"Mom- remember how you said you'd help me put together this 4000 piece 3-D light-up, musical mosaic tile puzzle?"

"FINGERPAINT!!!!!!"

But occasionally, as my just turned five-year-old daughter and I discovered on a rainy day while eating someone's leftover birthday cake, there are some pleasant surprises.

That was the day she came across a box of dominoes. Good, old fashioned, low-tech, dominoes. I'm not sure whose gift it once was, but the unassuming box hadn't even been opened. And so we happily passed the afternoon together, carefully constructing squiggly lines all across the playroom floor, until that inevitable moment when one slip of her hand set off the familiar clink-clink-clink-clink chain reaction and one by one, end-to-end, they all tumbled over.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!! She wailed. "They can't FALL DOWN!!!! Everything is RUINED!!!!!!!!"

"But it isn't," I assured her with a comforting hug as we surveyed the damage. "Just look: nothing is ruined, and all the pieces are still there. It's different, but it's still beautiful."

She walked away, turning her attention to another one of the Ghosts of Birthdays Past, and I was left holding one lone domino in my hand, trying to convince myself that what I told her really was true.

Because lately I've found myself feeling like I'm trying to hold everything up and it's all falling down around me. Piece by piece, one little clink at a time. Because when a loved one is ill, and when you can't fix it, it's hard to make any of the pieces stand up. It's hard to enjoy the the things you once loved when you know that something...or someone... is missing.

But something about that domino in my hand helped me realize that there is beauty in change, even the most difficult kind. There is peace to be found in shared memories, and there is joy in passing them on.

So I put that domino in my pocket, scooped up my little girl and took her over to the couch. I pulled out a weathered, dog-eared copy of a much beloved book my dad must have read to me at least 200 times. I showed her where he'd helped me write my name in the inside cover, a crooked, five-year-old's scrawl using 3 lower case letters and one upper case.

We got out a crayon, and right below it, almost close enough to touch, I helped her write her own.

It was a lot of sweet and a little bit sad all at once: the spot where past and present stood side-by-side. End-to-end.

And so it seems that's the way life will be. A lot of sweet and little bit sad all at once.

So instead of dwelling on what isn't, and on what has been lost, I will do my best to focus on what still is, and what will never end.

And I will take my memories in one hand and my future in the other and place them next to each other.

There they will stand together, almost touching, end-to-end.

And if it starts to feel like everything is falling down, I'll remember: all the pieces are still there.

It may be different, but it's still beautiful.