The Idea of America

I grew up in a patriotic culture. It was, after all, the Reagan era, the 80s, when we were the shining city on a hill, the winners of the gymnastics gold, the best of the best. We were very sure of it. 

Then I became a military spouse and felt like I epitomized patriotism when, every single night, as the national anthem was played over the neighborhood speakers located around our military-base housing, we all had to stop, and our military spouse had to salute until the song faded away from the scratchy-sounding speakers. My role was to stand still. Or at least keep our kid from running unpatriotically across the yard. Ahhhh, these were sweet and easy days. 

Later, I lived in another country and understood that basic rights I’d never considered, such as heading to vote without fear of violence happening to me, were not so basic in other parts of the globe. I loved my country even more.

I still love her. But, like others I have loved, she is breaking my heart.

The idea of America is a place where, if you dream big enough and work hard enough, you will certainly achieve financial security. 

The reality of America is that, if you are beautiful or can play a sport well enough, or make a sex tape, you can become wealthy. If you work hard, the costs of your taxes and your insurance and your kids’ college educations somehow seem to rise in a pace that leaves your paycheck breathless, and the only solution seems to be to work harder and longer and enjoy your dream less and less. 

The idea of America is a place where communities and towns gather to celebrate, circle around to mourn, to give aid to those who need it most. 

The reality of America is that many people are lonely, isolated, never seen and understood; many are outside the circle of help. 

The idea of America is a copper lady on an island, holding high her torch to welcome those fleeing certain death. 

The reality of America is a cage crowded with children who have no idea where their parents have been taken. 

The idea of America is a Main Street where small shops and tiny restaurants can flourish and thrive. 

The reality of America is a few giant conglomerates gobbling up the buildings and land and growing bigger and lustier, their greedy stomachs never satiated. 

The idea of America is a smooth, paved sidewalk where families can stroll and people can jog and wave politely at one another. 

The reality of America is that, if your skin is a bit darker than mine, you must outrun a bullet. 

The idea of America is a land where children who are unwanted can be adopted into families, where mothers who cannot or should not care for their babies are supported and helped and loved. 

The reality of America is a place where, far too often, frightened, unsupported women and girls feel they have no other option than to end a life.  They find condemnation instead of a hand to help and to hold them. 

The idea of America is a place where the elders are given their rightful place around the fire. 

The reality of America is that our elderly are mocked, hidden away, the value of their wisdom and hard-won lessons never given room to be shared. There is little space or grace for their confusion and loss. 

The idea of America is a place where our military people are rewarded for the physical and mental cost they were willing to pay. 

The reality of America is that our military people are often asked to do tasks that they later cannot reconcile with their consciences. And then they are left without the safety net of good therapy. They remain, sitting for hours in dingy waiting rooms, while their bodies and minds ache. 

The ideals we hold for our country and the reality need not be miles apart. Instead, let us cross the streets, the political aisles, the church doors, the sidewalks, to talk. To listen. To remember that we who were lucky enough to be born here are still the luckiest in the world, and that those who came here should be given the chance to join us around the table. That we can make ideas into reality. It’s what our country was made from: Ideas about liberty and equality that made a king and a world laugh. But we made those ideals happen: It took work and guts and blood and sacrifice and giving up freedom in order to gain new freedoms. 

Your ideas about America and mine might not be the same. But we won’t bring a dream into breathing and growing by harsh words, by allowing our rage to overflow into destructive actions. We must be willing to nourish her and bring her back, until ideals and reality are not so very far apart. 

Parenting in a Pandemic

These are difficult days. Some of you are homeschooling for the first time, and many of you are sure that your middle schooler is not remembering a single thing you said to him or her. If that is true, please let me, as a current teacher of 150 middle schoolers, reassure you: 

You are exactly, 100% correct. 

They are not remembering a single thing you say to them. 

Before you run down the driveway screaming (And please, don’t do that, because where in the world would you run off to now? Remember when going to Starbucks was a thing? Oh, what sweet, innocent days those were), let us virtually gather around our home-brewed coffee and share what we’ve learned in the mine-ridden fields of parenting and teaching, since we are all firmly planted in both pastures these days.

When your child reaches middle school age, it is as if he or she reverts back to toddlerhood. Remember the toddler brain? It is awash with learning and growing and changing into a new person, hour by hour. One minute, it simply cannot get enough of those delicious green beans. You’re so proud! What a healthy eater you’ve raised! The next hour, it banishes green beans to the depths of hell (aka, the floor you were just thinking about sweeping). It will ask you the same question 82 plus eleventy-four times, even if your answer is always the same. One thing. 82 plus eleventy-four times. I do not teach math, but I submit that this is some exponent too many. 

Like a toddler, the middle schooler’s brain is also awash in growing and changing and human-ing and, of course, hormones and, right now, a pretty big dose of uncertainty: “What do I believe about the pandemic? My parents say X. My grandparents say Y. My phone says (*_)*&^%. My friends expect me to be very, very sure of what I think, but I’m just trying beliefs on for size, sort of like how I’m trying showering on for size. Should I shower every day? Once every 12 days? Meh. I for sure don’t know what I believe about that one OR the amazing invention of deodorant.”

Maybe you, a parental person, forgot that you didn’t learn this in Honors Biology Class, but the teenager’s brain is divided into four quadrants: The Gaming (or other Hobby) Quadrant, The Friend (or Social Media) Quadrant, The Things I Am Figuring Out Quadrant (do I like church, do I care about social justice, how do I feel about higher education and what political party am I) Quadrant, and the Sex Quadrant. At some random times during the day, the last quadrant takes over 97% of the brain and swallows the other quadrants whole. Just stand back. Walk away. Jesus, take hold of the wheel. And the internet filters. 

As a parent, I have learned that the best way to guide a teenager in the Things I Am Figuring Out Quadrant is simply this: Summon up your most Oscar-worthy acting abilities and Do. Not. React. 

Teenager: “I don’t believe God exists.” 

You: “Hmmmm.” Keep sauteing whatever you were sauteing. 

Teenager: “I am NEVER having kids. Kid are stupid.”

You: “Hmmmm.” Keep driving wherever you were driving. Probably to the grocery store. To replace the party-sized bag of tortilla chips you bought yesterday. Whatever. 

Teenager: “I think jobs are dumb. I’m going to backpack across South America by myself and learn about the world that way.”

You: “Huhhhhh.” Don’t even think about saying what you were thinking about. They will eventually discover that things like gas and food and shoes cost actual cash money.

Teenager: “I think (fill in the blank with whatever politician you please) is who I’d vote for for president.”

You: “Huh hh hhh.” Just keep swimming. This one might be more difficult. You can do it! Channel your inner Meryl Streep! 

It’s ok if your insides are screaming, “WHAT IN THE ACTUAL *(&^%! ARE YOU THINKING WITH YOUR VAAAAAAST LIFE EXPERIENCE? ARE WE EVEN GETTING ANYTHING ACROSS TO YOU? HAVE WE UTTERLY AND COMPLETELY FAILED?” Outwardly, you remain Mother Teresa. Maria von Trapp. Mary the Blessed Mother. Hallelujah and Amen. 

Then, and only then, once you have successfully non-reacted, and perhaps you are gathering around the dinner that you provided with your non-backpacking life, or riding in the car filled with gas paid for by your dumb ideas about jobs and compensation for them, is the time to ask gentle follow-up questions: 

“Sooooo, can you hand me those napkins and how did you reach this decision?”

“That looks like a cool game and hey, what articles were you reading about (insert name of politician here)? Can you send me the link? I’d like to learn more.”

“This pizza isn’t bad, and oh, could I share something fascinating I just read/watched/listened to about XYZ?”

In my house, sometimes (ok, many times), I missed the all-important step one, and I overreacted. I do come from a long line of over-reactors, after all.* But the good news is this: I apologized, and I circled back, and I listened with my Resting Non-Reactive Face, and then I asked the questions. And I discovered that, above all else, teenagers are simply trying on identities like shoes: “How do I feel about this one? Is it comfortable? Is it ‘me’? Do I feel good this way?” They need to practice articulating how they feel, and they are going to be clumsy and awkward about 9/10 of the time. But better they practice it with us, a soft place to land. And when they are practicing, and we are non-reacting, there’s one more mantra to remember: 

They are not mini me. They are not mini you. They are themselves, and we have approximately .000000000000001% control over the people they become. That doesn’t mean that we don’t pour out our own thoughts and feels and dreams and beliefs for the short time that they are in our lives. We do, certainly, but we also learn to listen more than we lecture, and we nurture the relationship more than we defend our ideals. 

Because, in the end, I want to have kids who feel welcomed and accepted and loved around my table, kids who know that they always have a seat there. I want kids who have wrestled with the things and possess the deep soul knowledge that what they believe is theirs, that they have fought it through. I want to be a model of a parent who is willing to think and consider and rethink and reconsider, a parent who does not value dogma above daughters and sons. 

So hang in there, parents of middle schoolers. The good times are coming. As are the showers. Well, one can hope. 

(*to paraphrase my mom’s favorite quote from Father of the Bride)

Here's to the woman

Here’s to the woman who doesn’t want to be a mom, who feels she has to explain that decision to people who shouldn’t ask, but who really longs to be a spiritual mother to the kids she knows. She’s not filled with desire to have a child and is tired of trying to justify herself to others.

Here’s to the mom who isn’t yet a mom, who wants to be one so achingly much, who dreads today because it reminds her of all the unfulfilled hopes of her heart.

Here’s to the mom whose kids aren’t at home anymore, and she wonders if they’ll remember to call. She’s pretending it doesn’t matter, but her whole heart hangs on the joy of hearing their voices.

Here’s to the mom who has one or two or more babies missing from her arms today. There’s the deep pain of knowing she won’t get to be their mommy today, receive their kisses and cards and love.

Here’s to the mom whose teenager is frustrated and she doesn’t know why, and she gets the side-hug and the less-than-heartfelt, mumbled greeting. And she remembers him as a little baby who wouldn’t leave her side, and she’ll take that mumbled greeting, because her days with him are short.

Here’s to the mom who is sick and in pain and beats herself up for not being the mother she thinks she ought to be. She worries that those she loves wish she could be more, too. And she’s just tired of hurting and of missing out on the celebrations and daily events that must happen without her.

Here’s to the mom who wants to push rewind on her mothering and do it better: who wishes she’d shown more grace, let more things go, spent more time with her babies.

Here’s to the mom who misses her own mama…who cries today because she can’t call her mother and tell her she loves her.

Let’s all be so tender with each other today. Let’s love those who are our Physical Mothers and our Spiritual Mothers. Let’s be kind. Let’s honor one another for the roles we play in each other’s lives and families, the beautiful intertwining of it all, considering with thankfulness how lucky we are.  We get to share all of the wisdom and love that all of these women possess, and our kids are immeasurably better for it.

Happy Mother’s Day.