On Work

 My two lovelies, 

This week, I will finish teaching an evening class as a stand-in coach. I took the gig because a former teacher and lifelong mentor of mine needed me to take it off her hands so she could focus on penning her dissertation and finally get that hood she's been working so long and hard to earn. 

The class is simple: I teach public speaking to sweet little elementary-aged kids. They're adorable, and teaching online is not new to me, so I took the extra hour of weekly work with ease. From 5:50-6:50 pm on Thursdays, I dress up in costumes and practice public speaking with 7-year-olds. 

And while I really am doing it for the favor, I can't help but be enticed by the extra money that comes from it. So when the director asked me to continue teaching (and maybe take on a few extra assignments), I have to admit I was tempted. 

But not just for the money. There's something so satisfying to me to have someone you don't know acknowledge your work and covet your services. I used to think I was a pleaser (someone who wanted others to be pleased with me: my presence, my contribution, my work), but now I know it's something else. 

Five years ago, I might have jumped at the chance to make some extra cash. I'd maybe even claim I took on the extra role because I enjoyed it (and I do). But what 37-year-old me has finally figured out about myself is that I love to be validated for my work. My work is good. 

I'm not sure if it's just the puritanical "work for what you want" sense of pride I get out of my various roles or the southern "sweat means you're earning it" mentality, but I like to work. I have always loved having a job - having a role. 

It wasn't until we moved to Baton Rouge and I stayed home with little ole you two that I realized I'd wrapped so much of who I was into what I did. Without teaching, who was I? What was my purpose? What was my worth? And when we became a single-income family, I will admit I felt truly worthless. I can still feel my heart plummet into my stomach as I sat in our tiny apartment, boxes still unpacked, with notebooks and reference materials in my hands. Would I ever use them again? What should I do with the life I lived? And then the panic that rose from my belly as I realized I had never really been just myself - just a wife, just a mom, just me. I'd always been something else. It felt like a death or a divorce. And everything in me wanted to run backward and cling to the identity I'd built in my work. 

Sam, I see this drive in you. I see you meriting your worth in your work. And I worry because I know what it's like to modulate your own value based on income or measurable outcome.

That move broke me open in a way I know shed light into my darkest spaces. Suddenly, I had a moment to pause, to breathe, and to consider: Who am I? What do I like? What do I want? What's actually true about me?

We're living in a pandemic. Illness, death, fear: it's all around us. As the wisest among us talk about this time, the focus on this moment's fears and anxieties has snapped us sharply into the present: Who are we? What do we truly want? What's actually true about us? 

But others are driving the conversation back to productivity and deviating to the American norm of competition, of results, of work being our way to stay relevant, valuable, worthy. 

History is an honest teacher. After the horrifying bombings in Hiroshima and Nagasaki devastated the Japanese economy and decimated these two cities' populations, demands from the country's leaders were to rebuild it all: to raise skyscrapers out of the rubble and to reposition Japan in the eyes of the world. And the resilient, proud Japanese people did just that. Were we to travel to Hiroshima today, we'd see a beautiful park built over what was once ground zero. 

The surface of this comeback is shiny indeed, and employees were repaid for their sweat with loyalty, monetary compensation, and incentive packages. What was left, though, chills me to the bone. Years after the creation of a comeback plan, the average Japanese worker still suffers. In fact, the labor department had to come up with a new word for a cause of death that had not before existed in Japan: Karoshi. It literally means "death by overwork." 

In fact, studies from even as recent as 2018 say that the average Japanese employee works, on average, 80 to 100 hours in overtime a month. This is all held-over practices from that post-war era. The children and grandchildren of those impacted by trauma sought solace and eventually created a cultural norm of working oneself to death. 

I see this same mentality in today's America post (and even mid) pandemic. I see this in education. Even before the pandemic and hybrid-model teaching, studies showed that the average American teacher worked 11 hours of overtime a week, which is about 44 extra hours a month. The average today is anyone's guess. And while I truly believe the motive behind the drive to succeed is a pure one (for most who just want to support students and aren't sure how to do it, so we're constantly worried we're "leaving them behind"), what I see is a terrifying and gut-wrenching load on teachers, masked and haunched over glowing screens every single night, calling parents of students who haven't shown up to remote classes, wearing costumes and capes to make sure kids feel engaged and cared for, all while dreading state and local testing that would tell them they are, in fact, leaving some students behind. 

And I see it in you: I see you, my dear children, trying to control the uncontrollable and attempting to teach yourself math and science while doing work at home. I see this in you,  Sam, when you wake up at 6 am, in the glow of the dining room of an otherwise darkened house, completing one of six math assignments measuring your mastery of material you "learned" for the week by watching youtube videos. I see this in you, Anna, when you tell me you worry you may not "show enough growth" on your test scores to make your teacher happy. 

Let's be clear: many teachers do not have to tools to teach remotely; they have the tools to give students work remotely. And our students are equating "working" with learning, and while those two concepts are not mutually exclusive, one does have to precede the other in the continuum of self-efficacy towards mastery of skills. This isn't because your teachers aren't working hard or because they are underperforming: It's because the system was not built to support teaching this way and because they, too, are fighting a pandemic - always in their classrooms, oftentimes in their own homes, and sometimes in their own bodies. Many are, in fact, putting in innumerable hours to learn how to do just this and to bridge the connection gap that occurs because we're not all present with one another. Great work is being done, but at what cost?

Sam: learning is not producing quantifiable outcomes. And your work does not determine your worth. If it takes all of my breath, I will reinforce this truth to you. Despite what you see and how the world looks right now, your worth, your value, your dignity, your being, is not determined by your work. 

Anna: you will grow because growing is what kids do. No one can tell you that you didn't grow enough. You are nourished, you are loved, you are given learning experiences, and you will grow. Especially in a pandemic, numbers on a paper don't determine your goodness, your virtue, and your ability to thrive in this world. 

So, after my subbing stint with public speaking coaching is all over, I'll turn down that long-term position. It's freeing to know I can come home and just be with you - eat dinner, dance to silly songs, watch I Love Lucy. I can let go of work and know that when I go to bed at night, my priorities are rightly ordered and I, too, am inherently still worthy and good. 

On "Making It"

Sam,

As I sit across from you this afternoon, your eyes glued to the screen and your feverish fingers clacking intently, I can't help but wonder what will become of the novel you've started.

About an hour ago, you asked me if I thought you could "make it" as a writer. I was making protein balls (the ones your remind me aren't a replacement for cookies, no matter how much I insist they are), and you were drawing a labrador. It was a quiet moment, and as your pencil grazed the dog's ear, you stopped, looked up, and asked me.

And I played ignorant, pretending I didn't quite understand the question. "Make it?"

"Yes, like, could I get a book deal if I write a book? Do you think I could make it and get paid to write?"

I looked at my gooey hands, caked with protein powder and flax seed and almond butter. This was one of those moments I knew I needed to get right.

I could have told you, "Yes, honey. Of course you could! You can do anything you set your mind to." And then you'd feel all warm and cozy and go back to your sketching.

I could have told you, "You know, publishing a book is hard in this cold, cruel world. Print is on its way out. You're much better suited for a life in finance, don't you think?" And you would have shrugged and filed that little tidbit away for a therapy session fifteen years from now.

I could have found a middle-of-the-road approach and said, "Wow. I love what you write. You could certainly get started and see where it goes! I believe you could write a really great novel." And all those things would have been true, and are true, but it didn't sit well with me to pivot on this question.

Because in this moment, my concern was not your self-esteem or your future career or your sense of achievement or potential. At this moment, aside from trying to think of all the ways I could screw this up and say the wrong thing, I couldn't help but fixate on what was going on beneath your question.

So, instead, I answered your question with a question. "What would you like to write about?" You put down your pencil, picked up the laptop next to you and opened up a blank doc. After a while, you responded.  "I don't know."

"Well," I continued, "Great writers write. Not because they want to "make it," whatever that really even means, but because they can't help but write. You want to write? Do it. You want to make something? Make it."

And you began. So, right now, you're starting your first attempt - may be your only attempt - at a novel. It's a Dungeons and Dragons fan fic, because that's what you're in to.

And here's what we'll talk about if you choose to continue: If you want to do something, like write or draw or dance or make stuff, just start. Start doing the thing. And if people appreciate it, cool. And if they don't, that's just fine, too. In Elizabeth Gilbert's Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear, she talks about letting your art just be your art. She says, "never delude yourself into believing that you require someone else's blessing (or even their comprehension) in order to make your own creative work." 

Sam, you turn 12 next week. The stirrings of needing to be liked and accepted and validated by people outside this house have begun, and while most of me knows that's just the way these things go, there is a part of me that mourns your growing need to have someone else tell you that what you make and what you do - that who you are - is good.

Make your art. Draw your dogs or dragons or whatever else you're going to want to draw. Write your novel. Play your piano. Just go ahead and do the things you want to do.

The critics will come, eventually. They'll see what you've made and judge it. And it will feel like they're deciding whether or not the thing you made should even exist.

And yes, in so many ways, they'll get to choose whether or not you "make it." And that pressure can crush every ounce of your want to create anything ever again.

So, when you make something, and when you put it out there, and when someone gives you any kind of feedback, whether it's glittering or scathing, please remember: You didn't do it for them. You didn't start it for them or finish it for them or toil in the middle of it for them. You did it because you couldn't not do it. Because it had to be made.

So you made it.

On Maybe

My AC and Sam,


As your mother, I've uttered the two-letter-word you loathe so many times: At the store, on requests for more computer time, on pleas for a later bedtime. You've even crowned me "The Queen of No." It's a title I take on willingly. It comes with it's perks - you're not surprised when you hear the royal decree. And, of course, there are some drawbacks - you've assumed the Queen of No married the King of Yes, which means you try the royal patience at times: when "We" say no, you forget it's the royal we, and that the Queen and King rule the land together.

But "no" and "yes" are a whole lot more definitive than that word I loathe - maybe. In fact, you've decided that a maybe from me is just "waiting on a no," and a maybe from dad is a "go ask your mom so she can say no."

Maybe bothers me because it lacks a backbone. A maybe often means "I'm just afraid to say yes or no when prompted." It doesn't request more time to think. It doesn't lend the speaker to more information. It's sitting water. It stagnates. It breeds growth of a whole bunch of procrastination and stinks of passivity.

I love what Jesus says about maybe. After his sermon on the mount, he tells his disciples "Let your yes be yes and your no be no. Anything else is just evil." I used to think his rhetoric was a bit much, but as I grow older, I realize how right this dude was.

Because yes lets me move forward and so does no. Maybe is fine, sometimes, I GUESS, but often, maybe tells me I'm scared to be a truth teller.

Being an adult means saying what you mean and meaning what you say (a little Brother's Bear lyric for ya). It means being honest, right in the moment, with the person in front of you. This doesn't mean you always have to make split-second decisions.  It means being willing to say "I don't know" or "Let me think about it" or "Give me more information." ANYTHING that lends you to wisdom. 

We live in the south, where the plain truth can be a little buttery: it looks pretty stable, but put some heat on it and you'll be left with little substance. We're taught here it's better to be nice than honest, and that a disagreement is a fight. We'd rather sit in a room where the truth is stifling with us rather than uttering hard words that air the honesty out. But no one lives well like that. Not for long. 

I want us to be a family of truth-tellers.  Irish philosopher Pete Rollins says this about the truth: 

“There is a deep sense in which we are all ghost towns. We are all haunted by the memory of those we love, those with whom we feel we have unfinished business. While they may no longer be with us, a faint aroma of their presence remains, a presence that haunts us until we make our peace with them and let them go. The problem, however, is that we tend to spend a great deal of energy in attempting to avoid the truth. We construct an image of ourselves that seeks to shield us from a confrontation with our ghosts. Hence we often encounter them only late at night, in the corridors of our dreams.”


He says our ghosts can become poltergeists that haunt us forever. The ghost of truths never spoken, of feelings left unheard and promises left un-kept - they keep us up at night. They sweep across the room when our minds get quiet, their presence always looming. 

Sam, you hate when people feel awkward. You would rather say something untrue than make someone feel exposed. And your compassion for others makes this so sweet and special. But you have to be willing to say the hard things when it's necessary. You hate to say no when it might cause someone pain. 

"Mom!" you yelled as you jumped in the car after school. "I got a birthday invitation!!!" You're a new kid on campus this year, so this was a pretty big deal. Yes, there is a rule that all kids have to get an invite if they're given in class, but that wasn't the point. The point was you got one, and you beamed. 

We got home, you tore open your backpack and marched in to the fridge. If it goes on the fridge in our house, it's big business. It's a commitment. I glanced at the date, then over to your soccer schedule and said, "Sorry, bud. It's a no. You've got a soccer game that day." 

And your whole body sank. You then prepared your case: "Mom, I knew I had a soccer game. I just thought I could skip it. Because I have soccer every Saturday. And so I told my friends I'd just not go." 

"Who'd ya say yes to first?" I asked. We locked eyes and you said, "Mom, this is important, though." And I agreed.

"But who did you say 'yes' to first?" I repeated.

You sighed. "My team." You paused and then your voiced quickened, "But my friends will be so mad at me. Because I said maybe I could go. And they'll think I lied. Because I can't go."

"You 'maybe'd' early, dude," I said. And I hugged you. "Your friends will understand, because they're not in charge at their houses, either. If you want, you can say your mom is making you go to soccer instead."

You looked me in the face and replied, "No. I won't do that. I'll tell them I have soccer, and it's a commitment. And I can't forget I said yes to my team first."

It probably seems so silly now, but this is a soft, easy moment to learn this lesson. To an adult, it's simple: this is a scheduling issue. But to a 9-year-old, this is a tough moment: it's a people issue. You knew that when you went to school the Monday after the party, everyone in your class would be talking about it without you. And you'd feel brand new all over again. You knew that these first feelings of friendship were precious to you, and you were so afraid to let them slip away. In this, you had to find a way to do what was right, even though it wasn't your first choice. And you knew your "maybe" misled your new tribe.  Because in your mind, maybe meant yes.

This isn't just a 4th grade problem. It's a people problem.

We often forgo what is right for what will gain us power and influence or comfort. We shirk responsibilities and commitments the moment we're enticed by something shiny and new. But when we say yes to someone or something, our yes needs to stick (unless it's unhealthy, then we have to say no, even if it's hard and hurts).

Why are we so afraid to say the things we have to say when we need to say them? Because it's hard. Because it hurts. Because it means we have to live with a choice we've made.

But by not making choices,  our choices get made for us anyway.

When I was a teenager, a dude I was dating asked me to marry him. Can you imagine? No high school diploma, but he had our futures all planned out. We would both get jobs, an apartment and (squeal) if I wanted, I could go to junior college. Now, there's nothing wrong with all of those things, except that sounded like death to my future before it even began.

I looked at his young, beautiful face, shining with a hope he'd imagined into a certainty, and shook my 17 year old head. No. Of course no. And we broke up. Because it wasn't just a no for now, it was a no for always. And I knew it. I couldn't drag him along with the hopes a maybe can bring when I knew he was just waitin' on a no.

No is powerful. And it leaves room for a whole bunch of yeses to come. When I look at our lives together, I know my yeses were the ones I'd keep.

So, may your yes be yes. And may your no be no. And may you have the courage and wisdom to speak truth, even if your voice shakes.

On Being Hangry

AC:

If there's one thing we all know in this family, it's that we share a deep, generation-to-generation resemblance when it comes to being hangry. My grandmother, your great-grandmother, was only 4 foot 9, but when she was hungry? Oh my goodness. She turned into a 10 foot-tall monster of angry. I would watch her usually sweet disposition turn slowly sour as she neared noon without lunch. It was invariable. We'd be out shopping, usually at Garden Ridge, her favorite, and she'd start stamping her toes at idle shopping carts, tsk-tsking at babies who (probably as hangry as she) began to squirm in their carts, and it usually culminated in our checker doing a less-than-adequate and certainly less-than-timely job of ringing up her items.

Anna Claire, you and I have inherited this not-so-appealing trait. Neither of us get hungry - we don't feel hunger in our stomachs. Our blood sugar gets low and our frustration slowly mounts. The worst part? Neither of us can really identify the cause of our enmity in the moment. Sam and Dad, though, they see us coming. Your signs are pretty tell-tale: it usually involves something your brother either did (and shouldn't have) or didn't do (and certainly should have) or could possibly do to upset the delicate balance of the situation (Shouldn't he know by now that you are going to want to play the Autobot? You are not a Decepticon and you never will be!). And the tears begin to roll. It's not rational, of course, but in the moment? In the moment, you can't tell which way is up and begin drowning in your loathing. Sam, though? He merely gets up, backs away from the scene, points in your direction, and mouths: "Feed her."

And I casually mention that I've got apples or chips and salsa in the kitchen. You brood in, shoulders hunched, and begin to munch. Five minutes later, you've returned to us: our calm, pleasant little Anna. It's that easy. You were just hungry.

But if a person only met you in your state of hunger, that person would think you're a cranky, petulant little monster. That person would not want to be near you. When a person is hungry or tired, that person isn't herself. She's the most primitive version of herself. She operates out of a great need. And even if she's trying to be diplomatic or kind, that hunger drives everything.

Sometimes, it's actual hunger. If a person is hangry, feed her before you judge or criticize her. Make sure she's well-rested and safe. Then you might just get to meet the person in front of you.

But sometimes hunger is something else. It's something you can't see or name.It can't be cured with a sandwich.  Sometimes, a person is in a place, a state of life, where the hunger runs deep - so deep, in fact, she can't even name it herself. I know. I've been there. And every person who met me in this time in my life, this dark time, this time where I was searching, grappling with who I was, they never really met me - the real me. They met a version of me that was perpetually dissatisfied, generally unhappy, and searching for the source of my rage.

We'd just made a huge move to another state, I'd resigned from my position as a teacher-leader at a campus, and in one weekend, I'd left my job, my first house, all my friends and extended family, and was a stay-at-home mom in a truly foreign place. To say I was lost was an understatement. And I had no idea how much this move would change me - how much of my identity was found in my home, my job, the people I felt I'd lost.

I tried. I embraced the city, I joined mom's groups, I met some truly beautiful people. But I was devastated. More than feeling alone, I began to feel a slow, gnawing ache in my belly I'd never before experienced. I could only identify the anger, though, because anger is the easiest of all emotions to see. It was always there, under the surface. I became sarcastic and critical. I'd start projects and never finish them. I took two jobs that I quit within months.  It took about a year before I realized and was able to name my state: I was hangry. I'd spent the last 8 years of my life having an identifiable role, having responsibilities, having a place, having control. And I'd forfeited it without recognizing my deep need to be industrious and respected. I'd had a job since I was 15, and suddenly, I couldn't name what I did, who  I was, what my days were worth. And I had alienated so many people. I began, slowly, advocating for a great change in myself. I reached out to people I respected. I asked a lot of questions, did a lot of crying, and finally was able to face the deep hunger: I needed to let go of who I thought I was. I needed to accept myself without exceptions and become comfortable with an identity that wasn't tied to what I could accomplish or who thought I was important. And I realized that all along, there were people who were feeding me joy and patience and a great deal of grace. And when I began accepting these mercies, I slowly began to feel full again. It was only then I could give.

Hanger is real. It fills the house with rage. I can't imagine sitting at a table to feast while on-lookers, bleary-eyed and starving, desperately pined for a seat at the table. Darlin' if that was happening, we'd give up our seats, immediately, wouldn't we? And yet, that's what occurs all around us, every day. There are people who long to sit at a table of acceptance, equality, to feel a measure of safety and to fill their bellies until satisfied because they are human begins who deserve to be seen and known and loved. There is room at the table for all of us.

We meet people every day who are hungry. Perpetually. Their hunger could be situational or it could be generational: an ache to feel full, to feel safe, to feel home. Our job is to feed. Our job is to sit at a table and pass the plate. Our job is to dole out heaping portions of grace and generosity. And none of us are fed until we all get enough.

On Upstanding

Oh, Anna.

You're growing up so quickly. Most parents feel immense internal conflict at watching their children age: on the one hand, thrilled that they've kept their kids alive for this long and on the other pining for the diaper days.

As you approach another birthday week, I find myself amazed by your wisdom.

January 20th marked another Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. memorial holiday. As we approached the weekend, we rejoiced in having a Monday off together as a family. The cheer, however, was short-lived, as the conversation unfolded like this:

"Mommy," you began, "Mr. B says Dr. King is a hero. He worked hard to make all people live together in peace".

"Mr. B. is right, sister. Dr. King was a great man. He even went to jail and died working to change laws and help make sure all African American people have rights to live in a safe place and go to great schools."

A look of horror spreads across your face and I immediately recognize my mistake. As is my unfortunate habit, I've said too much. Again.

"Mr. B didn't' tell us he went to jail," you began to tear up. "Mr. B. lied to us. He didn't tell us Dr. King died, either." And you began to sob. You cried for two hours. You asked so many beautiful questions: How could this happen? Why did people hate Dr. King so much? Why do people need to hate each other?

And I realize this is the first time for you. You've never before seen abject vitriol, less the devious disdain from a villainous Disney character, and you don't quite know how to be. Because you go to sleep at night feeling safe and loved and unafraid.

You're so heart broken you refuse dinner. You stare at your food through tear-brimmed eyes, and I won't stop you from your rage because it is righteous and holy and good.

After we clean up, we head to the couch and you lay your head on my chest. Your body is draped on mine and it is heavy and tired with grief.

There aren't words a parent can give for a feeling like this. There are no words for the ugly. And I hold you without speaking. We stay like that for a while - silent.

Anna, every morning, when I walk you to school, I say the same goodbye: "You're a good listener and hard worker and a kind friend and I'm always already proud of you." It will get old some day (Sam already shows signs that it is wearing on him), but I'll do it every single day. Because that's the voice I want you to hear when you're wondering who you actually are in this world.

And you'll forget, as we all do, that you are these things. You'll get tired or hungry or angry at the ugly of this world and you'll forget who you always already are. I won't always be here to remind you, of course, because life is like that. But when I'm gone, and you're tired and hungry and angry at the ugly, I want you to remember these things.

You will listen to the hopes and fears of others and you will know that all people deserve life and love and home. You will work hard - whatever that means for you - to spread your precious love and joy to others who have forgotten that they, too, are all these things. And you'll offer up the gift of brave and endless friendship with your whole heart.

And sometimes, you'll suffer great losses because that's just a part of the deal.

But when hurt happens, and it will,  I want you to cry tears of holy anger and grieve with the grieving - without shame. Your heart is broken because things are broken, and we only heal when we honor the wounds within us.

And please remember, no matter what happens, I am always already proud of you.

On Marriage

My Sammy Boy:


I don't know if you'll ever remember this, but you've maintained, for several months now, your intention to be a bachelor for life. The way you see it, marriage is disgusting: the last thing you need is another female in your life.

"What good's some girl, mom?"

"Well," I pause, "You know I'm just 'some girl,' don't you?"

"Well, yeah," you roll your eyes, "but I mean some random girl who thinks I'm just gonna kiss her all the time."

"What if you like kissing one day?" I ask and you fake a gag.

Then you shudder, shrug and say,"Sorry, Mom. No wife for me."


Explaining why one person would choose to live with another through this life is strange. And it isn't logical, is it? It seems improbable that two people could maintain a healthy, functional relationship "for as long as they both shall live." What can I tell you, man? It defies logic and, in some cases, just doesn't work out.

You're at an age where some of your friends come to school and talk about weekends with Dad or Christmas with Mom this year, and the whole thing is confusing.

The truth is, your Dad and I are just two people doing the best we can to journey through this life. We're choosing to journey together, not because we promised to ten years ago, but because we chose to this morning when we woke up. We will choose it again tomorrow. In every moment, we have to make a choice - am I alone in this or are we in it together?

I know this explanation may not satisfy your scientific brain, but we got really, really lucky fourteen years ago, standing outside a party on a brisk October night. Your dad forgot his coat but didn't want to leave the sidewalk, afraid to say goodnight to me without making some kind of move.

He's alot like you, Sam. His thoughts swirl and he's slow to speak. I offered to share my coat, and the rest is history.

We've fought and cried and there have been times we both forgot to choose us.

And we've remembered again and again.

I've heard it said that marriage isn't for the weak or faint of heart. And, through the years, I've had moments of great fear.

But I've never regretted my choice. Not once.

I can't tell you what life will look like when you read this note. I'm no fortune teller. But I hope you'll see love in these lines. You'll see I have no formula for this marriage thing. And if it isn't in your cards, I won't lament. I love you for now and always, regardless. I know you'll always have love in you life, because as long as I'm living, I plan to be the "some girl" who is always there.

But if you meet someone who makes you feel lucky to choose a journey with her or him, we can share a knowing embrace and rejoice at our blessings.

On Yelling

My little baby darlings:

Right now, you know I love you, but mother of God you both yell so much. In the bathtub, at the park, at the dinner table, in the CAR, you both only have one volume and it is LOUD. You yell and scream at me, at each other, when you're angry, when you're happy, when you're breathing, you yell.

I used to think it had something to do with day care, but you both are in schools where yelling is quite frowned upon. Anna Claire, you even talk about your inside voice and using it with your friends.

I've seen both of you in action at your respective schools.

Samuel, I've watched you through your school window before picking you up early from school.

Your little school desks are in a U-shape around the classroom. You and the other 18 students in Ms. Bott's Kindergarten class all work silently on your afternoon math. You're sitting in your usual pose, with one leg under your bottom as if you're ready to jump up at a moment's notice. With one hand on your forehead and the other laboring away at fractions, your little eyebrows scrunch and you pursed lips are just that: closed. And you're so busy you've got nothing to say.

Anna Claire, through the many times I've watched you from your preschool doorway, I've never seen you silent. But quiet? Yes. You speak with your friends in a voice no louder than a whisper. You're so quiet, in fact, from the doorway I can't even hear your sweet little voice. I see you, with your friends in a semicircle, pointing at the copy of  Brown Bear, Brown Bear you've strategically placed in your lap so the other children can see the pictures as you point to the words. The teacher tells me you're the little reader in the class. You'll pick up the books, the kids will sit around you, and you'll ask them questions about the text.

So I've seen you quiet. I've seen you both - focused and attentive. You're both in your elements and you're serene.

I'm not sure what happens but from the class to the car but some transformation takes place and within five minutes, you're max volume.

It used to make me wonder if there was something wrong with me. What was I doing or not doing to make you think all this noise was necessary?

I began to think about times I yell (which is not often). I yell when I'm hurt. I yell when I'm startled. I yell when I'm excited.

I yell when I'm most alive. And so do you. And you'll learn not  to yell out of anger at one another because I'll be sure to teach you how that hurts and doesn't help. But as for the rest of your noise? I'm realizing it is all the noise of life. And you both are so fully alive right now - so full of energy you're unable to restrain yourself when you see something new or fascinating or funny or good.

And it's how you should be.

 Somewhere along the journey of life, we adults are taught to tone it down - to find life mundane. And we begin to believe people and experiences should earn our fascination, our laughter, our noise. Gaps and cracks form dividing lines between our souls, our bodies, and our minds.

All of the sudden, we must always criticize, critique, judge, and filter. We experience everything through a sophisticated lens designed to temper our responses. In some respects, this is a beneficial. If I elbow jabbed as a gut reaction every time someone offended me, you'd probably only see me in orange through a plexiglass window.

But constantly filtering all experiences through the mind? All experiences?

Here's what I'm finding: in intellectualizing all experiences, I lose. In deeply spiritual moments, in intensely physical moments, something gets lost and while I'm in my head, measuring the appropriate response, the moment passes, and I'm too distracted by my own thoughts to truly live.


So, I'm going to do my very best to let you yell - to let you run like crazy and scream your head off. And instead of stopping you (unless you're running into oncoming traffic), I'll run and scream with you. And we'll experience life together.