Thursday, August 13


When Jonah started school I hardly flinched.  Jonah is a social creature with lots of energy and he love to learn, so it seemed like a natural part of his life to send him off to school. I never cried because he was so happy to go. Like most kids he had some regrets a few weeks in, but after a few tearful days he got over them and threw himself into learning.

This morning was different. We purchased a new backpack and she had a new outfit and I did her hair. She had a lunch with a freezer pack and all the supplies were turned in yesterday. She chose her seat and she wrote her name "much fancier than anyone else's."  But it's different.

Caroline hasn't been excited about school. She worries about whether she will make friends and I worry about whether she will like it. Whether she will listen to her teacher or whether I'll find a pile of finished homework stuffed into the floor vent in the summer. There were tears last week about it, and I imagine there will be more tears to come.

It's a humbling thing to have a child so much like yourself. Each new milestone brings back memories, but sometimes they aren't pleasant. I remember when and how I struggled and I watch her do the same thing. I see how she wants to please me and also how she wants to be herself. She doesn't understand that those are not two different things.

I talked to her earlier in the summer and I told her that we are very alike. I told her that we have a tendency to he a bit selfish and nervous about being around other people. Her eyes lit up and she was so excited. She wanted to be like me. Yet another way that having this child is so humbling.

I don't think there was anything that my mother could do to have made school easier for me. I simply didn't want to sit and do the things they wanted me to do. I'd rather read a book or explore the play ground or climb up in my tree and pretend I was someone- anyone- else. I'm waiting for the inevitable realization that her life is going to be taken up by mundane things. That there is not magic around ever corner. I'm mourning it already.

Last night I was filling out the paperwork for her teacher and there was a question on one of the forms. What do you most want me to know about your child?

I sat and stared at that question for a very long time. There wasn't enough space to explain Caroline. To explain all those worries I had. I wanted to say that I didn't want my sweet girl to lose her belief in magic, as I had when I was in school. I didn't want her to doubt how wonderful and special and beautiful she was. I wanted to say that she is one of my dearest treasures, so pleasepleasepleasepleasePLEASE don't let her be disappointed and broken and sad. She's vulnerable in a way that other kids aren't.

And I realize that every parent wants to say that, but in many ways, when I say it for Caroline, I say it for myself. I haven't cried yet. But I probably will.

Tuesday, July 21

...and they lived happily ever after.

In stories there are neat little endings. That is why we say that everyone lived happily ever after. However, even in stories, the endings are not exactly neat. Traditionally, at the end evil is punished and since it is eradicated there are no further conflicts in the kingdom. 

Real life does not do this. Evil is not eradicated. Nothing is neat. Conflicts do not disappear. Time keeps moving and life is constantly changing. Very few things are truly resolved in any final way. You pass from one phase in life to the next, always confronting new issues and new challenges and the old ones either grow less important, fade away, or have to be confronted again and again in ever shifting forms. 

So, we might live happily ever after, or we might not. Or we might live in a state of general tolerance. In any case, we live. 

I am learning to be content with the unresolved nature of life... or at least I hope I am. It's hard to wrap my brain around the idea of being in the beginning of things, the middle of things and also the end of things, all at the same time. It's especially difficult when the endings seem so small that they go almost unnoticed, in an anticlimactic turn around a corner. You expect to see a continuation of the story once you step around, but instead you find a whole host of other things coming up that distract you from the fact that there was no resolution. There was no definitive moment when you were able to let go, you just kept moving and found yourself in the middle of the next beginning. 

I can look back on the last couple of years of my life and see so many stories that faded like a mist as new plots popped up. Letting go and accepting that part of my life is over and I can't get it back is harder than I imagined in some ways. There are relationships that I can't go back to, seasons of mothering that I can retrieve, and moments of joy or innocence that I will only ever be able to revisit in my own memory. 

Often we are asked if we would change our pasts if we could go back and redo it. Those stories make up part of who we are, and changing them, even if we could, would change who we are. For me, that would be a difficult thing to consent to. I may not be especially unique or even all that special, but the journey I made to get to be who I am is important.  Who I am in the end, is important.  

Monday, June 8

The Secret Club

I've gotten most of the best advice I've gotten about parenting from nursing rooms.

During the first month of Jonah's life I read the entire Dr. Sears Baby Book that was given to me by my Mother-in-Law. I checked videos out of the library on breastfeeding and watched them all repeatedly. I read blogs about parenting and listened to the Doula who taught our Bradley Method class. I had information running out of my ears before I even gave birth for the first time.

What I didn't have was practical information or any experience at all, a fact that I was painfully aware of after Jonah was born. We called the nurse number almost as soon as we got home from the hospital and I rarely slept if he was awake, which was most of the time for the first week.

And then we took him to church. As I'd learned from Dr. Sears' wife, I popped him into my pocket sling and carried him around my neck, belly to belly until he awoke and wanted to eat and I dutifully carried myself to the nursing mother's room. It was really more of a closet with two rockers and a small table. It was so small that it was almost impossible to open the door if anyone was already inside, so it was definitely impossible to ignore the other woman in the rocker across from me. I've forgotten her name, but she was nursing her 10 month-old baby. I wasn't particularly efficient at nursing and Jonah was a lazy nurser, so I was there for quite a while and we chatted. I discovered that this was her fourth child and she's had to see a lactation consultant because he wasn't a very good nurser at first, unlike her other children. She also found that swaddling him up a bit helped keep him asleep at night, even though he was so old. She told me all sorts of things to try when Jonah got cranky in the evenings and introduced me to the term Witching Hour.

Later we moved to Oklahoma and the nursing mother's room would hold four rockers and a changing table and I learned about lovies and what to do about infant congestion or how to recognize thrush or Scarlett Fever and how NONE of us were getting sleep.

I suppose that I could have asked my mother or any one of the other older women who'd had kids about the things that I didn't really know how to handle but it seems that once your child passes out of a phase it becomes (blessedly) difficult to recall all of the specifics of the difficulties in caring for them in that stage.

Besides that, it was nice just to discover how normal my experiences were among the other women I knew. It was nice to know that we all had information to share with each other and we were willing to help. Once you've sat in a small room with other women, babies nursing and the low sounds of hymns piped through the intercom system, sharing wisdom and secrets and bemoaning the small issues of motherhood, you suddenly find that you have a shorthand language that you can speak with any number of women that you meet in all sorts of places.

Many times I'm walking through Target and I see a nervous looking woman with a toddler, having a meltdown, I give her a sympathetic smile and whisper, "Hang in there!" even if I don't have my own kids with me (maybe especially if I don't have my kids with me) because I know we speak the same language.

Wednesday, June 3


I've known a few people in my life who can truly listen.  Just a few, though. These are people who are incredibly open about who they are and what they struggle with and are also able to make other people feel that when they are talking to you, you are truly the only person they are thinking about. It's a gift and if you've ever met one of these people you will know what I'm talking about.

Photo by Audrey Dodgen
I've always wanted to be one of those people. I tend to be very perceptive to the moods of others so I can usually tell when someone is having a hard time, whether they say anything about it or not. I want to connect to them and let them know that whatever they are dealing with, I would be willing to support them. They don't have to be alone. I just can't seem to communicate that very well.

I know that I get in my own way.  It's the part about being completely open about who you care and what you're struggling with. Is anyone ever really comfortable with the truth about themselves? Probably not, but there are people who are still able to be open about it, and I envy them.

Fifteen years ago I was planning a wedding that never happened. It took me at least six years to be emotionally settled with the way everything crumbled, and it's taken another nine for me to be able to write about it in an objective and peaceful way. We all have things like that in our lives and even though they color everything that comes after them, we don't always have the ability to talk about them and share them with the people around us. Those things don't just shape who we are. In some ways they are who we are. And they are not at all who we are, because the idea that part of me is my rejection is an uncomfortable thought. I'd rather be thought of as a mother or as a wife or as a storyteller than as a woman who was rejected or manipulated or broken.

But no one loves someone who can't understand their wounds. No one feel supported and cared for when you offer them glassy perfection in response to sharp brokenness. Open up. Expose the raw and the broken side of yourself and offer it up to the next person and see if they don't also open themselves up to say, "Look!  I got broken, too!"

Wednesday, May 27

Expecting the Unexpected

When I last held an office job we had a professional organizer come to give us some much-needed help. Really, the place made me itchy when i started.  I'm not extremely organized but I like to have a good system in place and for many aspects of my job, there wasn't one.  

She wasn't supposed to come visit with me because I was hired after she'd signed the contract, but in the end she decided it would be best. So I sat down with her one morning and she asked me about my day and how I structured it.  I began explaining what I did and how I did it and she had some suggestions, but told me that I already had a decent system in place for lots of things.  She called me forward-thinking. 

I'd never had a word for it before.  I'm not highly organized but I like to be able to anticipate what's going to happen and how I'm going to deal with it in advance. I don't like to be caught off guard. 

I've gotten much more flexible since I got married. You thought I was going to say, since I had kids, but before kids there was Josh. You see, my husband doesn't plan ahead. It's generally why he's late a lot. He never has and he's getting a little better, but for the most part, he still doesn't. 

We would take day trips, when we were first married. We'd start driving and Josh would have a vague idea of something he wanted to see, but no real idea of what he wanted to do or when he wanted to be back. At first it drove me crazy. We once ended up camping next to a bear preserve (something we didn't discover until morning) because we just started driving and decided to camp some random place on the Appalachian Trail. We got some good pictures and we didn't see a bear, but if I'd been in charge of things we would have stayed in a nice campground with running water and no risk of mauling.

I have to admit that he's been really good for me. In fact, while I find him eternally frustrating, I think God sent him to me on purpose. Josh was just preparing me for children.

When you have kids, you cannot plan ahead. You can be as forward-thinking as you like, but I guarantee that one day they will manage to come up with something that you never could have planned for. It might be something as creative as biting their lip bad enough to need stitches, or breaking their collarbone (two things we've both done in the last year) or something as mundane as pooping out of their clothes in a restaurant and having to bathe them in the tiny sink because There. Is. POOP. Everywhere. 

Francis Chan said, "
I am convinced God uses our children to cleanse us from self-centeredness." Preach it, Brother Chan, for that is the truth! I am currently sitting in the floor to type this. I've built a barricade of pillows to keep my almost 7-month-old child from unplugging the power cord because my battery is almost dead. In a few weeks, this barricade will be worthless because she will simply climb over or around. It is also 6:30 in the morning. Not a time I generally like to see, but my baby has decided that it's time to be awake and her fussing was going to wake Josh and the kids. I'll make coffee when I get all of this out and we'll get the day started. It won't be that long until the biggun's get up anyway. What's funny is that the thing I sort of resented in Josh is the thing I forgive easily in my children. I get frustrated, but I move on. "Oh well," I say, as though it's not making me as itchy as the disorganized chaos of that office job. 

And I notice that I've said, "oh well..." to Josh as well. It gets easier to be forgiving as we get older and we start to realize that we're all flawed and we're all a little self-centered, and it's not actually about any one person at all. 

I've been trying to teach this to my kids, lately. "It's not just about what you want." I say. And the words echo back to me from decades ago when my mother tried to teach it to me. 

Look, Mom! I'm 35, but I get it now!

Monday, June 30

Ten Years Ago

I was going through old files, culling out the trash and trying to make sure that I still had a few things, and I found an essay that I had to write for graduate school.  This was written ten years ago, so the perspective I have on this side of things is interesting.  I love that I still feel this way, and I love that I recorded this so I could remember that I still feel this way.

As an undergraduate I spent my senior year preparing to go to graduate school to become a marriage and family therapist.  In that year I took at least twelve hours of classes geared specifically toward therapy and the theory behind it.  While we did study other theories, it was primarily focused on cognitive therapy.  I was briefly in counseling about three years ago and there are a lot of things that I believe should have been addressed but were not.  These were things like finding a new direction in my life, dealing with severe disappointment and feelings of failure that were caused by someone else’s actions.  Perhaps this is more a statement about the quality of the therapist I was seeing, but I felt like the only things that were being addressed were my present circumstances, not my past and certainly not the direction of my future.  Cognitive therapy did nothing to empower me over the problem that had paralyzed my life.  When I was taking fundamental counseling classes I felt those same limitations again. 
So why am I studying storytelling here at ETSU rather than finishing my degree in Family and Marriage Therapy?  My professor, Dr. Morris said to us on the first day of class that every person had a story to tell and that their story was really what was of primary interest in counseling.  (I am thinking about e-mailing him to ask if he knows anything about Narrative therapy because I feel like it would be right up his alley.)  That statement is the primary reason why I wanted to become a counselor.  I believe that everyone does have a story and that in that story is the key to understanding them and helping them. 
However, that still doesn’t answer the question.  To answer the question you have to back up about six months of my life to the first play I was ever in.  I had never done Theatre until I transferred to a different school and I was living with my younger sister, a theatre major.  She convinced me to audition for a production of The Yellow Wallpaper and I somehow got a lead role.  I had been in counseling because of a very messy relationship that ended in a painful breakup, instead of a marriage, as had been expected.  When I was acting in Wallpaper I knew that the woman I was portraying could have been me very easily in the sense that I came very close to having a nervous breakdown.  By telling her story I was able to recognize the value of my experience and how very capable I was- much more than I had previously believed.  I started to look at my own story as more than “The Summer Michael Left Me.”  Instead I started to look for the context of my life, the way I had to do with the character I played.  In that context I saw why I didn’t have a nervous breakdown, and I started to see the life I wanted to live.        
So why storytelling?  Well, that goes back to the summer I was twelve and I saw a storyteller, but it isn’t that integral to this paper.  The point is that I started to realize that I didn’t want the responsibility of being a counselor as much as I wanted to help people by telling them stories.  People respond to stories much the way I responded to the story I was telling in that play.  By understanding other people better, we begin to understand ourselves.  Stories unite and demonstrate in ways that other modes of expression don’t seem to be able to touch. 

When you tell a story to a crowd of people they take that story with them, and some of them may connect with one small part of the story and learn some small thing about themselves- or maybe even a lot about themselves.   You never know the impact of a story.  Telling a story can bear with it great responsibility, but also great opportunity for growth and outreach.  That is why I tell.  Because one story did for me what cognitive therapy was unable and unprepared to do for me. 

Wednesday, February 19

Something I Feel Strongly About

I've started a 30 day challenge for writing blog posts, which I've done before and forgotten about before day 5.  I'm not great with plants or sourdough starters either, since I tend to forget all about all of these things, and before you know it, the starter or the plant or the post is dead.
This is post number 2, and the prompt is stumping me.  I know that there are things that I feel strongly about, but I can't seem to think of any at the moment.  That summarizes my life lately.  I want to get worked up about things, but I just can't.  It takes too much energy, which is in short supply, for me.  I'd like to believe that this is a sign that I'm growing up and becoming more of an adult.  That being unable to release a firestorm of emotion is an indication that I am more self-controlled.
But I know it's not.
In all honesty, it's because I've buried it all. If I get enraged over another driver's mistake, or a political issue, or the way that someone is being treated I'm afraid that a flood of emotion might come rushing out, with no way to stem to tide. How easy it would be to watch a video of a soldier surprising their kid and just lose myself completely. All the sadness and happiness and brokenness and love and anger and hope in life would be released, and that is a terrifying thought to me.  So much of my life is lived internally that it often stays there, unshared and unexpressed.  That's just a hazard of being introverted, though.
There is always the desire to share these things, to uncap this bottle and release the genie. The fear of not being seen and understood when I do, is also constantly present.  What if I open myself up and I'm left to try to understand this alone.  What if there is no one to share all of this with?  It's a risk.

So I guess the thing i feel strongly about is holding myself back.

Tuesday, February 18

Five Ways to Win My Heart

1.  Love my kids.
If Sadie will sit in your lap and talk to you, I'll want to cozy up next to you and talk to you as well.  If Caroline smiles, teases you, and asks you if you like her clothes, I'll want to smile at you and ask if you like me, too. If Jonah shows you what he's drawn and you ask him questions and take him seriously, I'll want to show you things I've created and explain them, as well. Be kind to them.  If you do that, you will have been kind to me and my heart will be yours.

2.  Talk to me about books I've read.
If you can ask me about the books I've read and want to know why I love them, and then listen while I explain how they changed me.  If you take the time to know who my favorite poets are and what all my favorite poems are, my heart will be yours.

3.  Listen to the things I don't say.
I have a hard time opening up sometimes, but if you pay attention at all, it will be obvious if I'm sad or tired or angry.  Don't ignore it.  I might not want to talk about it, but if you care for me, let me know that you see me. Let me know that what I feel (which often feels like a burst dam) is important, and that it's okay, even if it doesn't make sense and my heart will be yours.

4.  Hold my hand.
Or touch my face, or pat my back, or kiss me, or put your arms around me, or tickle me, or put my feet in your lap, or sleep beside me, or slap my behind, or push my hair behind my ear, or lay your head in my lap. Your touch is part of what will make my heart yours.

5.  Make me laugh.
Share the things that make you happy, and the things that make you laugh.  If you can make me laugh, my heart will be yours.

Thursday, January 2

New Year

I stopped blogging last year because I didn't have anything I wanted to share. I left off feeling like I needed to go further and found myself hitting a wall that I didn't know how to climb, or if there would be a door somewhere, and would I even have the key if I found the door? Truthfully, that question was haunting me. What was I supposed to be doing?  

And it's funny because, when I wrote that, I was in the middle of doing the one thing that really calls to my soul, right now.  Everything was telling me that being a mother and a wife and caring for my family was supposed to be the thing calling to my soul.  THE thing God had called me to. I felt guilty for finding passion in making stories come alive.  

In the last 6 months I have come a long way, and not far at all. It didn't take long before I began to bang my head against the bars, until I fell apart. I fell apart and began to become fearful in situations that I shouldn't have been fearful in. Things I could handle with ease, before, I could not any longer. Instead, I both took control and gave it up.  It's taken me six months and I can't explain all of the changes in me. Mostly they manifest in small ways: a growing ease with myself;  an acceptance that I've been telling myself stories that reinforce ideas about myself and the things I believe that just aren't true anymore. Recognizing that wasn't easy and it caused a lot of anxiety, but moving past that recognition and into a life that is based on a new story is freeing. 

In the last 6 months I've lost 10 pounds and stopped biting my nails.  I started learning to play the ukulele and I went a full month without leaving dishes in the sink at night (no, I'm not still doing that, but I am doing better) and I started to feel like myself again. I'm starting to feel like I'm being reintroduced to the person that I used to be.  I was wrong about the conclusion I made here.  Life is full of romance and I can trust blindly.  

And now I'm looking forward to this year.  I don't know for certain what it will hold, but the plan is to lead a workshop for beginning tellers in February, run another half marathon in April, and direct Esther this summer. I have no formal resolutions for the year, except to continue to know myself better,  to tell myself the truth in all things, and to love.  

Tuesday, June 4

Being Far Away and Being Close

The other day I was browsing Facebook after my kids had gone to bed.  A storyteller friend of mine had posted an intriguing description of a show for fairy tales that she was proposing to do for the Minnesota Fringe Festival.  All i could think was how much i wanted to go and listen to her tell those stories.  I wanted to hear her approach them from an accurate, gritty perspective and I wanted to be reminded why I love fairy tales so very much.

And all I could think was... you could never get away from your kids long enough to get to do that.  Someone would have to watch the kids, and you couldn't afford a trip all the way to Minnesota, even if you could get away.  Escape.  Make a break for it.

I know I've posted about this a bit before, but I found myself so very frustrated with my place in life.  I know that Josh and I made a decision a long time ago to make ourselves available for a our children at the expense of a greater income, and it isn't new that I have found myself realizing that I have also sacrificed a bit of myself and my professional desires to be a mom.  And that's hard.

All of this comes a week or so after reading a friend's blog post in which she admits that being a mom is sometimes really hard for her introverted self, and something really clicked.  I'm introverted.  Of course being a mom is hard.  I don't do well without time alone to recharge, and I really don't do well with parasitic relationships (and isn't that what having children is?) or a lot of noise (uh... duh, they're kids).  I like to have time to turn inward and with my children I find that I am constantly being forced outward by the constant state of need.  No matter how much I try to teach my children to be self-sufficient, there seems to be a constant barrage of need, and it has a tendency to drain my energy, completely.

And then, there is my friend Millie.  Millie has been on this really long journey of health that has caused her to lose an incredible amount of weight and start running, biking and swimming.  That she could do any of those things at all was almost unthinkable several years ago, but this past weekend she competed in an Ironman competition.  She didn't finish, but I when I read what she had written about it on her blog I was really impressed by her attitude.  She didn't moan and groan that she didn't finish.  She accepted it and was grateful for the experience.  I know how hard it is to push yourself physically, and I aspire to be more like Millie, physically, but also mentally.  It is knowing, and reminding yourself that you can push yourself a little further because you can go a little further.

I can go a little further.

I honestly believe that being a mother is possibly one of the most important things I could ever do.  I've created new life and I want to put the effort into making sure that those lives start well, and are given every advantage that I can give them.  I feel so far away from all the things I want to be accomplishing, and yet I cam so much closer than I have been willing to recognize.

But, I can go further.  I can start treating these everyday things like the calling that they are.  I can discipline myself better to be kinder and more patient with my kids.  I can discipline myself to be kinder and more patient with myself.