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.