Happy Place

Sometimes they sell your happy place.

My childhood home is about to be for sale. The photo shoot is done. The listing will go live soon. All that’s left is to sit back and wait, and to reflect on what Miranda Lambert would say is “the house that built me”.

Val Terrace has been our family home since 1986. I was 10 when we moved in. It’s wasn’t our first house, but it was the first house I ever loved. I got my own room for the first time on Val Terrace. I got to pick out the yellow wallpaper with pink hearts, and pink wall to wall carpeting. I got a phone in my bedroom. It was lavender, and had call waiting, and I loved it! I got to live in a neighborhood for the first time on Val Terrace, with a cul de sac at the end of the street! I always felt safe there, and it was around that cul de sac that I learned that I could ride a ten speed bike in circles for hours. It was big, in fact it held 7 people in two slightly separate houses, my grandparents lived in the in-law apartment. Now I know that it’s bigness would be its downfall because 33 years later, what do two people need such a big house for? But back then, it was perfect! Safe, and welcoming, and the center for all of the major events of my life.

It’s not just my happy place from my childhood though. Even as an adult who has had 3 homes of her own, when I say I’m going home I always picture mom and dad’s house. Mom and dad standing in the driveway waving us in, or coming out from the back porch with big smiles. I always comment on how pretty mom’s gardens look, and not just because I know she’s been sprucing them up for company, but also because it’s true. That first hug in the driveway and I can literally feel all the stress of the long drive, or the current life messes melt away. It is the place where everything will be ok.

Val Terrace is special to my kids too! They have grown up vacationing there every summer. They love climbing the trees in the front yard, and playing hide and seek in the basement. I remember when we planted those trees. The back porch is one of my favorite places. With all the windows open you can enjoy the New England summer, without the mosquitos that lurk just outside. To me, it is the perfect place for a nice cup of coffee with breakfast, as I listen to the leaves blow on the trees and feel the cool ocean breeze. To my kids, it is the perfect place for hatching wild and crazy plans. There have been sword fights on that porch between kids in Viking helmets, and plays put on there. Oh, and I hope I never forget the summer of the chipmunk! The porch played a big role in that too! The chipmunks were everywhere, gorging themselves on the birdseed that fell from my parent’s bird feeders, so my sister’s kids and mine decided only one thing could be done. They must be caught! They used a clear bin, a stick, and a long rope, all of which they contrived into a makeshift trap that they thoughtfully set up right under the feeder. They would all sit and watch from their chairs on the porch. For fun there were binoculars involved, even though they were in no way needed. When a chipmunk came for his snack, zip, they’d give the rope a tug and catch him. Then they would all run out and get a good close look at him in his trap before lifting it up and setting up the whole game again. The next morning, Trevor came down for breakfast and said in his squeekly little boy voice, “It feels like a great day for catching chipmunks”. A line that is now part of the family.

I could go on probably forever, recalling weddings, graduation parties, family reunions, anniversary parties, vacations with family, and then with different friends joining in the fun. I could recall people dropping in for a visit because they always knew where to find you. I could recall snowmen in the front yard, and watching snow flakes fall in the light form the little lamp posts by the front walk. With a big smile I could tell of how my mom makes snow angel videos for the southern grandchildren in the yard after every big storm. I could tell you of the basketball hoop in the driveway, and of the driveway championships that were held there. And I’m not gonna say none of it would have been possible without that house, but I will say that none of it happened without the house. That house played a big part in my life over the past 33 years. It could have all happened somewhere else. I know that. But the fact is that it didn’t. It happened there on Val Terrace in Scarborough, Maine where my parents have had the same phone number since I was born.

Change is hard for people like me. I guess I could take the last half of that sentence off; change is hard. I’m thankful for the past that we have had there in our family home. I’m excited for my parents, and what lies ahead for them. It’s going to be all good things, happening in a much smaller, more appropriate setting for two people. What will become of my house on Val Terrace? I don’t know, but I hope the next little girl that lives there knows what a blessed little girl she is.

An Ode to Us

An Ode to Us

College kids.
Fun, friendships, freedom.
Falling in love.
Basketball, softball and soccer games. Street Fighter.
Bible studies. Dinners out.
Thinking we were all grown up.
Being so wrong.
Just kids.

Newlyweds.
Together. Stars in our eyes. Totally in love.
Dreams of the future. Not even sure what to dream.
One cold Maine winter, ice storms, radiator heat.
Money earned. Money spent. Laundromat, pizza place.
Thinking love was all we needed.
Being completely right.
Being completely wrong
Being completely in love.

Growing up.
First baby. Shock & excitement. Loss & heartache.
Innocence lost. Crying, Sadness. Solitude.
Leaning on each other. Loving each other.
Trusting. Doubting.
Too young for broken hearts,
but that didn't matter.
Believing "it is well" though it didn't feel well.
Being right.

Parenthood.
Completely worth the risks.
Definitely worth the wait.
Two perfect blessings.
Love like we have never known.
Worry, joy, laughter, pain...all magnified.
Juggling new hats. Daddy, Mommy.
Thinking we should have been required to take a test.
Knowing we would have never passed. :)
Learning day by day.
Smiling at them- at just the thought of them.
Smiling at seeing each other in their eyes.

Growing older.
Long in the tooth. :) Gray hair.
Aches, pains, sun damage.
Happy Birthdays for us...for them.
Finding our love has grown comforting.
Not thinking there is anything wrong with that.
Knowing our love is true. Still laughing, still happy.
More beautiful than ever.
Like good wine.
One Heart. Two bodies. 100 directions.
Always coming home to the same place.

Our Future.
Quickly becoming the past.
Wide open. Full of potential.
Uncertain. Unknown. Unlimited.
Planning.
Thinking we have time.
Being so wrong.
The future is not now.
The future was yesterday.

Together, we two.
In love. Happy. Side by side. Step by step.
Thinking we are blessed.
Being so right!

Jayme, I love the memory of falling in love with you, and the reality of staying in love with you. For the notes on my car, and the poems that you wrote. For the dinners you made, and the flowers. For when you get up with the kids, and when you chase them all around the house and make them laugh. For the smiles, laughter, and maybe even more, for the tears. Thank you. What we have done together, we never could have done apart. "...all because two people fell in love".

Being Ten is Tough

My ten year old did not miss a single math question on the Tennessee state assessment (TCAP) in 2nd grade. Not one. He scored in the 100th percentile. Who does that? Not me. (Not my students, that's for sure.) I am sure there are others. But he is one of probably not too many. Last year he missed one, but in his defense he had nowhere to go but down after he peaked in second grade. :) I don't say that to brag, but rather to give background knowledge for the next sentence that I am about to write.

Today, as fourth graders were packing up their things to go home, four of my son's classmates were voting on whether or not he was stupid. The ringleader would ask, "Who think's Trevor's retarded?" and the other three would raise their hands. "Who thinks Trevor's stupid?", all the hands go up. "Who thinks Trevor's dumb?", three out of three of the followers voted that he for sure is.

So my ten year old came home from school today with puffy eyes, and pink cheeks because of the words of these kids. Three kids voting against him. Three kids siding with the mean girl, and agreeing that he was dumb.

As he told me the story on the way home from school, so quietly I could barely hear him, my eyes filled with tears. I wasn't angry, I was just wounded. Wounded because I could tell that this one hurt him.
"Mom, you can tell me if something is wrong with me you know. I mean is it? Do I have something like how some kids have ADHD or things? Did a doctor ever say anything is wrong with me?"
More tears running down my cheeks. More broken heart forcing itself to beat as I listen to my son try to fit the words of his classmates into his view of himself. A view that now feels like maybe he is broken.

I told him, most assuredly, that he is not broken in any way. And that in some small way those kids must feel broken to be hurting him like that. Kids who are confident, strong, and kind don't seek to hurt others. That we may never know what is in them that feels fixed when they pick on him, but that it certainly isn't about him. It is about them.

Then we talked about how it would have felt if someone hadn't raised their hand. If someone had voted for him instead of against him. The relief he would have felt if just one person had his back. That was the word he used. Relieved. And I told him to always be that person.

And now, as he sits reading Harry Potter I am still teary. I don't want to send him back to the wolves tomorrow. I don't want them to hurt him anymore, just because they can. Just because there are four of them and one of him, and because he is too sweet to beat the crap out of them like I want him to. And I am teary because I feel like I have let him be too soft. I have let him be too into books, and I have let him love too much... animals, and bugs, and me. I have let him be too kind. I should have tried to change him.

But that is never true.

God made my son smart. He made him kind, empathetic, hilarious, and so exceedingly loving. I hope that the words from today don't scar him, but rather stay with him as a reminder to be the one person who provides another child the relief of just not being alone. The world is a tough place. Even when you're just ten.

Happy Sadness

My grandmother, Virginia Osborn, "Ginny", ("Armee" to her grandchildren) passed away last night, March 2, 2019.

She was a stubborn, and beautiful woman in life, and I truly believe she died because she decided it was time. I watched many people try to change her mind in my lifetime, but I don't believe it ever happened. She was classy, so she would quietly listen to the opinions of others, but had a way of just saying, "Oh is that right?" or some other similar phrase which basically meant, "I have heard you out, and have not changed my mind."

We knew a few days before she passed away that she had been approved to go to hospice, and the grieving process began then. It was hard before she was gone. It was hard just knowing she was going to be gone. I know I am blessed to be 43 years old when my grandmother died. I know that her 95 years were a gift, and that I should focus on the gift and not the loss. I agree with all of those sentiments. But also, having loved her for so long makes me that much more aware of what I have lost. My grandfather died several years ago, at 98, and I felt the same way about him.

I have so many cherished memories of my mom's parents. In 1986, they moved in with us. They had an in-law apartment, so they had their own space, but I just had to open a door and walk 8 or ten feet down the hallway to get to their living room. It was, I guess, just kind of special.

My life was a little different from most kids because of them. I had built in baby sitters, but I could basically stay home alone and only get them if I was lonely or needed something. I had a built in corner market. If we didn't have syrup or peanut butter (or more often, ice cream) Armee always did. :) From when I was almost 11 until I went to college, my home was their home. They lived in Worcester MA for the first ten years of my life, so I only saw them a few times a year, but then 1986 happened and suddenly they were there every for everything for the rest of my childhood...Christmas mornings, birthdays, and everything in between.

My brother and sister both left for college in 1989, and the house was so lonely without Chrissy and Charlie. But Armee and Ree Ree loved to spend time with me, and I spent a lot more time over there after they left. I would usually bring my dog Pepper for a visit and would throw her pink porcupine toy from my grandparents living room back across the hall into my parents living room so she could really get her speed up running back and forth playing fetch. We all three enjoyed watching the little toy poodle bound after the porcupine, "Pinky". She would jump over the threshold every time, and that was always good for a smile! Sitting with them, talking to them- it was captivating and uncanny. It was fun and educational. It was special. Horse drawn wagons, The Great Depression, World War II... I know I have forgotten more than I remember, but what I remember makes me so grateful...and makes me feel the loss all the more.

My grandparents had a love story that could rival any. One of the greatest gifts I have is my grandfather's journal. He wrote it back in 1999, when he was a young man of 83. It is basically a memoir. His children and grandchildren were given copies and I have read it cover to cover dozens of times in the past 20 years. When I got the call that Armee had passed away, I pulled it out just to remember again. Remember the stories I used to hear them tell, remember them young and in love, and remember that my Armee and Ree Ree being together in Heaven right now is such good news.

My grandfather was a gifted writer and poet, and his poems about my grandmother have made me cry many tears these last several nights. But they have helped to move my grief from sadness, to happy sadness- remembering their love and their lives, and knowing that they fulfilled their lives dream of growing old together, raising a beautiful family, and doing it well...as any job worth doing is worth doing well.

At the end of his journal my grandfather wrote the following:

"Ginny Grow Old with Me"
It seems so long ago
Written then my verse was meant to be
an anchor on which love could grow

The war is past our family grown
with pride we now can tell
our creed taught daily from the home
of a job worth doing well

My pride in you I want all to know
and my heart for all to see
My love and devotion will ever flow
Indeed you have grown old with me.

My grandparents grew old together in the most beautiful way. It was an honor to have a front row seat.

Until we meet again, Armee. I love you forever.

Dear Child

I have learned more from my students than I could ever teach them.

I have been changed more by my conversations with them than they could ever be changed by me.

The more lost they are, they more I find myself drawn to them. To smile at them, and laugh at their jokes. To act like their tragic stories don't shock me and tear my heart apart, and to tell them how proud I am of them.

I hear the things they say to themselves, and to each other.

Sometimes they look at me and say that they don't like teachers or school. This is just because somewhere along they way, some teacher or every teacher, at some school or every school, failed them. I don't want to fail them. I don't want to be there with a front row seat watching them give up on themselves.

To all of them, I write this letter. To each dear child.

Dear Child,

You are loved more than you know.

You are special. What you will do in this world, to this world, for this world...no one else can do.

You will make ripples in the lake of your life, that will vibrate out and touch people that you cannot even see. That you don't even know.

You feel weak. You feel like a failure. You feel like you can't do anything right. You are wrong.

You are stronger than you know. You succeed every time you choose to keep trying. You are doing great.

You look around you and see people who have it all together, and you feel like you are the only mess that showed up today.
Take heart. Everyone around you feels like a mess too, and they are all so afraid that someone will figure it out. They look at you and think you have it all together. They wish they were more like you.

You feel disheartened. People tell you these are the best years of your life, and that just makes you worry. Don't worry. They are wrong. These are the most awkward, confusing, insecure, walk-in-the-rain-down-a-dark-muddy-path at-night years of your life. It will get better. You will figure out who you are, and who your people are. Your world is small right now. You only know your family, your friends, your classmates, your teammates. Sooner than you can even imagine, you will enter a bigger world where there will be people like you. People who get you. This little world you are in may make you feel like you don't fit, but that's just because you are bigger than what you can see now. You will find your place, and you will thrive.

You believe the lie that it is best to be like the others, and it torments you that you are different. Whatever it is about you that is different, learn to love it. That is what will make the world notice you, and that is where you will bloom into the beautiful flower that you are meant to be.

You look around for someone to be better at life than you, and you always find someone. Your mistake was in looking around. Don't compare yourself to anyone. There is always someone better at something. Change your focus. Focus on what you have to offer the world. Just like there is always someone better than you, there is also always someone looking up to you that needs you.

Be kinder than necessary as you go through this world. We are all hurting. We can't fix each other's problems, but kindness builds bridges, and bridges lift us up above where the waves and waters can hurt us.

I am inspired by your life. Your little, oh so very significant life.

You have given me purpose.

And I am forever grateful for you, dear child.

Grief is Just Love with Nowhere to go.

Riding in the passenger seat, tears fill my eyes- blurring, elongating, and distorting the normally crisp reds, whites, and greens of the street lights. I am not crying in the usual sense, more like leaking from the eyes. No noise, no movement or motion, just tears without ceasing. It reminds me of videos I have seen of the tsunami in Indonesia many years ago. It wasn't the violent wall of water I expected to see. It was more the constant encroaching of the ocean upon the land, as though no boundary had ever existed between the salty depths and the roads where cars now floated. My cheeks felt cold as the tears dried on my face. I had so many thoughts and images that filled my mind, but only one feeling. Deep, gut wrenching, overpowering sadness. I happened upon a quote last week that said something about how grief is merely love with nowhere to go. That is what I feel. I feel all kinds of love with nowhere to go. And so it creeps out of my eyes, and down my face, and nearly takes my breath away.

My uncle Phil died today.
My dad's little brother, the one he spent his youth protecting, is now gone.
Without warning.
Inexplicably.
And I cry for my dad who could not call to give me the news. Who couldn't yet speak the words into being, that his only brother is now gone.

I cry for my aunt, Pam. She is my dad's older sister. Neither of them could have ever conceived a life without their youngest sibling. How lost and sad she must feel.

I cry for his kids- my cousin Luke who has now lost both parents in just a few years. I hate that he is now raising his kids without his dad getting to see what a great job he will do. And I cry for his brother and sisters because their kids won't grow up with their grandpa in their lives.

I cry for his friends. Friends who have loved him like family. People who, unlike me, had him in their lives every day. I cry for the hole they now have in their hearts.

Riding in the passenger seat, feeling all kinds of love with nowhere to go. And so it creeps from my eyes and down my face. Yet, in the midst of this blurry sadness, my heart, which is broken in a new way today, thinks of my Uncle Phil, and smiles. This is how I know his life was lived well. I am broken over the loss of him, but I still can't help but smile at the remembrance of time spent together.

What Time Was I Born?

Let's just get this out of the way right now. I was born at 9:06 pm. Shortly thereafter, the doctor said, "She's a beautiful baby girl with the prettiest little rosebud lips"...or maybe it was the nurse. I don't know, but I know someone said it, and I know when I was born.

The thing is, when my mom tells this story around my kids, they immediately ask, "Mom, what time was I born". My answers have varied. "That's a good question", "Sometime around 10ish and noonish, but I'm not sure which one was which time", and "Didn't anyone ever tell you kids aren't supposed to ask hard questions" are among my most common answers.

Then I always make a mental note to go home and check the birth certificates, or the baby book, and cement it in my head for the next time they ask. Spoiler alert: that never happens. Self reflection is soon to follow as I lay in bed at night remembering that I didn't look it up, and wondering what that says about me. What kind of mom doesn't know what time their kids were born? What kind of mom and I?

*I'm the kind of mom that was never sure she should have kids because I hated babysitting SO MUCH.

*I'm the kind of mom that prayed my whole life for a C section so I wouldn't have to go through water breakage or labor.

*I'm the kind of mom that spent my entire pregnancy SICK as a DOG, hating every minute, and thinking that "glow" everyone talks about is urban legend.

*I'm the kind of mom that HAD to find out what the gender of my babies were (even though I liked the idea of being surprised) because knowing if it was a HE or SHE made it seem less like it was an alien.

*I'm the kind of mom that tells my kids they are weird when they do weird things, like the floss dance, and tells them that they better not quit their day job when they tell me jokes they made up and those jokes are bad.

*I'm the kind of mom who painted the word DREAM and hung it where my little girl can see it as she falls asleep, and have moved it four times and hung it on four walls...so that she will know that no dream is to big and no dreamer too little.

*I'm the kind of mom who has made up unique little bedtime rhymes for both my kids, and sent them the recording of myself saying them, (and singing a Hush Little Baby) so they can hear me say goodnight to them when I am not home at bedtime.

*I'm the mom that stays up late to watch my kids sleep...and wakes up early to lay in bed beside them before I have to wake them up for school. (Slight stalker move, but it's OK if you're the mom.)

*I'm the mom that has always taken jobs at schools not depending on where I wanted to work, but depending on where I thought my kids would best be placed in school.

*I'm the mom that makes my son make his own lunch because I don't want him to grow up and think it's the woman's job to make the food, but I'm also the one who places my hand over his and spreads the peanut butter with him when he is frustrated that he can't make a sandwich like I can.

*I'm the mom who's not impressed with good grades, but gosh I love to praise hard work.

*I'm the mom that kills plants and fish, without prejudice.

*I'm wrong more than I'm right.

*I pray without ceasing, but only help conquer all of the worrying that I do.

*I fail on such a regular basis that I have stopped keeping track.

*I fight with my husband in front of the kids.

And I'm the kind of mom who loves. I loved them before I knew them. I loved them when I was sick and pregnant. I loved them when I thought they might be aliens. I love them when they are little weirdos just like me, and when they are smarter than I can take credit for. I love them when they are asleep (maybe most of all) and I miss them so much when they are at school. I love them enough to worry about what kind of man and woman they will grow up to be, and to talk to them (since before they could talk) about nurturing their dream. I love them enough to apologize when I fail, and to tell them how frustrating it is for me when I am wrong. I love them enough to let them see that love isn't always pretty, but that it never fails. I'm the kind of mom that believes that God has a plan for my two little people that no one else in this world can fulfill...

... and that has no idea at what exact time they were born.

:)