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.

On Making Plans

Samuel:

At six, you're a planner. You like to know, as soon as you awake, where we're going, what time, with whom, and what's next. That's your usual question - "What's next, mom?" And you ask many times before we even begin transitioning from one activity to another.

So, since it's summertime, I'm your live-in travel agency. Our mornings (I'm sure you won't remember), look a bit like this:


"Sam, come eat your oatmeal."

And you run for this breakfast, every time, because by 6:00 in the morning, you're starving again. You hop up onto the barstool and stir your peanut butter, honey, and oats yourself (you like to make sure I've put in the correct amount, lest we have an unacceptable peanut butter and honey to oat ratio).

First spoonful still in your mouth, you ask, "What are we doing today?"

"Well," I sigh (because I'm not even through my first cup of coffee yet), "I thought we'd go to the park, then turn those library books back in, and head back home to start our chores."

You mull over the day's agenda in your brain and ask, "Why not go to the library first?"

"I just figured we'd do the park first so we can hang out there a little before it gets too hot."

"But then what?"

"Well, after our chores and your sister's rest (and she, now next to you, reminds me that she no longer, in fact, requires "rests") we'll go to the dog house and walk some dogs."

"Then what?"

"Then, we'll go get dad and we'll come home."

"Then what?"

"Then we'll hop on our dinosaurs, ride them down the highway and feed them bananas." And I smile because you smirk in that "you're an idiot/you know what I mean" way.

"Mom, I love you. You're ridiculous."

And Anna Claire calls me "reedikleeus" and you both finish your breakfast.

Sam, you're a planner. You are. You want to know - need to know what will happen. Planning gives you great comfort; outlining lends you stability. You're constantly aware  of time, speed limits, street signs. These directions are safe for you.


So, when you ask me really rigid questions and I don't have the answers for you, you struggle. Once, you asked me, "Is it okay if I'm not an astronomer when I grow up?" And I answered, "Is it okay with you if you're not an astronomer when you grow up?" And you said "yes," and I said "yes," and we moved on.

But here's a truth with which I've been struggling: I don't have plans for your life.

Why? Because you are six. You are not twenty-five. I don't know you at twenty-five, so I can't make plans for that person, because that person doesn't exist. Only you exist. You're just six-year-old you, just as you are, just right now.

Twenty-five year old you is an illusion. And to focus on or plan for an illusion is madness. It robs us of this present moment, and it's just another subversive means of control.


Many parents would disagree. They'd say it's natural and healthy and even prudent to jump at any sign of giftedness or interest, fuel into it, and speed off in one direction. And I don't have any problem joining a swim team or taking some painting classes, if that's what six-year-old you wants. But I won't talk about how swimming early means one day you can get a college scholarship or how if you keep up this painting, you can get into a special high school program for artists.

And maybe I should. Maybe being "future-minded" is helpful. But I can't do it. Because I'm afraid what that really does is tell you we do what we love now so we can benefit from it later. That following our passions really matter a whole lot less than making investments for a future we can't see because that will keep us safe. And really, it serves only to make me feel better. See, because if I can put a  piano under your fingers, an instructor by your side, and push push push push push, maybe I can convince the artist in you to commit to the life I choose for you. And, as you know, mommy knows best.

But you know me and you know I really don't know best. I'm just feeling this life thing out for myself. I can't possibly do that well and make future plans for you.  I just won't do it. Because if, at twelve, you realize you actually hate all those years you spent sighing through piano lessons, and you decide to just give it up, you'll certainly worry about what mom thinks. And you'll begin to navigate your life either out of a fear you're a disappointment to your mother or with a sense of guilt for crafting your own life.

Here's the truth: you can't disappoint me because I haven't appointed you to anything. Fear of disappointing me should never be your motivator, at six or thirty-six.

So you do what you love at six. Instead of wondering if it'll come to something someday, honor what it is today. And look around: because we're all honoring this present moment with you. We're not looking forward to what happiness it might one day bring. We're simply loving you in this moment. Nothing more, nothing less.

Here's my piece of advice (and I didn't make it up): in all you do, in all the choices you make, act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly. Start from love. Move with love. The ends and the means should look like mercy, justice, and love. Begin there, and you won't go wrong.

One day, you may be grown up. And you'll have a chance to make some really beautiful choices.  Right now, I honor the future you that may be by loving you right now, just as you are, without worrying about any plans I could make for you.

When you were in my belly, I did my best to picture your little face. I I tried to envision your frame, your little body sitting in my lap, arms around mine. I wondered at your little mind: what you might think or say or love.

And even in my very best attempts to craft you out of my own imagination, I fell so short of the miracle you've been.

So I won't lay plans for you. I won't choose for you or push you in one direction or the other. And if there is a you who reads this at 25, all I'll desire is that you still call your old mother once in a while and let her marvel at your current adventure.

On Shame

Anna Claire:

You're 3 now, which means you have no shame. Really. None. And I'm so glad. But you are experiencing the first pangs of guilt. You haven't expressed it really, but I can tell. It's a pouty look here, a hanging head there, and a retreat into your room when you're admonished. 

Only Sunday night, you hit me. On purpose. It went a little like this:

It was bed time and Anna Claire, you wanted your bear.  What you really wanted was to sleep, but you didn't know that, I guess. But you thought you wanted your bear, the brown and blue one. Only when I brought the brown and blue one you raged and fought just kept screaming, "That's not right! That's not right!" 

"Anna Claire, I'm not crazy. This is brown and blue and you only have one brown and blue bear."

"I want the old one! Not the new one!" You bellowed and furrowed your brow.

I sighed. "Anna, I love you. Here's your bear. Goodnight." And I bent down,  kissed you on your scrunched forehead and as I got up to walk away you slapped me. Hard. It made a sound and left a mark across my arm. Stunned, I stammered, "A-anna, you hit me." 

You couldn't believe it. It's as if you flipped your lid (as Sam likes to say) and you lost control of your extremities. You didn't look sorry, but your eyes looked to your chin and you sighed. 

"Anna, what do we do with the mad that we feel?" It's a question I stole from good old Mr. Rogers. 

You didn't look up and you didn't answer. 

So, I asked again. 

And you replied as in rote and in a monotone voice,  "We take a deep breath and we talk about it."

I breathed a deep mommy breath. The kind that comes at the end of a hard day when you just don't want to mommy one more minute. I wanted to tell you to say you were sorry and end the whole thing.

But we'd spent four uninterrupted days together and I realized you were as tired of me as I was just plain tired. And telling a 3 year old to say sorry is just as moot as telling her to say thank you and pretend it is real gratitude. To you, being made to say sorry is like telling you those words just fix it all. And it doesn't. So, I refrained. Instead, I  just said this:

"Anna. You hit mommy. And you want your bear. And I need more help finding your bear. So, tell me what your bear looks like."

"My bear is old. And it has darker blue. And it is scrunchy. And it is big, see?" And you held up your hands to show me exactly what size the right bear was. 

"Okay. I can find that bear." 

So, I went into the playroom and dug through the stuffed animal tub and found your old, dark blue and brown bear that was bigger than the last bear, the wrong bear. 

And I brought it to you. Only you didn't smile. You said "Thank you." You snuggled your right bear and threw the other bear on the floor. 

"Goodnight. I love you." I turned off the light and began walking out the door.

"Mommy?" You whispered.

"Yes, Ann?"

"I'm sorry I am mean." You wouldn't look at me.

"Ann. You're not mean. You made a sad choice. And thank you for saying sorry. It makes my heart happy." I came and gave you a huge hug. 

And we said our goodnights and you went to sleep. 

Ann, there is a difference between being mean and doing something mean. It's the difference between shame and guilt. 

Shame says "I'm wrong." Guilt says "I feel terrible about something I did." And I'm no expert, but Brene Brown is. In  I Thought It Was Just Me: Women Reclaiming Power and Courage in a Culture of Shame, she explains “Shame corrodes the very part of us that believes we are capable of change.” 


You weren't and you aren't mean, Anna. You just did something unkind, which just makes you human. And I refused then and refuse now to let you begin telling yourself that you are anything less than good. 

Shame is the lie we tell ourselves. That lie that says "I cannot grow. I cannot decide differently. This is just who I am." When we choose to be any less than our potential, we live in a state of shame. And we allow shame to choose our paths for us. 
Your guilt made you feel regret. And even at 3 you attempted to spare yourself the obligation of saying "I was wrong and I'm sorry." 

Because it's a whole heck of a lot easier to just  say "This is who I am" than to say "This is not who I am and I can do better." The latter obligates use to choose change the next time. It obligates us to at least remember our past indecencies and make that choice to do what is right. Even if we don't choose it, we're obligated to relive our iniquities. Shame tells us to own the trait. This leaves no room for growth, no room for change. 

Since it happens at 3 and 13 and 30 and so on, I know it is going to happen to you and to me again and again. 

So, here's my hope for you - May you always wrestle with your guilt. Allow it to challenge you. Allow it to show you ways to love better, to live more in harmony with others and within yourself. 

And anytime that shame sneaks in, may you find a way to reach down deep and find your voice. The one that says "I am good." The one that tells you "This is not who I am." 

And may you have the courage to change. 

On Lying

Samuel:

Yesterday, you asked me a really important question. You said, "Mom, I should always tell the truth, right?"

And I knew you were about to give me skinny on the truth campaign at your school. First, they taught you about manners, then about bullying, and now they were tackling honesty. Which is a lovely pursuit. I'm glad you're hearing these messages at school. And I wanted to talk to you about tact and subtlety and opinion. I even thought about delving into the whole "what is truth?" existential conversation, but you're six, so I spared you (or more likely, myself) the confusion.

Instead, I did what Jesus did (a rarity for me). I told a story. And it sounded a bit like this:

Once upon a time, there was a boy and he loved his mother very much (transparent, much?). His mother was very pregnant with an adorable little sister just waiting to meet her smart big brother.

Now, this very smart little boy had a very smart daddy, who also loved the boy's mother and little sister so much. The sweet family made plans to go to a really lovely party.

Now, the father and little boy were dressed in the very nicest party clothes and they were waiting for the mother to come out of the room, ready to go.

Only the mother wasn't coming out. So the father went into the bedroom and asked the mother what was taking so long. The mother was crying. Her belly was so big and her clothes were all so small, the only party dress the mother had looked more like a circus tent. So the mother asked what all expectant mothers eventually ask.  She stared her teary eyes in the mirror past her huge belly and asked the father, "Do I look fat in this?"

I didn't finish this obviously true story. Instead, Sam, I asked you, "What should the father say?"

"I don't think he should call the mom fat." You're a smart boy.

"Well, isn't she fat, though?" I questioned.
"Yeah, but she has a baby." You responded.
"So do you think the father lied?" I pushed a bit further.
"Yeah, probably."
"And is lying wrong?" I was really pressing you at this point.

You sighed and looked sideways at me.
Then you said something I can't forget.

"If the father thinks she is fat, he should say so. But the father doesn't think she is fat, he thinks she is carrying a big baby in her belly. And maybe the baby is fat."


We laughed and didn't talk about it anymore.

In The Adventures of Tom Sawyer Tom tells what the Judge calls a Noble Lie. He saves his love from a lashing from the teacher at school and takes the lashing himself. It's the best part of this book, I think. By the way, if you're an adult and you're reading this and you HAVE NOT read this book, shame on us both. Stop what you're doing and read it. Right now. Go.

But back to my point: I like this. I like the idea of telling a lie so magnanimous and brave it brings out the best in everyone who hears it. A noble lie tells all children they can be anything they want to be when they grow up. A noble lie tells a loved one everything will be alright, even in the face of death. A noble lie tells the pregnant mother she does not look fat - she's never looked better.

Here's the thing - some lies are really just lies at the time. They will be true. The children who grow up nurtured and in healthy environments and choose professions that actualize them - fuel their strengths and creativity, they can be anything they eventually want to be (which is usually something totally within their set of skills). When a loved one dies, things aren't ever the same and they are really terrible for a while, but life has a way of making everything alright, even when all seems lost. And pregnant is beautiful. It is radiant. And, yes, it is fat. But the kind of fat that makes a human being. And that kind of fat is just the best kind.

A lie to protect your own ego, a lie to endanger or threaten someone else (or their virtue), or a lie lending strength to a greater evil - those are the kind you shouldn't tell. Not just because they hurt others but because they steal small parts of yourself. The parts that are hard to get back - your sense of integrity, your moral compass, your ability to see beyond your own needs. And those kinds of lies lean into larger, more destructive kinds - they grow a monstrous life of deception and isolation.

I wanted to tell you all this then and I hope I do tell you all of this as you grow - through my words, through my actions, even through my failures. And I'm telling you now, because this, my dear, is the truth.

On Waiting

Sammy and Annie:


So, yesterday I began my Friday ritual of preparing meals for the upcoming week. Since you guys and that daddy of yours are all carb addicts, I make about two loaves of bread a week. And this week, I planned on having two nights of bun-donned meals, turkey joes and black bean burgers, so I needed about ten cups of wheat flour. And ten cups is a lot. I figured I had enough, but I ran about 2 cups short.

And I know this sounds like the makings of a math problem, but I promise, it isn't. I left for the store around 1:00, thinking I'd have plenty of time to come on back to the house and finish before picking you, Sam, up from school at 3.

Only traffic in Baton Rouge on a Friday afternoon is an absolute nightmare, and I knew we needed to take a used battery back to Auto Zone for a 10% rebate. And I also knew I needed to go to the UPS to get ripped off for some shipping (it's a 58% mark up - don't do it. I had to, but if you've ever got a choice, opt for the Postal Service. It's slow and the lines are insane, but you don't feel like you're getting ripped off, and that's worth the time, I think).

So, I left my half-finished dough on the counter and took off. And instead of coming home when I had about an hour until carpool, I decided to take a run.

And I forgot about the dough.

My run was glorious, my grocery shopping was effortless, and with my $16 rebate in pocket and packages shipped, I headed my sweaty self to the elementary school and brought my Sammy home.

And when we opened the door, the smell of yeast wafting in the air, we found this....

In case you're wondering,  why yes, there is more on the floor.

So, laughing, I picked up the would-be bread and buns off the floor and counter, added the necessary flour and YES, in case you're wondering, made my weekly carb quota with the whole darn mess.


You ate it, you lived, and you smiled, so don't freak out.

It's funny, though, because it really made me think - this expanded dough rose out of control because it sat, unnoticed and unkept for way too long. Don't get me wrong: letting things wait can be really important in life. But other things - other things just can't wait.

So, I thought I'd give you a short list of the things I've learned can wait and the ones that just can't.


THESE THINGS CAN WAIT:

• SEX. Oh, come on, you knew this was coming. I'm your mother, for God's sake. I'm not going to tell you that sex can wait because of diseases and unplanned pregnancy and all the other slew of reasons people will tell you. I'm not even going to mention the emotional pain and toil and complication that happens once you have sex with somebody - anybody. I'm going to tell you the plain truth. Sex can wait because it's a mess. And likely, you won't be any good at it for the first few years anyway. You'll be clumsy and not at all comfortable with your own body and you need someone there with you who you can count on. Someone who won't laugh at you too much or take you too seriously. Someone who you can stick with and practice with. Because Lord knows you won't get any better switching up teammates. Wait on sex because you're going to wish you hadn't shown your bare ass to someone who will later pretend not to know you on the street. 
• DRIVING. I know, I know. This one seems like a real mom thing to say, too. But the truth is, driving sucks. Paying for gas sucks, traffic sucks, it's all a real pain. And you think you're going to have more freedom behind a wheel and at first it really feels that way, but you'll find pushing those pedals means you've got a whole new world of rules to follow. And Sam, once you can drive you'll act as family chauffeur, so don't think for a moment you'll be hitting the road alone. Better to wait. Trust me, there's a real freedom and richness and honesty you get from riding your bike around instead. You can pretend to be a kid in a world that seems to always try to push you into adulthood. 
• CHOOSING A CAREER: Sam, your teacher asked you what you wanted to be when you grew up. And do you know what you said? You said you wanted to be happy. You said you wanted a family. You said you wanted to be a dad (also something that should wait). And I was so grateful she accepted your response. If you choose college, they'll ask you to declare a major. And everyone you meet on campus will ask you first your name and then your major. Please don't feel pressured to answer straightaway. Because whatever you choose at 18 years old is probably not what you'll do when you're 50. And making a life-long decision isn't something anyone should trust an 18 year old to do. Ever. So when they ask you (and they will), feel confident and proud to tell them you don't know. Or lie. Because telling a great story about wanting to save whales as a marine biologist might just be fun. Or a great pickup line. 
• HOME OWNERSHIP. I know this is a real fast-forward, but mortgages are a real drag. Rent for a while. I know it isn't the most financially profitable thing to do, and a lot of smooth talking investors are going to say you're throwing money down a drain, but once you own a home, you're solely responsible for every brick and every wire. And you have to sign a lot of paperwork promising a lot of people you'll pay for something for the next 30 years. And who in the world knows what the next 30 years holds? 

THINGS THAT CAN'T WAIT: 

• ORAL HYGIENE. If you're in bed at night with fuzzy teeth and a lingering sense of guilt, get up and brush. You won't regret the two whole minutes you spent preventing cavities. Seriously, who wants to be 25 and told she has a cavity (I may or may not be speaking from experience, here.). 
• SAYING I LOVE YOU. This may surprise you. When you're young, you may find yourself overcome by intense emotions. If you love someone, tell them. Don't hold back. And if they don't love you back, fine. If you scare them, who cares. Life is too short not to speak your truth. I tell you I love you everyday because I know you and I may not have tomorrow. I knew I loved your Dad when we were 18 years old. And I knew I wanted to marry him. And I told him and it worked out. I'm just saying, it can happen. Don't let fear keep you from honesty. 
• BEING THERE FOR SOMEONE. You'll have times in life when you'll have to decide between giving your time to others and keeping it for yourself. And it's really okay and necessary to choose self-care. But sometimes, we do things for people because they need. You'll have these times, these chances, to show love. Please take them. When you've got that deep, gut-nagging draw to call someone you haven't spoken to in ages, call them. When you know one of your neighbors lost his job, don't just pray for or avoid him, invite him to dinner. Don't wait to love people who need love. I don't imagine you'll ever regret it. 
• HUGS. Hugs can't wait. Give them often and freely. Studies prove people who are avid huggers live longer, happier lives. Go on, be a hugger. Even the non-touchy feely types will hug you back...most of the time. 

Kids, I'm no genius. To prove it, I just used spell check because I can't even spell the word genius. Nailed it that time, though. I'm not brilliant. But I love you. And you have to do these things, because I'm the mom. Sure, I'm the mom who feeds you bread made from dough off the floor, but I'm the mom. And I said so. 

On Heartbreak

"Chloe doesn't really even like me" you explain when I ask who you play with at recess. I ask these things because I like to picture you at school. I like to envision who you run with, what you're chasing, if you're a good guy or a bad guy, that kind of thing. We have these kinds of talks driving home from school, mostly when you're sister's asleep back there and we don't have much else to do.

And since this seems out of sorts, I ask, "How do you know?"

"She never laughs at my jokes." you respond, and I have to catch myself, because as much as I love you, you're still working out "punch lines" right now, so I can totally see how this might affect your audience's reaction.

And at first I think I'll just redirect and talk about something else like whether or not you liked the lunch I packed today but when I look in the rearview mirror, something in your eyes makes me hesitate. You're not crying, Sam, but your eyes - they're so sad. And I realize you're experiencing something from which I cannot shield you. You're feeling rejected.

Sam, man, rejection is the worst. To know that someone else in the world sees you and knows you and still doesn't like you is the worst feeling in the world. So, as your mom, I want to ridicule this Chloe-monster. I want to call her a sassy little brat who wouldn't know funny if it pulled her frizzy pig tail. But I don't, because Chloe really is a cool girl at school and she doesn't have frizzy pig tails. She's actually really smart and funny, and so I can see why you'd want her to like you.

"Sam," I respond after a big, deep, mom breath, "What is the very best thing about being you?"

And you don't reply straight away because this is a weird question. You stare down at your hands folded in your lap and you shrug.

"I mean, when are you most happy about being Sam Halpin?" And I over articulate your name like you're a news reporter or a famous musician. And you've still got your head down but I can tell you smirk a bit.

Then your head shoots up and your nose scrunches as you smile and say, "I really am pretty funny."

And I laugh too loudly as you make goofy faces at me in the mirror and then you remind me to "shh!" because Anna is still snoozing away. And we make it through the traffic talking about other things, like Harry Potter and how you wish you had a wicked scar like him.

I'm so glad you still think you're funny, love. Because rejection can make you feel things about yourself that you know, deep down, are untrue. It can make you feel unlovable, unworthy, inadequate.

I will guarantee you rejection in your future - it is inevitable and unavoidable. The beautiful thing about choosing to love others is there are so many lovely people with whom you will choose to do life. And the frightening thing about this is they've got to make the same choice - to choose to do life with you. I'm beginning to realize the greater mystery isn't that we're rejected by one other. Rather, it seems an unlikely mystery to me that it actually happens: people commit to one another. We do it, everyday, and so everyday we're part of a tiny miracle.

When two people decide to get married, when two friends share a commitment of truth and closeness, when a parent chooses to raise a child, all these interactions, all these choices, they are the miracles in our lives.

Right now, you can't imagine that anyone wouldn't choose you. Because you're human, because you have a really great sense of self, and because you can't imagine someone not enjoying that much awesome.

And having someone reject you seems like a stab to the heart - especially from the likes of a Chloe. The Chloe's of the world (in my day, they were Ashley's), they can make you feel like you're just not worthy of time and attention. And if you listen to them, if you choose to trade what you know for how you feel, you might agree with them. And you might forget that you are chosen, everyday, by so many people who adore you.

And we don't just think you're funny. We think you're hilarious. And kind. And hard working. And creative. And so many, many other things.

The rejection (and the Chloe's and the Ashley's) will always be out there. But love? It'll always be out there, too. So my dear, in moments of like these, when someone doesn't choose you, know this:

We see you.

We know you.

We love you.

On True Love

Anna Claire:

One of our favorite after-school activities right now is park hopping. We've found several places we love: one for the slides, the other for the swings, and our new favorite is this beach at the University Lakes.

You love to play in the sand, to walk the lake trails, and you especially love the pelicans, mallards and geese.

Yesterday, you and I spotted a turtle sunning on some floating bark.

I pointed, "Look, Anne, it's a sweet turtle."

"Where?!" You rejoiced. You squealed and he plopped himself in the water and darted away.

"I think I'll name him Anna," you remarked, "Because he really is cute."

I laughed and you sighed, and we moved along.

I love that you saw something cute and called him by name. Your name. You love your name. You love yourself. You think you're smart and funny and fun. And you are. You are good. You were created good, you have a heart that is good and you love with a deep, passionate love that is good.

And I'm determined to nurture this image you have of yourself because I believe this is how God sees you.

Many times, we adults talk about Jesus and God and make it sound like they're not coming from the same place. Like they're in different camps when it comes to grace and mercy and love.

When I was a teenager, I went to a church function where a youth pastor told me that I was the enemy of God. That I was the enemy of God and God was waiting to strike me down - that God has this bow and arrow in heaven and he's been waiting for my last breath so he can condemn me like the forsaken sinner I am.

And then he told me that Jesus stepped in and took my arrow and God killed him instead of me. So now, I was covered with the blood of Jesus, and when God looked at me, he saw only the blood of his son. And I was forgiven. And then he made us all sing "Amazing Grace" and asked us why God would save wretches. He asked, "Did God get what Jesus Paid for?"

And even at fourteen years old I thought this was crazy. And I hated that he ended the sentence with a preposition. Neither sat with me the right way.

Because I had no idea, up until this point, what a terrible, lost, unhappy, miserable wretch God thought I was. And I had no idea that I was somehow in need of saving.

Because I didn't grow up in church; just with loving parents that told me that I was good, that God loved me, and I was enough, just the way I was.

And I think this church guy felt pretty good about himself. Because he made us all close our eyes and make people raise their hands if they didn't want to be considered enemies of God anymore.

And some people did. They raised their hands, wiped their teary eyes and prayed a prayer that I guess magically got them on God's good side and so he could point his arrow at somebody else.

And I walked away from church and God for quite some time after this, because I was surrounded by teenagers and even grown people who all saw themselves as unworthy of love and acceptance. And there was a lot of shaming and silence and secrecy and judgement. And that was church.

It took me a while to realize the message I received in this place was not the message. Because I finally realized God doesn't have to think like those people and I don't have to accept this theology as truth.

Do you know what I think, Anna? I think God sees us just the way you see yourself right now, at three years old.

I think God marvels at his creation: I think he or she revels in what she's created and says, "Yes. You are good." And I think the sorrow he feels isn't because we sin or screw up. It's because we find these really tricky ways to live in shame and condemnation and judgement that doesn't come from her. It comes from a place deep inside where we long to know and be known and we forget that we already are known and loved. And we have this capacity to know and love God, others, and ourselves.

And I think the message of Jesus was just this - he saw a woman dragged from a tent that was not her own with a man that was not her husband and she was surrounded by shamers who wanted nothing more than to use her infidelity to trap Jesus into breaking the law. And instead of pointing fingers at them or her, he just began to ask questions. Questions of the accusers, questions of the woman, and freed them all from condemnation - condemnation of the self and condemnation of the other. He freed them, not by convicting, but by asking really great questions about who they were and what they wanted.

This doesn't sound like the message of a God or a teacher who want to shame and condemn. This sounds like a beautiful and gentle reminder that we are known and loved and we don't have to live in shame and abandon.

Shame and abandon don't come from God. And it didn't come from Jesus. It comes from us - we do this to each other and ourselves. It tears us apart and makes us broken. We break ourselves and live in this brokenness and the worst part is we were made in the image and likeness of a God who lives in us and breathes through us and we choose to see ourselves as lost.

So, Anna, know this, my dear sweet girl: you are known and loved by a God that wants nothing other than to marvel in you. Who wants nothing more than to see you live a life of freedom and goodness and mercy. Who wants to dance with you and twirl with you and see the world with you and call it good.


You are known and you are loved. And you are enough.

On Fits

Sammy Boy,

You saw me at my very worst this Sunday. My. Very. Worst. And this is one of those childhood memories I hope you  conveniently forget. I pray when you sift through your schema as an adult, this one slips through and falls right down the drain.

Me at my very worst happened at Wal-Mart. We needed some things we couldn't get anywhere else. Granted, we could've traipsed over to Lowes for a shower head and then to the grocery store for some vinegar and yeast, and then back over to another store for dry-erase markers. But I figured it'd just be easier to hop over to the Wal and take care of all our business in one place.

You warned me, too. As we pulled into the parking lot, you said, "Mom, we're at Wal-Mart?".
"I know, I know." I sighed. "But we've got a list of some weird stuff and this is the only place I can think of to get it all."

You side-eyed me with a look that says "okay, but..."

I interrupted your thoughts with a "let's just get it over with before your sister wakes up" because she was still napping in the back seat. I heaved her out and put her, with a pillow, in the basket (classy - Wal-Mart classy). We pushed through the thongs of Sunday shoppers like the frogger in traffic, hopping from isle to isle, avoiding the onslaught and our imminent demise. We made record time, really - it was about 25 minutes, we stuck to our list, and we made our way to the front of the store.

I hope Wal-Mart is but a terrible thing of the past by the time you read this, Sam. But like an unsightly wart, I feel like the Wal is here to stay, unless surgically extracted. There's so much press about this chain - this superstore giant. They don't pay a fair, living wage, they buy cheaply made products from sweatshops in China and India, and they still pay women less than men. And I have so many reasons to hate this place. The reason I hate it the most, though? They give appearance of convenience and ease while existing in perpetual chaos and frustration? Case in point - the checkout.

There are about 30 checkout lanes. Sounds pretty good, right? People can move through quickly, no one is overworked or has to wait? Only, most Wal-Marts with these 30 lanes only actually open about 6 of them. On a Sunday.

The lines snaked and coiled around the front of the store - a nest of vipers, and the shoppers? They were all ready to strike.

"Sam. Sam? Come this way. This line is shorter."
"How can you tell? They all link together?"
You were right. In fact, I couldn't tell how to get in line. I couldn't see how to intersect and really, I couldn't even get past the cart to backside traffic to get into another line.

"This is crazy." I heaved. "I don't understand how this is even happening right now."
The woman I was  attempting to pass in order to find another line laughed a bit. Not like a "oh, I feel you girl" laugh. No, it was like a "don't act like this isn't a normal Saturday at the Wal-Mart" laugh. A "What do you think this is, Target?" sarcastic huff.

"I'm sorry, could we just get through. We don't want in your line, I promise." And I meant it. I did not want to cut in line or to have her line or whatever. What I wanted was to get out of that hell. What I wanted was to get into a time machine and go back an hour and do what I knew I should've done in the first place - NOT GO TO WAL-MART. But here we were.

I could've been graceful and thoughtful and used this as an opportunity to show you patience and camaraderie in a tough situation. But, of course, I didn't.

As the sarcastic sally moved her cart from the center of the isle so we could pass, giving us just enough room to squeeze through, another full-cart hauling, crushed velvet track suit wearing, scrunch clad madwoman darted through our cart slot like a bat out of hell, nearly clipped you and hit our cart.

"NO, please. We're obviously in your way." I don't think she was expecting me to say anything. In all truth, I don't think she saw us at all - the whole front of the store was so cramped it's possible she couldn't see us.

"Oh, I'm sorry" she whipped around. "I'm just trying to get through."

"Yes, yes. I think we all got that. So let's just be a little careful." I shouldn't have said but did.

And the sarcastic sally was now more elated than ever to have a Jerry Springer moment at the Wal-Mart. Wouldn't that just make her line time light up?

Now, Sammy if you've moved far from the the south, this little conversation may not seem as venomous as it actually was. But you see, we southern women don't argue with words - we let our tones do the talking. And trust me, people have tussled over stronger than these. Never forget - I'm pretty sure the Texas succession was all on account of somebody not sayin' "please" at tea.

Sure enough, however, I walked away, disappointing sarcastic sally and leaving the madwoman giving me the stink eye and mouthing things I was pretty sure you shouldn't hear.

We finally arrived in another line and thirty minutes later, we, the madwoman, and even sarcastic sally left the hell that is Wal-Mart.

And now, I should've apologized to you. I should've found some way to teach you something good and wholesome. But, of course, I didn't.

No. Instead, I chose to impart this wisdom:

"Sam." I sighed. "The next time mom says, 'Hey, buddy. Let's just go to Wal-Mart,' I want you to remind me that Wal-Mart is where dreams go to die."

And at six, you smirked at me and only replied "you got it."

I don't have any real wisdom for you here. I know I shouldn't have thrown a fit. I can't clean this up and make it look good. All I can tell you is that there are places and people who bring out your best self, and there's Wal-Mart. It may seem like a great idea to avoid extra stops and travels and just go someplace that advertises ease but let me tell you, it comes at a great cost to you, even if it promises low, low prices.

Find people and places that make you your best self, that advocate you being your best self. And if you find yourself lazily wandering back to the dungeons, have a travel buddy that'll remind you of the last time.

On Owning your Faults

To the both of you:

I won't pretend to know who you'll choose to be when you grow up. Either of you. Parents tend to make predictions: to see one trait or another in their children and select this particular trait and say "Look, there he is - there's my little _________ (fill in that blank with whatever you'd like: boxer, librarian, doctor, CEO, salesman.)." And that's mostly fine, but I'll tell ya, it can also be a real trap.

By now, you've gotten to know me and your dad pretty well. And you probably know that we are polar opposites in so many ways. We've picked up a lot of labels along the way: I'm the extrovert, he's the introvert. I'm the creative one, he's the thinker. I'm the party and he's the meditation. I'm the fighter and he's the peacemaker.

And these labels are mostly true. For instance, did you know your dad and I both only got into one fight each as kids? Only one fight for dad (in the third grade) and only one for me (in the first grade).

According to your dad, his one and only brawl went a little like this:

Some kid got mad at him for a reason he wasn't sure of and told him he wanted to fight him. Your dad said no. The kid punched your dad. Your dad walked away. The end.

A natural peacemaker, that dad of yours. Even as a nine year old boy, he knew nothing good came from slugging each other around and he just walked away. And since you know your dad, you know this is a true story - he just seems like the kind to walk away from a fist-fight. He didn't lose face with the other kids, either, because it's not like he lost - he just didn't engage. And that kid never bothered your dad again.

And then there's me. You see, my one and only fight went down just a little differently. There was this boy who liked to chase me around the playground. Everyday, he'd chase me and chase me. And I know what you're thinking: he just liked me, right? Well, he was big and the only other boy to ever chase me in my life was your Uncle Josh. And when he caught me, I usually got pummeled, so I couldn't take the chance with this boy.

Well, one day this big boy caught up to me. And he pulled me to the ground and my skirt flew up. Then he hollered "I can see your underwear" and pointed at my bloomers, laughing. And his friends (who I guess chased him while he chased me. I don't know what first grade boys do.), they all pointed and laughed and I guess that was just too much for me.

So I stood up and punched him in the stomach. And then he doubled over and I kicked him the one place your grandmother told me never to kick my brother. And I kicked him again, and again, and again.

And his friends stopped laughing. And I said, "Don't you ever touch me again. And you're too slow to chase anyone else, so give it up." And I kicked the playground gravel at his face and walked away.

Kids, I'm just a natural fighter. I am. If I feel threatened or see injustice, my natural inclination is to punch and kick and scream my way out of it. It's a reaction, really. It's my instinct.

And I've hated it. Honestly, I wish I could be more like Dad. I wish my first thought was to bring peace. But it isn't.

I've been a slave to anger in the past: I've chained myself to experiences and circumstances that fueled that anger and gave it legitimacy and purpose. And I've seen the world through very angry eyes. But there comes a time in life where you just have to choose whether that does any good anymore. And I am learning, very gradually, it doesn't do any good to fight for fighting's sake.

If I accept this part of myself I hate and see it and know it, I can choose something else.  I can learn to appreciate the fight within me and I can train myself to use it wisely. Slowly, my anger and fight has turned into something else - a passion for helping and nurturing and growing. It's my source of innovation and allows to take some pretty big risks I'd otherwise be too afraid to take.

Your dad and I have tried really hard not to give you two labels. We don't want to you think you're one way or another because that's what we've identified in you. We want you to choose who you are - what parts of yourself to cultivate and train and what parts need refinement. That's up to you. All we're planning to do is support you in your journey to craft yourself and give you an "attaboy" or an "are you sure?" along the way.

The fight within me is still there. It'll never go away, and now I really don't want it to. I like knowing there's a fire in my belly. So, if you're like me - if you've got it, too, don't worry. You can choose to use your fight for something good and beautiful.

I just want you to know you don't have to be a slave to your faults. And you were created to use those faults, not just deny them or cast them aside because they're not manly or ladylike or proper or even beneficial. Because maybe they're not faults at all. Maybe they're just trainable traits you can use for the good.

On Loss

Dear Anna Claire,

I must begin first by apologizing to you. Everything you're about to read is entirely my fault.

Your brother cherishes his teddy bear. He's had it since he was born and, though he's received many a stuffed animal gift, he has always adored this little teddy. He sleeps with it even now (at six), and your dad and I always thought you'd  have no favorite.

You see, you have always loved all your stuffed animals without much discretion. One moment you're into the dolphin, the next you're carting around an elephant. This was, until, the unicorn.

For your third birthday, your Aunt Sara bought you the most adorable, sparkly polka-dotted, wide-eyed unicorn I've ever seen. If I were you, it'd be my favorite, too.

You took this thing everywhere. From the grocery store to Sunday School, this little bundle of joy was your left-hand conspirator (I hope you're still left-handed. Just because I think it's awesome.).

And here comes the sad, sad story. One Saturday afternoon, your brother, you, your unicorn, and I all set off to the hardware store to buy sand for your sandbox. And as fate would have it (and as is statistically the most probable scenario for parents everywhere), as soon as we loaded four hundred pounds of play-safe sand onto a dolly, you clutched that unicorn and said,

"Unicorn needs to go potty."

"Of course she does." I sighed glancing at that four hundred pounds and then to the opposite corner of Lowes, toward the bathroom I'd visited many times. But this time, I was alone with you and your brother (and that unicorn), and four hundred pounds of sand.

So off we went. And in the restroom, you decided you had to go, too, and handed me your unicorn for safe-keeping. I stuffed it into my purse and we finished all our business. We paid for the sand, loaded it into the car, and started for home.

Three blocks away from our house, it dawned on your brother the unicorn was nowhere in sight.

"Mom, Anna's unicorn is not it in the car."
"Oh, it's in my purse." And I glanced over and that purse was missing a unicorn.

I took some time at the stoplight and looked under the seat. No unicorn. Sam had scoured the back. No unicorn. In the rear-view mirror I watched the realization come to your face: your unicorn was gone.

"My UNICORN!" You were horrified.
"Anna, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." I said.
"We just have to go back." Sam resolved.

And as I turned the car around, you began to panic. Sam did his very best to calm you: told you he'd be the team leader and we'd go back and we'd find it. We would. Because he was just sure nobody would take a unicorn in a store filled with dad stuff. Who'd do such a thing?

While we drove the 25 minutes back, I spoke with the gem of a lady in Customer Service who, without empathy and quite annoyed I was wasting what I'm sure was her full and busy day, told me there was no way she could help me. We went back to the store and (surprise, surprise) we scoured every inch of that place without finding your unicorn. And how you cried. It wasn't the cry of a petulant child. It was sorrowful and devastated and honest. Your heart was broken.

I had a real choice to make in this moment. I could've turned toward the nearest Target and replaced that unicorn without a second thought. It would've been so easy to turn your sadness into happiness in an instant. And I probably should have: you didn't lose the unicorn, I did. And it would've erased your pain. You would have been so relieved and gleeful.

But I didn't. I let you experience loss. And I'm not sure that was the right move. You see, even now as I type this, I think that was a terrible thing to do to you.

And so now, if you're fuming, or if your recurring dream of searching for a magical unicorn suddenly makes all too much sense, know that I was totally wrong. I admit it. Your therapist will be pleased - it really is the mother's fault.

But here's what I really hope happens. I hope you know I don't ever want to cause your pain. But I did. And you weren't angry at me at all. You were too busy mourning your loss. And this was two weeks ago and this morning you woke up and said, "Mom, my unicorn." That's all you said. You mentioned that loss at least once every day for about a week. Then, every other day. And you remember the feeling of losing something (for you, someone) you love desperately. And the absence leaves you searching for your friend.

This is your first loss. I can promise you it won't be your last. Loss sucks the air out of the room and leaves you doubled-over, gasping for breath. Loss is visceral and real and makes your body ache. And your brain scrambles around attempting to do what the brain does best: trying to make sense of something that does not ever make any sense. Ever. Loss doesn't get easier and it doesn't go away. It is the most terrible and painful part of living.

You felt your first loss at three years old. And  I will never forget. But in your loss, the last thing I want you to believe is that I can fix it. I don't want you searching for some solution. Because the brain is a powerful thing: it stores every moment of our lives and gives us these attachments and strings that guide us back and back until we reach that moment where it all began. And your first loss could have been fixed. But fixing this loss might just mean you'd be hoping I could fix your second and your third and your fourth. And maybe this wasn't the best time to teach you. But maybe it was.

And I'm so sorry. I am so, so sorry. I caused you great pain and loss and didn't fix it even though I could have. I let you feel pain and loss and I still don't know if that was the right thing to do. But I do know this: parenting means I will screw up and I will make mistakes. And sometimes, those mistakes are easy to spot and others, well, other times they just aren't. I will not always do what is best for you and for that, I cannot apologize enough.

But here's my promise: I will always try. I will always think and reason and feel toward what is right and best for you. It will not always be what is easiest or prettiest. But it will always come from a place of love.

I want you to know that in your loss, you showed great grace and forgiveness. You hugged me while you cried and your brother was your champion, scouring the aisles and even asking if we could search a third time around the vast expanse of hardware and garden hoses. He adores you. And so do I. And in your loss, I hope this is the moment your brain and heart remember. I hope you remember that while we didn't fix it, we loved, and we hugged, and we mourned with you.

On Being Weird

My SuperSam:

First, let me just remind you I think you're awesome. I've only known you a little over six years but I'm gonna go ahead and make a prediction: you will always be one of the coolest human beings I ever meet.

There's just a ton that makes you cool - you love riding your bike, you like to read, you're a self-taught piano playin' maniac. You love your stories. You ask hard questions. You are brilliant and wise and frankly, just not the average six-year-old boy. You say what you think and aren't afraid of your feelings.

So, here's my worry: right now, you don't know that some of the things you love might one day be mocked and ridiculed as weird. Because right now, you have a very unhampered view of yourself and you like who you really are. You think you're as awesome as I do.

The other day, the neighbor boy asked me why you like playing your piano so much.

"Where's the little boy?" He never remembers your name.
"Sam is inside. He's playing his piano right now. You can go in if you want to." I half-laugh as he stares like I've just spoken a foreign language.
"Why does he do that so much?" He was so sweet and confused.
And I thought for a moment and said "He just likes it a lot, you know? Do you have things you just love to do?" He didn't even skip a beat.
"Not really," He smirked as he turned on his scooter. "He's a little different than me, you know."

Now, I have to tell you, Sam, you're incredible, and I love you, but this kid is the epitome of cool. Even at five. He's daring and athletic, and I know he'll grow up to be a real charmer. He will determine the cool of any school. He will have a following. He will be incredibly popular. Even now, all the kids on the street (including you, even when he calls you "the boy") want to play with him whenever he opens his front door. He's a cool kid. There's nothing wrong with that.

But he doesn't understand you. And right now, he's five and he doesn't mock because maybe he hasn't learned that being different is this really isolating thing and maybe he'll never think that way, but maybe he will.

And that scares me so much. Because I don't want you to ever lose or hide or feel ashamed about your weird. Your weird makes you wake up at dawn and practice your keyboard for an hour before anyone else in the house is up. Your weird makes you ask really insightful questions like "If Santa isn't real, why should I believe this Jesus stuff?". Your weird makes you memorize entire scenes of Harry Potter so you can don a cape, flick your wand and yell "wingardium leviosa" at your sister's stuffed dolphin.

I know being strange or feeling different can make you wonder if you're the only one out there like you. I know sometimes you wonder why you don't think the same things your friends think or care about the things they care about. But I also know giving up these parts of yourself just to sit in a room with people and call them friends is not friendship at all. It's just a new form of isolation - where you become an observer - an inactive non-participant who still feels alone.

Do your old mom a big favor: be yourself and love it. Own your weird and your quirky parts along with your normal and even boring parts. Give yourself a chance to find people who love all of who you are and give them a space to let their weird out, too. You'll be so glad you did.

On Being Tired

My sweet Anna Claire,

I adore you, I do. But when you're tired, you're a hot mess, girl. And you find this incredibly exhausting way of balancing misery and denial that makes every inch of your sweet little scrunch into the most contrary countenance I've ever seen. 

Today was one of those days I'll remember forever. And when I think back on today, I won't smile with fondness. No. I will wonder how I got through it all and managed to keep my sanity. I had a 3:00  phone conference today while sitting in the carpool picking up your brother from school. 

"I don't want to! I don't want to!" you screamed. 

"You don't want to what?" I asked back in I'm sure the sweetest, motherly voice, checking my mute button to ensure I wouldn't interrupt what I'm sure was a most fruitful meeting. 

"I don't want to sit. I don't want to sit. I don't want to!" You screamed over and over again in a voice that I'm sure rocked neighboring cars. 

"I know, Ann, I know. You hate sitting in the car. You hate it. I know. I'm so sorry. But Sam will come out soon." 

Look, I knew you were tired and I knew the moaning and wailing might end if you'd just let yourself sleep. But remember that nagging case of denial? You held on, tightly, my dear. 

In my left ear, my manager was talking about really important things: efficacy, time-management, and focus. And then the unthinkable occurred. Did he just ask me a question? Did he say my name, or someone else's? I began begging like I was in a high school Spanish class - please be calling on some else. Please call on someone else. 

"Shari, are you there?" The team leader'd called on me while you were screeching on about not being tired. Because at this point, you were really nearing acceptance to your sleepy fate. I had to un-mute. I had to answer the question like a professional while trapped in a metal box with a crazy, not-tired banshee. 

"I'm here, Jim. I'm here." I hoped he'd heard over your roars and muted myself again. 

"I was wondering if you'd share a bit about (SCREAMING) with the rest of us, especially since you (SCREAMING) about this just the other day." 

Now it really was like high school Spanish class. 

I could've (and probably should have) said that I couldn't talk just then and needed to deal with the car-jacking three-year-old in the back seat, but that'd mean I couldn't do both, you know? That I couldn't handle my worlds colliding. So, I un-muted my line, ready thread buzz words together and make a final answer. 

And then you pulled the trump card. Yes. You are only three, Anna. And I don't believe that you yet wield spite, but today you really seemed to know what you were doing. 

Because just as I hit the button, you screamed in a voice I can only describe as vengeful:

"I HAVE TO GO PEE PEE RIGHT NOW." If the car seat's safety straps weren't holding you back I think you'd have pummelled me into the steering wheel. 

And then, the prayed-for but not at all anticipated happened. Silence. Complete and utter silence. From you, from me, from my call. Your eyes twinkled and the sides of your mouth curved into a wry smile. 

The call ended pretty shortly thereafter. And you? You wailed through half an hour of bumper-to-bumper traffic while your brother hummed Star Wars melodies to keep himself occupied. 

Here's the thing, Anna: being tired sucks. When you're three, when you're thirty: it doesn't matter. Tired pulls you in ten different directions, pleading with you to recognize the inevitable and give in. And here's the thing: tired always wins. It does. But tired isn't the enemy, sweetheart. Tired is a constant and faithful friend. It beckons you to relent and rest. And when you do, dear, you find yourself grateful and at peace. 

You and I are quite the same, you know. We both live in a sort of denial. We think we can do so much without skipping a beat or missing a mark. But we both end up losing. And we miss out on so much peace. 

On Being an Adult

I've started this little blog for my kids. It's not a parenting blog - I wouldn't dare tempt my fate in that domain. I fear for writers who have young children and find it necessary to publish their parenting wisdom for all the world to see, giving tips and tricks about how best to raise little Johnny and Sue. Because Johnny and Sue aren't fully developed yet, so this little experiment called parenting still isn't complete, now is it? No, I wouldn't dare share my "wisdom" with the world, not knowing what kinds of little people my two will become. This is in no way belittling those who parent-blog. But unless the authors can be quite certain their little ones won't end up in a penitentiary, I'll seek advice from those who've seen this thing quite through.

No, my writing here is actually for my children. I've been told this internet contraption will be around for ages. In fact, several sage individuals warned that it will record everything - all our mishaps and debacles, so we'd better be quite sure we don't publish all our screw-ups, otherwise generations to come will bear witness to our stupidity.

But I find that notion inspiring. And I'd like nothing more than to share my stupidity now. Get it over with, you know, so I rest quite assured nothing the world may discover surprises me.

I mustn't stop there, though, right? Because sharing our ignorance isn't enough. No, I'd like very much for all my dumb decisions to have some sort of purpose. So, I've started this little diary as a way to share my idiocy with my children. I hope, through reading this, they'll realize they managed to grow up healthy and strong despite my best efforts to totally muck it all up. And I hope they'll see adulthood as it really is: a very strange journey where we all look a bit silly, make messy mistakes, and manage to muddle through alright.